be better boys, October 13th

Three boys in a cul-de-sac, peaceable as can be cause as much trouble as possible for one goal. I misjudged their ringleader, as many kids my age did and still do. No matter the nostalgia, to call that boy a slick, silver-tongued money grubber is wrong. A pathological attention-seeker, sure, but aren’t we all hedonists for our habits?

The other one of his friends, and a third of the crew, remains diligent. Scholarly would put his behavior lightly. I couldn’t imagine an archivist as a dream job for anyone under 40, nevermind a middle-school child. He cooperates unwillingly in his friends’ hijinks, often providing the organization and tools.

The last of the bunch sits much simpler. He wants for very little, as his imagination offers more experiences than most pleasures you or I could offer. A gullible, lovable chum, his strength exists only in the shadow of his peculiar taste for buttered toast.

These three boys all named Ed, one way or another must have inspired some of my entrepreneurial spirit. Their creativity, spent on devising get-rich quick plots aims to fleece pigeons -the other neighborhood kids- for their allowances.

Money can be used to buy goods and services, sure, but why would boys go to such lengths and suffer countless failures just for that? Jawbreakers. Sugar candies, the size of planetary bodies, remain the end goal. They crave it the way I yearn for cheeseburgers. On the rare occasions they obtain one, they drool in ecstasy at the taste. They moan and slide into piles of limbs on the ground over the rapture.

They cause mischief like boys do, take their lumps like men most times- if men cried and cowered in fear from time to time. Their ambition and attempts almost take on a new form, an art of scheming and scamming. Behavior of ill repute, as Edd might have said, but artful.

More than spiders and the dark as I walk up the stairs at midnight, I’m afraid for my brother. I confess that maybe I exaggerate, but I had models of behavior as examples of what not to repeat. I still watch the cartoons today.

My brother, he goes “Check out my grades.” He has a 3 point something average. “Not the grades of someone who listens to this.” He laughs. I see no amusement. In my day, rappers I listened to lyricized marijuana and sex, certainly. Yet, they showed craftsmanship, encouraging independence, thrift and avoidance of being a lame or sucker.

My critique isn’t like your regularly old fogey asking why Siri can’t tell him his password. She’s never done that before, dad. Even an old man has an art to his stubbornness. An aversion to losses is human; the composure to repeat someone else’s suggestion as if it were entirely his own idea borders on the supernatural.

Would anyone mind highlighting the artistry in the following verses?

Eloquence aside, these lines, real or not, sound like rubbish that litters our streets. Misinformation, poverty, economic disparity stinks up the hood, but ignorant drill rap has become the new Negro spirituals that dream of better things like small sums of money for buying alcohol and weapons.

Pity the listener.

Young babes still at mom’s house aren’t discerning enough to spot fact from fiction. Jimmy’s gonna want a red dot on his Glock for Christmas! To what end? For another tragedy to reduce whatever social capital is left and further impoverish people? Black people?

I get it. Three square meals beat out the Supersize Me meal plan. I didn’t want to reach childhood obesity early, just a switch-up from the everyday routine. Cheap, unhealthy consumption kills you so slowly you don’t notice. My fear is the too gullible kids eat up this gangster rap stuff. Not even gangsters buy it. But it sells, making a killing, a lot more than what the hood has to offer, for now. Maybe If these gangsters had style, but Mario Puzo isn’t writing this one.