Not much to say here. If you can think of a caption that won’t make me roll my eyes, please submit it for my approval.
Instagram isn’t just my nickname for Josh who supplies me with that beige!
It is also a photo site that I am newly on.
Photo that makes me giggle:
1- a present from Stax in ’71 for his success, it’s a metal/sex beast made by Lucifer’s minions in a GM plant for the purpose of getting nice, respectable young ladies like me out of their dresses.
The Wall Street Journal wonders if “Otis” will give a boost to the Maybach and its sad little sales record. The video has given the car “new-found hip-hop notoriety,” the article submits, which means that the WSJ has never heard of Rick Ross (LOVE) but also that the WSJ is as out of touch with rap music as say, Kanye West is as out of touch with my life. Anyway, as I’ve already established, a jerk is a jerk, and that hi-res Lakai intro and lo-res Fatlip video still set the standard for Jonzeian superbness, but I won’t lie – I wish on all that is good and holy (Lagerfeld, Murakami, Tisci) that I had been picked for this gig. It’s daydream fodder when I’m at work – fast cars, danger, fire and knives, plus that cute part at 1:18 when K looks back at J so they can synchronize their, uh, grippin wood dance. (Am I supposed to pause at this point?)
“Let the Dollar Circulate.” GAMBLE N HUFF. GAMBLE N HUFF. And to a lesser extent, JEEZY JEEZY JEEZY.
I would add “Whothefuck is that bitch,” à la Joi in Friday, but I don’t talk like that in real life so I don’t want Curren$y to see this post and think I’m foul-mouthed. It’s unladylike.
(you gotta buy the Blu-Ray edition if you want the director’s cut)
Advance the flag of Dixie
For Dixie’s land we take our stand,
And live or die for Dixie!
I wish I was in the land of cotton.
If that’s the case we might as well leave the lights on
I’m out my mind, just blew a thousand swisher sweets
In my black and orange charger, call it trick or treat
It ain’t nothin’ to a boss, my goons got goons
House stupid dumb big, my rooms got rooms
Making their way, the only way they know how
That’s just a little bit more than the law will allow
Later in the show’s run, when it got too hard and/or expensive to continue procuring more Chargers, the producers started using more ‘jump footage’ from previous episodes
I was just too tired all the time. I read once about a big, manmade surfing wave at an indoor water park in Japan. The wave was engineered to never stop. It just kept crashing onto the beach. Exhaustion was this: a great powerful wave, cresting eternally and ceaselessly, ready at any time to pull you under.
Patrice O’Neal says that you know how attractive a white woman is by how long they’d look for her if she went missing. It’s not that Daisy’s the foxiest (this post gets no Lesbatronic Moment tag); it’s that she plays the hand she was dealt. The shorts/heels/flowy hair combo is a white girl classic, probably one of our trademarks along with saying “Aww” about cute things and having an innate fondness for the Doobie Brothers when they come on the car radio. They’d look for Daisy for at least a few months, I bet.
Catherine Bach, style godmother to Caucasian sexy ladies everywhere, is and swagger-jacker in her Finally I Left Adidas jacket–except I can’t get mad at her, as this picture was taken before the swagger had found me. And except mine is an Adidas one–Carolina blue, doggie. And except, I just remembered, I do not swagger and I do not have swagger and I cannot successfully pull off saying SWAG. SWAGSWAG. because of my librarian-ish appearance and carriage. So it’s not swagger I have–it’s just a combination of a) shyness that people mistake for aloofness plus b) I wear heels a lot so it kind of seems like swagger when you look at me from just the right angle.
diff’rent strokes has the biggie nod (“The What”) and the chappelle nod, but them Duke boys and their hijinks get some mentions in rap too.
I can give it to ya but whatcha gon do wit it
I can give it to ya but what cha gon dooooo
When I’m in Texas I’m bumpin Screw music
With Big Mike and Scarface and Luke loop
Me and lil’ Crook like Bo and Luke Duke.
“Whatcha Gonna Do,” Jayo Felony. Catchy catchy! Such a catchy one, with those uh-huhs in the intro. And that bounce. It’s probably hard to rep San Diego; I bet everyone makes fun of you. Especially if you tell people you’re sexy, too sexy, in your one hit song. Like innocence or sexiness, the moment you pronounce that you possess a certain quality you’ve just shown me that you lack it. Unless you’re Muhammad Ali, you’re an idiot if you announce your superiority to everyone in the room. in your hit song’s chorus. You can bring in Meth and DMX to feel a little harder and get some east coast interest, but everyone knows they only did it because Russell Simmons told ’em to. Def Jam. We know they didn’t really like Jayo for Jayo. It was an industry favor.
a song about good ol’ boys which is the theme song for a show where the main mode of transportation as you’re getting out of hot water has a Confederate flag painted on its goddamn roof and “Dixie” as its horn song. IT’S GOT “DIXIE” AS ITS HORN SONG.
Sheek Louch, “Run Up”:
No beef, no wreath nece’, it get real messy
Pull a rifle on you boys like Uncle Jesse
I’m Sheek baby girl, one third of the LOX
Put you in the mink and out of the fox
Mink or fox, you bring a dead animal skin anywhere near me, sir, and my naked body is permanently closed for business–windows boarded up, bank takeover, the whole deal. This is probably also the only time a man who brags about having the money of middle eastern shahs also brags about being just like an elderly bearded Kentucky man who lives below the poverty line. That’s his version of stripper/librarian, I guess.
Pullin tricks, looking slick at all times when I’m flipping
Bar sipping, car dipping, grand wood grain gripping
Still tippin’ on 4-4s, wrapped in four Vogues
Pimping 4 hoes and I’m packing 44s
Blowing on the endo, Game Cube Nintendo
Five percent tint so you can’t see up in my window
These n—-s don’t understand me, cuz I’m Boss Hogg on candy
Top down at Maxi’s wit a big glock nine handy
Pieced up creased up staying dressed to impress
Big boss belt buckle under my Mitchell and Ness
– Slim Thug, “Still Tippin.” I’m not one of these n—as but he’s right about that lack-of-understanding thing. He is a 6’6″ black man from Texas with rap hustles and some long connections to Screw and Mike Watts. And then there’s me–office job and stock rims. So embarrassing. I’ll probably never fully get him. Slimmy gets extra Dukes points for naming his side crew Boss Hogg Outlawz (one of whom is Killa Kyleon, who worked with Curren$y!), with the Outlawzzzzz’s site being immahogg.com. It appears to be user-run, sort of like ThisIs50 for the slabs & boppers* set. The down side to this is lots of of pharmaceuticals spam posted on message boards–antipsychotics, Boniva, and something called Inhibitol, which I believe I’ve had coursing through my bloodstream for years now.
* slang circa ’05
Word up, our niggas is strapped, ready for war on the ill block
Things just ain’t peace no more, fuck it
If you ain’t with me then forget me
Niggas try to stick me, retaliation, no hesitation, shifty
Creepin’ niggas in the dark, triggas with no heart
Rippin’ ass apart, I’ll be swimmin’ with the sharks now
Stay out my water or it’s manslaughter
Kid, you oughta start reachin’ for that nickle-plated auto-
Matic, my thoughts get sporadic, loaded raps
Bustin’ mad shots to ya attic
They say this hazard, this flows a hazard
Straight from Hazzard County with a bounty on his head, and it said
“Wanted Dead or Alive,” I swear by the whites of they eyes
To never take a dive I will survive
– Meth, “Sub Crazy”
Tribe, “Same ol thing”:
Round and opposition twisted like Super Dave
You be looking, Bub, just like Uncle Jesse
Don’t make the scene messy
‘Cause it’ll jump that’s word Aunt Betsy
Profound sentences to pure lyric dems
Some of my friends be like a people with stems
I felt the pressure like sun shinin, while raining at the same time
I kept on rhymin, not complainin
Storm raining cats and dogs my catalog be the size of golf balls
Throw up your Daisy Dukes I’m Hazzard-ous to all you Boss Hoggs
And Roscoe P. Col’ people, who could boost my locomotive
But enough of that everyone can rap unless they…
I use my gift of gab to boast and brag in every rhyme I
compose won’t y’all get sick of that, cause I know I do when I hear those
Flows that ain’t hip-hop, you find that shit in the gift shop
But to each his own, my speech is gon’, keep that shit up outta my zone
Long as you happy then I’m happy
Even if you just hate my fuckin guts go ‘head and dap me
Cause I’m gon’ dap you anyway and then go home and pray for yo’ ass later
Cause we might need you in this war I’m wailin on you traitors
The Duke boys were also from the fine state of Georgia and had a lot of adventures and drove probably faster than they should have.
Heat’ll make anything move
Even Tyson, can get laid down, with this tool
Just cause the name say Goodie, you take us for fools
out they rabbit ass mind, don’t give me mine, I go off like mines
blowin suckers to smithereens, we was never folks
If we fell out over this lil’ cream
Or let some soft legs come in between our dreams
We live like Kings, and die like fuckin men
I don’t care how rough you roll, we can’t be shut down
Ain’t no openin up shop, we already established
You lap doggin, we Boss Hoggin
Grown men, don’t beg for attention
Keep wishin, high heels clickin
Paper champions, leavin with they feet behind
Zap em for the pumpkin, at twelve
– Khujo, “Yall Scared.”
A few things:
Grown men don’t beg for attention.
Love Boss Hogg as a verb. Unrelated: I’m also pretty sure Boss Hogg was gay. So flossy.
Letting soft legs come between our dream. This makes us sound like powerful sex, making dudes quiver when we walk by. Have you seen me at Vons? That kind of thing never happens.
Tight outfits like the Spinners
What I mastered is worser than _Dukes of Hazzard_
Find out ask _Miami Vice_ about me, Miami twice about me
The Coconut Tree down in Cuba, red light action
Camera work by David Luger
E! light entertainment, I need the money edit JVC
Handheld, Geiger silver
Could shoot or meditate on the block
The motion picture’s clear, the girl is hot
All red Chevrolet, 26’s ridin high
Dukes of Hazzard doors, in Compton we call ’em suicides
Suede roof, leather seats, woodgrain steerin wheel
Candy apple hardtop, Game logo on the grill
California license plate ridin through the A-T-L
Keep my tires bald, I never leave a paper trail
Nah I’m a keep it clean, ball when I hit the scene
Elbow out the window, show ’em how to gangsta lean
Put Cali on the map, westside on my back
Hometown on my face, forty five on my lap
Twenty in my earlobe, hundred on my neck piece
Just bought a Bentley nigga and I’m a “Throw some D’s on that bitch!”
Pull up at the rim shop and “Throw some D’s on that bitch!”
Might as well cut the top
Let the sunshine in and the bass jump out
Hit the block 15’s vibratin the whole fuckin house
– Game, “Throw Some D’s” remix
Trick Daddy, “SNS”
Call me Rosco P. Coltrane
And I come through in that seven tre thang (Uh-huh)
Play wit us, spray the damn thang
See down here that’s an e’eryday thang
It’s guns and greens on dub dukes
Cop deuces half price from the boosters
See thugs wasn’t big enough
You wanted beef wit the thugs, but the club wasn’t big enough
All the G’s to the V.I.P.
Hoes follow along right after me
It’s – SNS in this bitch
Matter fact, I be the best in this shit
Put me on your next remix
Now count the spins that you get (Uh-huh)
See shit get crazy dogg
I’m takin’ this shit way back to the eighties y’all
We’re packed in jumbo jets
Line it up, the boy bought to bring it back
– Curren$y. No Dukes-referencing song (yet?). Yeah he’s super loyal to Chevy, but clearly he would not deny the tangerine American muscle of the Dodge Charger.
TOM SCOTT’S SAXOPHONE (ON “TODAY,” A FEW YEARS BEFORE HE GUESTED ON COURT AND SPARK) IS THE HEARTACHE BREAK IN “T.R.O.Y.”
Once again, my agent has dropped the ball, even though this is more of a “White girl who can play Cuban side hustle opportunity I missed.” On my comp card it says Logan, 5’8.5″, hazel/blonde (highlights), prominent hips, ethnically ambiguous face, so I should have been given the opportunity. I lack the fake breasts but I have bikinis, earrings, and eyeliner, and I know how to hold my hair up and away from my face when the wind starts to get feisty.
3 bitches, 3 different flights/Glad it was 4 sides at that Paul Williams fight/The Wynn, the Bellagio, the Palms 3 nights/As long as they are separated they are my three blind mice. MCs talking about having main ladies and side ladies, and being able to skillfully prevent all the ladies from knowing about each other, is a comical and delusional way to brag. Plus it insults the ladies. Unless you’re with a starry-eyed white girl with deep notions of romance and monogamy (her name’s Logan; she lives in apt. 680), you know when your industry boyfriend is doing dirt. I’m therefore confident that all the girls know about each other. They’re not idiots. Dude they all know about each other, only none of them care, plus they’d all take a bath together in front of your fancy videocamera if you would just ask sweetly. Well we hustle out of a sense of hopelessness/Sort of a desperation, went the earlier, better “Can I Live,” and I’d add “sense of boredom” and “need to add something fun to our life’s resume” to that list too; we ladies always wanna be remembered, we want to have interesting stories in our repertoire, even if it means having to take part in the classic lesbatronic attention-getter.
Music-nerd rambling would annoy the director and the talent. Everybody would question the decision to cast me as one of the female leads. Oh Pusha, were you aware of Harold Rhodes’ time in the military?, I’d ask. Let me tell you some quick factoids about it. All the set hangers-on would roll their eyes. Then I would go on and on about walking into the RAMMELLZEE section at MOCA*, an experience which magically made up for all the morons swarming around the Banksy area – They fucking recreated the Battle Station, it is cosmic and life-changing and I still have not recovered! Graff could liberate the power of the alphabet!, did you know this, Pusha? “The letter is armed to stop all the phony formations, lies, and tricknowlegies placed upon its structure”! Please Pusha, come to LA and let me take you to the show; we can stand square in the middle of it, swaying and crying together! But it would be my blurting out that I really don’t like this particular song that would really cost me some precious screen time. It’s the weakest track on Fear of God. Jay’s version of “Can I Live” is superior. Everybody knows that. We all fiends, gotta do it/Even righteous minds go through this/True this, history school us to spend our money foolish/Bond with jewelers and watch for intruders. (I always liked that CBS mention too.) I would probably say so in a moment of stupid honesty, just not even thinking, and then I’d get the big ol‘ boot off set, squandering the chance to parlay video exposure into more blog followers.
But gosh, Jay has a lot of songs with question titles, doesn’t he? (more rambling, as security escorts me away). “Who You Wit.” “Can I Get A.” “Where Have You Been.” “What They Gonna Do.” “What More Can I Say.” “Is That Yo Chick.” “Do U Wanna Ride.” My tribute song to him’s going to be called “How Come You Haven’t Made a Good Song Since ’07” (feat. Scarface, Rae, Kool Keith for some sexy and Luda for comic relief).
* no I’m not going to link to pictures because they won’t do it justice
Well yes, sir, but
The article is called Ten Rules for Street Musicians, but it could just as easily be 10 Rules for Strippers, or 10 rules for anybody with any type of hustle, anybody who uses what they have to get what they need. 10 Rules for the Cardboard Sign Wearer on the Corner. 10 Rules for Those of Us who Expect Payment for Services Rendered. 10 Rules for People who Need to Eat. 10 Rules for Humans.
The street musician’s list of rules came about after he “explored the ideal circumstances for generating the funds to feed (his) food habit.” That’s a universal exploration, though. My food habit is a beast, as is my rent habit and my Amoeba habit. And goddammit if I’m about to let something prevent me from generating funds to satisfy all my habits even if it means I need to take it to the Magic City stage. The street musician’s primary means of securing ends to feed himself has been playing the cello on the streets, but for the girls in the club, just as it is for any professional, the advice on how to succeed is no different.
1. (Take Into Account) Day of Week / Time of Day.
“I make two or three times more money on Friday mornings than Monday mornings,” the street musician says. “Friday afternoons are second best. Tuesday morning is better than Wednesday morning although Wednesday afternoon is better than Tuesday afternoon. Thursday mornings aren’t so good but Thursday afternoons are.”
In a free market economy, people can choose the things on which they spend their disposable income and you better adjust accordingly, mama. The tightness and rightness of your game should be a given, but there are variables you need to consider. Stock market crashes, the latest with the Libya situation, a major sporting event on TV–try to predict the factors that will decrease or distract your audience so you don’t waste your time putting time and effort into something that won’t reach your best-paying customers. But then come extra hard when your audience returns so you can recoup your losses. They’ll return, luckily. “It’s like dope,” Frank Lucas said about money but it applies to anything pleasurable, “they always want more.”
I could never get hired as a stripper due to my innocent face and sassy mouth but I think Tuesdays and Wednesdays in the club would be deadsville. Thursday nights would be pretty lucrative, though–everybody psyched because the week’s practically over. Fridays and Saturdays would be good too, but it seems like the club might be full of too many dudes being rowdy for the sake of rowdy (i.e., weekend warrior types coming to gawk with their crew rather that to tip the performers). No day shift, ever. The day shift is for the ugly girls, we know this.
2. How to Prepare for the Job.
“I get up about 6:00 a.m., eat a solid breakfast and listen to the Market Place Morning Report on National Public Radio while I drink a cup of coffee,” says the street musician.
Other than a Teflon psychological shield and vanilla cherry perfume oil, it’s autopilot time for me at the club. There’s nothing to prepare for or think about. The shield one is exhausting, though. And dude we all listen to NPR, so stop.
3. What to Wear.
“I dress respectably but not too nice – somewhere between grungy and preppy. I wear brown leather suede shoes and dark pants. If it’s cold, I wear a sweater but t-shirts are fine. People don’t need to see a collar.”
I could never be a stripper because I am terribly shy; however, I’m not an idiot so I know that if I were a fantasy fulfillment professional I would dress accordingly. I’d dress respectably but not too nice – somewhere between librarian and hooker. And no, people really don’t need to see a collar.
4. Eye Contact.
“Eye contact is essential. I don’t wear sunglasses or a large brimmed hat.”
YEP. This one definitely applies to the seduction-arts specialist. People never talk about the importance of eye contact (music and outfits get more discussion time) but it’s of the utmost. I could never be a stripper because I’d get tired of people asking me Ha, yeah, so what’s your real name? when I tell them my name’s Logan, but if I were, I would master the “I enjoy pleasing you” direct gaze. At first I thought it would feel gross to fake such a thing–the “I’m thrilled to be here” thing that a girl at the club has to put on, like a jacket or a hat, except worse even than a heavy, hot and itchy jacket or a hat because it fucks with you psychologically. Then I remembered everybody at work is doing this constantly no matter what the job is, including me at my government job, except at my job I don’t get to hear any new Brick Squad or Grand Hustle stuff. Really, I’m thrilled to be here. Honest.
“The Charles/MGH Station is best for me as a solo cellist. It’s big, open and glassy, kind of like a greenhouse. I feel happy there so my music is probably better.”
Other than east of the LA River, south of the 10, or anywhere in the valley, I think I’d be fine with any club location. Obviously the ideal place would be next to the Starbucks at 2nd and Central downtown, so all my LAPD admirers could finally have their dreams come true. GROSS. Now I’m thinking about them! Moving on –
“Once I showed up at the Harvard Square stop before 7:00 a.m. and wasn’t able to get a spot because other musicians were already set up. I came back another day and found an empty spot. I start to play and another street musician with a guitar comes up and said, ‘Did you guys do the lottery this morning?” I said, “There was space. I started playing.’ He said, ‘Usually we show up before 7 and flip a coin to see who goes first.’ I don’t know what’s true. Street musicians talk a lot of shit. I don’t go Harvard Square anymore because people who play there are so territorial. And the money isn’t as good for me.”
The original meaning of hustle was “to shake, to toss.” And if it’s stripping we’re referring to here as the hustle of note, there is no competition for me if I do say so. Have we just met? Shaking it and nerding it up are the 2 things at which I am most skilled. I get my fondness for logic from Dad; hips from Mom. I have excellent balance and I did ballet for 8 years. Combine these qualities and you get pure practicality – I heard that people will pay me if I do this thing and that thing with my body, so I’ll go get a job at a place that will hire me to do this thing/that thing. Makes sense. I’d probably hold back a tiny bit on stage, though, so that my coworker with the young child would still be able to make a decent amount. We all need to get ours and the nature of the free market means that the girl with the most hips will get the most cash, but that doesn’t make it right. Women get stereotyped as being competitive and catty, the whole crabs-in-a-bucket thing, but that’s just a by-product of our culture’s fear of female sexuality. What can you do.
7. Selection of music / Weather.
N/A regarding that second thing, but oh yes, the first one is definitely important – Toomp, Nitti, Mannie, Lex, Collipark, Shawty Redd, Neptunes ’98-02, Rick Rock, DJ Paul who never gets any accolades but whose compositions are just amazing, 80% of David Banner’s catalog, 100% of Nickatina’s, that Minaj instro, the “Ha” instro, oh fuck it, really any rap instro from the states of Georgia, Florida, or Louisiana between ’96 and ’03, and in a surprising twist, some Jake One instros. The DJ might try to drive the particularly nerdy musicdork bassline-loving ladies who were raised on the Stax catalog out of their minds by playing something from Black Caesar or maybe some Cymande or something. Please, no. It reminds such ladies of their parents’ record collection, and therefore it reminds them of being a kid. Kid stuff doesn’t belong in the club.
Mr. DJ might also try to play “The Next Episode,” since it’s burned into our collective psyche as that song with that stripper video and it’s the perfect BPM, plus it has provided the image to open this post. That one blonde girl at the club with the hips who you came specifically to see and who you’re pretty sure would go on a date with you would not enjoy this coming out of the speakers, however. She would be thinking about David McCallum and it would distract her too much. She’s also thinking about the unadulterated epicness of the name “Kurt Vile” for a musical human, the catchy/sad accuracy of the words You only want me when I’m gone/You only want me when I’m fever dreaming, and how she just figured out that the “All of the Lights” drums sound like Hanna Barbera characters when they’re running in place. “Xxplosive” is perfect, though, a slow swangin one to balance out all the frenetic Waka stuff. Anything by him or Weezy I would refuse to dance to, just based on the triteness of such a scene; girls getting money to the sweet sounds of “Bingo,” ooh. Groundbreaking. I refuse to take part. (If “No Hands” is played, though, all bets are off.)
8. Bad situations.
“One day, two guys come up,” the street musician says. “They keep giving me a hard time. I say to them, ‘Can you please just leave me alone? This is my workplace. Don’t bother me. I’m just trying to do my job.’”
I wouldn’t get hired as a stripper unless I gained 7-10 lbs, but if I ever did, I bet I’d think about the possibility of bad situations pretty frequently. Getting followed after my shift is the scariest thing that could happen, I suppose. Bad tippers, although not scary, are a bad situation too. Dudes being visibly uncomfortable, resulting in me feeling sorry for them. Dudes bringing their girlfriends in to get cool points. (No cool points awarded, dumb dumb; you’re a cliche). I could never be a stripper and sometimes I feel inadequate because of that, but then I remind myself about the pitfalls of such a job and I’m fine.
9. Customer / audience demographics.
“Race and gender make no difference if someone is going to stop, listen and/or give me money,” the street musician says.
WORDEMUP, buddy. We speak the same language. Stripper Logan fully concurs with street musician’s assessment, as does Nerd Logan, Lazy Saturday Afternoon Logan, Bookstore Logan, Bikini Logan, Record Hoarder Logan and Grocery Shopping Logan.
10. How to measure success.
“One day was a bad day,” says the street musician. “Everybody was unhappy. I didn’t get much money. But when I got home, there was an email from a woman. She wrote, ‘Every time I see you, it brightens my day.’”
Is this one a trick? The answer to this is “REVENUE RETRIEVIN–money, in rolls or stacks, even though that’s impractical and we only store it that way because that’s how Gs and Henry Hill do it and it looks dope.”
There’s a reason an E-40 synonym for “hustling” is “grittin & grindin.” If I’m a stripper, I don’t make an hourly wage. I don’t get medical or dental. I have to pay the house at the end of every shift. My legs hurt. I felt on your private parts with my soft ladyparts but neither of us got any intimacy or connection to each other as humans. And nobody ever emails me afterward to tell me I brightened his day : (
“What did we see today?” went the Robert Bly poem in an email from my uncle this afternoon. This seemed like a sign, the universe telling me to do some more bloggy preachin. The single greatest thing seen today was a LOS ANGELES RAIDERS license plate frame on the DeVille I was driving behind (Temple St., 4:43 pm PST). I love, love team loyalty. Plus people think Raider fans don’t like nice cars or use turn signals, and the dude today left both of those terrible stereotypes in the dust.
The most hiphop thing seen today was a girl and a gator in a fashion editorial (the lovely 5’7″ Camille in Jalouse mag, looking foxy in this spread despite its ridiculous swampy theme). I let my mind get free and loose with the associating and here we go: mentions of gators in rap songs!
Grizzly Bear has a nice song about alligators, which is the only animal that hasn’t been used yet for talking about heterosexual love in music. It bares teeth, extra sharp, that’ll cut you in the heart/It attacks really quick, try and fight it with a stick/There’s no use, give it up, this is life and this is love/You are my alligator. Beautiful. Bonnie Prince B also has that “Gator” song. But gators in my world means gator shoes, which are not beautiful at all. They are hideous and garish. They’re creepy and I hate them. But rappers make them pretty appealing. Just like how everybody in rap regardless of age or geographic region or crew affiliation talks about pretty ladies, ugly ladies, international diplomacy, cars and the details of their interiors and exteriors, family members fucking up, sunny days, eating, and memories of being a kid, everybody in rap talks about gators!
Gators are ugly as sin but if you’re from the south I think you kind of grow up loving them.
Houston (Southside, south-southside)
“Betrayal” (Gang Starr)
It’s called betrayal
He on a mission to become a ball player
Flip big Benzes, flossin all gators
Had it all mapped out, 6’8″ 12th grader
Fresh outta school, he fin’ to go make paper
He had a brother who was hustlin, collectin his change
Never let his baby brother stick his neck in the game
Told him all he had to do is just enjoy the ride
And he ain’t have to worry about money cause that’s in time
“Betrayal” is about 12 BPM which isn’t usually my taste, but I guess they can’t all be “Know the Ledge” when it comes to hiphop warnings about the dangers of being a little too committed to trife life, hm? The first part of this verse is the plot of ATL (big brother unsuccessfully trying to save baby brother from getting caught up). Then it gets into “Just to Get a Rep” territory. I told you: family members fucking up (all MCs have a story about ’em. And gators.) Because Face is made of blood, guts, and good stories, and has been able to successfully rise above that whole Office Space thing with his integrity intact (your cousins, my cousins, all rappin “No Tears” while driving. Don’t act like you don’t remember. Sigh.), he makes the tale of a high schooler dreaming of wearing gators believable and sad. I’m just like, Ohh, Scarface said it? Well then it must be true. His DMV name is Brad, which he has also overcome, thanks to his baritone and his Army sergeant way of carrying himself. Brad tells you a story to music and if you have it in your head when you’re shopping at Vons, it feels like everything’s in slow motion–eerie, like you’re about to run up on some dude from behind and stab him, and then sneak out the back to go to church and cry about it. You’re a murderer, but you’re still human, you know? You still have that human-guilt thing.
Port Arthur, TX
Got me some bread, made some paper
Costly fabrics, minks and gators, bitch I’m ballin’
Diamonds on my chest, keep me looking good
Got diamonds on my chest, keep me looking good
I said, I got me some bread, made some paper
Costly fabrics, minks and gators, bitch I’m ballin’
Diamonds on my chest, keep me looking good
Got diamonds on my chest, keep me looking good.
This Week in Annoying featured LAPD officers, LA County Sheriff’s Department officers, Dipset operatives rhyming a word with that same word in verse (also part of This Decade in Annoying), that fucking blond patch in Khalifa’s hair, John Legend’s level of success being inversely proportional to the degree of soul in his voice (I FUCKING HATE HIS VOICE AND WHOLE MANUFACTURED STYLE, I do; where is Anthony Hamilton?), 50’s cover-of-LowRider glamour shots (W T F), and people not from Texas trying to get away with using “trill” in music conversations (you see this a lot in the 2DopeBoyz comments sections).
It’s not Bun on the hook quoted here, but still: it’s a Bun song! It counts as one of his! He can rhyme good with good, and it ends up sounding pretty good! Plus he says the words “David Banner” in this song, which is just heaven–2 of my 3 Texas boyfriends in such close proximity (Scarface is the third; Devin is sometimes my fourth one too, when I can make time in my schedule to see him).
I also really really enjoy the use of “I said,” an old-timey bluesy thing you hear in songs to introduce the next verse (AAB rhyme pattern). Jazzy Pha’s doing his impression of Blind Willie McTell here. AH SAY-YID. See also: that Mike Jones one (you know exactly what I’m talking about!; nice try playing dumb, music snob). Anyway, Bun’s calm, fatherly delivery, established history of dustin these gators off ,and proven affection for footwear (he’s a shoe whore) is enough to get me to consider that gators might not be hideous–even though he did a song with noted awful monotoned Canadian rap carpetbagger Drake, who always sounds like he’s yelling at me on the radio.
Gorilla goons with the tool down to act a fool
Birds in the living room, like Atlanta zoo
Lions, tigers, minks, crocs, and gators for my shoes
Monkey n—s in my hood, I’m living in the zoo
Birds in the living room, and the kitchen too
I’m a tiger in the bedroom–ask your baby boo
I got lions, tigers, bears in my hood and closet too
But my gun can stop an elephant just like Atlanta zoo.
I’m a rap apologist and I know it. I know it. No need to email me a description of how your opinion of Gucci is much lower than my opinion of him is, although it’s sweet of you to want to connect with me on that level. Gucci’s got that Dr. Seuss flow but at least he’s in on the joke, which is more than I can say for everybody’s darling K. West. I have to be honest and own up to the fact that I already had a particular bias toward this song even before I thought about songs with gator mentions–because later in it Gucci calls somebody else’s jewelry a fugazi, which I love due to its Brasco connotations (swoon/sigh/YES/oooooh).
This verse took on an unexpected somber tone when I did some research: in 2008, an elephant died at the Atlanta Zoo. She was 26 years old and pregnant. (She did not die from a gunshot, luckily–it was natural causes. I mean, as natural as can be when you’re a huge, gentle creature that’s been forced to live in jail your whole life)
Man a ni—a don’t want no trouble
a playa just want to kick back with my gators off
and watch my lil girl blow bubbles
But still ready to rhyme
standin’ my ground never back down
Willin’ to rob steal & kill anything that threatens mine
But good luck couldn’t be bought see
many a fights had to be fought G
for a n—a to ride these Vogues
oh so close to the sidewalk to be gawked at
watch your side my n—a ’cause we got gats
the first n—a to buck is gon’ be the first n—a we attack
“Gator” rhymes with “Decatur.” I would appreciate an explanation as to why this fact has never been taken advantage of by OutKast. Thank you.
I also love that gators have this strong association with men who excel at selling the bodies of women, but Big Boi’s kicking his gators off in order to spend time with his daughter in a defiant display of helping to ensure her self-esteem stays high. Ooh, subversive!
You got a alligator mouth and a hummingbird ass
Your mouth writing checks that your ass can’t cash
145 and I’m out of your weight class
Want to survive, you better scramble like eggs and break fast
There are groupies in the world. I’m not one of them. But, BUT: T.I. is so physically stunning that, you know what?, maybe this dress would look better on the floor than on my body. Thank you for T.I., universe. Thank you for him. (He’s little, though, which is the universe’s way of reminding him to stay humble. He carries those 145 lbs well because he’s only like 5’5″. I’m quite sure that small stature of his is part of the reason he is so fond of firearms–they are a classic virility substitute.)
T.I.’s mention of his actual number of pounds reminds me of how few MCs reference their weight in lyrics. I guess every one of us is sensitive about that stuff. We all think we’re either too big or too skinny, but the difference is most of us have the sense not to talk about it into a microphone. Like, you know, if I were Rawss I don’t think I’d say something like “Pull up in a sleigh/Hop out like I’m Santa Claus” if I had his thyroid issues.
Repping: New Orleans, LA; my heart
You know I’m not playin, man
You want a concert, well you gotta pay the man
Look at the shirts and socks, call him the gator man
My crossover good, that’s how I shake them haters, man.
A few things I’ve realized thus far: Nothing fazes Curren$y; the dude is made of blood, guts, THC and klonnies (Young boy never been attracted to madness/I’m inside watchin re-runs of “What’s Happenin”). Nobody ever notices when I get a haircut because I always look exactly the same. The best R.E.M. song is “Nightswimming,” I don’t care what anybody says. I always like 50 best on other people’s songs (love how he gets more sing-songy and playful with his delivery). And whether they’re gators or Crocs, any kind of footwear named after a reptile is ugly. Coming from Curren$y’s mouth, though, you realize that gators are tiiiiiight. Or, in Louisiana-ese mixed with his mouth being a little dry, taaaht.
Aw damn, I forgot! You’re right–“Daysleeper” is great too.
Repping: New Orleans, LA; America; Mars; the soft ladyparts of your girlfriend; iTunes; Clear Channel; MTV; Gatorade (ha, how appropriate in this particular post); Hanes, Geico, Pizza Hut? (probably just a matter of time); your psyche
“Upgrade You” freestyle:
Hollygrove gator, ain’t nobody greater
Leave you with some bullet holes the size of craters.
Gator boots with the pimped-out Gucci suits/Ain’t got no job, but I stay sharp, said Wayne’s friends some time ago. Wayne is small but vicious, has sleepy eyes, and comes from a swamp, just like an alligator. While not about ugly shoes, this little couplet still makes me love gators because it makes me love everything, because it’s Wheezy and he’s got that power. I am bearing a ton like Leee-vy, he also says in this song, which is a great line–even better than I pay these n—s with a reality check, a line I heard this week that is so simple and terrific. Bad yellow bitch keep my passenger seat warm, he also says. Pretty ladies are just like expensive things in that they are accessories used to display one’s wealth. And just like the quest of getting a pretty lady, making a reptile into a pair of shoes is hard and dirty, and requires focus:
“After the gators are killed with a stab to the brain, they are skinned and sorted: heads and claws for the French Quarter souvenir shops, meat for the Cajun restaurants, guts for turtles, dogs or anything else whose tastes run that way.” I cannot condone wearing animal skin in the name of fashion; however, I also cannot condone the posting of underclothed ladies on the Internet and yet I’m complicit in that as well.
8Ball & MJG
repping: Memphis, TN (I can’t get away with saying “Ten-a-Key,” all casual like nobody would notice)
Don’t try to ever take my cash from me
You might as well jump off a cliff, you fucking crash dummy
Like that’s my last money
This for my n—s who be bussin back to perpetrators
We don’t discriminate, we’ll hurt you now, hurt you later
But I ain’t worried, I smoke one on you fucking haters
And I’m hiding gators under refrigerators
YOU FUCKING CRASH DUMMY, he said! Jump off a cliff, you dumb fuck! (sorry, Mom. sorrysorry) MJG turns into Don Rickles here–he insults you but it’s so strong in flair it just makes you want him to come at you more and more. Making Easy Money, Pimping Hoes In Style; that’s the mantra, and that’s what Memphis means to me (along with Stax, Derrick Rose, and this fucking white girl side hustle opportunity I missed and it kills me still even though it’s been a few years and I should be over it by now).
repping: Mobile, AL
There’s hoes in the parking lot
But I still got my glock cocked
New money motherfucker don’t you see the big knot
Don’t you see the big chain
Don’t you see the big rims
Wonder who they hatin on lately
Baby it’s him, candy paint,
Gator skin seats, call me Dundee
pope in your hood I’m the one that you wanna be
Haters wish they could feel the wood in my ’83
Ridin’ with no tint so the motherfuckers know it’s me
(2 verses later)
Hit the block on some new 10 thousand dollar wheels
Can’t explain how I feel
Touch the gator on the wheel
Got peanut butter ice cream
Peter pan seats
Just gotta fresh cut
Now we looking for them freaks
Take a bad yellow bitch
Make her drop them draws
I’ma show you how to ball
middle finger to the law
You do a post about gators, of course there’s going to be some heavy Southeastern Conference MC representation. You call yourself Rich Boy, of course there’s going to be some talk of expensive things in your songs. This one provides the only gator-on-the-wheel moment in this post, which is a little more attractive than gator-on-your-feet, but not by much. There is something charming and innocent about the desire to impress your neighbors, really such a silly way to behave when you think about it (“HEY I KNOW!, let’s put chopped-off, dried-out, tanned reptile skin on the steering wheel. I’M RICH.”). We’ve also learned how to make ketchup packets into shivs and convinced our females that putting plastic sacs under their skin makes them more attractive. Humans are incredible. Anyway, this song is one of the greatest rappin + drivin songs my Civic has ever had the pleasure of pouring from its speakers, and between Rich Boy’s stated fondness for yellow-bone girls and Polow’s documented fondness for, um, ladies with a skin tone similar to mine, this song is of course a tribute to ME, stunting in LA traffic with the radio on. Oh and the Alabama lean he gives to the word “baby” (01:24) is basically what a real man should sound like.
Repping: Detroit, MI.
“Dirty” (Slum Village & ODB)
Yeah, you know how Slum do, when we come through
Gumshoe, Air Force is a pair of Air Jordans
Pelle Pelle, or old school with gangsta white walls
Tailored suits, coordinatin’ with the gator boots
Before you hate on what we do, it’s a D thing
You flamin’ at a cabaret offa Alize
Where the ladies at, pushin’ back your Baby Phat
Make it clap like 80 gats
The only way out of class shame is conspicuous consumption (see: me and my Alexander Wang bag, winter 2010; can’t pay my rent cuz all my money’s spent, but that’s OK, cuz I’m still fly!). As evidenced here by El, when you’ve made it as a member of the Leisure Class, little matters other than holding onto your money, producing an heir, and looking really fresh–even though bragging about labels as proof that you’re a member of the Leisure Class is prissy and unmanly. It makes you seem like that Billy Zane character from Titanic. And Jesus, the only thing uglier than gator shoes are gator boots. But you know what makes me love gator skin, gator shoes, gator boots? DILLA. The song was produced by Black Milk before he was Black Milk, doing his best Dilla impression back before everybody else was doing their Dilla impression. Therefore, gators are attractive footwear, as long as they’re talked about in a nice rhyme pattern over some warm Dillaesque drums.
*A Detroit MC on this list covers the entire Great Lakes region (I didn’t want to have to try to think of any boring ass Rhymesayers lyrics).
From: The Bronx, but c’mon–
Repping: Los Angeles, CA since forever
“Girl You Know”
I sport the real gators, Lucchese and Tony Lama
Y’all act like divas with a flat ass like Madonna.
Keith is the only dude I know* who can brag about labels without sounding prissy and unmanly. There’s really nothing more to say here; Keith is one of the greats, just an all-around super guy–funny, bossy, smart but still unpretentious, a generous and innovative lover, appreciative of a girly shape and girly dresses, tweakin bass like he’s Jimmy Castor, and that’s everything I need in a sex/life partner. When I did an image search for him in my computer to accompany this section, an oldie that I had saved came up:
I had forgotten about it and its various comical aspects (I added the chubby pink hearts, a symbol of love, for emphasis. ‘Cause I love the entry so much):
1. a) Someone calling sex positions “sex styles.” b) Someone typing “sex styles” into the Google blank box, you know, just doin some research. Some sex research. People say “handstyles,” and people say “hairstyles,” because those are actual things. “Sex styles,” though!; nobody talks like that;
2. Someone turning to Wikipedia as part of research on sex positions (this makes me sad because it belies a whole lot of social awkwardness on the part of the searcher, and because Wikipedia is wrong so often that I don’t think I’d trust it as a source for learning new sex acrobatics);
3. Wikipedia kindly redirecting searchers to the “sex positions” entry without judging them or giggling, although I would argue that this redirection isn’t particularly helpful since listening to Sex Style will give you all the lessons you need, pumpkin.
* in my head
Two cases on Stoli’s, eight thousand for this, man you owe me
I left the V.I.P. section lonely
Me, white folks, Don Juan played the back
The women chose me over guess who? Pretty Toney
Kid I got your lady signed to Sony
Girls tell Bobby I’m the real tenderoni
New York’s best verse carrier
You better scoop her, before I marry her
Award winner without rims
Tap your dimepiece without spinners
JVC, LL soapbox with the antennas
I get hard on aspirin cups full with Guinness
The Ernie Onassis, with masters, with Marc and Jack Jasper
Sunday clean gators on the pastor
Go ‘head player, you’s a wallflower
Scared to talk to her, I’ma ask her
Rep it at the casino, walk in your presence
Miami’s biggest problem
Wack rappers want me out the game like Al Pacino
1.One time Kutmasta Kurt emailed me and asked me to be in a Keith video—shockingly, they needed blondies willing to be dress-up dollies and, hey, what’s that, they thought I might be a good fit. How odd; who could have predicted.
“Would you be interested to dress up 70’s and be in the dr dooom video?” he asked. I declined, because I’m an idiot, and thereby missed out on one of the great white girl side hustle opportunities of the last 10 years. Sorry, Kurt. My poor decision-making means I will probably die without Kool Keith ever touching my bottom with affection and then taking me to the arcade, but a girl can dream.
2. I like beautiful large-bodied displays of American muscle in vehicle form (’74-’82) but the hustle of a dude trying to get a girl out of her dress by bragging about his car is a hustle that cannot be respected. Award winner without rims/Tap your dimepiece without spinners, says Keith, with much more dress-removing success than you can imagine. “I’m broke” raps are the best.
Repping: VALLEJO, Cuddie!
“Crest Creepers” (Mac Dre song, ’98)
I’m out to conquer the globe
Might start off in Vegas, hookers bringin’ more of those papers
Boss mackin’ got me scuffin’ my gators
Call me Luke Skywalker, the alien stalker
Cuddie, fuck your friends, your folks, even your potna
Lil’ soldier got a chopper plus he gone off one
And OG’s think the penitentiary is fun
So he’s ready to kill, and ain’t scared to die
Nuclear age titan up out the Crest side
Annnnnd finally, northern Cali in this. There’s a line from Ghetto Stardom in which Mac alludes to reality-based paranoia–“Uncle Sam finding ways to fit computer chips in my dome.” This is a concept only slightly more frightening/psychologically violent than Uncle Sam successfully convincing us that buying stuff and displaying it on our bodies/cars/women is the way to freedom. The whole blue-collar tone of his stuff is what makes his mention of gators (ugly ugly footwear) acceptable. Boss mackin got me scuffin my gators. I come from proletariat stock, as most of us do–union members, people who didn’t hate their jobs but hated jobs in general, so signs of wear and tear on a dude’s shoes is a positive thing. Mac’s a man of the people. Some soldiers ain’t never gonna see the streets/That’s why I keep servin’ game over my beats.
In terms of gator-rap representation by the Bay Area, I thought for certain I’d be posting something by E-40. Cuddie, I’m telling you, I could come up with a verse for him–gator rhymes with hater, sooner or later, and of course Bay Areyerrrr. E-40’s Fatburger has been closed for a while, but I recently thought of it when
a) I sent the following text to my little brother: JAMAL MASHBURN IS ONE OF THE GREAT SPORTS NAMES (just out of nowhere, as is my habit. Probably influenced by all the Fab Five talk everywhere, though)
b) He wrote back IT REALLY IS. HE OWNS A BUNCH OF OUTBACK STEAKHOUSES (FUN FACT)
and c) I responded with IF IT WERE JERRY, THEY’D BE STACKHOUSES.
d) He texted back HEY-O, having grown up with me and knowing that my ego craves this kind of cheerleading, but that’s beside the point. The point is that E-40 would appreciate my pun, and his decades-long commitment to his various hustles (records, dope, women, restaurants, guest appearances on other people’s records) means he gets a place on this list, gators or no gators. But if I stick with the rules of the post, he does get a gator association in that he’s friends/songmates with Gator Mane (I’m still listening to “Since the ’90s”).
Repping: San Francisco, CA
Revvin’ like a Cutty that bangs on the block
Baby can I have your keys, I hate to pick your lock (I just love this)
Snappin’ like a gator, never waitin’ like a waiter
Cherry is my flavor when it comes to Now & Laters
When it comes to gettin’ greedy, man I get green eyes
And I gotta get it like Muslims slang pies.
“In all the 5 boroughs, I’m known,” this song Yet another Brasco connection! Twice in one post! (my next post will be Random Tribute: Lefty Ruggiero raps) Like the Wicked Witch, I gotta jump the broom/Screamin fuck you by the light of the moon. Screamin FUCK YOU by the light of the moon
OK, this one’s about actual gators, as in the animals, but Nickatina runs 12-Step groups called Ballers Anonymous in his spare time, and he no doubt has said something at some time about gators, as in the footwear (I didn’t have time to try to think of another gator lyric from among his 18,000 songs). Rich in pimping history, the Bay Area is replete with men who love a fine-looking kit–a nice suit, expensive footwear, baubles. And so, like MCs from the states of Georgia, Mississippi, and Alabama, anyone who can successfully throw around the term “playboy” in verse can also convince me that gators are all right. This means you, Bay Area rappers. Oh, Gibbs too. Gibbs could definitely get away with saying “playboy.”
Repping: C’MONNNN CUDDIE, pay attention
I wear my Air Jordans with my Anchor Blue jeans
I like to spread my wings when I’m out on the scene
You can break me down on a triple scale beam
The color of the Benz same color whip cream
You want that, man do you like how I flaunt that
Because I know I’d go to jail or hell if I bought that
Man like a court case caught that
and like a boxer in Vegas to box, yo I fought that
I like steak and potatoes, ice cream gators
I never say nothin yo to none of my neighbors
I do it like Parliament, don’t get wet
I do it like a gambler, make that bet
Like water off a duck’s back, Cuddie. Every verse of Nickatina’s makes me feel relaxed and confident, like I can handle anything, the highest compliment one can give an MC. This one’s from A Tale of Two Andres which forces me to ask: Have two more lovable rappers ever existed than Dre and King Nicky? NOPE. I’d shove you out of the way in the club or at the grocery store to get to either one of these gentlemen. Nothing personal. Nickatina’s like 8 feet tall and he’s toothpick-shaped and I hear he’s a basehead/ex-basehead from my ex-SF cab driver friend, so he is just clownish and odd enough to pull off wearing gators. It would be more weird if he didn’t wear gators, you know?
Cam’Ron (I cannot bring myself to use the apostrophe. It makes me mad)
You the soda bottle huh, i’m twisting ya’ cap
and i’m luxury girl, come sit on my lap
her friends like “dont go that s**t is a trap
he’ll have you traficking, swallowing, s**ttin’ smack”
they pigeons in fact, how you gon’ listen to that
you the flyest one in ya’ crew them bitches is wack
start at the smile, I knew that the shit was a wrap
her friends were right though, she gon’ be pitching some crack
i’m a true champ, you glance, four door, two tramps
fuck my money, honey, bring ya’ foodstamps
go ‘head you dance, an elephant to you ants
chain – Alaska, bracelet – nebraska
crib – well disaster, forty two plasmas
royal blue Maury’s, shortie you bastard
only thing I dont know, what resort we in
I tell a bitch “get over here” like Scorpion
cars, order in flavors, you order from Avis?
come around me, why, they know my aura contagious
and i’m sorta courages, plus the kids smart
forget Biz Mark, he gon’ catch more than the vapors
next door at ya’ neighbors, they said all of you haters
set ya’ up the very moment I offered them paper
and the law from the mayor, and my kicks?
the University Of Florida, of course that they gator
UGH. God. Cam showed up in the post. I broke one of my cardinal blogging rules when I started HFS several years ago. Sometime y’all get crimey crimey, grimy grimy. Lately Tim Tebow is the Gator that’s been in the news (he is a Jesus freak who is afraid of female sexuality, as is typical of Jesus freaks). eBay $1,250.00
Nike AIR FORCE 1 LUX ’07 REAL GATOR SKIN 24K GOLD SZ 12, says the eBay posting I saw yesterday. Crocodile Birkin bag, $65,000
repping: Yonkers, NY
“Gangster, Gangster” (Styles P song–produced by PETE RAWWWK, lordhavemercy)
Few contract and inkpens later
Turn into boss respect, mob ties and kingpin paper
Mountin the D, Cardi frames and pink gators
Gotta learn how to deal with the weak link haters
Don’t even think about the top 10, just think Jada
Never eat no less, then I think greater
Chin down, mouth open is something that photographers say to girls to get sexface out of them (please see above; also ask me because I could tell you some stories), but, in keeping with this post, it also happens to be something that paying customers probably say to girls to get sexface and sexotherthings out of them. It’s probably more often Chin UP, but still. There’s still that whole “bossing a lady around” theme, the gators-are-for-pimps theme. If you’re convicted of pandering in New York state, it carries a fine of $10,000. I’m just saying. You wear pink gators and you’re just begging to be stopped and questioned by vice. Pink gators are for Detroit players, Jada! You dummy! Others have forgotten about you rapping on Mariah Carey songs, but not me.
* YOU SIMPLY MUST PICTURE ME WALKING DOWN THE STREET TO THIS, because goddammit I’m picturing myself walking down the street to this. (I have a sundress on). The “Get to Poppin” instrumental, too–but that one’s not made for a sundress. It’ll always be a Logan-walking-down-the-street-in-jeans-that-may-or-may-not-be-a-little-too-tight-don’t-judge-me theme song.
repping: Brooklyn, NY
“My Favorite Dred”
On graduation day he threw me a towel
He came through, heavy like fuck, suit flammable
Ill pair of gators he copped in Beirut
Had his man wit him, just stare, don’t stand with him
If assassination strike, he gotta make plans with him
This Week in Wonderful included USDA prime rap beef, all 3 plays of “Ignition” (the remix, duh, hot n fresh out the kitchen) on LA radio while I was out driving (Monday, Wednesday, Thursday), single-word album titles, single-word song titles, my precious Sennheisers, and my precious precious Lakers who, what’s the phrase?, go hard in the mother fucking paint. Switzerland, beige Timbs, heavy like fuck. I’m outta here/showin love like Zorro.
Gang Starr (Guru and Premier, respectively)
From: Boston and Houston, respectively, but c’mon–
Repping: BROOKLYN (respectively) since forever
Now I’ma start collectin props, connectin plots
Networkin like a conference, cause the nonsense is yet to stop
Jakes shake me down, haters wanna take me down
Break me down, clap–all they heard was the sound
I scoped it out, I took your weak dream and choked it out
Your bitch don’t really got no ass, she just poked it out
on the d low, I’m sayin, you versus me though?
We can do this shit right here, in front of your people
See time is money kid, and BS walks
And to me, it’s funny kid when you meatheads talk
Bangin your thoughts with the hot onslaught
A kid got shot on the spot for goin where he should not
Viciously, I make history, instantly
Those other lame ass loser ass n—s, they can’t fuck with me
I’m doin my thing now, to lamp later on
Paid in the shade, with some fly gators on
But now I’m grimy as they get, mud on my pants and shirt
I bet you n—s out here know, I be puttin in work.
FIRST of all, there’s nothing wrong with a girl poking out her bottom. Let me make that clear. All the other real-world ladies and I have to find a way to compete with fantasy-ladies’ benefits of airbrushing (magazines), and perfect lighting, slow-motion jiggly shots, and professional makeup artists (videos)–unless you’re Syd, who gets along fine in her trusty red hoodie and looks stunning all the while. I forgot what else I was gonna say. Dude it’s Guru. Gators are anecdotal more than anything–a symbol of wealth. Guru never wore them. But that’s OK, kid.
Here’s another smooth song, so get your groove on
Violate or try to fake, jacks or you’ll get moved on
Peace to all my n—s with the thousand dollar shoes on
Pushing rides with full-length minks with gator shoes on
I’m known for rockin tours, picture me moppin floors
Only fuck with ki’s and not the kind that be locking doors
The type of nigga that be gaming your freaks
While you out working hard I’m putting stains in your sheets
If you bite then tell your man what type of flowers you like! I’m chillin makin sure this money is right/Sippin Sunny Delite and hittin every honey in site! This post has gotten out of control, having turned into less of a Random Tribute Gator Raps post and more of a Random Tribute to Big L’s Wordplay post.
“Halfsharkalligatorhalfman.” Three alligators behind me, feel my skin is hard/Transvestites and people watch space parasites/I left his head in the store, legs in the street/Body in Wilcox, with blood dripping off my feet/LAPD through gray clouds couldn’t see me/I first turned rainbow, closed my eyes, watch my brain glow/People got scared and ran away, they think I’m weird/I was born this way. Mosley, Fante, Joni Mitchell, Axl, Eric Wright, Warren Zevon and Keith are tops when it comes to describing the Los Angeles landscape.