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DJ Chucky H-
Don’t sweat it, beatmaster squiggs, I don’t even own an iPod. I try and either read or people watch (read: ogle the ladies) during my daily commuting on the underground railroad (yeah, I’m trying to perpetuate that as the new colloquialism for subway); plus, ever since the artisan of a surgeon Dr. Pujioski successfully embedded my laptop as an extension of my neural networking, I’m pretty much never without a swinging bank of music to keep me toe-tapping through this wet and wild twenty-first century. At the moment, the one and only Django Reinhardt’s elegant yet slightly dirty sound inspires said toe-tappery. Man, that little gypsy mo-fo can boil some blood, even with those two burned-up, gimpy digits.
So, yeah, here I am in rural West Philadelphia, taking advantage of Dylan and Karena’s comforting apartment to concentrate and you know, just get away from it all. Beautiful greenery surrounds the place(even some inside!), the neighborhood is quiet, the atmosphere designed for productivity. If I had to sum up the feel in two words: wood and cotton. I feel natural, clean, and calm. Being here inspires me to do things like peel labels off cans and bottles before I put them in the recycling, you know, real Al Gore type shit. And fortunately, coming here as totally worked, I’ve made some real progress on both projects I came to work on, and thus I’ll be going home later today. Sorry we didn’t get a chance to meet up, but you know what, it’s better that way. To see you in person, to put a face in front of the text… it’d make me love you less.