To understand my gripes, it helps to break it down. hairs.
Football and basketball are what make college sports relevant and profitable. Those sports traffic in poor inner-city talent. The rules of the NCAA, the governing body, are not quite the same as the rules on the street, and neither is the desperation the same near the library on the manicured campus as it is in the ghetto. The poor inner-city talent is expected to abide by these made-up rules — rules that are not their rules, rules not made by or for the poor and continually broken by the poor — and that’s understandable. The exchange is a free education. But the only real way for a football player to make it from the desperation of the inner city to the multi-billion-dollar NFL is through the NFL’s free and monopolized minor league. These rules keep getting broken because the rules either a). don’t mean much of anything to the inner city breaking them or b). the desperation of the inner city has outgrown the rules.
I don’t need Daniel Le Batard to inform me of the details of Edge James’ hard-scrabble childhood, or how Vince Wolfork spent his first 18 years livin just enough, just-e-nouuuugh, for the citayyyyy.
This is like watching a couple of mall cops trying to contain America’s drug war, so now it is the University of Miami’s turn (again) to be devoured by the scandal of the month.
Soon as they seen the Benz, hatin season was in. The only useful parts of Dan Patrick’s boring radio show are whenever Charles Barkley comes on, and whenever a big blowhard sports writer comes on and gets me all heated. Since I’m a skeptic, I believe that this is what’s referred to as promo for my new ______ (in Le Batard’s case, it’s his ESPN show due to start in September). Hakeem Jeffries, Brooklyn Democrat and one-man bullshit detector, announced last week a plan to regulate the real-estate practice of applying jazzy new monikers to existing slices of the city. “Brokers are allowed to essentially pull names out of thin air in order to rebrand a neighborhood and have the effect of raising rents or home prices,” Jeffries told the New York Times. His bill, Jeffries explained, would require new names to withstand a vetting process and receive City Council and mayoral approval.
New York, of course, has a long-standing tradition of geographic shorthand. In what was once just “downtown,” Soho rose south of Houston and a triangle below Canal became Tribeca, acronyms that have since undergone an orthographic blending, to the point where the underlying words are almost forgotten. More recently, the trick has been applied, dubiously, to quadrants that already have established identities—the financial district rechristened as FiDi, which has not yet earned the right to lowercase that D. Some of these newer confections work better than others: Nolita, not unappealingly, evokes a brand of upscale evening pajamas; SoBro, an appellation for the South Bronx, suggests a novelty liquor. But what these labels have in common is that they merely shorten the names of places, not change their meanings.
“ProCro,” the coinage that seems to have sent Jeffries on his crusade, is a different animal. A blending of Prospect Heights and Crown Heights, it qualifies as a portmanteau. The term describes “two meanings packed up into one word,” as Humpty Dumpty tells Alice. The result may be efficient (pluot, podcast), inane (sexpert), or depraved (cremains). At their most effective, portmanteaux are absorbed into the lexicon so smoothly as to become unrecognizable (electrocute, motorcade) as the Frankensteins they are. At bottom, they should describe a new thing (a test guesstimate fails), and, indeed, facilitate its existence. Large servings of French toast eaten at noon were just that, until someone came up with brunch.
Ghost Town DJs, “My Boo (Balam Acab Remix).” Because I want to be your lady, baby. (NOT YOURS, DAN)
other than the glaringly obvious “Rick Ross,” of course.
Everybody pads their resume in real life, so of course everybody’s going to pad their resume in rapdom. Wake up, sweetheart. But Ice Cube talking about things going bang bang or Akon describing moving packaged things across international lines to satisfy Americans’ insatiable appetite for narcotics is one thing; stubbornly believing your own myth is another. Rawss is hard-headed, and his outlandish-and-not-ever-based-in-reality brags are a constant part of pop music performance these days. It’s like my generation’s James Brown splits or the Townshend windmill.
1. The fuckin’ boss. Convertible Burt.
“I touch work like I’m Convertible Burt,” your man says, “I got distribution so I’m convertin’ the work.” Sounds good, except NO. He’s got a spinning wheel of coke kingpins (cokepins?) in his living room, and he writes entire songs around whichever name the arrow happens to fall on. He also made a funny song about being Big Meech and Larry Hoover, remember? Oh goodness, I laaaaughed and laughed when I heard such a wacky proclamation. Rawss has absolutely no dealings with rubber bands or work of any kind, let me assure you. I’m more of a Pyrex scholar than he is. He carries weight, yes, but that just means he’s walking from room to room in his house! HEY-O.
2. a G. Your Machiavelli, with a murder hit.
(“I’m a G”)
Um, Pac is our Machiavelli. But even that is a stupid boast – we get sentimental in retrospect, but everybody hated that weak Makaveli stuff when he came out with it. Rawss can’t win with me, though, because if he had said “I’m your Pac from the 2Pacalypse Now era, remember how good ‘Trapped’ was?,” I would have had an angry fit, outraged that he could compare himself to such a talented and foxy man.
3. “We Boys N the Hood, and n—a you lil’ Tré.”
(“Deeper Than Rap”)
Hmm. Analysis time. As I recall, Tre had sex with Nia Long, wore some fucking fresh gear from Chess King, and then went to get a college degree at esteemed Howard University, sooooo: Rick you should probably keep walkin down the street scratching that Lotto ticket ’cause Tre wins this round.
4. “Bitch I think I’m Nino. Bitch I think I’m Scarface. Bitch I’m Al Pacino.”
(“Oh Let’s Do It (remix)”)
Oh how bout we not do it, but just say we did? That saves everybody some time. Here we have Rawss bragging about being 2 characters of fiction, and 1 real-live person – an actor – whose specialty is playing characters of fiction. They say change makes you wanna hustle. I say Rawss needs to change and stop preaching to me about the rules of the hustle because he knows not of what he speaks. When it comes to the hustle, I’d go to Nino for turkey-pass-ing-out lessons, Pacino for advice on the acting hustle. Rawss would probably offer “Don’t get high off your own supply” regarding the businessman hustle, which of course he will have stolen from Robert Loggia, who was playing a character of fiction and whose words were not his own – they were written for him by Oliver Stone. I believe there is a pattern emerging here.
5. Mayor of Dade County.
(“For Da Low”)
Oh really? THE mayor of Miami-Dade County? Funny meeting you here, Carlos Gimenez! I had no idea you had a side hustle as a big fat rapper with an identity problem! Must be nice to have so much free time on your hands, but I’d like to remind you that he people of Miami elected you to get down to business. Now get the fuck to work on your promises to make public transportation more reliable and fix the financial woes at Jackson Health System. I mean it, mister.
6. “With the her-ion , n—a I’m Lebron/Quarter millie for my car, and thats on the Qu’ran.”
Lebron? The basketball player with no personality and the crazy mom?
You can’t possibly be referring to the dude who came up short in the “finals” and is currently “without a ring,” can you? Nice comparison, genius.
I, on the other hand, am a fierce combination of championship winners Dirk Nowitski (blond), Bill Laimbeer (prominent elbows; I’m too skinny), and Oscar Robertson (’cause I’m known for “scoring” both inside and outside; OH HI THERE, BOYS). Also Raquel Welch in 1971 if you stand 200 yards away and squint really hard.
7. “Bitch I’m MC Hammer, I’m about cream/I got 30 cars, whole lot of dancers/I take them everywhere/I’m MC Hammer.”
In addition to being completely charisma-free and a terrible lyricist, Rawss is also a lazy human being who can’t take the time to read someone’s entire bio before starting to co-opt that person’s identity. “MC Hammer had a bunch of money and a Saturday morning cartoon! That sounds like me! MC HAMMER BACK; UNHHH.” This is like invoking the main character of the movie without watching it all the way through. Other people Rawss claims he is: JFK in October ’63 and Joe Theismann during the first quarter of that Monday Night game.
8. Albert Anastasia. Michael Corleone. “Sole supplier for cocaine in southern states.”
My mom could write a pretty passable verse about Albert Anastasia and Corleone, since, like Rick, she loves those A&E shows about organized crime. She doesn’t try to do it, though, because she has the good sense to know that she doesn’t have the skill for rhyming. Manners, that’s what that is.
Mike Corleone shows up on Rick’s “Bricks” too. I guess this is OK in the grand scheme of Rawss-ery because any Godfather mention reminds me of that baptism scene, with the priest’s voiceover in Latin. Fucking terrific filmmaking. And Sonny’s body getting laced up with bullet holes and such, remember? Aw damn. Poor Sonny.
9. Frank Lucas. Floyd Mayweather. Don King.
I’ve been told that Rawss should not be the focus of my hate, and that I should instead delve into the reasons that he has a fan base. Maybe he’s just giving the people what they want, you know? Aha, but then I recall that Rawss’ success can be explained by a Mencken quote, which leaves me free to continue my crusade against him! Can’t knock the making-money hustle, but I can dang sure knock the making-terrible-music hustle. The kids today don’t know any better but this makes Rawss no less morally reprehensible. He should not be someone who gets paid for saying words into microphones; simple as that. Anyway, as a person who greatly enjoys driving and rapping along to Crack and I have a lot in common/We both come up in the 80’s and we keep that bas(s/e) pumping, I am well aware of the fun of temporarily adopting an identity other than my own for an intro-verse-verse-chorus-verse sequence. That’s just the seduction of melody, people. The song above, for example (I love it). Or like when you’re listening to pretty “Norwegian Wood” and then you realize, Hey wait a sec, this song’s about Lennon having sex with someone other than his wife.
Anyway, the Mayweather comparison is probably the least offensive thing to me here, since Floyd makes his money by 100% legal means, just like Rawss always has despite what he wants you to believe. If Rawss had compared himself to Zab Judah, though? Goddammit Zab Judah has the baddest name in all of pugilism so Rawss and I would’ve had a problem.
10. “Got the top down and I’m feelin like Steve Austin/You know the routine, rollin on, still movin a few things.”
(“Trilla,” w/Mannie Fresh)
This one’s harmless too – Rawss comparing himself to a wrestler, which means Rawss is comparing himself to a man who adopts the costume, mannerisms and language of a person selling narcotics fighting in the ring for real, but alas: it’s choreographed. There was never any real danger! It was the wizard behind the curtain the whole time, except in this case the wizard really pisses me off because he convinced Mannie Fresh to do a song with him. Unacceptable.
11. “Twitter thug, I’m the timeline strangler.”
Rae’s one of the many who’ve disappointed me by collaborating with Rick (I’m looking at youuuu, Trick Daddy). Not much else to say here, other than: Twitter thug made the list of persons whom he inaccurately believes himself to be because a Twitter thug is not an actual thing that exists. Putting those 2 words together; that’s just gibberish. In the Four Tet remix he calls himself both a “unicorn 808” and a “Xanax burqa.” For such crimes against English, Rawss should be allowed to work with Drake and Chris Brown, nobody else. In between stints being guest speakers at the annual Dudes Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked Conference, they hang out with each other in the yard at Twitter jail when they take thugging a little too far. Then they can get released, and, back like they never left, put out horrible mixtapes on their own social media sites and free up space on RapRadar for the good MCs (Corey Gunz, SWOON).
12. “Oh Lord, I’m a star down in St. Bart’s/The fat Tommy Lee, I made out with like 8 broads.”
EW HE’S TALKING ABOUT HIS PENIS. I do like his brag circa-5th-grade brag, though (I made out with not just one girl, but several girls! I’m thinking of asking one of them to the dance!)
13. A Haitian vacationer.
(“Rich Off Cocaine”)
The only identity on this list that might actually be reality-based, I had to include it out of sheer anger. Embracing hatred gives me this nice burst of energy sometimes. Rawss’ morally repugnant display of rich-man guilt provides this for me, in a nice rhymey package.Vacation to Haiti, it nearly broke my heart/Seein’ kids starve, I thought about my Audemar/Sellin dope ain’t right, I put it on my life/Chickens put me in position to donate the rice. WHAT A FUCKING JERK, spending all that time on Twitter and remaining so disconnected with world events. Even before a recent natural disaster there, Haiti was a place of corruption and poverty – not the appropriate place for you to take a few days off, gaze at the sunset, slurp lobster juice and purchase time with sex professionals. And yet, Rawss had to go look into some skinny 5-year-old’s eyes and hear him say Ou Linèt solèy yo ovèrprisèd ak lèd, obèz nonm. tou mwen trè grangou in order for that fact to become real.
And then there are those times when you are feeling sad because cops talk to you all the time, and then you go into 7-11 and they’re playing “Viva Tirado” by El Chicano and all of a sudden nothing’s wrong.
If neither this above nor this here (jefe, maton, father of Scoop DeVille) moves you then you are a soulless individual and I cannot allow you ever to see me naked.
(*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.
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.
When Jimmy Conway grabbed Henry Hill’s youthful face and said never rat on your friends and always keep your mouth shut, I nodded my head in agreement. Goddamn right, Jimmy! That was kid stuff, though–stealing furs, robbing truck drivers, bagging coke, then describing it all to a judge a few years down the road, pointing in the courtroom at the guy who used to be your fellow foot soldier, thereby making a disgrace of yourself like a filthy rat. Kid stuff! This here is snitching, pure and uncut:
“I don’t think that [this] changes the power of the photographs he produced,” said a smart man on NPR about Ernest Withers, and I agree. Unforgivable rat finkery aside, this new information about him makes his photos even more meaningful in context of what we just found out about him–people in the movement strongly suspected they were being tailed, trailed, spied on, and the guy taking pictures of them knew it firsthand and kept snapping away. He churned out thousands of pictures of kind-faced, sympathetic individuals on buses and in picket lines, adding a stunningly energetic Lionel Hampton photo or two along the way.
Why would the Feds be so inconsistent with their suppression techniques, though? They got valuable information from an informant, but let him keep taking pictures of men and women with kind, sympathetic faces? Since frontline imagery is one of the tools of informative persuasion for which the movement is best known, it seems like the FBI would’ve seen to it that negatives were “accidentally” destroyed, or brought the paranoid hand of justice down much harder on the man who was creating those images. They’re now on display in museums, wordless black-and-white evidence of brutal times and brutal laws. Destroying the negatives seems like such an obvious way to go. But then, I forget sometimes that J. Edgar and his drones were not known for their intelligence.
And here, in contrast, some trifling type of behavior that’s not really “snitching” at all; it’s just an assortment of various attempts by a man with a dumb nickname to get out of jail a little sooner. I haven’t seen this kind of penny-ante nonsense get the kids so heated* since Cam and Anderson made intense faces at each other and discussed the serial killer who lives next door.
* as of this writing, 30 comments from rap nation over at XXL.
The O’Jays, “Back Stabbers.” Because it’s Gamble & Huff, with the god Thom Bell in charge of strings. And because “Rat Heads” by E-40 wouldn’t upload, and the only other songs available about rats and snitches getting theirs in the end were, ironically, ones by noted rat employer Game and noted alleged rat Curtis Jackson. Oh the sweet, terrible irony.
• Quote above courtesy of writer, communist, and champion of the people Jose Saramago,who died this week. Once you go Marxist, your name is forever dirt among the small-minded; what more is there to say. And I loved Blindness; what more can I say.
The masses get excited for Drake and his cringe-inducing lyrical non-prowess (“What am I doing? What am I doing?/Oh yeah, that’s right: I’m doing me”), when it’s Saramago, a real man of letters, who should be celebrated–and not just in his native Portugal. Behold the beauty below. Obrigado, senhor.
• Beautiful-facial-featured Spanish WAG Sara Carbonero is my new girlfriend with whom I’ll be running away to a land where we can marry and lounge around nakedly and read Neruda poems to each other all day long. With that skin tone and those Arab eyes–her face is like the illustrated history of the Moors fornicating their way through Europe–she rules my heart, yes, but is still only my second-favorite Spaniard, behind this gorgeous specimen:
• God bless the freaks, went one of the more prominent bumper stickers I’d see at Dead shows when I was little. Amen, brother.
Manute Bol, my brother in unnatural-body-type-ism (his unnaturalness was height and lank; mine is scrawny legs and fat hips), was a good guy. He was able to withstand the vast difficulties and rude stares incurred as a result of being 7’7″ (that’s like a head taller than Garnett, yikes) and used his fame and money to the benefit of causes in his home country, the Sudan. He was also so smart that he really was somewhat a nerd, which makes me love him even more.
When he played for Philadelphia, Bol became friends with Charles Barkley, who shares this:
“You know, a lot of people feel sorry for him, because he’s so tall and awkward, but I’ll tell you this — if everyone in the world was a Manute Bol, it’s a world I’d want to live in. He’s smart. He reads The New York Times. He knows what’s going on in a lot of subjects. He’s not one of these just-basketball guys. Basketball’s just one percent of it. You know what he was talking about the other day? Milk. He was saying that he grew up on milk straight from the cow. Squeezed it himself. Milk. He says, ‘Charlie, what’s this lo-fat milk, this two percent milk, all of this other milk? Cows don’t give lo-fat milk, two percent milk. We shouldn’t drink it.’ I don’t know. Maybe he’s got something.” Ain’t no maybe about it, Charles. Except maybe he’d tell you to stop doing those T-Mobile commercials because they’re not funny, and do you really need the money at this point, unless you’re giving it to charitable causes in the Sudan? Good lord.
• Please get me this book, out later in June: Fender: The Golden Age 1946-1970. Guitars are perfect because the sounds they emit fill our lives with joy, and because they are shaped like women. Ain’t no maybe about that, neither.
Coke & headphones are necessary here, after you press play. C’mon, a little won’t kill you.
In the role-playing game of Funk Gods If They Were Clan Gods,
Bernie Worrell is RZA (song constructor), Eddie Hazel is GZA (space cowboy in tune with the cycles of the moon; not of this earth), George is Mef (charisma, voice), Bigfoot Brailey is Rae (the anchor, consistent, unflashy), Bootsy is Ghosty (often high-pitched voice), and Shider, of course, is ODB. Because he wore a diaper on stage, people.
• Lakeshow necessities:
– “Drake Brings Out Kobe at Powerhouse”is a headline which could also just as accurately say “2 Wack Rappers on Stage at Powerhouse.” My strong sense of integrity means that I simply cannot overlook bad music, which explains my snark here, but #24 is still the greatest. And hey, what happened to all those people who were making fun of the LA Times magazine spread? So weird, how they’re not really running their yaps right now. You oughta be ashamed, e-thugs. It’s like the liquor store owner in Menace said: I feel sorry for your mother.
– Ron-Ron has a song called “Champion” that is, let’s be honest, not very good, but the best part about following this link is that you’ll see various commenters on Rap Radar correctly ascertaining that it’s far superior to anything on Drake’s album. I find comfort in this, being understood by my brothers in hip-hop, even though I dislike the fact that Ron had to do it over that goddamn Beamer Benz beat. WHYYYY in the name of Long Island City his verses were not done over “The Bridge” instrumental is beyond me, but I love Ronald always and forever. If things don’t work out with Sara C. and me, he’s definitely my next conquest.
– Most of the team (sorry, Luke) and a spectacular pair of Harlequin pants were guests on Jimmy Kimmel. Update: even if things do work out between Sara and me, I’m setting my sights on Ron. He’s my density.
• Haley Barbour is the Republican governor of Mississippi, deflector of criticism aimed at BP, and brand-new Dude Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked. Welcome, Haley! Pull up a seat next to Sean Hannity, just behind all the dudes in that goddamn Grown-Ups movie who bored me to death with their courtside appearances and half-assed takes on NBA rivalries during the finals (even you, Chris Rock, who disappointed me most of all because you should know better).
Barbour is going to be trouble, I can feel it already. “A self-described ‘fat redneck,’ he speaks in a marble-mouthed Mississippi drawl, loves Maker’s Mark bourbon, resembles an adult version of Spanky from the Little Rascals and fits no one’s ideal of a sleek new political model: squat, big-bellied and pink-jowled, he looks as if he should have a cigar in his mouth at all times (and occasionally does),” and makes it clear he’d be none too pleased if his daughter were to bring home a young man of color. Oops, I may have added that last part.
“A bunch of liberal elites were hoping this would be the Three Mile Island of offshore drilling,” said Mr. Barbour, who earns over $120,000 annually but is in no way a dreaded elite. This was in response to the BP spill, which Barbour insists was not very consequential–I mean, oil won’t affect the ecosystem just offshore from his state, which he knows for a fact based on his scientific research that consists of walking along the Mississippi coastline and seeing that very few tar balls have washed up. Offshore drilling employs a lot of people in Mississippi, and it’s nice that he’s defending that; however, I believe he has an even stronger sense of obligation to defend the oil companies that gave him $1.8 billion toward his gubernatorial campaign.
“I appreciate him promoting tourism,” said Diane Peranich, a Democratic state representative from the coast in response to Barbour’s public statements of delusion, “but not to the detriment of reality.”
Home to this guy and birthplace of Elvis, plus that whole Chaney-Goodman-Schwerner unpleasantness, Mississippi needs a miraculous turnaround if it hopes to redeem itself after all these years. David Banner and Bo Diddley can’t carry the whole state, you guys.
America is broke/its backbone was built off of dope, oil and false hope. David Banner – “When You Hear What I Got to Say.” I sure do love this song, especially right around the second minute. Like me, David’s got a dirty mouth but a pristine soul.
“The head of the Republican Party criticized Senate candidate Rand Paul on Sunday for questioning the landmark Civil Rights Act and said the Kentucky libertarian’s views were out of step with the party and country.” [Reuters]
Heaven! Oh, it’s heaven.
Republican in-fighting is a joyful, lovely thing, and it’s all this lady needs on a this particular Sunday to wash away the grime and escape the miasma of urban woe. Michael Steele called out Rand Paul for his criticism of the Civil Rights Act; this was the correct thing to do, which marks the first time I’ve approved of Michael Steele’s behavior. Rand Paul’s already done a quick side-step, turn-around, backpedal, “nevermind” dance following the fallout from his remarks, because that’s what shit-talkers always do. He also says he does, after all, support the Act, makeno mistake about it, because shit-talkers are also liars. Anyway, the whole thing is fun, plus, YOU GUYS, this is just like Jimmy vs. Cam, only the Huffington Post is the arena instead of Kay Slay’s show!
Unfortunately, this is unlikely to affect Mr. Paul’s political trajectory, as people just do not give even a little bit of a fuck about Michael Steele and what he says. I bet even he knows it. This is not cause to feel sorry for him, since E-40 teaches that if you live by the dirt, you die by the shovel.
Mos Def – “Johnny Too Beef.” Because I must’ve posted BDP’s “Beef” in a previous post. I must have.
Islamabad, Pakistan. Laborers work in a foundry, 04/30/10. [FarooqNaeem / Getty]
I wasn’t really ever a big fan, but I’m wise enough to see that if he hadn’t died young, the apprentice would have taken over for the teacher probably sooner than the teacher would’ve been comfortable with. Sorry, Joe. Additionally, Pun gets a place on my Great Rap Voiceslist.
Don’t nobody is more hiphop than Gil! (Sometimes you guys forget and I have to remind you.)
4. I have a Bachelor’s in Literature and I still lack the capacity to accurately put my feelings for this photograph into words that my fellow English speakers can understand.
Labourers work as their children sleep at a brick factory on the outskirts of Jammu May 1, 2010. [REUTERS/Mukesh Gupta]
You know who never went to college but who’s still a better wordsmith than me just because of going through life as a theatrical protagonist in his own narrative epic? Oh, just RAE, that’s who.
“10 Bricks.” This song marks the first time I ever heard the c-word used as a verb. Although my sense of feminism requires me to oppose this down to my core, the lyrics fan in me wonders how come nobody ever thought of doing that before because it’s pretty sharp.
Threw Kool-Aid rubies in a lemonade bezzle/When I was 12 in the church, I started packing that metal. Say it out loud; it just feels good in your mouth, doesn’t it?
5. OH SHIT, it’s dark and hell is hot.
Shepard Fairey at the opening of his May Day show at Deitch Projects, 05/01/10. [Sam Horine, The Village Voice]
I believe at last year’s convention we decided to retire the term hater, but I’m dusting it off just this one last glorious time because THIS PICTURE! THIS GUY!! Shep and his dogs stop, drop, shut em down, coordinate their black tees to display only the trillest of ’70s bands, then open up shop. (No, that’s not Rawss. But imagine the possibilities if it were! So much vitriol I could sift through, then write a post about!)
Me and my self-indulgent writing style insist that Earl Woods is like a Shakespearean figure, a little bit beautiful and very, very doomed, like Hamlet but from Yonkers. All I know is pain/All I feel is rage. The unironic emotional display of an American black man is a pretty intimate thing to behold. Dr. Drew, save X, but not so much that he goes completely over to the other side and eschews late-’90s G stuff like pitbulls and getting the crowd to lose its mind through the power of a gruff voice. AH!, also, in less serious news: I forgot to add X to my list of Great Rap Voices.
Kanye and a thousand viral marketing campaigns have made me suspect that everything done publicly is done solely for the purpose of moving units. I can’t believe that the increase of revenue isn’t the main goal here. But still. Even if solidarity with Los Suns means that owner Robert Sarver will sell a hundred thousand jerseys, he seems like a stand-up guy and the means justify the ends. I also was unaware that Steve Nash was the first athlete to go on record against the Iraq war back in ’03! Get ’em, Canada! That said, should the Suns advance, the conference finals van a serunmasacregiganteporque Los Lakers son campeonesdelmundo.
Venezuelan army in vocal support of Hugo Chavez, 05/02/10. [Juan Barreto / Getty]
I just really miss The Coup and dead prez.
8. Make um say testicular fortitude. The hubris is strong with this one.
Board game high jinks while drinking some malt liquor in my black wig and white bikini. With my dude. In 1970.
OH, and hold on, what’s this? Why, it’s something I DON’T LIKE:
You, herb-ish Caucasoid Tumblrist posting a love letter to the tennis sweater,
while, just above it, posting some Biggie lyrics. Because plainly, you know, you are down as fuck and we all know it.
It looks like this on my computer screen and it’s the juxtaposition that hurts my feelings:
Dear sir, You’re not po-mo highbrow/lowbrow, country club to the strip club. You’re lame and you’re not a fashion-forward superfoxy beautiful MC from Atlanta. Therefore, you cannot pull this off. Therefore, stop it.
I’m the hardest person in the world to offend, most times; deviant sexual practices and sexist jokes* are pretty great. However, Andrew McCarthy here, misappropriating my precious, darling hip-hop in between posts celebrating his cashmere socks and ascot makes me shaky and feverish, it offends me so. Country club gear will not be dope until at least 100 more years, unless: you are a member of a group that has historically been/still is excluded by country clubs and you’re donning the gear because you’ve got sparkling wit and tight irony-fu. This has been the latest edition of “Fashion rules from the girl who only wears jeans, dresses and bathing suits.” You kind of need me, admit it.
(The irony of a middle-class/suburbs-reared Caucasoid lady blogger claiming hip-hop and needing to defend it from those who would besmirch it is not lost on me, by the way. But who made you the hiphop police? That’s KRS-One, duh.)
Dudes who wave their cash around Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked, thank you. Ugh, it’s so West Egg. One day I’ll use his toothbrush to clean the toilet. I swear to god I hope we definitely do NOT fuckin die together.