Tell me something, John Olson. What you got going? What you got planned? The fuck is #TripMetal? No, no, don’t answer that. Because the answer’s not easy. I don’t even know it, but you certainly don’t. You threw something down and then tied your pedals to it. Loop it around. Space it out. Prevent an answer from happening. It’s running. Why you running? Where you going?
Milan, man. I don’t fuck with Milanos, they’re too crunchy. Give me Neapolitan instead. And yet you drop in on some old rustic cave they turned into a stage, you turn it into a bullhorn. Sotto La Sacrestia. Under the vestry, under the vestments…wardrobe. You were at the portal of Narnia or some weird-ass dimension, bellowing out for a savior to come and cook you bacon. Is that what you want? Because nobody gonna do that for you. Ain’t no vestments where you’re going with that either, unless you’re looking to turn #TripMetal into the Protestant to Bey’s Catholicism. (I mean, before Francisco, it was all Gucci Gucci Prada…it only makes sense) But why do that, you know? Control the space, not the people. Blow that fucking joint. Burn that Cathedral, it needs a resurrection. (Squish some moldbugs while you at it) You already know how, you do it here. No need to create cults, all they do is death threats.
Of course I know why you roll on this day. One week, #TripMetal gets a free fest. Detroit Trip City. Roll with it. But this isn’t peace and love, this is the war room. Bring it, John Olson. Show me your moves. Next weekend, we haka. Ka mate. Ka mate. Ka ora. Because war ain’t just inevitable. It’s essential.
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