NEW FREE DOWNLOAD: Emilio Rojas "Words I Never Said" (prod. Alex Da Kid)

Didn't really know Emilio went in like this. Respect. This is the kind of Hip Hop we always rep here at GYMR. (And Emilio might/should link with our founder, emcee/activist AWKWORD, cuz god knows the disruptive brilliance they would come up with together.)



Emilio Rojas - Words I Never Said Freestyle by GYMRblog

Lone Traveler: A Short Story by AWKWORD

The last of a long, liquidous venture — a secluded pizzeria, popular among the tourists, loners like myself, with "very strong" French cigarettes, families, odd groupings of overweight patrons, and a young pair with a wide-eyed son, like father. Somewhat bothered by the dwindling daylight, a reminder of the coming conclusion to my week-long Italian excursion, I gobbled down a pepperoni and olive pizza, desperately trying to take my time. There was to be little to do afterward, before the morning bus would transport me and other weary travelers to the airport, a "short 10 minutes away". I had been told I would stay in Milan, but this was Malpensa — no city, to be sure. A liter, then another liter of vino rosa washed down the cheese and other ingredients as I sat, writing, hoping for fleeting accompaniment. Perhaps the lone English-speaking waitress — not pretty, but sweet. Or, another like myself, with a smoke to spare. I don't — or didn't — smoke, but Europe, the jigsaw of hoped-for romance, plays tricks on a man's dos and don'ts. Plus, the wine, more fit for two or four, was beginning to roll around in my... I really craved hashish.

One might wonder how this restaurant got so packed, but the answer is simple: the hotel, or post-modern failure in over-exuberant simplicity, said so, and so they flocked, as I had. But what next? With nothing but hows left, beyond the mischievously curious youngster, that son of the father, I wondered. I drank. "I'll leave when the drink's been drunk," I tell myself, aloud. Yes, back to the timid, antiseptic hotel, at 80 euros an evening. Damn Italian television. Damn mini-bar. Damn last night in this country worth inexplicably more than a seven-day stay. What about Sicily? La Cosa Nostra? I will leave, regretfully stuck with only my assumptions, having seen Florence, I believe, but mere meager bits of Milan and nada mas. Then back to work. The hours. The computer screen. Typing. Tendinitis. Tormented wrists and sad digits.

Can I escape? The age-old question had flittered about my feeble mind before, but where would I go? How would I survive? I envied the smiling, nearly cackling, jabbering young pretty boys manning the stands at the Florenzian mercado. Motherfuckers, with your freedom. I, a descendent of Murder Inc., have but a few euros, one final glass of wine, and a weighty buzz. At least there's sloop, and a loving pillow. Then, family, back in the states. Stress. Confusion. Labor, and a longing for love. Where is MY Italiania princesa? Like the David to Michelangelo... but female, without the foreskin.

Europe, land of love, continent of compassion, home of Switzerland... the bloody neutral!? Too much liquid. I must relieve myself of burden. And perhaps this place is not a hole in the wall after all. Perhaps "hole in the floor" would be more apropos, as I was urinating into a hollowed out circle in the bathroom tile. Another, and final, French cigarette, and the last bit of wine. I was destined for what could have been my final resting place...

Write with a lit cigarette, close to setting these superfluous words aflame. Graci. Gracias. I had wished the whole darn trip was in Espanol. At least I would have conversed in a native tongue. I just speak English.

What if I were in Ecuador? Or, would that war-torn tiny Sud Americano pais not have had a restorante with a guest list adorned with big misshapen harts... And I walk off into the woods.

Thirsty Thursday Flashback: AWKWORD - "Cheers" ft. Whatzisface (FREE AUDIO)

... Where everybody blows cocaine!

SONG: "Cheers"
ARTISTS: AWKWORD & Whatzisface (as The Artasins)
ALBUM: the Sub-Way mixtape
PRODUCTION: Whatzisface

Click the album cover to direct-download the mp3 for free.



Click the play button to stream. (And become a fan and e-mail to a friend.)

DJ AM = More Than The Sum of His Drugs

Adam Goldstein, a.k.a. DJ AM, was more than the combo of crack, OxyContin, Klonopin, Xanax, Ativan, Benadryl, Levamisole and Vicodin that killed him at 'lucky' 36.

His last public contact was via twitter: "New york, new york. Big city of dreams, but new york aint always what it seems."

Click the image (Allen Salkin, "Dancing with Demons", The New York Times, October 16, 2009)...

Cloud 9

5 a.m. (ET)

There's a thin line between smart and crazy / Sitting on the fence is a balancing act / I never learned how to juggle / They say practice makes perfect, so I don't practice...

DON'T listen to my music. It will make you ugly...

Live through me -- and you will love the rain...

#whymyspacesucks / #hiphopconfession : The ratio of rappers, producers, DJs and marketers to fans is like 10 to 1...

I wish I was fluent in more languages / So hard to communicate across oceans / F*ck, so hard to communicate in half a California if you don't speak Mexican Spanish / Sometimes, so hard to understand why THAT producer won't just send that mix / THAT producer lives where "uploading" isn't of the vernacular / Pain is relative, but certain pains transcend the individual / We are all spoiled brats / And it's not all Ralph Lauren's fault / It's also Kanye's fault, and Chris Brown's fault, and Bobby Brown's fault, and 99% of the Bengals' fault...

Do you dream in black&white or color? Do you KNOW your dreams? / I hate stupid questions / My Metal Music, I'm lucid, stupid...

And the toilet grew vines, and then the vines cracked through the porcelain, like cement, and the toilet shattered before me, as I finished and zipped up, tagged my name in pink paint pen on the stall's white wood skin, pushed the swing door, went face-to-face with myself in the mirror, saw ocean, and trounced out of there as if I was looking forward to the cardboard cutouts of people experimenting in debauchery down the hall...

It happened before. He stole my handle of Captain Morgan's in a New York City hotel room after MY senior prom. He had that spark, that different kinda spark, that unnerving spark that speaks of evil. Psychosis, in the way publicly paid social workers mean it when they rush out of the "safe place" and tell the director in the big, maple-wooded corner office that they can't "take" that patient...

Debauchery is not Las Vegas, it's Atlantic City. Vegas is Hollywood. AC is Newark. Throw some quarter in the slot, slam down the lever and walk the abandoned boardwalk at night. Find a strip joint befitting only a ramshackle lean-to constructed in a drunken haze by a gang of gypsies. And eat your heart out at the hotel restaurant buffet. Someone, somewhere, is playing roulette, and winning. But what's the fun in glory?...

When I go in, I go in. A-hat tilted low, straight brim; crisp jeans; white T, sweatshirt, bomber jacket; matching Dunks / Crowded in crowds / Fewer cameras, more razorblades...

Then I go dancing, where the rarest of kicks are not welcome if they even slightly resemble a sneaker, and I "dance." And they giggle, but they love it...

Other than music and scotch, its movies, haze, girls, art, food, catchin flix, stringin words together, revolution, being a BASTERD, and, of course, getting out-bowled by Walter or a sexy Korean emigrant / I'm good at aiming for duck pins / And I can catch flies just by making a fist, unless She was watching...

7 a.m. (ET)