Hate is powerful. It finds its home in meat. It isolates a person, a group, or a concept and pins its aggression to the chest of the target. It provides an illusory freedom, giving a brief respite from powerlessness. It abandons and overrides the rational mind. It strengthens the weak, the debased, the undisciplined for greater self-induced degradation. It is the readily available, easy, thoughtless answer for those whose minds are a mysterious and unused organ, encased in a body devoid of a sensed worth. It makes brutality an appealing tonic, a drink swallowed that batters you until you share it.

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One evening in an apartment above a college bar in Madison, I attempted to discuss the contemplative nature of jazz with some new acquaintances who were talking about what was and what wasn't good music. I should have known better. They were dead set on getting drunk and my attempt at conversation was a distraction. While I spoke, their eyes alternated between glassy with boredom and darting between the various bouncing body parts of women dancing in the apartment. They didn't care about the history of jazz in hip hop or anything else I had to say.

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