As I watched indie-rock band A Cursive Memory go "glam" **vomits** courtesy of a bunch of fashion-styling hopefuls on an ep of VH-1's "Glam God" (hosted by Vivica A. Fox...for what now?) I had an epiphany, of sorts.
I want to start a band.
No, I DON'T want to play in it. (Only thing I know how to play is Uno. So Vegas: Ya hear that?! Uno table at the Bellagio ASAP!) I just want to be the svengali behind auditioning members. And when I do, I'm not looking for young, artsy 'bags in skinny jeans and baby tees rockin' hundred dollar haircuts cuz- BLECH!-that's soooooo right now.
And I'm a biatch about the future.
Name: Roy. Age 34.
Favorite food: Whip Cream in a can.
Fashion sense: Uncaught Predator Chic.
And I shared this vision with my "TWinja" Niggga (<<-Yup!) over a cup of Gmail chat**.
I told him Roy would be the frontman.
I picture Roy rockin' arenas playing an unbelievably, hot shit!, version of Busta's "Ass On Fire" with his finger symbols. Shit so fantastically futuristic and fly that all the Wal-Mart self-checkout ladies would be self-checking HIM out...or something like that.
Niggga liked the idea so much, he added this dude on drums.
With a line up like this, I think I'm about to be reeyatch, beeyatch.
So, in the not so distant future: Look for "regular" to be a household name. Spending big-faced Lincolns at the thrift store or your local big-box retailer will officially replace spending ya mama's rent money order trying to be Pharrell Wayne, Lil' West or Kanye Williams.
Candy-Colored Shirts? Retro Kicks? Fitted Hats? Ray-Ban Wayfarers?---Pssshhh! PLEASE!!!
Why do all that when Wrangler jean shorts and Ozark Trail sandals are on sale all day, err'day?
**All this, from a VH-1 show (The HORROR!) and me and Niggga trying to figure out the name of the other dude, besides Arab, riding Soulja Boy's nut sizzacks straight to inevitable obscurity.
It's not just a House; it's a way of life.