♫♪  Rob Funkhouser - Iteration & Revision

I did so much fucking shit today. So much fucking shit. I did. Today. And every day. Tomorrow I’ll take off. Tomorrow is mine. I’m going to take tomorrow to the movies. With the sig-nif. Or maybe Central Park. Be normal and smoke a joint in Central Park. Pet the drug sniffing dog. Treats. I just smoked on my way to the LIRR b/c weekend 7-train is for limps, and Prince is for pimps.

Yeah-yeah, and we win our flag-football game with a rag-tag group of tweens that just barely realize it’s been raining the whole time, our quarterback is smiling because he’s nervous, and all that helicopter chase was more important than half our team showing up. But we still won. And we walked back while three girls we knew walked next to us in the park blasting Uzi on some speaker, so all we could shout back was “WHY?!?!?!?” Answer was: dancing.

Work. Awkward work. Overtime, unpaid work. Backroom with that one coworker. Awkward works. Dialogs with the boss. Awkward working. This is a Saturday in Harlem, though. And work for awkward work when called by more awkward work, but in different company. A digressive conversation. Dual accomplishments. The Post Office on 125th.

Back at work and the sig-nif in the fire-lane waiting for you, so it’s chill and we park the car for 10 minutes, only to find a spot back in front of work. It’s game-night and we changed the card-game title BS to No Way, and I learn stacking in UNO. Also, the ultimate rule is knowing when to call teams: for the win. Ties are meant to be broken. The sig-nif brought me a polo. You wear a royal-blue t-shirt instead. Office Louis introduces himself as Louis.

Whimsy, and your home watching murder-crime Netflix, and my wife is talking about her Facebook group. You’re talking about the lighting in this murder-crime Netflix, and the sig-nif is verbatim copying all my answers into the Facebook. They want nine billion people on VR soon(?). Sig-nif goes to bed a beer or three later, you’re six in and two-thirds a blunt down, and my wavelength like. So shower for a few. Open the curtain when freshness has been completed to find a single hand towel to dry with.

That morning, the hand towel is a crustacean of the Saturday before. A color of a former color. And a day’s worth of grime. The time the sunlight hits the towel is never because there is no glare. A Medium Sound meditates the day away in your living room from my Rob Funkhouser. Go. Play:

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CHOCOLATE GRINDER is our audio/visual section, with an emphasis on the lesser heard and lesser known. We aim to dig deep, but we’ll post any song or video we find interesting, big or small.

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