Once again, my agent has dropped the ball, even though this is more of a “White girl who can play Cuban side hustle opportunity I missed.” On my comp card it says Logan, 5’8.5″, hazel/blonde (highlights), prominent hips, ethnically ambiguous face, so I should have been given the opportunity. I lack the fake breasts but I have bikinis, earrings, and eyeliner, and I know how to hold my hair up and away from my face when the wind starts to get feisty.
3 bitches, 3 different flights/Glad it was 4 sides at that Paul Williams fight/The Wynn, the Bellagio, the Palms 3 nights/As long as they are separated they are my three blind mice. MCs talking about having main ladies and side ladies, and being able to skillfully prevent all the ladies from knowing about each other, is a comical and delusional way to brag. Plus it insults the ladies. Unless you’re with a starry-eyed white girl with deep notions of romance and monogamy (her name’s Logan; she lives in apt. 680), you know when your industry boyfriend is doing dirt. I’m therefore confident that all the girls know about each other. They’re not idiots. Dude they all know about each other, only none of them care, plus they’d all take a bath together in front of your fancy videocamera if you would just ask sweetly. Well we hustle out of a sense of hopelessness/Sort of a desperation, went the earlier, better “Can I Live,” and I’d add “sense of boredom” and “need to add something fun to our life’s resume” to that list too; we ladies always wanna be remembered, we want to have interesting stories in our repertoire, even if it means having to take part in the classic lesbatronic attention-getter.
Music-nerd rambling would annoy the director and the talent. Everybody would question the decision to cast me as one of the female leads. Oh Pusha, were you aware of Harold Rhodes’ time in the military?, I’d ask. Let me tell you some quick factoids about it. All the set hangers-on would roll their eyes. Then I would go on and on about walking into the RAMMELLZEE section at MOCA*, an experience which magically made up for all the morons swarming around the Banksy area – They fucking recreated the Battle Station, it is cosmic and life-changing and I still have not recovered! Graff could liberate the power of the alphabet!, did you know this, Pusha? “The letter is armed to stop all the phony formations, lies, and tricknowlegies placed upon its structure”! Please Pusha, come to LA and let me take you to the show; we can stand square in the middle of it, swaying and crying together! But it would be my blurting out that I really don’t like this particular song that would really cost me some precious screen time. It’s the weakest track on Fear of God. Jay’s version of “Can I Live” is superior. Everybody knows that. We all fiends, gotta do it/Even righteous minds go through this/True this, history school us to spend our money foolish/Bond with jewelers and watch for intruders. (I always liked that CBS mention too.) I would probably say so in a moment of stupid honesty, just not even thinking, and then I’d get the big ol‘ boot off set, squandering the chance to parlay video exposure into more blog followers.
But gosh, Jay has a lot of songs with question titles, doesn’t he? (more rambling, as security escorts me away). “Who You Wit.” “Can I Get A.” “Where Have You Been.” “What They Gonna Do.” “What More Can I Say.” “Is That Yo Chick.” “Do U Wanna Ride.” My tribute song to him’s going to be called “How Come You Haven’t Made a Good Song Since ’07” (feat. Scarface, Rae, Kool Keith for some sexy and Luda for comic relief).
* no I’m not going to link to pictures because they won’t do it justice