A couple Saturdays ago my wife and I decided to walk down to the beach and relax, since it was the first really nice weekend day of the year. We got set up with a couple of folding chairs and got our books out. It was still kind of chilly with the wind gusting by the lake, but it was nice to finally be able to sit outside with just a t-shirt on so we pretended to be comfortable and started reading.

I only got a couple pages in before I saw someone walking up out of the corner of my eye. When it became apparent that his intent was to approach us I looked up from my book, squinting at the backlit figure of a man about 40 years old, scruffy but not too down-and-out, wearing a fashionable pair of glasses and a baseball cap. He was swaying a little and once he spoke there was no doubt left to his intoxication level.

"What are you guys looking at? The buildings?"

"Just reading."

"The street?"

"No. Just reading." I was a little defensive at this point as he hadn't really made any motives clear and I had my wife with me.

"Do you mind if I sit down? I just need to talk to some nice people." He managed to slur out.

Okay, a compliment. He was shitfaced, but at least he wasn't in a belligerent mood and wasn't asking for money.

"Yeah, sure." My wife and I exchanged a quick look as if to communicate "he's harmless" and went back to reading. The man sat down in the sand and put on a pair of headphones that he had plugged into a little portable radio. As he put them over his head I could hear The Hollies' 'Long Cool Woman in a Black Dress' blaring at top volume. He put his arms around his knees and started rocking a little bit.

"I'm sorry man. I didn't mean to bother you guys."

"Don't worry about that. You're not bothering me," I said, trying to reassure both of us.

"I'm sorry."

"It's okay. What's your name man?"

"Harry."

I introduced myself and my wife Sarah. We went back to our books, and he to his radio for a little while. A few quiet minutes went by when I heard him start to cry. I asked him what was wrong.

"I can't stop drinking. I drink all day."

I was a little shocked that he was admitting this, knowing that most alcoholics of this magnitude preferred to deny that the booze had any power over them whatsoever.

"That's tough, man. I know it can be hard to quit," I offered.

He seemed a bit taken off guard at this point, perhaps wondering why we hadn't told him to fuck off or simply got up and walked away.

"Here, I should probably just give you this." He lifted up his shirt to reveal a gallon bottle of Bacardi, still about 3/4 full, wedged into his piss stained jeans. He pulled it out and handed it to me. I took the bottle and stuck it in the sand out of his reach.

"Can I make a phone call? It's long distance but it will be short, I promise."

"Sure," my wife said, "Do you want me to dial the number for you?"

He recited the number, apologizing that it was long distance to Philadelphia. When my wife heard a "Hello?" on the other end, she said "Hi, we have Harry here for you" and handed him the iphone.

"I don't know how to use this device," he said.

"Just hold it up to your ear."

We sat and pretended to read while listening to his end of the call: "Dad, can you just come and get me?" he pleaded. "Can you at least wire me some money then, like forty dollars, to Western Union?" "Okay."

"What did he say?" we asked.

"He told me to stop bothering him." he handed the phone back with a shaking hand. "Can you guys help me?" He began crying again. "Can you please help me?"

Can you help me. Such a raw and honest request. He was surrendering to everything. He reached out and grabbed my arm. I let him. He lowered his head and sobbed. I looked at my wife as if to say "What do we do?"

"Yeah, we can help you, just hold on while we look around."

Sarah began searching online for anything to do with alcohol dependence and treatment centers. Surely there had to be a place we could take him where they'd welcome him in, wrap him up in a blanket, hand him a cup of coffee and say "Tell us your story, we're listening."

As Sarah reached out to one dead end after another on the phone, I got Harry talking about what had brought him here. He had come to Chicago from Philly to go to art school. He was drawn to the architecture of the city and the energy of it all. Unfortunately once he stepped off the plane he started drinking and didn't stop, and now here he was drunk on the beach, clutching the arm of a stranger and pouring his heart out.

"They said to just call the cops" Sarah mouthed to me, referring to the only person she'd managed to get through to on the phone. We were low on options and figured they'd treat him at least marginally better at a hospital, so we told him it was time to go and began hatching a plan to get him in a cab and take him to the ER, where maybe they could sober him up and at least present some options on where to go with getting treatment.

We packed up our things and I helped Harry to his feet. He made one last overture toward the Bacardi bottle.

"That's not gonna help you right now," I said as Sarah and I led him by the hand to the beach exit.

"Is she your girlfriend or wife or something man? She is beautiful," said Harry. I agreed with him.

Since neither of us had our wallets on us, we were going to have to walk back to our place and get some money to get in a cab. Luckily it was only a couple of blocks, so I stood on the corner while Sarah ran inside to get cash. Harry stood next to me, with a two-handed grip on my arm like that of a concert goer who'd just caught the drummer's sticks at the end of a set. He had found a possible way out and wasn't going to let it slip away. Groups of teenage girls walked by and snickered at the odd scene we made. Harry and I were a broken record for about five minutes. Him apologizing for bothering us and me telling him it was okay.

We found a cab easily once Sarah got back, and after some effort we positioned Harry into the back seat. Sarah got up front and I sat next to him in the back. About halfway there, his grip on my arm became a full on hug. He smelled of piss and body odor and I could hear AC/DC blaring from the headphones around his neck as I hugged back.

When we got to the ER they greeted the scene as though they'd seen it a thousand times before. A wheelchair appeared and we managed to get Harry into it, picking up his shoes to get them into the little metal foot rests. There wasn't much of a goodbye ceremony as they wheeled him inside to the back of a line at the desk. The guy at the door stared past us, scanning the horizon for the next patient to arrive.

"Should we go in and help him with the paperwork or something?" Sarah said.

"I think he's in good hands at this point. They probably get this all the time," I said, but silently wondered if there were more I should be doing as we began a quiet ride back to our apartment.

When we got back, curiosity got the best of Sarah and she called the hospital to see what they were planning to do with him.

"They'll lay him in bed until he sobers up, then release him."

"That's it? They won't get him treatment or anything?"

"Only if he asks for it."

----

The next morning, a Sunday, I got up and decided to go for a jog. The scene from the day before was still playing itself out in my mind and I thought a good run might help. I got out on the Lake Shore path headed south and treated myself to a vision of Harry 5 years down the road, totally cleaned up with a family and steady job. He would look back on that day he met those two kind strangers on the beach and think about how they started him down the right path. What a debt of gratitude he would owe us if we ever crossed paths again.

Near the end of my run I noticed a familiar blue baseball cap and turned to see Harry on his back in the sand, arms outstretched, palms facing the sun, earphones on and passed out drunk at 10:30 in the morning. I stopped my ipod and walked over to him.

"Harry." I crouched down next to him and nudged him a little, now noticing that he had on a new pair of pants, complete with a new piss stain down the front, and a new gallon jug of Bacardi tucked into them.

"Harry." He stirred and woke up. I couldn't tell if he remembered who I was.

"Do you remember me from yesterday?"

"I'm sorry, man."

He took my hand with both of his and leaned forward, touching his forehead to my hand.

"I'm sorry."

Realizing something, I stood up, looking him in the eyes one last time.

"Harry, I hope you can put this shit down and get your life together. Good Luck."

His head tilted and his eyes narrowed a little as if to tell me "You're giving up too, huh?"

I turned my music back on and headed back toward the path.

This was inspired by an old graphic from several years back called Dante's Internet. I felt it needed a web 2.0 update and got after it with some help from my buddy @joeschmitt. Not really judging here - I'm guilty of some of these myself - just putting it out there. What do you think - agree/disagree? Who should be closer or further from the center? Special thanks to @OhHiShop and this sweet piece for the design inspiration.

Recently while walking to the bus stop, I noticed this CD lying in the dirt next to the sidewalk. It looked new and still had half of the case attached which had protected it from getting too damaged. I was intrigued with the audacious title "Boss Bitch" and the clever wordplay of the artist's name, so I decided I was going to review the album and put it online to try and help jumpstart Miranda's career. I couldn't find anything about her on Google so I assumed she could use a spin around the internet to try and get a little buzz going. I put on the disc at work, threw on some headphones and was treated to the following 17-track tour de force. Unfortunately, the tracks on the CD aren't named, so I'll have to refer to them as "Track 1," etc.

In Track 1, an intro of sorts, we are read our rights by Miranda. These include the right to envy her, and honor her as a Boss. I like the concept here of Miranda Rights being read to the listener. It reinforces her name and sets up well for the rest of the album. At track's end, it sounds like she takes off in a helicopter or something, whch is a pretty cool, original sign-off. 

Track 2 lacks a little of the aggression promised by the intro. It's more of an ego piece for the artist, recounting her journey from hood-chick status to star. Lines like "If you aint gettin' it on my level, kick rocks trick" deliver some solid attitude, but otherwise I see this piece as further transition into the meat of the album.

Track 3, which I'm betting is entitled "Turning Heads," begins with a discussion by two men observing a female, presumably Ms. Ryte: "She got a walk on her...I'm going in, homie." Then the song begins in earnest.

For about the first half of the track, Miranda primarily gives us details about her body. She opines that in all likelihood, female listeners' boyfriends are jocking and perhaps even stalking her. I'm digging the aggression in her approach to this verse. The tone is right and lines like "These thick thighs on me, it's all eyes on me" and "I keep a rack on me, that's a fact homie" pretty much sum up her effort on the song.

From there the mic gets passed to Check Famous, whose name I know because he calls it out as the song fades at the end (along with "super producer Rob Jones"). Famous shows a couple flashes in his portion of the track, but it's mostly unremarkable.

 

For some reason, Posterous does not like Track 4 and will not let me upload it. Fortunately I agree. It sounds like Miranda turned over the reins to some R&B guy who laid down a track full of trite hip-hop cliches like "I'm gonna run Chi-town tonight" in my "Phantom sittin' on them thangs." Very vanilla and forgettable song.

"Bringin' pain since my momma's first contraction." Now this is more like it. Track 5 brings the album's best production value so far with some clever word pairings layered on top. Most of Miranda's aggression seems to be directed at other women, whom she views as competition for resources like male attention and money.

She doesn't completely ignore the fellas, though. Lines like "Say you wanna fuck for free? Shit, I'm the wrong bitch" let you know exactly where Miranda stands when it comes to relationships.

Track 6 doesn't stand out from the pack much. The lack of percussion in the beat leaves me without much to grab onto sonically, and the lyrics simply rehash what we already know about the artist's ample rear end and breasts.

I suppose Track 7 is the ballad of the album. Its beat is slow and easygoing and the chorus is a pathetic sounding male voice who sounds determined to win Miranda's affection, repeating "I just gotta get ya" a few times in a row. In between choruses, Miranda admonishes potential suitors to get their weight up. The take-away? Don't bother courting Miranda Ryte without serious financial stability.

A simple interlude from Miranda reminding us that she worked really hard on this mix tape, and is preparing to go for the knockout with the rest of the album. I found it added little information and could probably be lost from the collection with little consequence to the final product.

Track 9 lets potential mates of Miranda's know exactly what she's expecting to happen before she's willing to consummate the relationship fully. There's nothing musically remarkable about it other than the shock value of the lyrics, and it feels a little unfinished to me at only 1:23 in length.

This song starts off with a phone conversation between Miranda and another female who's apparently found Ryte's number in her man's phone. After making a show of her lack of concern for the situation, Ryte provides some insight into her reasoning for becoming involved with men who are in relationships. Basically, she doesn't give a fuck. That's why she lets you beat it up. I enjoy the beat on this one and find it to be one of the album's more triumphant pieces.

In Track 11, the artist takes the opportunity to remind us that if we're interested in coitus with her, it's not going to come cheap. After promising to deliver a "whole new swag" in the talky intro to the song, Miranda lets us down a bit by bringing more of the same: lines like "If you ain't gettin' paper then you better get lost" only serve to tell us what we already know.

I did enjoy the guest MC who finishes off the track, for no other reason than his multiple comparisons of food to parts of the female anatomy.

I suppose if most male rappers are going to repeat the "I've got money, now let me see some T&A" schtick, it's only fair that we give Miranda a pass for continuing to parrot her "I've got T&A, now let me see some money" ideology throughout this album. Still, it becomes grating to have the subject matter vary so little at this point in the mixtape. For me at least, weak lyrical content can be more than made up for by a unique and stylish beat, but the musical bed fails to bail Miranda out on Track 12.

Track 13 is where the album bottoms out. From the strange calypso beat to the dodgy, expected lyrical content; there's absolutely nothing to see here.

 

In what might be the most creative track on the album, Miranda and her man devise a scheme over the phone to have her seduce another gentleman, then tie him up and leave him bound and gagged while they make off with his fortune. The plan seems so well thought out that one is left wondering if indeed Ms. Ryte has pulled off such a stunt in real life. This song gets an A for its creative beat and engaging lyrics.

Delightfully, Track 15 is a crafty bit of sound design that picks up where Track 14 leaves off - beginning with Miranda's man climbing the stairs while admiring her boyfriend's valuables, which he plans on reappropriating for himself and Miranda. The action takes us into a wonderfully produced theatre of imagination wherein the mark curses Miranda's disloyalty and pathetically begs for his own life while the attackers search for the location of the safe. At the track's end, Miranda coldly ends the mark's life with a single, silenced bullet; letting us know she ain't that bitch to trifle with.

Finally a chance to peel back the final layers of Miranda Ryte and catch a glimpse of the vulnerable soul inside. I think Track 16 reflects her desire to be involved with only one man and feel the connection of being bonded for life. "I'm a rider. He's a provider" sums up her feelings toward this fictional man. She goes on to recount several positive aspects of his personality, but once again this song feels cut off prematurely at the 1:34 mark, coming across more more as a single verse than a full song.

 

A stirring ode to inebriation, Track 17 takes us out with a nicely layered beat that probably deserves better lyrics than Ryte and Co. provide. The male MC who starts us off worries that his girl might straight up trip if he doesn't make it home, but doesn't seem to care when reeking of "Champagne and kush and cigarettes and gin."

Miranda signs off with a fairly unmemorable verse followed by some incomprehensible prose.

 

All things considered, I think Boss Bitch is a noble effort and deserves to be heard. The production value stays fairly top-notch throughout, and I admired Miranda's facility with the english language on more than one track.

Still, it could do with some heavy editing to get it down to a tight, 11-12 song album that probably deserves to be on the racks at the local record store more than half of the stuff currently peddled there. If you enjoyed the music, pass this along and give a bitch a chance, won't you?