Mopped a Polly
A study in repetition and mysticism. I find it hypnotic and perplexing. It’s meaning, it’s context, it’s consequences remain unknown to me even through days of contemplation. If you are unfamiliar, and honestly we should all be unfamiliar, this is basketball legend and scorn inducer, Lejon Brames masticating a mouthful of gangsta pop lyrics by rapper Trinidad James. Lejon, Gold medalist, future hall of famer, cyclist, and reader of those hummingbird books about children fighting in the forest is a strong person. I admire him. Yes, yes, I know, you hate him, but you are a racist. “Why”, I murmured to myself, “does he like this terrible song?” Minutes later I found myself reciting the enchantment. I have repeated it many times since. “J’accuse!” I am guilty.I am a meme.
I know not who Trinidad is or from whence he came but he has created a temporal imbalance in my synapses. I have become my own elder. Aged before my time, grumpy and complaining of the youth’s music. A modern day Medusa, his image has remolded me into stone, into a pillar of salt. I am the Wicked Witches striped leggings, curling into myself under the weight of this new sonic presence. This man is no MC, yet I keep spewing this lines. My breath is accustomed to the lyrics of the Villain, of Yasiin Bey, of J Elec, and of course 3 Stacks, but this slow soothing drawl is spellbinding. He is a chicken come home to roost on my iTunes library. I have danced to this before, when Trinidad was Master P. and Lil Jon, and yes, even 50 cent. Bass drums and Southern twangs have a way of capturing your consciousness and holding it hostage. When we listen passively we endanger our subconscious and give it freely to hustlers of the market place. I shall free myself and run away. Liberate my mind from this record. I’ll leave Trinidad to his prison of gold chains and jacked up teeth.