SONG OF THE DAY: Say No Go (kudzu'd)

Back in the day, tapes were physical objects, and not necessarily as easy to get as folks today might think. And actually, when it came to hip hop, I remember when going to Plan 9 in Richmond back in the late ‘80s/early ‘90s, all their hip hop was locked up in a segregated case that you had to ask someone to open. But the first copy of 3 Feet High & Rising I bought happened to just be beside the checkout at the truck stop in Simplicity when I stopped to get gas in high school one time. It was obviously a bootleg, because the cover was grainy, and once I bought it and opened it, there was nothing printed on the inside of the cover. Tape still worked though. I played the fuck out of that tape.
It’s interesting in retrospect that I bought a bootleg, which allegedly stole profits from the artists, but more likely stole from the record label, who stole from the artists. De La had a long, complicated process of regaining control of their masters and being able to reissue their stuff, including that debut album. But because of sample clearance, and who was going to pay for it – the label or the artist – there’s a lot of samples that have been altered or created in a different way than the original version. I honestly haven’t heard the reissue, at least not that I know, nor would I want to. Why would you willingly accept a remade version like that? And I know it profits the artists now, which is a good thing, but that overlooks the whole fact that sampling got fucked with by legal definitions of intellectual property, and an art form that was way ahead of the times in the late ‘80s/early ‘90s got permanently set back to where the collage technique of making beats has been deemed an economic risk. You can’t do it for commercial purposes, and sure, you could do it at home at your own risk, but if you ever blew up, the intellectual property masters would sick their legal bloodhounds on your ass.
I say all this because for some fucked up reason, even creative types now think in terms of getting paid and monetizing shit. Fuck that. Art should be for art’s sake. And I know we all gotta survive capitalism (what the fuck you think I’m trying to do over here?), but that doesn’t change the fact that a reconstituted not-the-original work recreation by the artist so they own the rights is not an improvement of actual art just because they reclaimed ownership from the shady ass record label.
Anyways, I hope you are still pirating shit, and buying bootlegs, and do not have some bullshit cultural supremacist attitude that “authentic” copies are somehow better than the weird illegal recreations that folks living a truly wild style life out here are pumping out. And this now has spilled into fuckin’ thrift store culture to where you got bougie ass “vintage” markets selling an old ass goddamn wrestling or biker t-shirt for $200. I saw some fake beard shithead defend this by saying, “Y’all said I was charging too much, but I can get it!” Yeah, fuck that shit, bro. Just because you can do something don’t mean you should. But only people with a heart full of real morals feel that. I ain’t living that way. Bootleg everything, pirate even more. Fuck intellectual property. I’m gonna steal some arts shit this evening just on general principle. And I got a whole pile of old vintage wrestling t-shirts on the back porch, just waiting to give away for free to the right person, who’s soul is not poisoned by what we call “culture” in dying ass empire America.

SONG OF THE DAY: For Those Who Love to Groove (kudzu'd)

Posting slowed down song videos to youtube has been an interesting foray over the past few years, especially as I snag mp4s to use for the videos. I learned a long time ago that you can’t use actual videos for actual songs that have been slowed down, because there’s dueling copyrights between the song owner and the video owner, and youtube just shuts it down completely because they don’t know who to direct your views to. So I tend to try and find performances of songs rather than the “official” videos to use.
Some of the old Sonido Dueñez rips that I made videos for have been illuminating, because youtube reveals to me what the actual song originally was, because Dueñez’s mixtapes were notorious for not having the actual song title written on them. But some of those sneak through and I guess nobody owns the U.S. copyright or some shit, and I don’t even get a copyright notice where any profiteering acquired from the data accumulate while you watch the videos I made can be sent. So it goes to me (adding to my lifetime youtube earnings of $0, lol).
I had one especially great song I ripped and made a video for, Karthago’s “I Give You Everything You Want”, which was a 45 reissued by Fraternity Music Group in 2016, but copyright owners wouldn’t let the song live on youtube, regardless of speed or video added.
Anyways, all this is to say there’s a lot of weird behind the scenes data analysis going on, and sometimes I have to make 2 or 3 videos before one actually clears youtube. But in the process of slowing down this amazingly funky song by Ray Parker Jr. & Raydio (his band from before the “Ghostbusters” era), I got the normal copyright notice where someone else was taking the profits off it. Except it wasn’t Ray Parker Jr. & Raydio. Somehow, some rapper/producer from Texas named Six2 basically took this old “For Those Who Love to Groove” synth funk, and claimed it as his own beat, and had some woman throw a hook over it, while he raps. Not trying to hate on nobody’s art, because normally I wouldn’t, but his song ain’t all that to where he needs to be claiming the copyright of me slowing down the old Ray Parker Jr. jam. But he did, which tells me he ain’t my kinda people. Out here playing lawyerball and calling it art. The release the song that claims it’s this comes from also features a couple of features from Big Mike of the Geto Boys and Timbaland, so maybe Six2 had financial backing and was throwing money at features and actually cleared the entire rights to the instrumental. I don’t know. I do know when I spin that motherfucker live, slowed down, next week while DJing, can’t nobody say shit to me in real life. And art is more for real life benefit than filing legal paperwork and attempting in vain to stack some coins like Scrooge McDuck.

SONG OF THE DAY: Groovin'

I got a bootleg “edit” 45 of this recently, and man do I love a bootleg “edit”. Fuck copyright law and fuck intellectual property, especially with record labels when the actual artists usually don’t own shit. Anyways, this gained newfound popularity because it was in RZA’s mom’s record collection, so he looped the fuck out of it, as one did in the ‘90s when that Ensoniq 16 plus was calling your name from the basement when you were lying in bed at night.

1 0FT3N 3NC0VNT3R N0...

I often encounter No 
Trespassing Signs in spots where 
nobody’s even watching 

TH3 D0'S 4ND D0NT'S TH1S CVLTVR3...

the do’s and don’ts this culture 
demands will fade away with 
time; observe your heart foremost 

D0N3 MY B3ST T0 4V01D 4LL...

 

done my best to avoid all 
the county courthouses by 
any means necessary 

SM4LL S0VTH3RN T0WN C0VRTH0VS3S...

small southern town courthouses -

where legal disputes still get

decided by hog-jowled dudes

45s on 33 – #75: “Ha Ha (Laughing Song)”

[The following is Railroad Time’s accounting of how he came to be in these time tunnels of central Virginia. It should be noted that the entire time he relayed these details, he laughed heartily throughout – a literally “heartily” where the laughter was without thought and deep and real. There was a rhythm to his speech that I doubt my recounting here – again, I’m no journalist – will properly reflect, like the clacks of a train running alongside a skinny thick river rustling through rural country. And though Willie Strunk, Jr. may disapprove, for sake of sanctity, I’m gonna abandon quotation marks for his account.]

I won’t no slave by law, ‘cause it was after that time, but ain’t nobody ever thought slaves was right, in a real sense. Devil men find a way to make it happen though, make different laws that take the wrong and launder it through their laws until it can seem like it’s right. That was me, ‘cause I was in jail. But then they let me loose to slice sap out the pines for the turpentine people. And if they gonna tell you, you can stay in jail or you can be free, you gonna be free, always. Ain’t no sensible man alive, or dead, who gonna choose to stay in jail, unless he done been made a slave all the way down to his heart and don’t know how to think right no more.

So I was cutting them pines and pulling the turpentine, and ain’t never been a single man with as much energy as me, so I was rolling through them pines. That’s when they started calling me Railroad Time at first. I got more sap for them turpentine people than anybody. But at the same time, I know right and wrong and that ain’t always the same as allowed and against the law. So I had to move, and I guess that name Railroad Time stuck to me, even though to me I was just ol’ Mo, country boy from ‘bama, natural born bama. So I moved with the tracks, mostly where I was ‘cause I could. But then a sheriff came one time, trying to force the law on me, wrong as ever, and that man was a fool, done went and shot hisself while trying to get at me. You know the law ain’t gonna admit the law was wrong though, so the papers was saying I killed that sheriff. So I had to move a little wider a circle than before, stayed to the tracks though. Took what I need if I needed it, and shared what I had if somebody else needed it too. If it got too cold, I went south; too warm, went north. If it got too crowded, I went west; and if I got to feeling too alone, went east. Just went as things told me too. Along the way I learned how to be a wolf if I needed to be, couldn’t do it for too long, but I could wolf myself away for a day or two if I needed to really get away from some devil ass people.

Anyways, I ain’t one for maps and knowing about this state or that state, but I seen the desert, and I seen cities full of buildings that touched the clouds, and I been places where ain’t nobody speak my language, a couple times been like that. But I was just riding, and the train was by a river and I thought I seen some little men, like little dudes out on an island. The train stopped a couple miles down, so I jumped off to go back and see what them little dudes was all about, because like I said, I been all over the place, and I ain’t seen nothing like that before.

I ain’t find them little people, though heard tell of them plenty of times. I ended up living out in some tunnels for a while, just to be safe and still for a little while, and I ran into these runaway people Woodie was with. Been wandering these tunnels ever since. I loved the trains, following them tracks all over the place. These tunnels like that too though, they go all over the place but different places. Not just like north, south, east, west though but like that got multiplied by math ain’t nobody ever showed me how to do. But I think I got it figured out a little bit by now.

[Railroad Time laughed at that. By my own calculations, I’m guessing he maybe saw the elven people at Seven Islands, and jumped off the train either at Shores or Bremo Bluff, which is directly across the river from where the slate quarries still exist. Railroad Time made me feel practical safe. Knowing things is helpful in attempting to feel safe, in calculating your observable world for solutions. But some folks – Railroad Time type folks – know in a different, deeper, non-brain way, which gives you a deep sense of safety that cognizant knowing just never really fully accomplishes.]

one nation-state's pirate is

just a freedman recognized

only by wide open space

J.J. Krupert Top 13 Countdown - June '11 #10: "Brown Sugar" by ZZ Top

Me and the big homey D went to a baseball game a few weeks back, but it rained like a motherfucker so we didn't do anything at the game except stand around thinking about what it would be like to watch a baseball game. We decided to roll to a bar where a friend of mines worked at, and play some dominoes. I don't drink anymore, but am comfortable as fuck with being a non-drinking, non-punk ass dude, not needing fake gods or 12-step self-help programs to limit my true potential, so though it might seem a strange environment, and I think tweaked the big homey D out a little bit at first, it made good sense, and for good times.
Anyways, after a few hours of this, we came home, and I dropped D off at his shop (one of the benefits of a non-drinking friends is having a dude who can actually drive without aiming for the middle just barely better than you would), and headed back to the compound, smelling like cigarette smoke and probably beer, even though I hadn't drunk a drop.
Passed a cop though, and my alignment ain't the greatest, so it pulls left, and the cop must've seen my beard and tattoos in the busted up truck under the street lights and figured I was a good catfish to reel in. Blue lights behind me, I pulled over about a half mile from Thomas Jefferson's crib up on the mountain, and realized I probably would be drunk driving this time of night normally most points in my life; but I was straight as an Eskimo spear. You'd think this would mean I'd answer the questions and be done in a timely manner, but I knew pre-emptively that all cops are dicks, so I figured I'd dick it up too, and reacted slowly to his questions, even hand rolling down my window (yeah, it's manual) all oddly just to give the illusion of drunkardliness. Sure enough, he asked me where I was coming from, so I sort of slowed my talking pace, though didn't slur, and said, "I just dropped a friend of mine off at his place. We had been at a place in Richmond hanging out for a few hours and all." So he of course asks me if I had been drinking, so I just look down the side of the door and say, "Well, my friend drank a bunch of beers, but I wasn't drinking," trying not to make eye contact because if he was a good judge of eyeballs, he'd know I was lying; but of course, he's also a cop so he probably figures I'm lying anyways, regardless of what I say. "Mr. Mack, can you step out the truck," and I look at him and am awkwardly unhappy, like I'm tired and want to go to bed, saying, "Why, officer?" And he repeats his demand, which makes me laugh inside because I know I ain't drunk. He has me do the one leg in front of the other thing, which I do really slow on purpose, and answer all his questions on purpose. He says, "Mr. Mack, I want to give you a breathalyzer test." And I say, "I don't really see the need, officer," but he persists, and explains by refusing to take it I am proclaiming my own guilt. At this point, just doing everything slow adds to the belief I'm lying on his end. So he puts the plastic tube on the device and puts it in my mouth, and I blow really slowly, trying not to register the device, because I've played this game on the actually drunk side before. It reads 0.00, and he says, "Mr. Mack, I need you to blow harder into the tube." "But I did, officer, and it said nothing." "Mr. Mack, you need to blow strongly into the tube for three to four seconds, or else it's considered refusing the test." I roll my eyes and make a dramatic scene about it, but then blow as hard as I can, and it comes up 0.00.
At this point, of course a second cop pulls up, so I switch into normal speed at this point. First cop is like, "He blew zeroes but he's showing signs of inebriation." And then all of a sudden I'm in normal talk mode with, "What signs of inebriation have I shown Officer X" - referring to him by name for the first time, which took him aback because I'm sure in his mind I couldn't even focus on a name tag. I look at the second officer and say, "Officer, I've cooperated fully with Officer X since he pulled me over ten minutes ago. I've completed his field tests and blown into his breathalyzer twice now, and I've tried to be a patient and conscientious citizen, because I know how hard the job of a police officer is. But as far as I can tell, I don't think I've given him any reason to further this situation." The first officer says, "If you are under the influence of narcotics, we can demand a blood test to find out."
I look at the second cop and say, "Sir, do you want to search my truck? I'm not exactly excited about letting you do so, but there's no sign of drugs anywhere in my truck, and I don't feel there's any reason to believe I'm on any type of drug." At this point, the second cop is sort of torn between his fraternal bullshit obligation to help his cop friend be a dick to any one they come across; but I can see he's wrestling with the fact that I've shown absolutely no signs of being fucked up whatsoever. The first cop is still holding to his threats, "We can have a K-9 car here in half an hour." So I throw back at him, calmly still though, because they'll use emotional outbursts at their demeaning tactics as an excuse to say you did wrong, "Sir, you can call your K-9 car if you want, and I will sit here on the side of the road with you for another hour, keeping me from getting home to my wife and family for another hour, until your dog can sniff around my truck and find nothing except an old cookie wrapper and empty water bottles. And I still won't be inebriated, and we'll have wasted a good chunk of both our nights."
At this point, I can see the second cop is not backing the first cop, just because there doesn't seem to be any reason, and they walk back to the second car, leaving the first car's incessant cop radio babble on between me and them, and they come back and the second cop says, "The reason he pulled you over was because of some slightly erratic driving coming through the light back there. We're going to let you go, but just be careful, okay?"
I know I've got them at this point, and have cracked their infallible cop tonton macoutes armor where the entire world is a lying ass criminal piece of shit, and now two cops questions one cop and probably one cop will be mad with two cop and I have divided them, at least partially, so I go, "Sir, I will be as careful as always. Good night. And you should watch over how your partner there treats regular people," and turned back to my truck. "Our apologies, Mr. Mack. He was only doing his job." And I resisted the urge to add, "Well he's not doing it very well," because even in a situation like this, I know it could easily get ugly with the type of ignorant bastard that becomes a cop, so I just got in, turned on my J.J. Krupert real fucking loud, and drove off. And this was the song that came on.
STEAL "Brown Sugar"
NEXT: if you listen really closely, you can hear Charles Bronson playing a harmonica in the background!

t r k a j

multiple eighteen-wheeler
common law relatives, not
by blood nor legal contracts

b a l l a

basketball was my fave sport;

then cardiovascular

lethargy fattened my flesh

(7s) Longest Serving U.S. Representatives #2 - Representative John Conyers Jr. (Democratic Deacon of Michigan’s 14th District)

Okay, what the fuck is wrong with people in Michigan? Do they just not have elections with more than one person? Conyers represents northwest Detroit on over to Dearborn, basically the district right above the Dingell dude’s district. Conyers is the second-longest serving member of the House right now, and cut his political teeth working as an assistant to Dingell in Congress, before getting his own seat, sworn in on January 3, 1965. That’s just shady as fuck, that two dudes who were tight have held two major elected seats for 45 years now. And Michigan’s economy is crushed. Coincidence? No. The tree of liberty is looking pretty goddamned wilted and needs some fertilizer.
Conyers was one of the founding members of the Congressional Black Caucus, which is a collection of white dudes in suits who make all the rules for everybody else, just they’re not technically white dudes. Conyers was also on Richard Nixon’s infamous list of enemies (at the #13 spot), where his weakness was listed as “white women”, and his special powers were considered a strong head (for headbutting evil, and not falling weak to blows to the head) and superior genetic athleticism that made it hard to outrun him.
Shockingly enough, Conyers wife is a light-skinned black woman who has been under FBI investigation for political corruption in Detroit. And Conyers himself has caught shit, like all Congressmen do, for shady shit he’s done regarding public funding of medical research and other nonsense that supports his financial supporters which help him make nice commercials that convince the people to keep on voter lever stamping him into office every two years. And a great quote by Conyers, from 2001 on the House floor, regarding knowing a proposed bill in detail before voting on it, is “’Read the bill’... What good is reading the bill if it’s a thousand pages and you don’t have two days and two lawyers to find out what it means after you read the bill?” Ahh... democracy in action. It warms my heart.

Full Moon Winter Ale

AFFORDABILITY: This year New Years was an actual blue moon full moon (meaning the second in one Anglican Calendar month), so the ol' lady was pretty stoked about having to buy the Full Moon Winter Ale by Blue Moon Brewing for our New Year's bloodstream thinner. And there was some sort of bargain on them as well, again, like I always say, relatively speaking. I think my ongoing poverty, which it looks like I should be able to escape from in the next four months, has tinged my brain, to where I feel guilty spending $12 on a 12-pack (the dollar per beer ratio is all sorts of non-agreeable with 16-year-old case of Milwaukee's Best Raven), which I should, being I haven't made a couple credit cards payments in a row at two different accounts. But fuck it man, I have been non-working, broke, and when you have that fleeting money, doesn't a man deserve something to ease his mind? And if a 12-pack of Old Milwaukee (my old favorite) is pretty easy to drink down to maybe two or three left, but give my brain the super destructor superfly snuka splash cobra clutch interior headlock the next day, why wouldn't I choose a better beer that goes down slower, inebriates thicker, and doesn't ache me the next day? You tell me. Nonetheless, after all that justifying and lawyer ball, I guess it really wasn't affordable at all. Fuck. 2 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: Oh man, me and the ol’ lady drank so much of this, by the 12-pack boxes, for a few weeks there during the holidays, same time we had a big snowstorm, and it dulled my senses very nicely in abundance. Nothing to write home about, not that I ever write home anyways; usually, I just email my mom asking for money. But next winter, if it comes back around, which it will, I shall bring it into my home once again. 4 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: The Full Moon Blue Moon Double Moon Winter Ale is a chill ass bottle label, with, you guessed it, a full moon. With the double full moons in December, plus the two feet of stupid fucking snow, it kept us on chill mode for far too long, especially when combined with chronic self-unemployment. The label is mostly just blues and whites, straight up listening to Enya music curled up in the fetal position thinking about the warmest blanket you had as a 5-year-old type shit. You don't have to go to those basic three religious propaganda colors of red, black, and white like Shepard Fairey brainwashing people into loving Obama and buying the new Pepsi logo, as some nice light blue and black and white has the same Mass Com 101 emotional effect, but even more new agey and soothing. If it was legal to buy prescription drugs wide out in the open, I would expect codeine Kool-Aid to kick it with a label like this, just with maybe a little more blur around the periphery. 5 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: My wife has enjoyed the Blue Moon beers immensely in our years together. In fact we bought a 12-pack of their spring ale last weekend for our first night without the kids in the house since our youngest was born two years ago. Imagine how saddened I was to see that it's just a fake microbrew label owned by Coors. I am cry. 1 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: Hard to get behind the Blue Moon, even with their bootiful labels, when I know it's just some Adolph Coors bullshit. It's like Mr. Coors let his wife decorate the downstairs main bathroom, so it's all stylish and seems cool, but then the rest of the house is a giant full security bullshit supersized McMansion. Seriously, that was a sad discovery. My man Benji B. did electricalicians work at their super-plant outside of Waynesboro and just hearing the sheer immensity of it all makes me not like it. I guess all of them be that way, but still. 1 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 2 & 3/5 STARS!

"Feelin' Alright" by the Jungle Brothers

{mediafire/rapidshare/sendspace/sharebee/yeahright/diabloblanco}
Ain't been gone so much as busy with the real life, which ain't gone at all but far more here than most 0s and 1s collections of words that cloud up your day like opium smoke and make it more tolerable. I am deep into employment, on a daily basis, ultimately helping the zombies protect the precious and tasty brains of the exploitable agricultural classes that get blowed up on the front lines of human bullshit. We are lucky I guess to live in a land where the zombies have many wheelbarrows of gold coins to stack up over such matters.
At the same time, life goes on. It's a hard act to juggle wearing a shirt that has buttons that go from my dick to my throat with leaning into hammered down dumpsters behind strip mall grocery stores. But I walk that fine line with a swaggered and stumbling pride. Life is nothing more than life, and it always sucks and is always awesome, and though my days can be clogged up with ulcer-inducing red tape constraints like a straight jacket that's not leather like a 1985 album cover to make it cool but straight up straight jacket that sucks and is made of cheap itchy yet thick canvas cloth that makes your elbow where it pokes out not feel real good and it's clamped tightly at your back beyond belief... the end to that "though..." long running phrase is fuck it man, I'm good. Life is what it is and I enjoy the experience of the things I experience. You should too. And if you don't, as your lawyer I advise you to fuck up your routine tomorrow, right now.

Kirin Ichiban

AFFORDABILITY: The Kirin Ichiban tall can ain't as cheap as say PBR tallboy, but it does come from Japan. Pushing near $3 a tall can, this is obviously not an alleyway special, sitting on milk crates trading illuminati-laced freestyles with a couple dudes you been smoking angel dusted joints with. But it should be. Why must we limit ourselves economically, and create these stereotypes of finance we live inside of? 4 out of 5.
DESTROYABILITY: I only drank one, and it gave me a mighty head thick with looseness. I don’t drink like I once did, but still to have such a virginal drinking experience after over two decades of drinking degeneracy with deep dips and kidney-aching mornings that start at 10 am at the struggling ass earliest, it was a pleasurable feeling. There’s nothing like the first time, except when you can trick yourself into feeling like it’s the first time again. Damn, that should be an ad campaign for some bullshit. 5 out of 5.
LABEL AESTHETIC: There is no greater label aesthetic possible. This tall can reads, at one spot, “A mythical beast that is half deer and half dragon, the Kirin heralds good fortune. And great beer.” And then there’s some beer bullshit. The second spot of that text on the can is covered up by a dragon tail partially so that it reads “The good and great in Ichiban’s single-press process” and goes into the rest of the beer awesomeness bullshit. It is subliminal, sublime, and perfect. There is Jap talk characters as well, which I can’t read of course, being the Japanese Dexter Manley I am, but big black Orientalized characters on a white background is the ultimate tightness of illiteracy. This is the most greatest tall can design ever designed by humans being. 11 out of 5.
CORPORATE MASTER: Again, as the label reads, it be saying, “Brewed under the strict supervision of Kirin’s brewmaster by Anheuser-Busch, Inc., Los Angeles, CA.” It seems that most grass roots Jap shit that makes popular in the America is NorCal based, usually around San Francisco, and the more business-based bullshit making a run into the American wallet is set up around Los Angeles, whether that be beer or mixed martial artistry or bukkake porn or car drifting. This makes me distrustful, and the addition of the whole Anheuser-Busch dynamic like quadruple mega mass funkicides that. Those people can’t be trusted for shit. Even when I take my kid to Busch Gardens, I type up a letter in an envelope that says, “When opening this agreement and by reading it with your eyeballs, you waive any right to absolve yourselves of any medical bills and civil suits resulting from any injuries my children substain in the normal enjoyment of your amusement park. In no way do I intend to create imaginary financial gains from the proper enjoyment of your creations, but should bad things happen to my bloodlines due to your engineering negligence, you guarantee proper compensation, as decided by a jury of my peers, meaning regular people, where we get triple the veto power of potential jurors, because I know how you people work, with your lawyers in snakeskin suits carrying their writs and all. This includes all internal organ manipulations from physically wacked out rides, that sometimes cause far more trouble, long-term I’m speaking of, than just an upset stomach.” 2 out of 5.
OVERALL AMBIANCE: I am not the one to doubt the power of the half dragon half beast alcoholic beverage. The tall cans are right purty, and it gave my brain a fuel injection of ARGH. My compliments to the chef, whoever the Ichiban dude is overseeing the brewing shit in Los Angeles. Also all this talk of Ichiban makes me want to Rest in Peace MC Breed. 5 out of 5.
TOTAL RATING: 5 & 2/5 STARS!