The Rapper And The Rancher
New Shoes Blues • The Unhappy Man
One Minute Wit
New Shoes Blues
I wore my new invisible shoes today.
No one even noticed.
How disappointing.
Life
The Unhappy Man
Who wasn’t very happy.
I know a man who loves to complain.
He complains about his job.
He complains about his family.
He complains about other people.
He complains about politics.
He complains about the weather.
He complains about everything.
When he is not complaining, he is critical.
He is critical of his boss.
He is critical of his local sports team.
He is critical of every place he eats.
He is critical of every movie he sees.
Nothing is quite good enough for him.
And he loves to tell people they are wrong.
Correcting other people brings him great joy.
But, probably, his favorite thing is to tell people that their opinions are stupid.
I have concluded that he is only happy when he is miserable.
One day everything was going his way.
His children had given him an all-expense-paid trip to his favorite vacation spot.
His political party won the election.
He got a big raise at work.
His favorite band put out a new album, and it was great.
He found his favorite pocketknife that he had lost a year ago.
He had nothing to complain about.
I saw him and asked him what was new.
He said, “Nothing.”
He looked so sad.
I could tell there was nothing bad going on in his life.
So I punched him in the stomach.
Story
The Rapper And The Rancher - Part 1
Isaac J showed up at open mic every week. He knew if he could just catch a break, he could be the greatest rapper of all time. It was his turn. He stepped up to the microphone.
“Yo, rats everywhere
Dancing like Astaire
Ask me if I care
Face it
City ain’t for wimps
South Side pimps
Flying like some blimps
Face it
You get what you get
Stomach empty as a pit
Ain’t never gonna quit
Face it
Faces going by
Giving me the eye
Wishing I could fly
Face it”
Isaac looked out at the disinterested audience, who were only there to hear their friends sing off-key versions of Journey songs. So he stopped and walked off stage and out the door.
As he was walking down the street, he heard a voice behind him say, “Hey, kid. Stop.”
He recognized the voice but couldn’t place it, so he turned around. He couldn’t believe it. It was Vyn L. Revolver, the famous music producer.
“You know who I am?” Revolver asked.
“Of course. I seen you on the Grammys and a bunch of documentaries.”
“Why are you rapping?”
“What?”
“I said, why are you rapping?”
“It’s what I do. I gotta do it.”
“Why don’t you sing?”
“I can’t.”
“Do you love music?”
“More than anything. What are you getting at?”
“Alright, I’m going to tell you something you don’t want to hear, but you need to,” Revolver said.
Isaac just looked at him.
“You ain’t never gonna be a famous rapper. You can rhyme, but you ain’t going to make it rappin’.”
A look of shock, then hurt, then anger, showed on Isaac’s face.
“You followed me out of the bar just to dog me? What’s your problem, old man?”
“Hear me out. Every kid in New York thinks they are going to be a famous rapper. And lots of them are great rappers. But that ain’t enough. You need something unexplainable but instantly recognizable. I call it “the gift.” That’s what I do. I recognize the gift and bring it out. Different people have different gifts. You got a gift, but it ain’t performing. Your gift is rhyming. Songwriting.”
“I ain’t no songwriter,” Isaac said.
“Not yet. But you could be. It’s up to you. You can keep banging your head on the wall, chasing a dream that probably won’t happen, or you can use your gift.”
“How?”
“Write songs. You can have a career at it. Maybe even become a producer.”
“I don’t play an instrument.”
“Learn. Or find a partner who does and write the lyrics. Lots of people can play but can’t write melodies or lyrics. Elton John doesn’t write lyrics. He didn’t let that stop him. He found a partner to write lyrics. If you are serious enough, you can find what you need.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Isaac asked.
“Comin’ up, people helped me. That’s how it works. When you get good at something and you have proved yourself, you want to help others. It’s like having children. You pass on what you know to the next generation, or it’s wasted.”
“All right. What do I do to become a songwriter?”
“Move to Nashville,” Revolver replied.
“You trippin’ man. I don’t even like country music.”
“It doesn’t matter. You want to be a songwriter, you go where they still use songwriters. That’s Nashville. It ain’t just country music. They do all kinds of music in Nashville. You’ll starve trying to be a songwriter in New York. You might starve in Nashville, too, but at least you are in the right ballpark.”
“I don’t know, man. It sounds crazy.”
“It might be. It’s just my advice. But it’s your life.”
Isaac looked at Revolver for a second while his mind spun and his anger subsided.
“All right. I appreciate it,” Isaac said.
They shook hands, and Revolver walked away.
Happy Monday. Thanks for reading and responding. You make it fun.
Mark
“The Unhappy Man” — For some reason I flashed on the classic mom threat: “Oh, you want something to cry about? I will GIVE you something to cry about!”
“who were only there to hear their friends sing off-key versions of Journey songs.” I laughed and now I have Wheel in the Sky stuck in my head all day! Thanks! 🤣