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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Gone And Forgotten

A few weeks ago I went to check out a special screening of the recent DVD release of Tupac Assassination: Conspiracy Or Revenge. Throughout the screening I couldn’t help but realize how incredible the documentary’s underlying message – that Suge Knight essentially orchestrated the murder of Lesane in the most diabolically cartoonish way possible – had the entire audience eating out of the palm of its piss-poorly produced hands.

It makes me wonder if the level of love Lesane has would have happened had he not been shot the fuck up on two separate occasions. Questionable rapping skills and background dancing past, even I’ll admit it’s pretty gully to catch bullets on more than one occasion, because I know I sure as shit wouldn’t do that for a three-way with Kerry Washington and Tamala Jones while Malinda Williams and Lauren London are watching and getting each other off with a Klondike bar.

OK I’m lying. I would catch a slug for some girl-on-girl-on-Klondike action. But that’s beside the point.

It’s common knowledge that ‘Pac’s legacy has exponentially grown thanks in part to his frequent hospital visits. In fact, it’s hip-hop’s twisted infatuation with mortality that puts more emphasis on a rapper’s willingness to risk bodily harm for street credibility, which is sadly why you see more Terminators than teachers nowadays. Being able to inspire the masses has long since taken a backseat to being able to catch an eye jammie Tapdancer P style.

In that sense, why should fans be surprised when someone actually ends up dead? While I may feel some sense of remorse (if that’s even possible), I honestly don’t feel bad when a rapper that spits about his own demise actually gets ethered. Call me callous, but that shit’s not fucking up my day.

But it does bring to mind the fact that his death is perhaps what he’s known for now than his “poignant” lyrics. Hell, I even forgot the date of my grandmother’s passing 16 years ago yet still remember September 13th, 1996 like it were yesterday.

By this logic, we should all pop bottles in honor of the murders of Jam Master Jay, alongside the likes of Freaky Tah and Big L as well as countless others as we do 2Pac. But seeing as how we don’t (Hell, I even forgot about Jay’s date), why should we even give a shit if the guy was “assassinated” or not [1]? Perhaps I’m not seeing things in the eyes of the general public (and thank God[dess] I don’t), but I never understood the reasoning behind the placing of one man’s martyrdom upon a pedestal higher than the others, as if we should even do that in the first place. But maybe I’m once again just looking too deep into this, as I tend to do.

[1] He wasn’t.

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Give A Fluck About Racism

Just when I thought I was beginning to run out of breath on my small section on this part of the Internets, yesterday’s drop on MC Turkey Breast caught an unusual amount of attention. Originally it appeared as if it were nothing more than the typical knob-shining Stanley whom my Long Beach blogging brother from another mother Brillyance so eloquently put on blast a little while back, which I would have been cool with seeing as how I’ve received my fair share of disparaging comment since I’ve been here.

You see, I figure there’s a good reason why I’ve been here as long as I have. Aside from my natural charisma and natural good looks (as evidenced from the all-seeing eye up there), I’ve noticed I have the knack to pull people out of their comfort zones and voice their own opinions. I call those people whiny little bitches, but whatever. But isn’t that what the core of hip-hop is originally: the ability to call its denizens to action, albeit for reasons unrelated to the original topic sometimes?

In any matter, I’ll probably never understand the bozack-hoppers who inexplicably support a multiple-time ex-felon’s decision to “defend” himself with enough blammers with potatoes to outfit a small army, as if the shit wasn’t illegal in the first place. But I suppose that’s perfectly fine in a region that defends the motives of that shermed out, shitbag rapper from the lost city of Atlantis who plays Bathing Apes with his non-father father as “playful banter.” No wonder why Pimp C called out you geeks.

Internets thugs, you all need hugs.

Perhaps unsurprisingly though were the overly-sensitive ... errr... baby Israelis, SoundClick all-stars and faux-“conscious” tree bark chewers who tend to shout “racist” quicker than you can spell “Imus.” What intrigues me is that they’re quick to call me an ignorant hypocrite as if they’ve never been guilty of even thinking a stereotypical, racist or homophobic thought. Realize that this world is relatively all extra fucked up, so targeting my bigoted ass is not going to be the ends to your delusional means. Besides dickfaces, we’re all in the same shitty boat where long after we’ve become dead, rotting corpses the shit sammich-style hardships and dregs of society will still remain, so calling for my impeachment isn’t going to do shit to my shine, not to mention restore the balance of the Force. Plus it’s been done before, and that shit failed faster than those Chinese monk protests.

And a message to those chumps that feel inspired to start deleting comments: unless you’re either one of my editors or my Dope Boy in rhyme, I highly suggest you either keep your asses “back there” or take your menstrual blood-soaked, zebra-print, Cuba Gooding Hanes Her Ways and go play in traffic before you attempt to pull that shit again. Slap-Boxing With Jesus supports free expression [1], and I won’t have any “moderator” running up in my spot threatening to censor the commenters that either make or break this site [2], fucking up my whole shit in the process. Let this be the only warning shot because trust me, you don't ever want to get on my bad side (http://www.hiphopdx.com/blogs/meka/2007/07/05/my-dna-is-in-your-music.html).

UPDATE: I ran this by J before it got posted. Consider you humps lucky, because this was much worse.

[1] For the humps that are unfamiliar with my work, do a little research in that top-15 on the upper-right side of your screen of this section.

[2] By the way, it’d be hard-pressed for some “herb” from London to intimidate me when they like to rock smedium Capri pants. You couldn’t bust a grape in a fruit fight doggie, so play nice and don’t be the next contestant on that Summer Jam screen, because contrary to popular belief I'm not going anywhere anytime soon (http://www.hiphopdx.com/messageboard/viewtopic.php?t=38338). Then again, I thought my stupid dribble wasn’t even worth addressing in the first place.

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D.A.R.E To Keep T.I. In Prison

“I mean I can see if it was a real nigga. If you lost your hoe to T.I. I'll be like “’Hey, that's T.I.’” – The Boondocks’ Riley Freeman

"T.I. should not be in jail for some stupied shit like this its just guns...." – random-ass DX comments hump ashley

"It just guns why make a big deal out of it..." – another random-ass DX comments hump STOP HATTING

Obviously, one of these things is not like the others. The best part about the above comments is that the caricature ironically came off with the most convincing argument of the bunch.

Seriously though, how disheartening is it to see the bottom-feeders of society support a rapper with questionable rhyming skills (as does damn near everyone from the South not named Brad, Antwan or Andre) who obviously needs to still be in the clink? You can’t honestly tell me that motherfucker is a good role model for the kids, what with the hump risking life and limb to retain some semblance of his nonsensical “street cred” that got tossed out the window once he was roller skating in that one movie like that kid rapper who got raped by his bodyguard way the fuck back in the day. No wonder Bow Wow now stays hugged up on the scrotal sack of that You Got Served-ass lame. Bird chest rappers stay losing.

The obvious scenario here is the over-abundance of undereducated future burger flippers of Amerikkka who’ll be serving me my cardiac arrest-inducing Double Double with Cheese joints from the local In ‘N Out supporting someone of equal (but more than likely lesser) intelligence. It’s not like Clifford had the streets on lock in the first place: he started off doing the Hot Fuk dance in that god(dess)-awful video with Beenie Man way the fuck back in the day, then punched out another shitty-ass rapper from the South that likes to dress up as the Lucky Charms Leprechaun in his spare time. Not to mention his bottom bitch got shot the fuck up last year, the only promising thing coming out of that camp is some funny-style cat that rhymes about Franken Berry boxers and Cookie Crisp earrings or some gay shit like that and that half-Jew (hue?) DJ got busted selling second-hand Lil Wayne mixtapes. How the fuck do you get caught bootlegging bootlegs in the first place? Only battyboys who like to rock Capri pants and chancletas pull that dumb shit. I thought DJ Dram(a) would take from his tight-wad ancestors and know better. I bet you that was the Black side in him telling otherwise. You know how Blacks like to fuck shit up for themselves.

No wonder the TIs sprung T.I. from the pokey. They don’t give a shit about their moneymaking puppet: they’re trying to recoup their losses. Liar Con-Man wasn’t going to sit and let his favorite jungle monkey receive dry butt service in a jail in Atlanta, especially with all that down-low shit running rampant out there. Then he’d have to pay for Clifford’s herpes medication, and that shit would cut into the bottom line. So of course he’d get him out: shit, he has a movie with Denzel & Russell dropping soon! But you know the suspect shit in that flick? Clifford plays Common’s son in that shit. And we already know how confused Lonnie is already.

Pause, no homo “get my fucking pool in the back” on this blog, by the way.

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MTV Is The New Terrorism

In case the humps who aren’t living in the West Coast don’t know what’s going on, Southern California is in the midst of one of the worst firestorms since, I don’t know, the Cedar Fires of 2003, when one Sergio Martinez (of course) had gotten lost while “hunting” and thought it would be a great idea to start burning timber to signal rescuers, torching nearly 300,000 acres in the process.

You know, if the governor really wanted to curb the influx of fence-hoppers coming over and yoking jobs from tax-paying assholes like myself, trying to burn them is not particularly the best idea. But it's not like I don't have any bright ideas anyways, so whatever.

It’s gotten quite a bit of airtime over here, so much so that it sometimes cancels out some of the few shows I watch on the television. In essence this lack of quality programming should compel me to pursue a more active lifestyle, but seeing as how I spend more time on my computer than in the sunlight, I could more or less give a shit.

So lately I’ve found myself flipping to channels I’d originally boycott, as the shows on them have been scientifically proven (by me, nonetheless) to give its viewers eye herpes: Bojangles Entertainment Television and MTV. While I’m thoroughly convinced that BET will never be good for the children while its underwear-with-the-dickhole-wearing, closet lesbian CEO is running shit [1], I’m a bit hard-pressed to believe that MTV is partially, if not entirely, responsible for music’s currently shitty climate, if not society as a whole.

In BET’s defense, there’s still an adequate amount of music videos that come on during the day, albeit the spectacularly shitty ones. Since MTV has essentially eschewed music videos for fruitbags tongue-throttling each other on shoddy Flavor Of Love knock-offs, piss-poor dating shows and the like, even the dumbest of window lickers could see that the channel has fucked with America’s collective conscience, perhaps irreparably changing it.

In that sense, it’s easy to see why, say, I’m more likely to get passed over for a job for some dude-dressing dyke [2], because although we both like pussy, having the BuFu Fix isn’t quite on my radar. But perhaps the systematic mind wipe of MTV is a small plot in a larger scheme. With so many fruits and retards running around on the regular, it may provide ample distraction from what’s going on in the real world, causing right-wing pundits and ambulance-chasing truthers to treat insanely stupid topics like the n-word as if it were a harbinger of dissonance. But maybe that’s the conspiracy theorist in me talking.

***

Speaking of MTV, guess who's bizzack!


[1] I assume she would be the channel's tall Israeli, but I’m pretty sure the real TIs (and real men in general) wouldn’t allow a woman to run a major faction. Besides, you know how Black people like to run shit into the ground.

[2] Oh, I got something for them.

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Lil Wayne: The 2007 Version Of The 1990s-Era Method Man

On a totally unrelated note, am I the only one that noticed that Fat Joe of all rappers was a penguin in Happy Feet? Yet I wonder why this rap shit keeps losing.

Anyways, I actually had a chance to converse with my future ex-wife-in-law AHLOT this past weekend. In between discussing about the important matters in life – like whether or not sex is better either vaginally or “the real way” – she lamented about the recent BET “Hip-Hop” Awards were ran by, for lack of a better term, a bunch of porch monkeys. I couldn’t really say anything to dispute that theory, especially considering that I was a member of the crowd who was graciously pepper-sprayed after Young Buck sporked that hump who delivered a 2-piece and a biscuit to Dr. Dre’s face at the Vibe Awards a few years back.

But perhaps it’s not so much the fact that all Black people tend to act like an autistic jackass amongst the flashing lights and cameras than it is just people from the South [1] as a whole. In a sense it’s understandable; the poor public schooling system, combined with the fact that the hurricane turned a once-lush(?) town into something that resembles a traveling carnival, has changed its ass-backward (but loveable!) mogwais to idiotic, rabble-rousing gremlins.

So it shouldn’t come as a surprise to anybody that the regions most popular rapper more of less looks like The Brain. All Joe Dante movies aside, it’s glaringly obvious that, despite his inane ability to get caught up in the most quasi-homosexual of situations, arguably remains today’s most highly sought-after “artist.” In essence, Lil Wayne’s inexplicable ascension to the top of the rap food chain (before T.I. shoots him down, that is) is eerily reminiscent of Method Man’s own rise in the nineties [2] what with their knack for making the most random of guest appearances [3], yet crafting underwhelming albums [4]. There was once a moment when even Method Man was proclaimed the greatest rapper of his generation, but we all saw how that shit eventually turned out.

If T.I. is supposed to be the king of the south, and Lil Wayne is supposed to be the best thing the South has, I may have to avoid that entire region altogether whenever I take a vacation. Then again, there’s always Strokers...

[1] For the record, both AHLOT and J. Burnett are originally from the Midwest, so they get the pass on this theory.

[2] Now before any panties get in a bunch, I must reiterate that I am basing this off their sudden increase in popularity, not their skills on the mic. However, Raekwon > Method Man.

[3] I know I’m not the only one who remembers Meth’s guest slot on Shaquille O’Neal’s “No Hooks.”

[4] I did like “Mo’ Fire” though, if that’s any consolation.

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Nigga

I wasn’t going to blog today. Rather, I was going to spend my day off laid up in my one-room mansion’s poor excuse of a living room running through round after round of Madden until my fingerprints were rubbed raw from the buttons. Then maybe I was going to rub one out to some porn - Lord knows I’ve “acquired” my own fair share of those shits on my computer - until I came cross this piece on the Internets that revealed that Mexico of all places has the world’s first retirement center for chalupa-chewing scallywhops. No, seriously.

Don’t believe me? You may want to check this out. Don’t feel like reading? Well, here’s the video report on it. I wonder if each guest gets a free pack of Valtrex, a bag of ice & a gift coupon to one of those recently reopened Taco Bell "restaurants."

But I digress.

Needless to say, I wasn’t entirely interested in watching the flexibility of Kapri Styles after that one. Shorty got crazy ass for a skinny broad though.

So in between searching for shit to yoke off the ‘Nets, I came across Nazz's response to detractors of the name of his next album. Not to come off as apathetic or anything, but I really don’t see what all the madness is about the shit in the first place, particularly when it involves a bunch of old geezers who are so out of touch with today’s younger generation that Michael Jackson and Robert Sylvester Kelly couldn't een show them how to do it properly.

Besides, it’s not like they don’t have their own skeletons anyways.

What makes it more disheartening is that these humps don’t even attempt to try to understand the culture of today’s youth, instead passing it off as simply destructive jibba jabba. I’ll admit I’ve talked my fair share of shit about rap, but the shit doesn’t mean I believe it is single-handedly destroying the Black race as a whole. Not when there are still traces of racism, a shoddy economy, poor public schooling and a plethora of other shit that will turn even the brightest of children into a dark-hearted killer.

It’s pretty wild to see hip-hop culture take such a beating like it has this year. At the same time, it’s not like it wasn’t unwarranted, what with all those piff pocketers that got ethered last year, not to mention the stunts some of these jackasses have pulled in this month alone. In their defense, perhaps it’s a twisted way of trying to police this culture, as our own representatives have continually failed us. At the same time, catching feelings over the dreaded n-word is pretty ass-backward when you got all these Southern rappers wanting to buy machine guns and silencers: point being, if they’re going to attack something, attack something that is a legitimate threat [1], as the dreaded n-word has been around longer than I have. Speaking of which, does anybody else find it ironic that the same YTs who “invented” the word to demean Blacks are now up in arms over its use in a musical genre they probably don’t listen to?

I hope that I’m not the only one who sees that bullshit.

[1] And don’t tell me that the new MC Hammer has a legitimate reason for trying to get those shits either.

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The Jailbird Syndrome

Let’s be real for a second: hip-hop is probably the only musical genre where even the most flagrant of quasi-homosexuals can even feel like some sort of über-thug, thanks to its representatives’, err, somewhat articulate mannerisms. Pretty much any of these humps would be anally violated on sight if they attempted to actually live out the misogynistic, violent, illegal lifestyles they portray in their raps, but that doesn’t mean that their fans would know it.

I’ll be honest: part of my transition from the run-of-the-mill book smart Nigerian to an aspiring stick-up kid a decade ago was due to a combination of newfound rebellion, raging hormones and an affinity to “Incarcerated Scarfaces.” I think I can speak for the majority of the humps here who have at one point felt as if they were invincible as well.

That indestructible attitude changed quickfast, however, when I was chained to the inside of a police squad car after my infamous 40-minute chase to escape the fuzz throughout Long Beach failed quicker than the Jena 6 rally [1]. Faced with the possibility of being used as currency in a Los Angeles prison, I – for lack of a better term – broke down like a little bitch.

Apparently the shit worked, because I only ended up on house arrest for a few months. Thank God(dess) for prison overcrowding!

The thing I learned the most from my experience is that I wasn’t willing to sacrifice the little things – like the freedom to bathe on a daily basis – for some cheap, tawdry thrill. And this is coming from someone who treats a bowl of Trix like it was ambrosia. So I don’t understand why those same artists who could buy and sell my ass are willing to do a bid, risking everything they’ve worked for.

I already mentioned this week how I could care less about my street credibility if had the financial capabilities to invest in a three-way with Melyssa Ford and that Angel (Lola?) muckluk. So needless to say, I sure as shit wouldn’t risk my livelihood just to prove to the fickle-minded masses that I’m some sort of pseudo-Teflon Don. Had these asscunts taken a page out of Diddy’s expansive catalogue, they’d realize how easy it is to get you top-selling acts ethered at will, then go to some nondescript club and proceed to smack the flames out of anyone who has the gall to get pissed when you hit on their woman. Now that I think of it, Sean Combs has the most street cred out of all those sizzurp-drinking dipshits. Cracking somebody in the head with a bottle of the finest of bum wines, shooting the shit out of a club and blaming your boy and sending your marquee artist to the recording studio in the sky is one thing, but yoking somebody for their publishing, even after they leave your label? That’s some straight-up “leave you die breathing”-style gulliness.

***

On a semi-related note, I’m having a celebration to the jailbirds of the hip-hop world over at 2 Dope Boyz. I invite you all to check it out.

[1] One of the humps ended up back in jail, and two of them look like straight-up homo thugs. It’s safe to say that Black people lost that match.

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Dumb Rappers Need Teaching

I’m not gonna front: it’s been a particularly slow time in hip-hop. Sure, there’s been the usual assortment of shitty rap albums coming out and rumors about random-ass rappers doing random-ass shit, but for the most part the fall semester is pretty sluggish.

Logically though, this sense of slow motion (pause, no Soulja Slim) is a good thing for hip-hop. Think about it: the slower the news season, the less likely you’re going to hear about rappers doing insanely dumb shit, fucking it up for everyone else in the process.

Something I’ve always wondered was why rappers want to pull said dumb shit, despite the fact that they don’t have to ask their mothers to take them shopping at the local Costco like my borderline-broke ass does every now and then. Those chocolate muffins are that crack though. But I digress. I mean if I had half the money these shitbag artists have, you’d probably see me loading up on economy-sized buckets of Kirkland Brand Ultra Laundry Detergent than, say, loading up on blammers with potatoes in the cases of TI, Prodigy, Lil Wayne and Ja Rule.

I figure that they only reason they pull asinine shit is so that they can maintain that all-too-important street credibility that appeals to their fans. I don’t know about you, but as long as I’m respected enough, as well as eating and providing for my loved ones, I could give less than three-eighths of a shit about my “street cred.”

Then again, I’ve not been caught doing otherworldly fruity shit that would make anybody question it in the first place. But if they’re going to make that decision to cater to the nappy-headed hoes of the world, these humps can’t expect their “hardcore” fan base [1] to really take them seriously when they’re running around greased up with their chests all out [||]. I know I sure as shit couldn’t, but that’s only because I’m a cynical asshole like that.

If anything, these humps should learn a thing or two from the King Of All Jigs. Shit, if there should ever be a manual on being the gulliest ladies man ever, the Black tall Israeli should definitely write the foreword. Ever since he stepped into the arena almost 20 years ago, he’s killed more careers (figuratively and literally) than Blackwater, and has gotten away with it to boot. Shit, I wish I could punch out random bystanders and mack their bitch in one swoop. Now that’s the definition of street.

[1] Does that shit even exist anymore?

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Can’t Win For Losing

Random epiphany number 362: White people are as equally stupid as their melanin-loaded counterparts.

Random epiphany number 363: It’s just that when White people fuck up, they do it in the most hilariously asinine way possible.

A while back, I mentioned that I could give less than a shit if by chance some cornball saltine decides to step out of pocket and start spitting out the dreaded n-word as if Robin Williams would pop out of a lamp & grant them three wishes. For the most part I’ve stuck to this feeling, but it makes me wonder if my somewhat “meh” attitude about the word is indicative of the entire Black demographic as a whole, as well as if it’s contributing to the increase of Whites using the word as a whole.

This weekend I sent a good amount of time at my cousin’s shooting the shit out of various Internets humps via Halo 3, where in between the matches I was treated to a bunch of random-ass crackers shouting out the n-word [1]. While the closet hippie/militant side of me wanted to find and beat the YTs silly, in the end I didn’t mind too much because a) it was a video game, b) they were random dumb-asses spread across the nation and c) I know that due to the freedom of the Internets, they probably wouldn’t attempt to say it in my face unless they wanted to catch an eye jammie.

Then again, I’m pretty sure there are those Whites that actually say the shit to their Black counterparts’ faces because they know they won’t do anything about it, thanks to the seemingly lax attitude – like mine – in society as a whole. Apparently now the dreaded n-word is as alright to say as “damn,” “ass” or “hell,” because I’ve heard that shit drop on shows that come on in the middle of the day, for shit’s sakes. If that were the case, should I have really gotten slightly pissed at some random Xbox paleface in the first place?

My logical side eventually trumps my blind rage in the long run; I mean, Black people have shouted it out so much, you would think it’s a code word or something. Hell, as I was just going to get some groceries last night I was treated to a couple humps my age (as well as a older guy whose dinner for the night was nothing more than a 40 of Miller High Life and some chips, but I digress) dropping the n-bomb almost unconsciously. So could I – could Blacks as a whole, for that matter - really get mad when some random person gets out of pocket & says it?

***

Speaking of White boys, I should let you know that my “racist” brother-in-arms Shake and myself have started our own venture, 2 Dope Boyz. Sit back, relax and enjoy the ride.

[1] Interesting fact: White people know how to pronounce my name correctly more than Black people. Go fucking figure.

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YouTube Is The New Blackface

I don’t particularly watch television. Actually, I do watch television, but I spend so little time watching it (and less paying attention to it when I do turn it on) that I think I’m wasting my money on the cable bill, especially for a whole bunch of channels I don’t bother watching at all (Lifetime, anyone?).

I’ve deduced my logic of still having a TV to a few reasonings: a) being raised in a household full of sisters, I got used to the adventures of the Ninja Turtles, Power Rangers and the Saiyans of Dragon Ball Z to ease the pain of living through one of my four sisters’ “time of the month” on an almost weekly basis, b) I need it to play video games or watch bootleg movies and c) to catch a music video every now and then.

In the latter case scenario though, it gets rather trite looking at he same eight videos (since I refuse to pay extra money for those video-only channels), so most of the time I hop on my computer and head straight for the marvelous train wreck known as YouTube.

I first heard about this site in my college days, where I realized I could watch classic videos I had never seen due to that brief, five-year stint where my parents refused to pay for cable after our illegal hookup was discovered and disconnected. But soon after, I began to notice this trend where people would post other random videos. While some were amusing, and others simply quenched my lust for violence, in the time where this little-known website had exploded into a world-renowned sensation, where viewers can watch virtually anything from around the world.

It’s also during this time that a lot of random schlubs were inspired to slap a video of themselves doing a variety of cornball dances, cornier raps or just acting like an idiot in public. Watching people posing like Desmond Howard was one thing, but shuffling their feet to a rap version of “The Lion King” instantly brings to mind the minstrel shows of the past, which is just wrong on so many levels.

But perhaps that is simply the current generation’s form of expression, similar to the b-boys of the past and the (ugh) krumping styles of today. If that is the case then, I may have to stay away from my computer like I do the television now.

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Gym Class Heroes: Better Than Rap Music

Way the fuck back when I still hadn’t experienced that warm, tingly sensation one can only achieve from blasting off of a woman’s honey pot for the first time, I was my, um, junior college’s go-to hip-hop head. At the time I simply used hip-hop music for a variety of things: motivator when it came time to start robbing these fools Lyfe Jennings-style, background noise during bus trips and, on occasion, comforter for whenever I was going through the proverbial ringer, the latter of which happened more often than I’d liked it to.

Interestingly enough, since that fateful day when I rammed out my stripper ex-girlfriend for the first time (let’s just say that I can tell you more about the Lakers/Trailblazers playoff game that was going on than the actual fucking part, sad to say), I’ve had those moments where I needed to turn to this rap shit more frequently. Unfortunately for me, I’ve been stuck with the likes of repugnant sing-along rap music that’s ironically coming from a region where slavery used to run wilder than it’s current down-low influx.

I could correlate the fact that these god-awful Southern rap songs are a direct descendant of the hymns the cotton pickers used to sing in between gang rapes from their white slave owners, but I’ll refrain from doing so at this time. Lord knows I don’t need the wrath of some non-spelling refugee trying to cyber-pistol whip me in all capital letters.

So needless to say, I began expanding my horizons a few years ago in order to calm my nerves after a long day of catering to YTs. In between rediscovering my love for the buttery-soft stylings of Lisa Lisa and the Cult Jam, I discovered (read: “acquired”) the Gym Class Heroes’ As Cruel As School Children. Like most of my catalogue, I’d instantly pass on it for weeks, but one particularly uneventful day I gave it a listen, and damn if – in all its “emo rap” glory – it isn’t one of my frequently-played joints in my iPod.

A semi-related nod to yesterday’s post, I’m more attracted to the live instrumentation than anything else on the album, and in some cases it powers the album past its mediocre parts. The lead, um, singer(?) can’t really rap his way out of a wet paper bag with scissors in his hands, but the melodies effectively cancel out his jibba jabba.

For someone such as myself who was strictly a hip-hop head, I find it amazing how its elements are slowly breaching into other genres. Let’s hope that not all of it infiltrates though; I’d probably slap the ever-loving shit out of Amy Winehouse if she started throwing Crank (Crack?) Dat-type of foolishness in her songs.

***

As a bonus I decided to throw in my favorite GCH song. Don’t say I never did anything for you humps.

Gym Class Heroes - Viva La White Girl

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Producers > Rappers

As is the case with most hermits, I’ve found myself more glued to the magic that is DVR more than anything as of late. Being that it’s much easier to catch the few non-sporting events that actually appeal to me on television, I’ve more or less simply recorded what I want, and spend my weekends watching them instead of doing things “normal” people do like go out in the sun (as if my midnight-toned ass needs any more of it in the first place).

Ladies, take heed: if you’re looking for a well-educated, multi-tattooed homebody, it’s as simple as hitting that email under my all-seeing eye.

In any matter, I sometimes forget (or am too lazy to bother) to watch most of the shit I have saved, so it almost always ends up getting tossed anyways. The few things I do save however provide excellent sustenance whenever the only compelling thing that’s on television is that god(dess)-awful show with that "bisexual" [2] MySpace Asian. If not for that Monchhichi face and those fake-ass tits with those nipples that look cross-eyed, that Tila broad could catch a couple babies to the face.

Aw shit, I’d still fuck, retarded boobs & all, because I don’t discriminate the tang like that.

But as usual, I’m digressing from my point.

So anyways, I guess as a warm-up to the letdown that was Hip-Hop Honors, VH1 had a special on the making of Jay-Z’s Reasonable Doubt. Now, anybody that knows me knows that the album is in my “holy grail” lists [1], so while it held my interest for the most part, I came to the realization that Reasonable Doubt wouldn’t have been Reasonable Doubt had it not been for the beats that amplified the emotion of the lyrics.

As much effort as it supposedly takes to rhyme the phrase “nappy-headed hoe” [3], it takes more effort to create a soundscape that can at the very least capture the essence of the lyrics. Even the worst of rappers can come off sounding semi-decent behind the roughest of beats. Group Home, anyone?

Plus, producers end up having a longer life span in the rap game than rappers themselves, as they can branch off into other genres of music. Odd as it may have been on paper, DJ Premier linking up with Christina Aguilera was a better match up than I ever expected. And we all know Timbaland doesn’t need Black people anymore, what with him spooning with Nelly Furtado and Justin Timberlake more often.

Most importantly, producers may have one of the safest jobs in hip-hop. Since they’re basically nerds, nobody’s going to take them seriously if they start talking about guns & crack. At the very least, they’re not going to get Stack Bundled.

Maybe if more rappers decided to try a hand at producing, their careers wouldn’t stay on 14:59 all the time. But shit, it seems like everybody with a Casio and a xylophone is a producer now. Word to Mr. Collipark’s bitch ass.

[1] And no, I won’t give you humps my list.

[2] Face it: if a woman likes scissoring with another woman, they're gay. Not that I'm complaining, of course.

[3] Um, “glass of Mo’?” “Pass the ‘dro?” And I wonder why I haven’t been signed yet.

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“Hip-Hop Honors?” Not So Much

If there’s something I can take with me from watching VH1’s poor excuse of a rap event “Hip-Hop Honors,” it’s that I really need to step my FILA game up. I’ve been thinking about bringing that shit back, but I actually need to put more effort into doing so.

But if I wanted to make a post about the gear game on the show, I’d simply ask my overlords for a piece of bandwidth next to the albino from Strong Arm Steady and the faux-Arnold Drummond over at The Evil Collector. So I’ll try to keep this one as hip-hop oriented as possible.

VH1 has been trying to “blacken” up their shows for a few years now, perhaps due to the fact that they can reel in the pickaninny crowd by disguising minstrel shows as thought-provoking television better than BET can nowadays. I’m not gonna front like I’ve not been caught up in that shit as well; as much as it pains me to admit, I watched my fair share of Flavor Of Love episodes every now and then, if only for the donkey that was on that mannish-looking broad with the keloids. And the first Hip-Hop Honors was always something that caught my eye, even though I felt that the shit was about as relevant as a Razzie award.

But after watching last night’s all-extra-fucked-up incarnation, I’m pretty convinced that I could have pulled a better show out of my ass. In between the retarded promos for Irv Gotti’s and Salt-N-Pepa’s shows, I was treated to a plethora of bullshit under the premise that they were “honoring” the innovators of the past, which probably would have been more convincing had they honored a woman who actually deserved the proverbial knob-shine like, I don’t know, Roxanne Shante or some shit. The fact that they had to pull Missy out of nowhere is further proof of how glaringly insignificant women rappers are in rap nowadays.

But adding Missy to the mix wasn’t entirely as awful as the poor camera work, shoddy acoustics and overabundance of, well, dreaded n-word moments Hip-Hop Honors had on display. True, Lupe Fiasco flubbed two lines from “Electric Relaxation.” But the hubbub over his fuck-up was kind of unwarranted, especially given that the first 30 minutes of the damn thing was just one incomprehensible mess, what with Tweet (who used to be the prototype, but not so much anymore), T-Pain and the pork chop sammich mann himself Ne-Yo skipping lines altogether. Really now, how hard is it to remember a line from "The Rain (Supa Dupa Fly)?" No wonder I kept flipping between that shit, a game of Madden and WWE Raw.

If VH1 really wants to put on a show that properly honors hip-hop’s greatest change makers, they shouldn’t look to those same braintrusts that created those dumbass lists for MTV earlier this year. Leave it to them and they’re gonna start inducting space wasters like Red Hot Lover Tone or Master P, even though the latter did grace my adolescent ass with this back in the day.

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I Wish You Would

Last week I mentioned how I more or less could give a shit about purchasing albums thanks to the combination of exorbitantly high prices of CDs, the increasing simplicity of yoking shit off the Internets and the overall quality of music as a whole. And it doesn’t look like I’ll be returning back to my purchasing ways, what with rent, bills and Nike Dunks to take care of before anything.

The thing that gets me however is the fact that the TIs’ personal army – the RIAA – has consistently bitched and complained about illegal downloading, as if it were the sole reason why albums sales are down. Surely it couldn’t be for the fact that today’s music resembles a gigantic shit sammich, but I digress.

So, rather than create music that doesn’t make artists look like buffoons, compelling slack-jawed yokels like myself and the readers of this site to actually go out and purchase these albums, records companies scramble to the RIAA when it’s glaringly obvious that some fucktard like Soulja Boy [1] isn’t going to sell but 8 copies, instead of at the very least promoting some music that captures the already fickle attention of listeners for more than a few months.

But I’m pretty sure that wouldn’t help out their bottom line, so instead they start suing the ever-loving shit out of average Joes who can barely afford the service provider who gives them the ability to “acquire” the music in the first place, as if it will single-handedly cease and desist bootlegging. The interesting thing about this is that many of today’s top-selling artists would not be relevant if not for bootlegging. I know I’m not the only one who remembers that Metallica got their start pushing off dubbed copies of their demo.

Not to give out any ideas (not to mention contribute to the downward spiral that is record sales, because that would be very, very, wrong), but there are a plethora of... errr... loopholes that the humps can use to avoid detection altogether. And no matter what bullying scare tactics the RIAA throw upon us, getting music the cyber-Ski Mask Way isn’t going to stop any time soon. Not while that Simon and Garfunkel catalogue I need to get is still lingering out there.

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I know my blogs have been somewhat shorter than usual. Not to put too much out there (nor to grab sympathy) but I’m in the process of working a couple life situations out. But I still appreciate you fucks enough (seriously) to put my shit to the side for these entries.

[1] Wanna know something interesting? This hump is from Chicago of all places. Now wonder that town can’t win for shit nowadays.

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