Category Archives: The white girl hustle

Birthday compare n’ contrast – Lynott, Parker, Hayes. (Also where is that RZA/Isaac photo by Sue Kwon? PLEASE HELP)

The only thing that can tear me away from making pancakes and listening to that new Danny Brown is a birthday tribute post to some Record Collection Gods of Apt. 680 (born in ’49, ’65, and ’42, respectively).

Photo that makes me giggle:

Parker.
Hayes.
Lynott – N/A, because he looks fresh in every photo.

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.

2-

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“Money is not the most important thing in the world. Love is. Fortunately, I love money.” – Jackie Mason

“Jigga,” I’d say if I were there as the token fair-haired one, “I don’t like it if it don’t gleam clean.”

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.

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White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #6 (“industry dinner with Curren$y” edition)

I HAVE BLONDE HAIR AND OFTEN WEAR A WHITE TANK TOO, YOU KNOW, SO HOW COME I CAIN’T SIT THERE?

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.

Aw, censorship. I had to do it, this being a sweet and innocent blog.


(you gotta buy the Blu-Ray edition if you want the director’s cut)
I know there’s more to him as a man but you can’t fault me for thinking that all Curren$y cares about is his X-box, V-12 engines, the greatest strains this season, and a whole lot of commas on his checks. He also says things like Dead stock tissue in the box, elephant print/On my Flint 13’s no retro 3M reflective, which is either about cars or shoes – either way, I’m fucked. Not a lot for me to work with there, conversation-wise.
But I bet you I can elicit a smile across the dinner table by engaging him in a debate about Sean Payton’s visor (stylish or no?) and which is the superior walking-in-slow-motion-out-to-your-Caprice-in-the-driveway song (“Easin’ In” or “Only One Can Win”?). Then I can just babble on, ask him what he thinks about the pumpkin-colored 328 on that Frank O cover, and try to repeat some of my favorite lyrics of his – Something you n—as ain’t never been: boss/Can’t find your mom and your dad/In the grocery store, panicking: lost – til the champagne hits me and I lose my focus. I start to get all critical like I’m composing a blog post (“I didn’t much care for your lyrical content being so firearm-heavy a few years ago, you sounded silly”; “How come I was not notified of the audition for the ‘White Girl Jumping into Pool’ character in the ‘Address’ video?”). It turns into a huge foot-in-mouth extravaganza. So I just resort to giggling, playing with my hair, saying “I FEEL THE JETNESS, LALALAAA” and just when I’m about to ask him to start reading the phone book to me, the DJ plays my funtimes girly song that I have no choice but to love due to the estrogen flowing through me, or maybe it’s that funtimes girly song, so I scream THISMYSONNNG, then excuse myself from the table to go work it out on the floor. It’s a good plan, yes? I’m ready. I am. I’ve lotioned myself up, I got my white tank on and I’m ready for my meal at the table, the human obstruction known as “Dame Dash” be damned. I want to be that lady at that table. Time to get it crackin like lobsters.
“Run Dat Shit.” The part about having advance access to fashion designers’ sketch pads for next season is lame; it could be straight from Rawss’ playbook and that’s the most devastating criticism I can give a lyric. But the description of him on the red carpet in shorts makes up for it. (He was just at the premier ’cause his homeboy was in the movie!). Also: My style straight like 9:15 and Marlo on the screen, yeah bitch we on The Wire/You talking too much, bitch – go sit up there with the driver. (things I like)

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Lookin’ real fly while in cahoots: the 10 best Dukes of Hazzard raps

Advance the flag of Dixie
Hurrah! Hurrah!
For Dixie’s land we take our stand,
And live or die for Dixie!

I wish I was in the land of cotton.

http://www.npr.org/programs/morning/features/patc/dixie/index.html

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

– Jeezy

Making their way, the only way they know how
That’s just a little bit more than the law will allow

charger ’68-9
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.

http://www.myspace.com/video/jdmparts/dave-chapelle-john-mayer-sing-diff-39-rent-strokes/41654977

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

OutKast, “Wailin”:

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
Like that…

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.

Daisy pic!

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

Kool Keith

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”

[Trick Daddy]
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
For


” “

– 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.

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Sometimes I fear that you do not understand the degree to which I have the music nerd game on lock.

Anthony Hudson, designer of album covers for Geffen in the ’70s, begat one Saul Hudson, top-hatted, amazing-haired Gibson wizard.
SLASH’S DAD DESIGNED JONI MITCHELL’S COURT AND SPARK COVER.

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.”

Me n Joni, demonstrating the poses that come naturally to each of us. (I’m also doing a composite impression of my mom in 1975 and that girl in those shorts in that video for that remix of that Khaled song.)

“Racks on Racks” is the current THISMYSONG champ on Power 106 when I’m out driving, and Berner’s & K.R.I.T.’s “Yoko Ono” is almost there (despite the presence of Wiz), but “Welcome to My Hood” is welcome in my car when it comes on the radio too. It is godawful and catchy, and Luda’s verse has more stereotypes than a Tyler Perry movie, plus he says WHOOOO in response to his own lyrical hotness and I hate it when dudes do that, I HATE IT, but his glasses-wearing makes up for those things. Plus foxy-and-wise-older-man-on-whom-I-have-a-crush Bun B says Lotta dudes sayin that they can but they don’t/Lotta boys sayin that they Gs but they ain’t/Mess around, get layed down in the paint, a reference to Emeka Okafor’s experience in downtown Los Angeles last night.

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White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #5 (“yachting with the cornrowed Virginian” edition)

Pusha’s Miami sleazeball impression in his “Can I Live” video.

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.

Also I have a thing for dudes with pagers.

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

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Ridin through the city lights, Monday Magic City night

“My relationship to groceries is directly related to how much I earn as a street musician,” says the man profiled in a Wall Street Journal piece from a couple months ago.

Well yes, sir, but

anybody’s relationship to anything purchase-able is directly related to how much that person earns as a ______ (occupation).

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.

5. Location.

“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 –

6. Competition.

“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 : (


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