New Orleans, August 29 2005: the view from my boy DJ Real's hotel room

YOU KNOW THE END IS NEAR WHEN SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA DECIDES TO HAVE SEASONS. We went from the hottest day in recorded history to the rainiest day in recorded history in six days or less. It's the Mercedes Benz of climates.

Janet didn't find a roommate. She's moving out of the mayoral compound this weekend into an apartment down the street, which I'm told has a great washer/dryer. As the Palms Weekend goes to press, Pudge is clearing his stuff from my closets for his flight today back to New York, where his girlfriend awaits in an apartment they will share. I took the opportunity to de-clutter my place, but stopped after I realized my pad could pass for a strategically arranged indoor junkyard, and I'd be sitting on the floor of an empty apartment if I kept going. Me and these dreams; that's all it'd be.

Marcus' younger cousin is moving in across the way. Got into a cross-balcony shouting match with his buddy the other night after he parked his car precisely in the middle of the driveway. Didn't get a good look at him, but caught a Luniz vibe: short, and not happy about it. I love hood folk who wait until they hit the Westside to start threatening people's lives. They're always so surprised when the cops show up. Fuck the code of the streets. I'm a rapper, and I will summon police officers on you.

Never liked fall. Not sure why, it just puts a lump in my throat.



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