Category Archives: The white girl hustle

Random Tribute: gator raps!



“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.

Scarface
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.

Bun B
Port Arthur, TX

“I’m Ballin”

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.

Gucci Mane
Atlanta, GA

“Atlanta Zoo”

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)

OutKast
Atlanta

“Return of the G”

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!

T.I.
Atlanta

“Stand Up”

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.

Curren$y
Repping: New Orleans, LA; my heart

“Money, Drugs, Bitches, Liquor”

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.

Lil Wayne
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)

“Look at the Grillz”

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).

Rich Boy
repping: Mobile, AL

“Throw Some D’s”

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.

Elzhi*
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).

Kool Keith
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

“Bamboozled”

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.

Mac Mall
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”).

Andre Nickatina
Repping: San Francisco, CA

Fist Full Of Dollars/Green Eyes”

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.”

Nickatina
Repping: C’MONNNN CUDDIE, pay attention

“Color of the Benz”

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)
repping Harlem
“Cookin Up”

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

Jadakiss
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.

Rae!
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

“Work”

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.

Big L
repping: Harlem

Stretch & Bobbito freestyle, ’94

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.

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And my jewels blue and yellow/The type of shit that make ’em call you Carmelo*. (*2003-2011; “blue and orange” hasn’t been rhymed with anything yet)

1. Long hair she don’t care, when she walk she get stares. All Waka songs are about pretty white girls, I just realized. This is one of the Top 10 things about being a white girl this week. And I know for certain that “6’7” is, in turn, about gigantic, beautifully-cheekboned Waka who happens to be just that many feet and inches tall. (Wayne’s got a crush on him, along with almost all white girls in my neighborhood).


That’s how you do the blonde-lady lounge: in black and white or muted tones, and thigh-highs holding tight to your milky skin of course.
Amanda in Interview.

YES. Yes. Yep. Oh god. Blonde lady with skinny legs, gazing toward the future. You can’t deny it.
Lily in London.




Jeisa in Marie Claire. She is, sadly, not blonde, though we must still accept her as one of our own. The brown-haired are welcome at our board meetings and conventions but their powers will always be limited.
(even if they have beautiful curvy shapes on their bodies; please refer to photo immediately above)

Looking pretty and thoughtful at the same time is my overall goal in life (now that I have my master’s degree).

2. Today we are pouty that we didn’t get cast in that Gucci/Soulja/Gotti video and I will have to report this matter to the union, but white girls? We’re still doing all right for ourselves this week, looking fine and doing important stuff. We’re waiting for that Curren$y mixtape, posing in front of mirrors, wearing our red trenches on dreary days, lounging hard, wondering why a perfectly lovely Dilla beat was wasted by some jackass on a song called “Man Purses.” And we’re doing laundry and grocery shopping, of course, because we’re kind of boring during the week.

3. The tomboyish among us are discussing the ‘Melo trade at work and with our brother because we want to keep up with the world, but we’re really not that interested. Snoozeville. Besides, our favorite headband-wearer is Baron Davis, and we are sad he got shipped away so it’s hard to get excited about the stupid NBA right now. Plus we only care about the Knicks when they turn up in lyrics by the residents of various NYC boroughs. We can endlessly talk about that condition Blake Griffin has that makes his eyes so close together, though. An unfortunate face, that one’s got. And we love Charles Woodson and his solidarity with the nonwealthy working class (which, despite our Alexander Wang bag, we are still a proud part of).

4. We like that new PJ Harvey but not as much as the old, and we were reminded by witchy godmother Stevie Nicks on the radio today that Players only love you when they’re play-innnnnn. That’s some wisdom, mama – right up there with It’s OK to eat fish cuz they don’t have any feelings and Write down blog ideas during boring meetings at work (sit in the back and lay low, dummy).


5. We love that “The Pot” came on LA radio today when we were driving!; oh god, it turned the inside of the Civic into something cinematic and cool, thanks Justin Chancellor’s swampy bass–“the midrange cut and punch for which he is known,” a quote boosted from Wikipedia but only because it’s so dope. Midrange cut and punch, like a fighter. And we’re still high from the four-plus minutes of Metallica we heard the other day, which was rivaled by Today’s Other Best Song Heard While Out and About, “A Pair of Brown Eyes,” at the gas station (????!!?). The tune just hangs out in a girl’s head hours after she hears it, and we were curious about the lyrics so we looked up both “Where the Water-Lilies Grow” and Ray and Philomena when we got home. We want to do well in music nerdery when we finally make it to Jeopardy! It’s not about impressing Ken Jennings, though–he’s not our type; we’re more into the computer.

(We loved the Pogues when we were 16, having successfully completed our Beatles phase at 15. It was a perfect fit because we liked feeling that life was tragic but we still loved melody and Elvis Costello. We also believed that if it were 1983-88 and we were of age, we could’ve gotten into their shows for free based simply on the fact of being named Logan–the Gaelic discount).

6. Back at HQ, we liked that Kurupt kameo in that Snoop video. WE LOVE KURUPT. We also liked that a song called Gangbang Rookie” turned out to not be about what we first thought it was going to be about based on its title. That was a close one.

7. Then, taking it to the eastern seaboard, we liked two-thirds of that Rae/Ghosty/Rawss song; one-third of it we hated. (We don’t like the fattest one’s verse, or his voice.)

What we really liked, specifically: a) Rae bragging about “swimmin through life,” because that’s what we’re doing too only we never thought to put it that way; b) Ghosty saying “We in the back roastin marshmallows, bottles of Cru” (not the kind of roasting a marshmallow on Urban Dictionary, perv; is that even a real thing?); and c) this, from Rae:

Holdin my girl wedding ring,
She Medellín, name is Beretta King
Live in Alpharetta, and she never leave me”

We know from a thousand songs by males that the perfect woman is, alas, not a white girl. We hate that. How disappointing. The perfect woman is either an American- or Italian-made car, or a firearm (a loyal firearm, in Rae’s case). She’s also Colombian and lives in Georgia. Sigh. We’ve always been pretty fucking down when it comes to supporting our dude, we’re willing to hold weight, but we have been humbled here. We simply cannot compete with this girl. We are too hard on ourselves sometimes, trying to be all things to all people. We should remember we have our own gifts, our strong suits–Kanye will always love us, we can always get knocked up in someone’s suite after the All-Star Game and get fucking PAID dog, and we have the power and smarts to make invisibility cloaks happen! We’re also thinking of becoming architects, while still doing our makeup in glittery pinks and purples like we’re about to go to our night job at Magic City.

8. Abbey Clancey. We like this look and we’re confident we can replicate it since we are also a skinny-legged glasses-wearing blonde with too much eyeliner. We’ll never be mistaken for a member of Warpaint but that’s OK.

Abbey’s famous for being hot (British standards, though–not American hot) and for entrapping an athlete with her vagina. We respect this. Ha ha, gentlemen; you’re just mad because you fear female sexuality and your physical limitations prevent you from taking part in this particular hustle.





9. Even our mailman and the OG white lady fox (Mom) are geeked about Odd Future at this point. This is annoying but not at all surprising. You can try to stop a freight truck but then you just give up ’cause you have weak Mr. Burns arms and it goes whooshing by, delivering LA rap to the midwest and the east. We hate that the fucking Spin article about them ended with “the future is going to be very Odd”; it literally made us go UGGHHH. OH GODDDD at the bookstore and we tossed the magazine aside in a mini-tantrum. Oh but the newest and best thing about the Fairfax boys is their affiliate Frank. We love Frank and we’d never play Drake* if Frank were in the Civic with us (since we HATE DRAKE).

* verse 2, “Songs for Women.”

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The Pogues – “Maidrín Rua” (Little Fox)

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10. Annnnnd we liked this.

We really liked this a lot! Thanks, Tumblr.

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Pull up in your town, when you see me you know everything

green and yellow green and yellow, green and yellow green and yellow.
Katherine Ann Moss for Longchamp. This outfit is probably cop catnip but I don’t care.

June Gardner (Sam Cooke’s drummer!) – “Mustard Greens.” Because a girl can’t walk down the street wearing a dress and feeling the sun on her skin to “For Kate I Wait.”

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White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #4 (other than going to Dallas to valiantly help out with the stripper shortage)


Gettin paid for lounging half-nakedly, mostly showin some hips n ass but showin a little front too, for The Loved One

and for Free People.

OHGOD I would KILL this shot if I weren’t afraid of looking like I was offering my body up for sale due to the vulgarity of my hips. I do this pose EVERY DAY, alone in apt. 15, simply for my own enjoyment. I’m doing it right now, matter fact.


Funkadelic – “Can You Get to That.” Y’know, ’cause I’m just loungin without my pants on and who better to provide the sounds than George and the crew. The song’s about a breakup but that bassline says otherwise. PS, Can you get to that was like a more formal version of You dig, right? Or maybe more like the ’70s version of You feel me.

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Ski Beatz – “Taxi” (instro). ‘Cause the words are kind of sad but that beat is not and it is suitable for loungin, dar-linnnn.

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Just Blaze – “Exhibit C” (instro). BECAUSE IT WILL NEVER GET OLD, and because Laboe played “Cross My Heart” the other night when I was driving and I almost crashed by the Chevron station on Temple.

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Seu Jorge – “Rebel Rebel.” Because sometimes I fuck around and tell people I’m Brazilian, and they believe me, because I have both a trustworthy face and an ethnically ambiguous face. And because I couldn’t find Caetano Veloso’s “Não Identificado.”

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Isaac Hayes – “Hung Up on My Baby.” BECAUUUUUSE! I don’t need no “because”! Just listen to it. Plus it’s Isaac, and he has a no-pants rule. I would also like to inform you that I make big money, I drive big cars/Everybody know me.

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Like to let her hair down when the sky gets sunny*.

(*you rack your brain for lyrics about ladies and half the songs are actually about cars.)

Georgia May Jagger proves that if you are 5’7” (model stats; it means she’s actually 5’5 1/2”) and blonde-highlighted, life is perfect. Lounge-y. Sunshiny. (like old OutKast instrumentals). If it weren’t for SWINE, that is.

Meet

me

on

the

fresh

train.



I love it all, this whole spread. And I have versions of everything here in my closet, except for that button-up Dior up there, which I wish I had because I would certainly wear it, shoulder ties and all. It’s cop catnip, though. Cops love me. My style of dress. My good posture. My skinny body, I guess. Thus, How can I continue to dress like this while keeping cops away is the most important topic in my life right now. I need help with it, like understanding Talib getting a distribution assist from Duck Down (???!?) and how to get Doomsy on as a keynote speaker at the next TED conference. Cops, they love me and I do not care for it (unless he’s a cool cop, the ones that only exist in movies, a realllll loose cannon with a fucking sweet car and a King Kong-sized ego like detective Alonzo Harris–call me!–or one who gets caught up like Brasco–CALL ME–or even Mr. Orange ’cause he kind of had a good heart plus he was a great storyteller).

There has to be some answer here. I would like to continue to be a dress-up babydoll, but I do not want to be visually patted-down by police officers every day when I get my coffee. (I live in the Rampart division and I work downtown, so what do you expect–the Starbucks at 2nd and Central is particularly thick with them) This is not my most organized set of sentences but basically what I mean to say is that just because that lady in line behind you is wearing some nice white linen shorts and an oxford shirt doesn’t mean she doesn’t prowl the Internet daily for new Curren$y stuff and old Dilla stuff. You and your stereotypes, I swear.

“Spottieottie” instro. Ha, see, ’cause they’re from Georgia.

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Messy-haired pink-nailed fabulous white ladies waitin round for GZA with blank expressions who are not named Logan.

Which record label? CHESS, of course.

Bo Diddley – “Shut Up, Woman.” Don’t you say a word, ‘cause you might get me excited.

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Eddie Bo – “Check Your Bucket.” 00:04 – 00:06. It’s that sound that describes you about to go in for a neck kiss because you’ve been looking at me and I am so delicious you can’t hardly stand it.

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Bo Diddley – “Bo Diddley.” Because it’s Bo, and it’s meta, and because PATTIN JUBA, and because just like how you should have a pretty dope “Shook Ones” freestyle if you’re an MC, you should be able to lay something down on top of this if you are any good at singing. (Or rapping.)

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White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #3.


White girls! This week we’re doing the gross and unspeakable with the sex parts of Charlie Sheen (in Vegas) and creepy old David Duchovny (in front of Showtime cameras) — we’re not third in line for the presidency anymore, so we are sad and acting out sexually. Our band with M. Ward isn’t really doing big things right now either. Coachella is our Gathering of the Juggalos but it is still months away. So, Radric arrives to save the day. Of course.

Gucci loves us and that’s been our bread and butter for the last couple years–hanging out and ending up in a verse of his. A couple years ago he liked our naked dancing at spring break. Today a Gucci hang will probably get you described as Cyndi Lauper (again) but it means you get to be in Waka’s general area and sing that hook (in your head) to that song by Best Coast*, she who understands stifled white girl longing and lust.

All-black Phantom, pulled up to the opera/Bad white bitch, call her Cyndi Lauper.

*I wish he was my boyfriennnnnnnnd. (the one on the right)
It’s Gucci 2 times, but it really should be WAKA 2 TIMES. Or if I had my way, 100 times. We can walk around the lake and he’ll try to touch my bottom and I’ll pretend to get mad at first but secretly I won’t be mad. (sorry, girl games. We are trained since childhood to behave this way). At some point in our conversation I’ll gently press the Bills hat issue. What’s the meaning, why is it so ill-fitting, etc.

Then there were posts of “H.A.M.” by understated class machine K. West, who of course never shuts up about how he hates to love my kind.

But I’ve been practicing with some actresses as bad as shit
And a few white girls, asses flat as shit

But the head so good, damn a n—a glad he hit

Got em jumpin out the building

Watch out below, a million out the door.

I would call this a mini battle of the white girl hang-out opportunities on Internet rap songs, Georgia vs. Illinois, 01/11/11, except you can keep your Kanye hang-out opportunities, thank you. Not interested. If I wanted to be a lyrical accessory in fellatio raps I’d go to the recording sessions for that Dipset mixtape and pretend it’s ’05 when I still cared about them. My several hundred problems with Kanye include his life-is-a-woman metaphor in song getting really quite old; as an English major I can’t support cliche raps. Really, the fact that Lex is 19 years old (!) is the only part of this outfit that gives me hope.

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White girl side hustle opportunity I missed, #2

If my agent were doing his job I would’ve gotten the role of Girl #3 (the one who purloins some powder on the side) in Sheek’s “Cocaine Traffic King” video, which
features an exceedingly clean kitchen,
and Styles P as a cartoony, completely non-threatening version of Nino Brown.

Basically the gig would consist of me wearing my hair down, wearing panties, trying not to cringe at lines like “(her) face in my crotch/eyes on my watch,” and getting excited and yelling D-BLOCKKKK when the urge strikes. I already do all that, so I might as well get filmed and paid for it.
I’d ask P where he got that sweatshirt and brag about how the Raiders are going to be atop the AFC when this damn season is over. I’d stifle the question, “You’re from Yonkers; how come you aren’t wearing Jets gear?” And in my head, I’d play a spirited round of Dumbest Rap Names to pass the time on set (Sheek Louch, Red Cafe, Waka, CyHi da Prynce; Best Rap Name, though? Earl Sweatshirt).

OJ – “Washing Powder Money.”

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White girl side hustle opportunity I missed: N.E.R.D. on Letterman

N.E.R.D., “Hypnotize You.” Letterman, 09/28/10. Can you spot me?

(This is what it would have looked like had I been informed of this casting opportunity.)

Pharrell hired a bunch of underweight girls with that good hair to wear white tanks and sit and just keep on sitting for the duration of his terrible song. This is a performance for which I’m sure he paid them handsomely. Accordingly, I need a better agent.

I often acknowledge that my ethnic identity group is full of corny types. We’re super annoying at the club ’cause we can’t shake it*and our latest favorite song to get slutty to on the dancefloor is Wiz’s “Black and Yellow,” a song all over LA radio that’s produced by 2 Norwegians who are experts in making catchy R&B so of course white girls love it. So the Letterman gig above is something I may not have taken right away, because it’s corny. Pharrell in ’10 is nothing like Pharrell in ’02 when he was amazing and Nore-affiliated–I mean everything in my Honda’s CD player during those days had some kind of spy chord. But, but, I still would’ve done taken the white tank top job eventually, because Pharrell is really cute and probably always will be, and because during rehearsals he and I could’ve debated whether Talking Book is superior to Innvervisions or is that just something people like to throw around, and because hey, white ladies like to get paid just like everyone else. We are coming up in the world as rapper accessories, which makes us like the new…Skypagers? Anyway, I haven’t been this proud of us since we were Bishop Don’s lap ornament at Andre 3000’s wedding, and then there was my cousin who made an appearance as Juelz’s pale-skinned jumpoff in “Beamer Benz,” providing something called becky. You remember. She made him almost crash his Bentley. : (

* unless you’re talking about me. I can shake it.

Major Mackerel – “Pretty Looks Done.” Just saying, ladies. Cash in while you can.

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