I run into Busta Rhymes in the elevator.

I am mad at him. because after years of doing crazy weird stuff, he is all mainstream, doing collabos with the likes of Mariah Carey and doing lame rip-offs of cool dance hall music (caribbean dance hall, not like english vaudeville).

So I say "Busta, what the frickin frack is up with that lame song with the even worse video where all you see is Mariah Carey's fake blond hair and overmadeup face? What happened to your bizarre avant garde videos with post-apocalyptic landscapes and anthropologies of the future and such? You let me down!"

To my surprise, he looks ashamed.

"Uh," he says, "That was supposed to be a lot cooler, with this whole love story in a comic book plot thing, but the execs got a hold of it and cut all the good parts out to promote my image and Mariah's image. Oh, and at first the collabo was supposed to be someone else, but the execs made me pick someone from my label. They were mad at me after the my last album didn't sell as many as they hoped. And I hate the way that video turned out. All the narrative is gone."

I am so surprised, all I can say is "Well, OK then" in a harsh kind of way.

Then the elevator brings us to the lobby, and we go our separate ways.

RedFeather, by

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