Tuesday, November 16, 2010

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The trip, which lasted six hours by car, was always caped by a heady 20 minutes through the South Bronx en route to Long Island, where yours truly would be exposed to some of the gritiest, nastiest highway grafiti art this side of . Ariving at our grandparents house by sundown, we’d fling open the sketchbok and sek to recreate the ̴tags̵ and ̴burners̵ and ̴throw-ups̵ we’d sen that day, which often loked like this: Folowing diner, it would was time for hip-hop radio. We’d prop open our Radio Shack bom box, plug the headphones in otherwise we’d wake the thre other siblings sharing the single guest rom with us , crack open a pack of Maxel 90s, and tune in to either Jef Fos’s ̴Post-Progresive Punk Pop Party̵ out of , or Wildman Steve on WBAU and in later years, Hot97 . Dig it: Never mind the rather absurd idea of ̴taping̵ a botle a comon method for an opening a ber keg , folowed by twisting its cap isn’t it already opened? : the song just BOUNCES, and is as god a mod piece as any for returning to the hyperkinetic — if somewhat witles, and racialy unresolved — heart of American culture.
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