June 2007 Archives
Erykah Badu's Vagina Can Save Hip Hop.
I'm fully aware that the title that I chose for this piece has self-respecting women everywhere collectively cringing at their computer screens. The moment the good people at Vibe decide to put this piece on their website I can envision a gang of feminists congregating at some undisclosed location somewhere - angrily going over diagrams of my house, debating whats the best entry point to use before snatching me from the mortal coil. Proud female bloggers that are carrying on the great traditions of Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem are possibly linking to this particular entry as a shining example to their readers on how big of a pig I am on the strength of the title alone - reminiscent of the career catholics who picketed Kevin Smith's "Dogma" without ever viewing a single frame of the film. Granted, since I'm rather allergic to the knee-jerk reactionary types, people who can't relax their defenses for one solitary moment piss me off like bad bladders - my instinct is to just say "fuck em'" and take a piss on their feminist sensibilities by very casually telling them "Relax Sugar-tits!!" But I won't do that, there are so many women in my area that have outed me on a site entitled "don't date him girl(dot)com" that I suddenly want to offer an olive branch to my female readership - so judge this piece after you've read it, if you still think I'm a steaming pile of shit while reading the final sentence then so be it.
Now back to the title. Based on all the great Hip Hop and Hip Hop themed shows my friends have introduced to me as of late, my "Hip Hop Is Dead" stance that I've lived by for the past couple of years has softened quite a bit - but I'd still argue that even the most optimistic fan of the genre would agree that Hip Hop still has a shitload of problems. As a faithful soldier who can sometimes be found saluting whenever Big Daddy Kane's "Raw" or Eric B and Rakim's "Check out my Melody" come on, I'm shocked at what passes for Hip Hop nowadays - if the music and lack of lyricism weren't bad enough, the minstrel show names that these sons of bitches go by is such an outright embarrassment. (Mims, Jibbs, Rich Boy, Webbie, Boosie, Huey) Not for nothing, but if there is ever a race war and I happen to be one of the first hostages taken somehow - I'm giving up the location of those motherfuckers first, fuck what you heard. Then there's that horrible "Party like a Rockstar" song - career pedophiles have better records than that - outside of it being abysmal, it's a slap in the face of the million of us true Hip Hop fans out here who also pray to the gods of rock.(I get the sneaking suspicion that those bottom-dwellers wouldn't know who "Bad Brains" were if I held a loaded bazooka to their heads while holding the "I Against I" record in my other hand) People being duped into feeling that lil Wayne is an actual lyricist, reputable Hip Hop publications covering a rap beef between two fucking zeroes as if it was tantamount to The Cold War - I'd never condone suicide, but I'd imagine a person seriously questioning their reason to live after listening to their locally run ClearChannel station for any extended period of time.
Just when I was beginning to think that all was lost, that a culture that I've loved more than any girlfriend that I've ever had would be forever taken over by drooling lunatics and products of inbreeding - that's when an epiphany hit me like a bolt of lightning. "Erykah Badu's Vagina can save Hip Hop!!" It's not that far-fetched, is it? Who transformed Common from that "around the way" B-Boy to a conscious brother, wearing dashikis and whatnot, lighting incense, and coming off like a fucking bean-pie salesan in interviews? If her sweet loving spawned the cluster-fuck that was Common's "Electric Circus" - whatever she has between those light brown thighs could cure cancer, fuck Hip Hop. Then there's Mr. Andre 3000, who didn't even go by that name, much less make it a habit of dressing like one of Parliament Funkadelic - and wearing kilts(see the new UGK video featuring Outkast) until he hooked up with Ms. Badu as well. Ladies and Gentlemen, Erykah Badu can lead us to the promised land. If anyone can reverse the effect that sub-par wordsmiths and minstrel rappers have had on the Hip Hop landscape, I know she can.
Matter of fact, maybe my claiming that her "Vagina" can save Hip Hop is a bit on the crass side, lets just say that I'm confident that her DNA can save Hip Hop. All we need now is for some rogue scientist to clone Ms. Badu's DNA, distribute it throughout our nation's water supply system a la the evil plot in "Batman Begins" - and before you know it, calling yourself an MC or a DJ will be something to be proud of again.
Ann Coulter is No Different than David Blaine or Criss Angel
Maybe it has something to do with me just advancing in age, I'm 33 years old now and my genital area has so many grey hairs down there that it resembles an unlit cigar in an ash tray - but its become extremely difficult to shock me any more. There was a time when I would literally run in the other direction if a woman that I was courting felt compelled enough to tell me that she had over 200 lovers, I'd probably rush home to sanitize my telephone based on all the dirty conversations we've had - but I'm different after being intimately involved with a pornographic actress, now I'm shocked when I learn that a woman hasn't been "tag-teamed", had a steamy lesbian encounter, or been on the business end of a horse phallus. The other day when a fist-fight erupted at one of the local watering holes that I frequent, I noticed that I was the only who didn't try to get a front row seat to the melee - while haymaker punches were thrown in my vicinity I just stayed at the bar face down in my Rum and Coke. Not because its beneath me because I love violence, I really do - but with a history like mine where I've hit people with bats, chairs, skillets, not to mention that one time I choked a guy out with a phone chord, I guess your garden variety bar altercation is just old hat to a veteran of violence like me. Even when your text-book racist spews his or her particular brand of hate, whether its Don Imus, Michael Richards, or that white person who thinks he's reaching out to me by saying "You're pretty cool for a black guy" - again I'm not shocked, I guess it has something to do with me having such a low opinion of my common man in general.(My own mother claims that my reaction to a cross being burned in my front yard would be, "What fucking took them so long??!!!")
Ann Coulter has never really shocked me either, even though she has routinely wiped her ass with political discourse in this country and has let some of the most vile syllables escape from that already malnourished mandible - I always felt that her sentiments accurately represented a segment of Americana that I didn't want to ever come in contact with unless I had a firearm handy, so I always took her on-air drivel as a crash course in right-wing fundamentalism. When Coulter said "I've never seen people enjoying their husbands' deaths so much" concerning the politically active "Jersey Girls", women who lost husbands on September 11th - I wasn't shocked, sure it was despicable, but it was just par for the course when it came to the nastiness around the 04' election.(Republicans wore little purple heart band-aids at the Republican National Convention to mock John Kerry's Vietnam service for Christs sake.) Shit, by the time she called John Edwards a "faggot", my belief was already cemented that she should be in a padded room somewhere - possibly making innovative shapes and designs with her own fecal matter. Everything from her saying that Timothy McVeigh should have blown up the New York Times Building, that we should invade all "terrorist countries", kill their leaders and convert the people to Christianity, did I mention that she already referring to Bill Clinton as a "homosexual"? One of the best pieces of advice that my mother gave me, besides "double-bagging" it if I'm ever with a hooker in Tijuana, is "if it walks and talks like a crazy bitch, chances are its usually a crazy bitch." Yoda-like wisdom that woman has, I tell ya.
But when I saw her rather subdued, minus the venom alongside Michael Eric Dyson a few months ago on an MSNBC segment entitled "Debating Race" - that's when I stood up in excitement, pointing like I had just noticed the invisible string aiding the street magician and said "David Blaine like a motherfucker!!" I know her being nuttier than squirrel shit helps her sell books, I'm well aware of her hustle - but if she only believes a small portion of the bullshit she spews, that kind of makes her even more of a pathetic figure than she already is.("pathetic figure", talk about double entendre!) Even Donnie Deutsh, the host of CNBC's "The Big Idea with Donny Deutsch" said recently that after he tried to get her fired up during a commercial break - that's when she decided to openly question Bill Clinton's sexuality. Whether she believes what she says or not is irrelevant, I don't care how many times she tells St. Peter "I was only kidding" at the pearly gates - I get the sneaking suspicion that he'll break the heavenly protocol and say "who gives a fuck?" and send her to a place where the climate is the same regardless of the season.
Ann Coulter the magician, pulling some truly incredible things out of her ass when it financially suits her - but there is a difference between what her and Criss Angel do though, there's at least some entertainment value in what Criss does. But then again, she made her credibility disappear a long time ago - Tadaa!!!
Man, I Love Me A Quirky Black Girl: Janelle Monae
Until the day that my soul leaves this earth, a couple of criminally underpaid grave diggers throw dirt on my brand new shiny casket, and a disgruntled ex-lover finds it appropriate to sing a rendition of Aretha Franklin's "I Never Loved a Man" as my "sending off" music (with the first line being "You're a no good heart breaker, You're a liar and you're a cheat) - I will always cherish the ground that black women walk on. I know that I can come across as a woman-hater sometimes, and I completely understand the criticism. But that's just a result of women historically taking a healthy shit on my emotions. I'm sure when that brand of bitterness is exorcised and I can successfully channel my sexual perversions into something less vomit inducing, I'm confident that I'll be just fine. Not for nothing, I know I'll ruin my chance of ever getting any Internet ass off of this next line - but if my penis displayed the various hues of women that I'd ever been with, it would resemble that "Terror Alert Level" Chart, to be completely honest with you. I've never dated a white girl, but I don't know how many times I've told you good people about my love for Ms. Janeane Garofalo - I'd take her to Nation of Islam meetings, a black power rally, even a Jill Scott concert, just to publicly express my undying love for the cynical actress/comedian. But at the end of the day, my choice is the black woman, not because of some sort of blind loyalty akin to the 28% of inbred Americans who still support our "Barney Fife" of a president - its simply because that's what a brother prefers. Their essence, the curvature of their bodies, someone to twist my locks - and a loving support system that would completely understand where I came from when I tell her about how some punk cop harassed me. But the thing is, the same sort of love just hasn't been reciprocated over the years.
I mean, if I didn't have such a penchant for scanning the myspace landscape for Internet ass at every given opportunity - I would have never known that there were so many beautiful black women on this great planet of ours quirkier than me. Maybe the sisters in my area are just wack, because telling women that I'm a "Kevin Smith fan who loves skateboarding, System Of a Down, and the British version of "The Office" doesn't exactly get me intimately acquainted with her bed linens or her "come fuck me" panties. Of course, adding insult to injury, the slew of black folks who tend to think that colloquialism equates to one's blackness, and the fact that I happen to loathe anything that Tyler Perry puts his John Hancock on - somehow that mixture is so deadly to some chicks that it's a proverbial Molotov cocktail of "Trying to act white." Because of this I find myself, sometimes, looking at the heavens with a black Africa medallion in one hand and a Christian Hosoi skate-deck in the other, screaming "When will there ever be a black chick that totally gets me, lord??!!!"
If god ever listened to my incoherent pleas, and somehow was forgiving enough to ignore all the other libraries worth of indiscretions in my sordid past - I get the sneaking suspicion that he would send me down Janelle Monae to silence my heaven-bound requests. Even though I first became aware of Ms. Monae by her contributions on the "Idlewild" soundtrack and the Purple Ribbon All-Stars album (Got Purp? Vol 2), respectfully, I never particularly knew that her "freak flag" flew so high until I checked her out on myspace. Describing her is tricky, and comparing her to some male trailblazer that preceded her is just plain insulting - but with her sonically refreshing songs inspired by sci-fi films and whatever else is swimming around in that quirky mind of hers, I'm suddenly proud of my comic book collection and my penchant for kick-flip ollies. A woman who has made it crystal clear that she will never compromise her values, or sell sex in any form or fashion, while rocking her trademark black and white uniform with a pair black and white saddle oxfords - I'm certain that if I ever have a daughter, this is the type of artist that she and I will bond over.
My first inclination is to think that people won't get her. A country who re-elected a career boob and thinks that Paris Hilton's release from jail is actually a newsworthy item, they simply don't have the mental capacity. Call me optimistically naive, but I get the feeling that she'll be just fine, I think a dose of something different and innovative is just what the doctor ordered for the masses of career lemmings paralyzed by ClearChannel's evil spell. Please excuse me while I watch a couple of her performances - man, I really love me a quirky black girl.
Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr. Peter Rosenberg
In my opinion there is absolutely nothing wrong with being a "liberal," but Republicans and other people who were probably once part of the "Nazi Youth" have turned it into the ultimate insult - so much in fact that cowardly Democrats have distanced themselves from the word all together. Its sort of the way I feel about being labeled a "Hip Hop Journalist" - scores upon scores of pen wielders who claim that they also have the same love for "Two turntables and a microphone" that I do, but have blissfully gone out of their way and sullied something beautiful. (Sort of like ejaculating on a prom dress, I should know) Granted, I don't know if Hip Hop journalism has ever been any good, to be completely honest with you - but what passes for it nowadays seriously makes me consider tearfully putting a loaded firearm in my mouth as a fucking Billie Holiday record plays in the background. You have "writers" who must listen to music while plugging their collective noses based on their collective lack of taste, journalists who mercilessly lick a rappers prostate during interviews - and the complete drivel that you see on blogs and in magazines brings me back to the verbal stylings of an ex-girlfriend's uncle that I once knew, who happened to be an illiterate and retarded stroke victim by the way. I'm not claiming to be Langston Hughes by any means, but the bar is so low that it just amazes me that more people don't have the journalistic dexterity to simply hop over said obstacle. That's why from now on, I don't want to be considered a "Hip Hop Journalist" anymore - just refer to me as "That chubby, dreadlocked blogger who loves Hip Hop and talks about his phallus entirely too much." Yeah, that sounds about right.
All that being said, there is always someone who proves themselves quite worthy of praise - a person that "talks me off the ledge" so to speak, putting my pessimistic generalizations in check like it was on the payroll.("in check", "Payroll" - that's the frustrated rapper part of me speaking) Last time I highlighted J. Pitts and DJ Nice Rec, a duo out of Pittsburgh P.A who do the "JPitts Show" - a great online Hip Hop radio program for all you "heads" out there. But this month, ladies and gentlemen - I'd like to introduce you to Peter Rosenberg.
Chances are you have already know who I'm talking about. His Internet parodies have gotten him more fans than a southern black church in July. His "This is why Duke Sucks" (a parody of "This is Why I'm Hot" by M.I.M.S.) has gotten more than a million hits, while "Bowlin'" (a parody on Jim Jones' song "Ballin") and "Throw Some Cheese On It" (a parody of Rich Boy's "Throw Some D's") have had more than 100,000 and 600,000 views respectfully. Definitely some funny shit, but I became aware of Mr. Rosenberg six months ago when he did an interview with Pharoahe Monch - one in which he was honest enough to express his displeasure with one of his songs, but still had the ability to come off respectful at the same time. (Check out his interview with Talib) So it was good to see Peter get a gig at Hot97, hosting his own two-hour show entitled "Real Late with Peter Rosenberg" on Sunday from 1am - 3 am - a program that intoxicates your eardrums with dopeness like you were listening to an Amy Winehouse and Whitney Houston duet. If you aren't in the New York area check out his blog in which he offers downloads of his show, its one of the best shows I've heard in a long time - you won't be disappointed. I know what you're asking - how can I go from taking a healthy shit on Hip Hop journalism as a whole to singing the praises of Peter Rosenberg? I guess the answer is that I'm an insufferable prick who gives credit where credit is due. What!! Say Something!
Isaiah Washington Taught Me if You Say Something F*cked up, Just Own It.
Don't let the title of this post throw you. I'm in no way condoning Mr.Washington's use of a homophobic slur - I know how hurtful being on the business end of said slur can be, based on me having a picture of the doctor who gave me a prostate exam in my wallet and my affection for those Ethan Hawke "Before Sunset"-dialogue driven movies that make an asshole like me believe in love again. It's just that I believe if you say something utterly regrettable then simply go and apologize to the offended party, possibly make a solitary statement to the press for public relations purposes - but that's it, if people want any more apologies out of you just inform them that they are shit out of luck like constipated degenerate gamblers. Unfortunately that's not the approach that Mr. Washington took, after embarrassingly denying that he had even used the slur at the Golden Globes he proceeded to so a stint in rehab like all embattled stars do - not to mention working with the Gay and Lesbian community in an add that I felt seemed heartfelt, concerning the circumstances. That being said, after jumping through more hoops than a trained circus seal, his contract wasn't renewed - read any article on the situation and you'll read where ABC studios claimed it was done "quick and neat," even though I think stringing a guy along for the better part of 8 fucking months is neither "quick" or "neat."
Again, what Mr. Washington said was utterly deplorable, but the media has a way of severely punishing black entertainers for the most pedestrian of offenses. Recently Washington Redskins running back Clinton Portis simply gave his opinion and stated how Mike Vick should be allowed to do whatever he wants on his own property, told the reporter that dog fighting was common where he came from, and expressed that he was surprised that dog-fighting was even a felony - by the way the media pounced on him like a pack of rabid dogs (pun intended), you would have thought that he had just publicly endorsed child pornography. Remember a few years ago when Allen Iverson attempted to come out with a rap album, I'm fully aware that the subject matter on it was questionable - but the media was so outraged by the lyrical content, you would have thought that Iverson's entire album consisted of him reciting chapters of Mein Kampf to Hip Hop beats. Mr. Washington made a mistake, but if the last 8 months taught me anything it is to apologize whenever something disgraceful comes out of my mouth - then keep it fucking moving. Especially when you think about the absolute lunacy that has transpired since that verbal career speed-bump Isaiah Washington let fly out of his mouth with reckless abandon.
When I saw T.R Knight tell whoever would listen that Isaiah Washington's slur forced him to come out of the closet, I hadn't belted out so many childlike chuckles since my 5th grade homeroom teacher showed me her tits after class once. I don't know what it's like to be a closeted gay man in Hollywood but I'd imagine it would take some intricate planning to hide your sexual preference, immediately I envision a group of the actors' handlers huddled around a bulletin board with blue schematics on it - everybody on board to execute what would be called "Operation Not Gay." Publicists, close friends of the actor, lawyers, and even the actors personal chef would have to be involved in the rouse - I'm sure not being seen with gay lovers, exiting gay bars, and other behavior deemed to be "homosexual" are the lengths it takes to maintain a very hetero facade. That being said, being called a "faggot" on a movie set, an episode that no one outside the cast and crew can even proved happened - that's what yanked you out of the closet? Get the fuck outta here with that bullshit.
I found it pretty funny when that wet gremlin-looking blogger himself, Perez Hilton, took it upon himself to continuously rip Mr. Washington a new asshole (figuratively of course) on that bowel movement of a blog of his. How can someone seem like they are championing the rights of gay people one minute, then go about outing closeted celebrities the next? I have a question for you: if you mercilessly back-hand a gay guy because he's a douche-bag and not for his sexual preference - is it still a hate crime?
The outrage from the gay community was understandable, what Mr. Washington said was truly reprehensible - if I wasn't already a black man I would have followed my last statement with "I can only imagine what its like for a gay man in America." But the continuous vitriol was a bit much, I can't tell you how many debates this sparked from gay and lesbian people that I know about the "F-word" versus "The N-word" - arguments in which they found themselves on the business end of a beheading based on the murderous history of the "N-Word" and that little known gem that people are unable to hide their color.
Listen, I'm smart enough to know that there are gay people out there that find him offensive - but I've recently learned about an individual named Charles Knipp, a hit in gay bars and throughout the gay community with a character he does called "Shirley Q Liquor." Did I mention that he does this character in blackface, portraying an illiterate, heavy set black welfare mother with 19 kids - pleasing crowds with his broken English, and side-splitting tales of going to "K-Mark" along with other routines. According to this Rolling Stone article, the cast of "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy" hired Knipp to perform at their wrap party, and actress Sela Ward hired him for her husband's 50th birthday party. I don't claim to know the Queer Eye Guys, Sela Ward, or the slew of gay people that find Mr. Knipps comedic stylings a laugh riot - but I bet you dollars-to-donuts that they probably had problems with what Isaiah Washington said, and rightfully so. But can you really claim the moral high ground, when the foundation of said surface is as shaky as publicly supporting something with such an oppressive history as minstrelsy?
Lastly, didn't it seem that Isaiah Washington's co-star on "Grey's Anatomy," Katherine Heigl, went out of her way to invoke Mr. Washington's name every chance that she got. Listen, if your mission in life is to get a black man fired then I suggest you aim for goals with a higher level of difficulty - but she couldn't go an interview without expressing how angry she was at her co-star, she kept his personal business on her tongue more than Mrs. Washington. The same way Mary J Blige decides to express some historic hardship that she encountered at the most inopportune moments, Ms. Heigl took it upon herself to steer any conversation to a slur that an actor will regret for a lifetime.
I wanted to call the treatment of Isaiah Washington by the media and by his castmates as a high profile lynching, but maybe that's just hyperbole on my part. But I suddenly get the urge to put Public Enemy's "Burn Hollywood Burn" on repeat in my Ipod.
Believe it or not, Hillary Clinton and Female MCs Have a Lot in Common
Looking back on it now it's sort of silly, but back when I was in High School nothing put the fear of god in me more than becoming a teenage parent - a phobia that only surpasses my current fear of heights, clowns, and Tyler Perry sitcoms. Sure my parents added to said fear: my usually calm and collected mother made it seem like having a kid in High School was akin to a death sentence - and my old man wasn't any better, he had me thinking that I'd have to quit school and work in a God-damned coal mine if I ever procreated around the same time that I received my driver's license. Not only that, but the exact same way an overweight woman might feel a little funny about receiving things like low fat milk-shakes and stair-masters as Christmas Gifts - getting a lifetime supply of condoms from your parents is all kinds of wrong, man, especially when my mother would point to the box and say, "See honey, it's ribbed for her pleasure, with a spermicidal tip no less!!" But the main reason that I didn't want to have a child while I simultaneously struggled with Trigonometry had to do with John Hughes.
Yes, "Sixteen Candles," "The Breakfast Club," "Weird Science," "Pretty in Pink," "Ferris Bueller's Day Off" - that John Hughes. See, before I became an adult and couldn't get through any of the aforementioned movies without screaming, "Don't black people go to High School, John!!" at my television screen, I worshiped these movies as if they were the holy fucking grail. I just knew that his flicks were the template of High School life to come, teenage angst, mischief, and bittersweet moments where I know I'm falling in love when "The Thompson Twins" or Paul Young play in the background while I passionately kiss the "diamond in the ruff" band nerd. A bratty fucking crumb-snatcher wasn't going to jeopardize that, or me skipping a day of school that I'd remember for a lifetime, a life altering Saturday detention where I bond with four complete strangers - and I'd be damned if fatherhood would interfere with me making a woman out of magazine cut-outs and Lil Kim lyric sheets via my computer. A robotic sex slave of sorts, someone to give such ignorantly sloppy oral sex that with my eyes closed I'd be damned if I didn't accidentally clone Fantasia.
So I did whatever I could to prevent me bringing another chubby writer into this world, everything from dry-humping like a madman to wearing three condoms at a time during sex, only letting a girl give me a hand-job to me acting as if she should feel grateful being allowed to put her mouth on me - we won't even go into how many times I chose an alternate hole during sex - so much in fact that I'd randomly have my sexuality questioned mid-coitus. What were supposed to be the best years of my life became 3 1/2 years of paranoia and me causing most of the girls in my High School class to walk like seasoned cowboys. That was until one of my best friends, John, had a child out of wedlock during our senior year. I'm aware that John was probably the exception, I can only imagine how hard it is to be a teenage parent nowadays - but the way he juggled his newborn daughter, his honor classes, and the random teenage dalliances - it made me use two less condoms and go the vaginal approach during sex from that point on.
Raising his daughter (Kelly) hasn't been a picnic for John over the last 17 years, but his parental journey has been less turbulent compared to other parents based on their shared love for Hip Hop - a gift Kelly exhibited as a young child, free-styling to music even before she knew what impromptu rhyming was. Since then John and I have been on some "My Two Dads" shit(minus the homoerotic undertones mind you), grooming her to be the best MC the world has ever known - whether it was me having her throw a ball up in the air and catching it on beat while rhyming to perfect her flow, or her old man having her battle-rhyme him every day after she finished her homework. We had her reading dictionaries, watching "Wild Style" with the same intensity that Christians watched "Passion of the Christ," and filling her subconscious with all of the '80s-era Hip Hop that the both of us owned. It wasn't like we were pushing her either, she'd love to tell me how she lyrically took some sucker out at school - proceeding to recite the exact simile that rocked that other rapper's feeble little world. She was good - fuck that - she was great - with an awesome voice, wordplay, punchlines, a strong presence on the mic, and with her ability to tell stories I just knew that what we were witnessing was a legend in the making.
That was until the last couple of months or so, as I've seen her kamikaze flow that's usually uninterested in the collateral damage that it caused suddenly be extremely dumbed down without any particularly rhyme or reason. An aggressive flow with battle rhymes that could embarrass a person so bad that their forefathers felt the shame on their plantation, became wasted bars about hand-bags and other other materialism that I usually loathe. Kelly is a beautiful young girl who only lesbians would think was gay only through wishful thinking, turned an already acceptable image into coming across like an uber fake supermodel in desperate need of a sandwich. I still love Kelly, I'd absolutely die for that kid if I had to - but I can't lie and say that I'm not disappointed, but I chose not to address her newfound rap style because I knew exactly what was going on here.
Its the same thing that is going on with Hillary Clinton, her current run for the presidency mirrors the issues that female MCs have been going through ever since someone first decided to plug a sound system into a light pole. Even though I'm an Obama guy thus far, it was sort of painful watching Mrs. Clinton's mannerisms during the Democratic debate this past week - you could see her unfortunately working from a script in her head, trying to act a certain way according to how the public would want a female candidate to act. Against her better judgment and her qualifications, I'm sure that she was told only to look forceful during national security topics, because consistently acting that way might turn off potential voters based on her gender - which is unfortunate.
The same way it's been unfortunate to see female MC after female MC feel the need to either dumb down their lyrics, sex it up for the mindless masses, or both over the years. I'm not particularly a fan of Da Brat, but remember that cringeworthy period in her career when she tried to come across like a sultry sex kitten? (That seemed as natural as an oral bowel movement.) The recent "sexification" of Remy Ma, people love that shit but I always felt that "Roughneck" was MC Lyte dumbing herself down as well - theres a million examples of women feeling the need to cave to a knuckle-dragging record consumer. Listen, I understand the whole "they have to eat" argument, I really do - I just wish that our nation didn't consist of a bunch of low-self esteem having bottom feeders, men unable to deal with strong and aggressive women because it would remind them of their already unimpressive penis. All of us men out here have to collectively grow a pair, for Kelly's sake, for the future state of women in Hip Hop, even for Hillary's sake - if Mrs. Clinton indeed becomes our 44th president, she should be able to be tough as nails and not give a shit about how it looks to a bunch of emasculated assholes.
Hip Hop Drinking Games
"Alcoholism is a disease, but it's the only one you can get yelled at for having. Goddamn it Otto, you are an alcoholic. Goddamn it Otto, you have Lupus... one of those two doesn't sound right." -Mitch Hedberg
A few years ago when my father died, my mother was diagnosed with cancer, and when a woman whom I thought would one day be Mrs. HumanityCritic left me for what turned out to be a literal bum all at the same time - I dove face-first into an abyss of alcoholism that would have made Nick Cage's character in Leaving Las Vegas sit me down for a heartfelt intervention. That whole time period is one gigantic blur of bar-fights, public puking, sleeping on park benches even though I had a residence, and throwing back enough shots of Jagermeister to put down an entire stable of horses. Nowadays I'd say that I'm the proverbial poster-boy for germaphobia - I can't tell you how much of a mood killer it is every time I ask a woman 30 health questions prior to foreplay - but back then, the multitude of occasions that I woke up not knowing where I was or how I got there, beside some strange piece of ass that I'd usually want to slip on some latex gloves before giving the time of day to, was an everyday occurrance. The used condoms that littered the ground around the miscellaneous woman's bed might as well have been spent bullet cartridges, letting my hungover brain know that some very bad things happened the night before. Even now, recalling that time that I played Russian Roulette with my cock on this blog makes a brother want to jump under a scolding hot shower while aggressively scrubbing my penis with an S.O.S pad. Going through that very dark period of my life is what has strengthened my belief in a higher power, to be totally honest with you, because the fact that I came out of the self-destruction with a healthy liver and without some strange disease as if I had sodomized that "Outbreak" monkey - it kind of makes that whole "water to wine" routine seem like amateur hour.
This is the part of the piece where I'm is supposed to tell you how I've made a complete 180 in my life, waxing poetic about how I'm so thankful to be alive after such an ordeal that I currently view things like blades of grass or a simple sunset with a whole new fascination - characterizing the drooling alcoholic of the past as an "entirely different person." Sorry, you came to the wrong place if you wanted an "afterschool special" kind of ending - because truthfully, there's nothing I enjoy more than getting my drink on. (Actually, I once had a deaf lover, that was kind of nice. Nothing beats post-coital silence, I'll tell ya.) Granted, I no longer feel the need to throw up before finally falling asleep. I'm happy to report that I haven't woken up with some asshole's tooth lodged in my fist from some fight that I couldn't remember - and apparently my drunken "Girl, I want to fuck you on the bathroom floor of a rest-stop!" pick-up lines guarantee that I won't be waking up in any new locales. So yes, I've slowed down considerably, but not to the point that I'll stop going to country and western bars on the weekends - angering everyone in attendance as I freestyle over Toby Keith instrumental tracks while grabbing my crotch in the illest of B-Boy stances.
But my favorite activity on the weekends is playing some Hip Hop-themed drinking game with my friends and a few ladies with criminally low self-esteem who happen to find wordy pre-ejaculators sexy. Beware: you should only participate if you want to be on the fast track to wearing your underwear on your head while trying to convince everyone within earshot that you invented the semi-colon.
Try these Drinking Games:
* I'm not really a fan of The Game, but nothing puts you on the business end of a blackout faster than taking a drink every time he mentions Dr. Dre's name during any of his songs.
* Take a drink every time Lil Wayne spits the most elementary lyric while exhibiting the same swagger that Big Daddy Kane had circa '89. Matter of fact, take another drink when you realize that said swagger isn't even his, its Gillie the Kid's.
* Take a drink every time M.O.P mentions any sort of gunplay, a particular brand of firearm, or their penchant for making some poor bastard take an extremely long dirt-nap. Fuck it, just stick a Vodka I.V. in your arm while listening to any one of their albums.
*Take a drink after every time you fast forward a Wyclef or Pras verse just to hear Lauryn while playing "The Score."
*While listening to Common's Electric Circus, take a drink every time you think about the mystical powers of Erykah Badu's vagina - something has to explain such a clusterfuck of an album.
*Take a drink every time the word "bitch" is uttered on N.W.A's Straight Outta Compton. Yes, this particular game is only for depressed binge drinkers.
* I think Canibus is a dope lyricist, but while playing any of his songs - take a drink every time your realize that the man only has ONE style.
* If one of your friends happens to have a Three 6 Mafia CD, play it, and take a drink every time images of minstrel shows and blackface appear in your head.
* While listening to UGK, take the entire bottle that you are holding, put it to your lips, and proceed to finish off the entire bottle. I mean, those cocksuckers over at MTV belligerently put them on their "Top Ten Hip Hop groups" list, maybe alcohol can make you forget about such blatant acts of incompetence.
Getting a Cell Phone is a Sign of Maturity, for Me Anyways
Well folks, I finally did it - after years of avoiding cell phones like the plague or Tyler Perry movies, I finally decided to join the rest of civilization and purchase some good old fashioned wireless communication. Sure, I've had a cell phone or two in my day - but the last time that I had contact with the outside world via telephone besides my designated landline was when Lauryn Hill was having a nervous fucking breakdown on Mtv's "Unplugged". It's not that I was scared that I'd inappropriately use the phone's vibrate function on those cold and lonely nights. I didn't have any particular fear of me sporadically sending pictures of my cock that I had taken with my cameraphone to a few of the nuns who taught at my Catholic school back in the day. The thought of me constantly instant messaging an ex who recently turned to lesbianism and typing "Your new girlfriend is manlier than I am! Just come over girl and get properly fucked on some "Move over bacon now there's something meatier" shit!!" never crossed my mind either. I simply avoided getting a cell phone because I'm a prick of the insufferable variety, and there has always been something sort of comforting about being elusive - even to my closest friends and family. I guess that's the closet recluse in me, willing to tell every sordid detail of my chubby pre-ejaculatory life on this very blog but at the same time keeping the people that I love at arms length like a boxer strategically using his jab.
So besides me ditching the Willy Wonka pajamas with the hole in the front for easy access (*wink* Ladies!), no longer putting ashtrays on women's back during the doggie-style position, and no longer cutting off lifelong friendships if the person happens to like a rapper that I loathe or despise a movie that I adore - the purchase of a cell phone actually makes me resemble an adult. But having a cell phone is going to ruin my habit of being a shitty friend and a detestable lover. Let me explain.
When you have a cellphone there's only a limited amount of time that you can say that your battery was died, that you were in an area that got shitty service, that your ringer was accidentally turned off - excuses on that nature. But when you don't have a cellphone life can be beautiful, that friend who needed your help during his crosstown move, that carless bastard who needed a ride something terrible, that casual acquaintance upset that you sodomized his girlfriend without his consent - you can sincerely act apologetic after the fact and say that you wish that you could have been of service, but really not giving a fuck and thanking the heavens that you didn't have a cell phone. The various women who I characterize as "Practice Vagina," they would have to believe whatever came out of your mouth concerning your whereabouts - lord knows they didn't have that "I was calling your cellphone all day!" trump card to pull out. Yes, it seems that my days of fully embracing my inner asshole are over - even though I've yet to focus on my outer asshole though. (OK, that sounded kind of gay.)
