Storm Davis :: Kegstand Poetry for the Recovering Alcoholic. "I've had people who don't like hiphop tell me that mine is the only hiphop they like," Storm says, as he gazes with sly adoration at his own reflection in what appears to be a vat of Jack Daniels on the table in front of him. "And hiphop cats tell me that the music I make isn't really hiphop, but they like it." The twentysomething emcee runs his hand over his Oakland A's baseball cap, as if searching for any trace evidence left behind by whoever is responsible for planting his words at this worrisome crossroad. Or perhaps he is grazing for the tiny platypus he insists is in the room with him at all times, watching, judging. He gazes at the floor, his eyes following the path of a used-bubblegum-coated baseball that has inexplicably fallen out of his pants pocket. "So I imagine I'm either doomed or blessed. I guess we'll see."