October 14, 2014

Country road...


... somewhere around Black Earth.


Anonymous said...

Re: "... somewhere around Black Earth."

A Good Title, perhaps, in context of the following...

Open Letter to The Crack Emcee:

You put a lot of time and emotion into your blog and your commenting here. I make no guess (much less judgment) as to whether this time spent -- especially commenting -- is equal to any fulfillment you may receive for the effort; this has nothing to do with that

You have obviously lead a(n) (adjective) life, in the places you have lived (provide detail) and the people you have known (provide detail) and the things you have accomplished (provide detail). That is the ____ way of looking at a life, and for most people little else is known (especially in the context of a blog's comments).

The thing I see is that your completed 'version' of that sentence could be an amazing thing. And that leads me to this: I would definitely sit down and read that book.

Family, Mingus, Maya, Murder, France, Salt Lake City, San Francisco, Nights in a shelter, Nights performing your music on stage, the audiences that were there for you, the audiences that you feel a part of, what you have personally seen in both highs and lows, humor, sorrow, anger, empathy, lyrics: write the book.

You are obviously prolific with words: in the time spent writing a few comments you could write a page a day. Write what you remember best at the moment you are at the keyboard. Connect dots now, connect dots later. Shuffle, veer, backfill. A page a day: you would have a book this time next year. Autobiography. Your American Life. Thanks to e-books and self-publishing you could be open to some wonderful opportunities; we'd no doubt be here discussing an excerpt at Althouse.

Things can happen. And no matter what happens, it is yours.

Write the book*.

*And by "Write the book" I do not mean that in a 'white-man-telling-a-black-man-what-to-do' sort of way. Or to be inferred as stopping commenting. Just to be clear.

George M. Spencer said...

...take me home to the place where...

tim in vermont said...

I wouldn't want Crack to stop commenting. The Malcolm X material was hilarious.

madAsHell said...

I'd read it.....then maybe I could understand what in the hell you're talking about.

rcocean said...

No black people in sight. White folks afraid to show the real America.

rcocean said...

Althouse is afraid to show the real America.

rcocean said...

The Crack America.

pm317 said...

"A page a day" keeps the demons away.

Lem said...

When I read Black Earth I also thought the same.

David said...

Well, he can write, Betamax. That's always a good start.

Lem said...

I also thought of "black money"

rcocean said...

Betamax reaches out to crack. Message: I care. Clown nose: Off.

Touching. But Crack is in a Gulag. A white American Gulag. He can only be free of white racism, when he is free of whites. White = racism. Racism = whites.

There is only one solution. Free Crack. Crack back to Africa (or Jamaica). Then maybe some $$, for reparations.

Anonymous said...

One of my college friends was from Blue Earth, Minnesota. He said the locals pronounced it "Blerth."

Lem said...

Maybe Crack is addicted... to Althouse ;)

Bad Lieutenant said...

Lem, first he'd have had to have a taste. Possible but I slightly doubt it happened, though the carrot may be dangled before the mule.

Betamax, not a bad idea, but probably you should save time and start fucking that turtle now.

Crack, how did the deal fall apart? You Mau-Mau them once too often? And yeah, who knew you could blog from an obamaphone, or is it they have WiFi at the shelters? I happen to know a family in NYC shelters and they didn't mention WiFi.

mezzrow said...

Gonna throw this in on behalf of Crack.

Here's your answer, from the world's most famous beach. Break this down and get back to him when you do.



The Crack Emcee said...


"Write the book."

Ha! You don't know the half:

Yesterday, I spent from 5:30AM to 6PM trying to get a bed. I was assigned a number, only to discover at the end of the day it was a lottery - the number I nursed all day meant nothing. Same goes for the old women, the disabled, people missing limbs, and all the rest.

BTW - the blacks were the majority and ran the gamut, from brilliant to crazy, and everything in between. I recently met a great guy who had been jumped, which injured his knee, and then he got hit by a car - what does he do with that? Rather than sue the bejesus out of the guy, he just says "pay the medical bills" and heads for the shelter - amazing. My people's ethics are golden.

Anyway, I get assigned a bed and it was disgusting. Underneath it was a storage locker and it looked like a gutter. The attendant "cleaned" it by emptying it into a trashcan, which did nothing about the grime on it. Then someone mentioned the previous night's guest had lice. Fuck.

Then my phone rings.

It's a black friend. "Whatcha doin'?" I tell him and he says, "Get out of there, now, I'm on my way." He scoops me up downtown and off we go to an Oakland safe house - a place a black man can let stress go. I'm offered a meal (Ribs with all the fixin's) a strong drink (Bourbon, thanks) and a huge, clean bed, with a gigantic comforter - by a gorgeous Italian American woman who's big on hugs. I fell asleep to the comforting sounds of Art Blakey, as my computer and phone were being recharged.

I woke up at 6AM. I can be here two days - the days it's scheduled to rain this week - and, as I write this, I'm drinking a excellent cappuccino to Ella Fitzgerald and Louis Armstrong. Overnight, the blisters on my feet have started turning into callouses, making walking sore - a reminder of what still awaits - but, for right now, what my black friend sang when he picked me up is true:

A crackhead in trouble is a temporary thing,..

The Crack Emcee said...


"Crack, how did the deal fall apart? You Mau-Mau them once too often?"

The idea I conduct my life, offline, as I do on is crazy - just like the idea everyone thinks black goals are unworthy:

I wouldn't have even been approached without my politics.

The deal fell apart because the woman I was negotiating with found she was in over her head. She works for Time/Warner, but not the music division, and wanted to make the move but got cold feet, so - without warning and after I'd extended myself just enough to hurt - unceremoniously pulled the plug.

It's a kick in the gut, but it happens. Especially in this environment, where (thanks to .mp3s and the internet) there's no infrastructure left - like you guys with race, some people have too little vision to (bravely) forge into the unknown, even if they know it's right. I don't blame her. All the working musicians I know have such stories. We know what we're doing, but our patrons are conventional thinkers who, we all wish, could handle risk better. Fuck the money, It's, literally, our lives and names (they're trying to exploit) on the line.

The jabs, here, would hurt if I thought you guys had any idea of real life, but nah - you're all comfortable know-nothings, mocking from a pile of stolen money, daring me to catch you - so, for me, one more obstacle is just that:

The latest in white supremacy's series - I'll go on.

"And yeah, who knew you could blog from an obamaphone, or is it they have WiFi at the shelters? I happen to know a family in NYC shelters and they didn't mention WiFi."

I use my smart phone - not your racist invocation of an Obamaphone - as a hotspot. See, whitey?

You have absolutely no clue how the other half - in the real world - lives. But we do.

And so - I know - I'ma still catch you yet,..

Bad Lieutenant said...

Oh, so you do have money. And to think I was worried about you!

You don't blame her, but you blame me. Now that's funny.

I guess if you wrote a book I would read it, so there's that.