It’s dangerous when I have too much time to muse. Folding the laundry, I realized I was humming the simple priceless cover of NWA’s Boyz N Da Hood by Dynamite Hack — which I would have never known about if I didn’t occasionally spend time around teenagers. I recommend, pace Don Mills, that anyone not directly related to a teenager occasionally rent one.
I used to hum this during my political adventures in Arlington, which has a country club or two with attached golf courses and plenty of young people with big allowances. They have been around since my own high school days, sweating (at least in their own minds) attar of roses and eau-de-vie, convinced they are better than everyone else because they shop upscale. The problem with young people like that, of course, is that they grow up and go into politics and business, whereas the gangsta crowd who really are their soul siblings (who’s got the biggest roll? the coolest ride? the flashest bling? the touchiest ego?) usually flame out one way or another by thirty or so.
But maybe I take things too seriously. It’s just funny.