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- » Name: Meka Soul
- » Location: Los Angeles, CA
- » Member Since: 04/09/07
- » Bio: Providing clarity in hip-hop since 1981.
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus
Hollywood Divorce
Take our game, take our name/
Give us a little fame/
And then they kick us to the curb, that's a cold thing. – Snoop Dogg on Outkast’s “Hollywood Divorce”
So as you’re all aware, the gig that keeps the lights on in my soon-to-be former shithole in Inglewood (until, Lord willin’, this writing thing actually takes off) is within the legendary Hollywood industry [1]. If you’ve ever been to Southern California (as I’m sure my blogging brother Brillyance and c-boys bananaclipse (3.) Malcontent can attest) Hollywood’s “reach,” so to speak, is quite massive in So Cal, if not spanning the entire seven seas. For real, I just read an article on how Puerto Vallarta is considered the Hollywood of Mexico. I don’t even know where to begin on that one, so I think I’ll just keep it pushing.
In any matter, Southern California is highly impacted by the density of Hollywood’s influence, from the gas-guzzling, massive SUVs that are driven around town despite the fact gas costs about a nutsack a gallon, to the way most of us present ourselves. I’m not complaining at the fact that our summer clothes can be rocked in the winter, but I’m pretty sure you won’t see some tall, lanky White guy with a large fuchsia Mohawk working a desk job in, say, Virginia or something (sorry, Mandy). Hell, I have two tattoos on each of my arms and I’m still able to find a decent, well-paying job that doesn’t involve me flipping patties like Prince Hakeem in Coming To America.
What’s crazy however is when out-of-towners believe that this life of fake glitz and faux-glamour that's prominently displayed in the media is as simple to achieve as getting some camera time on a nondescript “reality” television show [2], when the blunt reality is that it can be excruciatingly tiring, very high tense and some cases insane. Motherfucks will do whatever (and whomever) it takes to get to the top, crushing any form of opposition that gets in their way.
So I never understood why these humps try to stunt like it’s the thing to do. A while back demoted top tier “blogger” Charlemagne got into, of all things, beef with Chingy, and insinuated that making $40,000 a year is chump change. Excuse me for being the average, non big man on campus (whatever that may be in this wild random industry), but I’m gonna have to call bullshit on that fallacy, as in today’s economic conditions a person would be lucky if they even pull in a salary ranging in the early- to mid-twenties in any career. On a side note, beefing with some wild random shitbag rapper is about as gully as a paper cut, and it would have been best for “The God” to simply ignore the YouTube fuckery of a long washed up coin purse holder for Ludacris. Shit, not to put too much business out there but I’ve interviewed Chingy twice (once for this site many moons ago) and not only did I lose a couple brain cells listening to hit marble (bozack?) mouthed mumbo jumbo, but I couldn’t even put together a cohesive thought on cyber paper because the schlup was blunted on reality and I couldn’t understand the tape.
But I digress.
Hollywood indeed is an interesting place. With the right connections, you may never have to shop anymore thanks to the heaps of free shit companies throw at celebrities, which I never understood. You mean to tell me some B-lister can score an entirely new wardrobe for free all for the hopes of them making a mention of the designer at some other shitty pick-kin-nick function, while I have to pay for that shit? No wonder I turned to a life of crime by the 10th grade.
[1] Don’t get gassed, though; it’s not as glamorous as you think, and my progress has been more horizontal than vertical. But I can’t complain.
[2] OK, I’d be on LA Ink if I had the chance. And maybe American Gladiators if I had the build.
Crap Rules Everything Around Me
A short story: while my first introduction to hip-hop was via the parachute pant stylings of one Stanley Burrell, the first “real” album I ever bumped was Method Man’s Tical, and my friends in high school were Wu fanatics. So needless to say the crew played a major part in my growing up process.
When I attended the Rock The Bells festival last year, it was my first time seeing the Wu-Tang Clan perform live. Naturally I was gassed, but I had noticed that during their set the only played songs from, say, their first five or so years in mainstream existence. Which sat perfectly fine with me, because I for one wasn’t trying to hear “Gravel Pit” or “La Rhumba” or some shitbag song that came out after that album with “Triumph” on it. Hell, pretty much every song after “Triumph” is like a dime piece with no interior lining; sure you’re gonna wanna try it out for a while, but you’ll more than likely end up disappointed afterwards.
So as they were finishing up their performance, they threw on a single from their then-upcoming shit sammich of an album, which was so awful even the always-loyal YT subsection didn’t like it. And since we all know those saltines have an inherent TI gene, for them to not like the song is saying something.
I mean, even though they did bring us Rick Astley and all.
Fast-forward to now and the Wu is about as dysfunctional as Rev. Run’s bitch ass little boy, what with everybody voicing their displeasure against, suing or dissing the RZA. Shit, he wasn’t even allowed to tour with them thanks to the many wire hanger abortions allowed on 8 Diagrams. I mean, I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt because I figure he was too busy snorting Elmer’s Glue and making up phony Serato programs in the Netherlands to even bother crafting a semi-decent track because he did produce two of the greatest Wu songs ever, but damn if 8 Diagrams didn't get tossed out of a window faster than Erick Sermon.
What’s sad about all of this is that they really can’t say shit about today’s craptacular music scene being so awful, when not only are they dropping shit balls as well but the can’t even function as a family. So seeing them getting pwned by Lil’ Bow Wow didn’t surprise, shock or sadden me in the least, but it did give me hope that with the right connections, even I can drop a suck LP and out gain them in my first week. In that case, be on the lookout for my new album The Strep Throat Chronicles, Vol. 1, coming soon to a Wal-Mart near you.
Hip-Hop Soup For The Soul
Music always helps me express what I’m going through. – New York rhyme slinger/part-time DX blogger Torae
See, despite the narcissistic attitude, cynical demeanor and overall assholishness of yours truly, most people don’t seem to realize that underneath all that armor is a regular Joe [1]. And like most regular Joes there comes those moments where, thanks to personal events, I question why either a lot of those things don’t particularly make sense or if they’ll even make sense at all.
Well, lately I’ve been having one of those moments.
Rather than lay up in the house sobbing like one of those whiny bidges you see flooding the c-section of my esteemed overlords’ trip to see the wonderful wizard of pr0n (it’s just ass and titties people! Word to DJ Assault) – not to mention I have bills, rent and day laborers to pay – I’ve instead turned to the one entity that’s been my salvation since before I decided to lead cops on a Nigerian foot chase throughout Long Beach a decade ago: music. No MIMS shit here, music has been my undying companion whenever times have gotten turbulent, and believe you me when I say it’s been a lot of turbulent times. Rather than take your favorite shitbag rapper to task, I’m providing for free the gems that keep my insanity in its chasm of suspended animation. So consider today’s Slap Box a little insight into the mad mind of this young blogger.
Lost Boyz - Renee. Always a sucker for tragic love stories (The Professional, anyone?), the thing that makes this song more melancholy is the fact that the song's ending is still a lot less painful than what I’ve been through.
Camp Lo - Black Connection. Although I still don’t understand what exactly Sonny Cheeba and Geechi Suede were getting at with their ridiculously simultaneous complex and non-sensical flows, the fact that it was usually backed by insane samples like this is perfect for when I need a distraction from life's bullshit.
Chuck Mangione - El Gato Triste. Just because duke is known more for “Feels So Good” and random-ass King Of The Hill appearances doesn’t mean he’s not hip-hop. Hell, if it weren’t for this song Nas’ “Suspect” wouldn’t get play when I’m in one of those low-key, incognito moods.
Torae featuring Skyzoo - Get It Done. I made a mention last week how Tor was making monster music with a hip-hop deity DJ Premier, and this song is the perfect theme music to reupping my lost bite. On a side note, if any of you schlups don’t get the third verse, please take two of deez and go play in traffic.
Raekwon - North Star. Nevermind the Chef’s tale about a revenge killing, it’s the jewels provided by Poppa Wu – not to mention Ol’ Dirty Bastard’s surprisingly soulful wails in the background – that always inspire me to keep pushing forward, even when it seems hopeless.
[1] THE ‘son, don’t front like you’re not one either.
Meka Soul’s Simple Mathematics
Special note: This post is inspired by the original inventor of the Ghetto Celeb Mathematics, Dallas Penn.
Being sick sucks.
In my wonderfully woeful world I spend a lot of time by myself, so when I am under the weather I’m pretty much fending for dolo. While spending a good 14 hours a day in bed and slowly rotting out my brain to random Xbox gaming sometimes helps, for the most part I struggle to retain a singlet of the creativity that powers the spot.
Things could be worse, I guess. I could be any one of these “rappers” facing anything from attempted murder charges, drug and weapon possession or being flat-out banned from your hometown. Rather than trying to decipher what goes on through these scuttle heads’ brains, I’ve tried to come up with a scientific solution, and thanks to the help of the acclaimed Dr. Penn, I’ve managed to break it down to a rapper’s composition.
As humans we are all mixed with everything from love to hate to rage to chicken, but it is usually two or three predominant combinations that compel us to do the things we do. After a little bit of researching, I’ve discovered these features that directly influence the trouble-making characteristics in five rappers. Without further adieu, I’d like to present visual evidence of these characteristics.
+ 
= 
The drugged-out mischief of Curious George combined with the hyperactivity of Red Fraggle produces the sizzurp-induced semantics of Dwayne Carter. It’s quite easy to see that if Birdman – his Man In The Yellow Hat, if you will – had provided proper parenting outside of internal hugs, there might have been a chance that Mr. Carter would not have grown up to become the drug addled rapper he is today. Let’s continue...
X 
= 
The gun toting, idiotic tendencies of Elmer Fudd amplified by the hot headed demeanor of Montana Max equals T.I. (or T.I.P. Or whatever he’s calling himself nowadays). You can’t entirely blame Clifford for wanting to buy super blammers; blame his genetics.
+ 
= 
The money-hungry tactics of a tall Israeli combined with the smoothly addictive style of Joe Camel equals Jay-Z. It’s no wonder why we keep buying his crap, even though we know they’re crap.
+ 
= 
The feline features of The Cowardly Lion combined with the spaciousness of the Grand Canyon = the plastic surgery-mangled Lil Kim. This may be somewhat inaccurate, however, as the Grand Canyon is not entirely smoothed out.Hip-Hop: Becoming Good Again?
So yeah, I was a little morose yesterday. I figure that’s what happens when you advance in age and you’re realizing the roaring 20s are a hop, skip and a jump away from being over. Meh, it’s not like I mind too much anyways. After working a shitload of minimum wage-earning jobs, dozens of failed relationships, living in five apartments in three cities over roughly two years, driving two cars and getting one college degree, I figure it’s about time I adapt and advance as well. I’ve even started thinking of copping fewer sneaks this year; I’ve already said no to Dunks outside of the Motley Crue joints.
But damn if hip-hop – as well as the fact that I look a lot younger than I actually am (score one for us Naijas!) – isn’t making me smile again.
Shocking, right? But real talk, I’ve seen glimpses of it in between the oodles of noodles of yaki tossers over the past few years, but now it seems like the musicians are finally getting the message and trying to pump out a doper product that’s not limited to hipsters or dudes with questionable clothing choices. Or maybe it’s just the fact that I’ve gotten bored playing some old ass Ten Wheel Drive and Barry White, and started listening to more rap again. So what if the “runner” of this country I dwell in stays lying about everything. Either way, I’ve found a couple things that’s somewhat got me more optimistic about 2008 than I was in 2007.
Clipse is back on they shit. Much like my future ex half-Palestinian concubine’s somewhat unhealthy infatuation with Wale, my level of, errr, support for the brothers Thornton’s Byzantine crack raps rivals my own unhealthy taste for blue juice. How insane, you may ask? Well, I’ve listened to We Got It For Cheap Vol. 2. once a week for the past three months. Best believe I’m “copping” Vol. 3 when it drops.
Torae is a monster in the making. At least he has a legitimately good reason for blogging here about once a season. Duke’s spit game is proper, and he has an ear for picking beats. It also helps that two of the better tracks on Daily Conversation belong to...
DJ Premier gets his groove back. Of all the music I pumped in the 90s (once again, I’m not that old people), Primo has essentially been the one person I’ve followed the entire time. While my faith in his works were somewhat shaken as of late, he’s restored that dedication by producing a trio of masterpieces for duke above and Ali Vegas. Now if only he can convince Guru to stop dropping those shitty Jazzmatazz tapes.
I’m finally getting the fuck out of dodge. Who says moving the fuck out of the hood ain’t hip-hop? After nearly three years of noisy air traffic, late night cop sirens, gun shots, police raids, the sounds of 60s babies dancing to “Lean Like A Cholo” at the Savoy and that annoying ice cream truck that plays that grating music and blocks traffic to push off Choco Tacos, I’m finally leaving Inglewood for good in March. Maybe now my moms will visit me more often.
Hell, I’m even visiting New York in a few months. I mean, why not? You only live once, and I’m not shaving any days off my existence by consuming an alphabet soup of narcotics like that one rapper with the Prince symbol tatted on his forehead. Man In The Yellow Hat, come get Curious George please.
Death: The Cousin Of Sleep
A while back when I mentioned how little (read: none) the impact a certain rapper’s advancement to the next level had on me, I was accused of being, among other things, a heartless bastard that had no remorse about some guy - who’s music I’ve never bought, stolen, illegally downloaded, or listened to regularly outside of “Big Pimpin’” – who was an arguable “legend” with a dense impact in rap.
Well when you put it that way...
I figure I should have clarified my point way the fuck back when I posted the thing, but since I was on unemployment and working 20-hour shifts on random commercial shoots throughout the city at the time I couldn’t really be bothered with that. What’s crazier is that no matter how I’d put it, it’d almost always be misconstrued as “all extra fucked up,” no less due to my reputation, despite that I know I’m not the only one who feels that way.
Glamorizing death has never been my style, and I’ve always found it odd when a good chunk of hip-hop’s artists (recently deceased “legends” included) sugarcoat it as if murdering or getting murdered was an iconic aspect of hip-hop. For example, take 50 Cent and The Game’s [1] respective, turbulent pasts. Herculean as it may seem to take a steel-plated sponge bath sponsored by Smith & Wesson and survive to boast about it in artistically flaccid albums, it’s a safe bet that neither of them would ever want to publicize the other side of nearly getting ethered, what with the shitting on themselves and being fed meat through a straw and the utter feeling of helplessness, not to mention the fact that it probably hurts like Hell.
Aside from that, imagine how that individual’s loved ones must feel. Death has visited my family countless times, and it’s quite frustrating knowing that you’re powerless to stop it. So it tends to agitate me whenever some fagtastic artist threatens the lives of those you care for, because not only is that cowardly to me, that’s some straight up bitch shit.
So I’d like to know why anybody would even want to promote death, seeing as how it’s rather nebbish to even do so in the first place. Sure, it makes for great rap music sometimes, but (I’d hope, though I doubt) they have to know that the majority of what they say they couldn’t feasibly do, lest they do want to be on the wrong side of a barrel in real life. Far be it for me to try to tell them something though; I’ve pretty much ganked most of my musical collection now, so I don’t even have a technical say in how many records they’ve sold.
What’s crazy is when people apparently have no care for this fragile gift known as life. Way back when this section started, resident c-boy Blaze1 used to lament about how he essentially gave three shits about his life, which even had me bugged out considering how well he was supposedly (I say supposedly because I don’t know him from the boogers I’ve been picking out of my nose while writing this entry to determine if it’s actual truth, I’m just assuming) doing in life. Interestingly enough, he’s replaced his somewhat suicidal rants with occasional shouts to his girlfriend interspersed with random weed knowledge. I could correlate the fact that a good woman (and/or good ganja) can easily cancel out most if not all of the d’evils us men have in our lives, but then I’m too mentally and emotionally shut down to accept that yet.
More than anything, the simple fact that everybody’s dropping like flies at an even faster rate than usual is becoming pretty bothersome. I should have taken the story I read about ol’ boy getting deaded on his homeboy’s grave on New Year’s as an ominous sign, but shortly after that two actors both passed perhaps due to drugs within a week of each other, not to mention the loads of Jack Frost found in Ike Turner’s body after he died as well. I don’t think I need to say how awkward it’d be for me to show any contempt for that, because we all know that drugs can kill you far faster than any arrow can. Death does suck at times, but we all live just to die, and dipping it in candy paint isn’t gonna detract from the shitty aftertaste.
***
A special dedication goes out to my dear friend King Sol’Jah a/k/a Jerry, whose 27th birthday would have been today had it not been for an inexplicably random and fatal heart attack in 2002. The good die young...
[1] I was listening to The Documentary for the first time in a few years yesterday, so they instantly came to mind.
Blogging Is The New Mixtape
Leave it to me to think of the most wildly random of shit while participating in the most debauched of scenarios (on my birthday, even!).
Since I’d be spending my born day (and good ol’ Marty’s celebration) with the only woman I’d fight, die and kill for in this world – my moms [1] – I tried to have a low-key dinner with a few friends Sunday night. Then again, if you can imagine six other male and female versions of myself cussing out waitresses and managers for fucking up our orders, stealing margarita glasses and finally doing the “dine-and-dash” at a Chili’s in downtown Long Beach, it was anything but “low-key.”
After the dinner debacle, rather than calling it a night at a sticky-floored movie theatre (not to mention that despite how I feel sometimes, I’m really not that old) the homie thought it’d be a great idea to hit up one of the local titty bars. One thing, people: if you can get your girlfriend or fiancé to come along to a strip club with you, then she’s definitely a keeper. Being that it was my born day (strippers are extra nice if you tell them that), one particular thick-bodied beauty by the name of CoCo became my special friend for the night.
No yentas, I didn’t go broke, because as witnessed here, my verbiage is something spectac. But yes, I did get the number at the end of the night. And yes, it’s the real deal. And yes, we’re going out tonight. But I’m digressing way too much right now.
Anyways, my peoples that actually know me know that there’s another side to me – which I lovingly refer to as the monster [||] – that I’ve been struggling (and sometimes failing, sadly) to keep in check for the better part of two years in hopes that I’ll be able to tame my carnal desires to find that one special person, and in certain situations – like say, the leather-so-soft backside of a cello-shaped, caramel-toned exotic dancer gyrating in your lap and hands for an hour and change – I actually have to think of some wild random shit to prevent the monster from taking over.
Yep, I’m one skinny, jumbled, insanely complex, Afrikan ball of fuck-uppery. Or, according to the subject in the email I received from an aspiring “journalist”/TJ last week, Hip Hop DX’s Nigerian scam artist. But once again, I’m straying away from my point.
Hence, the point of this entire rant. While I was, errr, enjoying myself, I couldn’t help but think (read: had to think) of a previous convo I had with by Arizonian blogging brother from another mother Belize: the sometimes not-so-wonderful world of blogging has almost become as synonymous as the bloated world of mixtapes. In other words, I can’t walk down the cyber-streets without seeing a link for somebody’s blog, MySpace page or random-ass website.
Now, I don’t mean this in a disrespectful way, because contrary to slapping a shitty song on the Devil’s Playground known as the Internets, most bloggers have to have some semblance of cohesive thought to even put together the most simplistic of sentences. But damn if everybody from diminutive label execs to G-Unit Mary Jane moolies to shitty Houstonian artists with a Chandra Levy [2]-style track record in rap doesn’t have a blog nowadays. Thank God(dess) these cats are too “busy” with whatever rappers do when they’re not selling 40,000 copies of their latest yaki tosser to bother keeping up with them after two weeks, so it’s not like any of us “lower tier” schlups have any legitimate threat of being put out of business.
*looks for Phonte, Crooked I, Bun B, Chamillionaire and Termanology in the distance, but doesn’t see them*
Yeah, I figure we’ll all be straight for a cool-ass minute.
[1] Until I find someone in my life that can actually capture and reshape my long morose and blackened heart for a greater good, that’s not changing any time soon.
[2] You know; now you see me, now you don’t.
Meka's Soul Mixtape
So my other, more disrespectful half has been a little quiet this week because his birthday is this Monday (yep, Martin Luther King Day), and not only were his plans to drink away his pains in Las Vegas were cancelled, he's a little disgruntled because he also has to work on the holiday. So he sent me - the decidedly less bigoted one - to fill in for the time being.
If you don't know by now, I co-run a site with my partner in rhyme Shake down the street from here. I host this thing called Meka's Soul Mix Show, where I showcase original songs sampled by your favorite rappers. Over the holiday season I compiled several of these into an Internets album of sorts, and as a repackaged gift I'd like to present it to the faithful readers of this site. Enjoy!
Meka's Soul Mix Tape (you can just copy & paste the link in your browser because it's not working for some reason): http://www.megaupload.com/?d=5HAV9JX5
Shut That Shit Down
So yeah, it’s a particularly uneventful week for hip-hop, outside of shitty diss songs to shitty rappers by other shitty rappers, yet another Wayne mixtape and another rapper possibly catching another murder charge. Hell, I even got my weekly hate mail right on schedule. So I figured fuck it, I should rest my brain rather than spit out some bullshit (as if I don’t do that enough), particularly since it’s a little fried from all the vitamins & enzymes & coagulates & shit I’ve been flooding my body with since catching a cold this week.
But mentioning the things above it feels like we’ve all gone through that cycle before, like a hamster on a wheel. While I know the music of today is not even a shell of its former self, it’s as if the same craptacular trends keep popping up like clockwork, most (if not all) of which hip-hop can definitely do without. It’s bad enough we have to suffer through the “now you see me, now you don’t” rap acts, but here are a couple other things all of us yentas wouldn’t miss if it disappeared today.
Hard & B, “thugged out” singers. I’m still not sure how this trend even popped off like that, but now every year some random-ass, tatted up cat with corn rows pops up singing his way into the panties of America, fucking it up for the rest of us non-gang affiliated schmucks. Real talk, when I think of a roughneck singer, I automatically assume home slice was the one who was on the receiving end while in prison. Where’s Percy Miracles when you need him? Naux haux maux to that entire paragraph.
People voting for Barack Obama because he’s Black. With all the hubbub with this year’s elections, it’s surprisingly white people this time who are screwed. The way I figure, YTs are pretty much stuck for voting Barry in, or risk being called a racist and getting their town torched by a bunch of rowdy Black folk. And you know how us Blacks like to fuck shit up.
D-Lister sex tapes. Everybody knows by now that these shits aren’t “accidentally” leaked to the public, and I really see no reason for the likes of Ray J, Mike Jones and New York to drop these joints, making my johnson curl like an ingrown hair. The exception would have to be Vivica’s flick, simply based on the fact it looked like she can suck a basketball through a garden hose alone.
The Okayplayer boards. For a forum created by a member of one of my favorite groups I try to stay away from that page unless I have to visit it for some reason, as it’s one of the snobbiest shits I’ve ever witnessed. You think a c-boy in the Beauty & Brains section is bad; you haven’t seen anything until you’ve visited that uppity-ass site. Even their former messiah Lupe Fiasco can’t catch a break anymore. Sad, really.
D.A.R.E. To Keep Rappers Off ‘Roids
Being a Nigerian with a ridiculously high metabolism in my family history (and hypertension. And a dash of adultery tossed in for flavor.) it’s quite hard for me to gain – and in some cases keep – weight. Not that I’m bothered by it, mind you; in a country where eight of the top ten most obese states are in the South (at least they’re winning one thing!) being in shape is more of a privilege than a natural occurrence. Can you blame the South for being so fat though? They invented soul food and the Kool-Aid pickle.
In a way my genetics are somewhat of a blessing, as I can only assume countless peoples who’d like to be in my proverbial shoes (not with my personal issues you don’t), particularly in the Hollywood lifestyle where resembling a waifish crack whore gives you more opportunities to shine some Slickback-rocking grease monkey’s knob in the hopes that they’ll land a cameo appearance in a Jack In The Box commercial. Well, at least it was that way until the TIs decided that cola bottle-shaped women were more desirable than Olive Oyl-looking mucklucks, yet another trend Southerners perfected, thus unleashing the wonderful world of Internets modeling upon us all. But shit, if a woman wants to parade around her MySpace page in nothing but some dih-duh-dih-duns, who am I to judge or object?
I guess where I’m getting at is that in this never-ending quest to become a member of the “beautiful ones” people will do damn near anything to achieve that image. So it wasn’t really surprising when I read that now celebrities are loading up on the Cream and Clear supplements. But who really didn’t see this coming? When your crew gets punched out worse than Glass Joe on an almost daily basis, you’d want to invest in the Roger Clemens Workout Plan like half of the Aftermath roster did also. Honestly I think they should just designate Prodigy as the token punching bag; whenever some nonsensical beef with another craptastic artist jumps off, Curtsy should just send Charleston P to catch a two-piece and a biscuit just on GP.
More disturbing though is how it’s proof that people will do anything to preserve their rapidly declining appearances in the name of money, because that’s really what it’s all about. Ironically these old TIs are convincing their Kuntas and Kizzys to maintain a youthful appearance so that they can appeal to a younger generation who wouldn’t know what a good song was if Biggie Smalls dug himself out of whatever grave he’s been rolling over in for the past decade and change and farted it out to them on a diamond-studded platinum plate. If anything blame those dumb ass teenagers for fucking shit up for the rest of us. Except the cheerleaders and Catholic schoolgirls, of course.
Oh please, like you’ve never thought of it either.
B2Gay
Guess who's bizzack? Go in, Casey...
Hip Hop’s been a little boring right now for gossip and the like so I’ve been perusing the gossip sites for interesting news. Right now your boy Raz B is making the music industry a little interesting. Along with his brother, Ricky Romance a few YouTube videos and radio interview alleging, and then denying that B2K Svengali, Chris Stokes molested them and other members of B2K. Raz and Ricky posted a YouTube video claiming that Chris Stokes molested both of them including a taped conversation between Ricky R and Chris Stokes in which Chris tells Rick ‘I don’t do that anymore, I’ve changed,’ and another with Raz B and Chris Stokes sister, former rapper Smooth in which she admits Chris Stokes pattern of molestation of young boys. Following that video Raz B released a video recanting his previous allegations. After that Ricky Romance was on the radio claiming that gang members hired by Chris Stokes extorted Raz into making that video. After that Raz B went missing for a while only to resurface at Mr. Chow’s with his brother and alleged molester claiming is all family. What to make of this? Was Raz B lying to extort Chris Stokes? Why would Raz B meet with someone who used to molest him? Why would Chris Stokes meet with someone who accused him child molestation?
I have a friend who has worked closely with Chris Stokes and he’s been telling me that he’s been queer for years. I don’t think that Raz B would make the fact that he was molested for an extortion plot. Being molested is not an easy thing to talk about and not something people are regularly divulging. Chris Stokes sister did not refute the fact that that was her voice on tape either. If you watch the retraction video, Raz B is clearly under duress and wearing a Cincinnati Reds hat (favored by Cedar Street Piru’s) so it seems quite possible that he was being extorted by gangstas into making the video. As for meeting with Chris Stokes, I’m pretty sure it was a negotiation settlement to keep Raz and his brother quiet. The meeting was at the most high profile restaurant in LA filled with paparazzi so it seems like a calculated PR move on the part of Stokes.
While the urban music industry is filled with older industry folks raping their younger artists it’s mostly in a financial way. Recently Lou Perelman, Stokes white counterpart who crafted Backstreet Boys and N’Sync was accused of molesting several boybanders. Is this a pattern of molestation among boy bands and their Svengalis? Did Maurice Starr molest New Edition (no way they would’ve beet his ass) he definitely raped them financially though and maybe he got up in a couple of the new kids too. Maybe Jermaine had Kriss Kross wear their pants backwards so he could hit it from the back more easily. Whatever Joe Jackson did to Michael Jackson must’ve been pretty bad to turn him into the albino planet of the apes extra he is today. Any suspicions I had about Baby and Wayne have only been raised by the Stokes situation. Stokes had legally adopted Raz B at around the same age that Baby ‘adopted Wayne.’ Baby had spent a fair amount of time in the pen and had perhaps taken on a taste for young men. Gillie the Kid had previously accused Baby of molesting Wayne and showed the infamous ‘Kissed My Daddy’ picture. Something is disturbing about a grown man calling another (older) man Daddy. Most grown men I know might refer to their fathers as ‘dad’ or pops, ‘daddy’ is a name for little kids use to refer to their fathers and for hoes referring to their pimps. Just as Chris stokes had B2K shower and bathe together for Stokes amusement, Lil Wayne admitted that under Baby’s orders, he kissed his other hot boys. If Baby could convince grown men to kiss him and each other on the mouth so the could be on some ‘black mafia shit,’ could he convince any of them to let him fuck them in the ass so they could be on some real jail gangsta shit? In Jamaica some of the Dons (gang leaders) rape little boys in their garrison for submission and loyalty. This seems to be an effective strategy in the music business as well.
All jokes aside this molestation shit is no joke. This shit will fuck with you for life. Often times it can create a cycle in which the abused becomes the abuser. Other times it can lead to drug abuse, depression, violent personalities and homosexuality. One only has to watch Michael and in Season 4 of the Wire to see how much anger and disenfranchisement male on male molestation brings. The fact that people in power are using power, the temptation of fame and act as surrogate fathers to temp young boys into trading their manhood to turn into sex symbols for young girls is quite disturbing. Is it a family secret Hip Hop has been keeping quiet? Members of B2K came from broken homes often fatherless or with a parent on drugs. A few of them where Jehovah’s Witness’s too (like MJ) and Chris Stokes are supposed to be related to some of B2K, which is quite disturbing. Undoubtedly, Chris stokes has reaped millions from B2K, Immature, Marques Houston and Omarion, by being a false surrogate father to them. They came to him seeking fame and were in turned violated by the man they thought was saving them. Only the most perverted man would violate the innocence of a young man especially when they are in positions of being the boss and surrogate fathers. Raz and Ricky allege that Stokes not only molested Omarion and Marques Houston but is currently in a relationship with Marques Houston. Often times people who were molested share a bond with the molester and are loyal to them out of fear or submission. In the conversation with Smooth, Raz B was asked if he was doing it so long he must’ve liked to which he responded I didn’t like it…my ass hurt. Often times when there is a pattern of molestation in the family it keeps going on in silence often times for years and the person being molested begins to accept it as a way of life. Molestation has been a dirty secret that has been going on in the black community (and by extension the hip hop community) for years. Hopefully Raz B accusations will bring some light onto the matter and other people will feel more comfortable speaking out. I hope he didn’t meet with Stokes and take a settlement, and is gonna hire Chris and Snoop to put him one of the vacants.
Lifestyles Of The Broke And Famous
For the better part of two weeks I’ve kept pretty busy, what with handling business with my job, journalizing (is that even a word?), trying to stay sane in my city now that the smellbad high schoolers fuck up the flow of traffic to work every morning, searching for a new apartment and trying not to look like a total dickhead around women. Obviously some things are more difficult and time-consuming than others, but at the very least I could sit back and relax knowing that I don’t have to pay back a shitload of money, either from college loans or an overly maxed-out credit card.
(Ladies, take note: if you want a guy who can trick on you, it’s best if you link up with someone who doesn’t have a shitload of loans, a bank who won’t answer calls or a horrible credit score. Either that, or simply give up the monk more. I’m just saying.)
In any matter, the idea of loans is a motherfucker. Here, tall Jews (to save on oxygen, let’s refer to them as TJs) throw thousands upon thousands of dollars at naïve young students while promising the “gift” of helping them achieve a better education, only to fuck them over with interest rates so ridiculously high they’ll almost always end up spending the next decade or so paying it all back. What most peoples don’t realize is that with the proper research they can find and qualify for a plethora of grants for funds they don’t even have to pay back, but damn if you see any commercials advertising for it.
The point of this wild random lesson is when you’re waist-deep and upside down in a pile of debt, you can’t even shave, shower, shit or sleep without a collections agency catching nuts from your phone number alone. But if you still insist on trying to front like your bank account doesn’t have a negative symbol before the numerals, here’s a few tips.
The swap meets are your best friend. By now, everybody who reads this sucker knows that I have an affinity for those marketplaces where a whole bunch of illegal, barely-able-to-speak-English Asians push off everything from phone cases to parakeets for half as much as the department stores (how this shit is still legal after all this time I don’t know, but I’m not complaining). Whereas it’d be taboo to cop even a pair of socks from there these shits have actually stepped their game up, providing almost the same exact items you’d see in a mall for more than half off. Plus, don’t act like you’ve never gotten a Pro Club from there before.
Cop a car that’s easy on gas. Part of the reason I’m essentially driving my twin sister’s hand-me-down Camry is because it gets great mileage. You want to save more dinero for dates? Take her out to a respectable food spot you two can walk to. At least then she’s getting her love muscles warmed up for the pounding it’s going to take later on.
Overtime, anyone? If you’re one of the few peoples in this country who managed to finagle a job that doesn’t require hand-to-hand transactions on the corner, put in as much overtime as humanly possible there since it can pay up to double the amount you originally make. Plus, knowing that you have employment period instantly impresses a lot of women, especially if you...
Wanna really stunt? Fuck her at your job. In my former manwhore life I can recall about four separate occasions where I’ve gotten that white stuff (guys, you know what I’m talking about) at the 9-to-5, and I can think of at least one moment when I got some getsome while I was on the clock. Not only will it provide verification of your employment, sexing on the lunch table and watching in disgust and amusement as co-workers eat on it the next day is fucking awesome.
Wifey Material
Like every red-blooded hetero male with a functioning member, I check out this site’s Beauty & Brains section like it was a cheat sheet for a hard test. I’ll admit, there’s been those times where a few of the pictures make me yell out, “Got dayum she got some big ass titties!” I mean, take a look at LaStarya Tucker, and particularly picture eight. I mean good fucking Lord; her ass is almost three-dimensional in that shot. A few of the other, ahem, lovely ladies however? Not so much. It’s a very good thing I have Internets access at home; I honestly think I’d get fired for doing the “research” for this blog alone.
In any matter, with the way these and so many other women across the Web parade around with the boobs damn near popping out the top of their turtlenecks at any given time, it’s no wonder you see my fellow red-blooded brethren flood the c-section with colorfully creative ways of performing a donkey toboggan on any one of them if given the chance.
At the same time, should women be offended whenever this happens (more often than not, I might add)? After all, these chicks are making (or attempting to make) guap by catering to the male species’ most innate desire to mount as many women as we can until either our hearts give out from exhaustion or we catch a mean case of melt. And in some cases many of us have actually gone on to find that one person that we all need in our lives, rare as it may occur nowadays. The hells if I know if it’d ever happen to me at all, really.
If anything, women should not get pissy-mooded by the responses men have for fellow women, but for but for the ridiculously extravagant images of sexuality some women put out there for other women. I mean, if it weren’t for the airbrushed, Photoshopped, cropped, colored and altered images plastered all over magazines, billboards and computer, television and cell phone screens across the planet there wouldn’t be such a insanely high standard of beauty today, which means that women of all shapes, sizes and colors could probably land a guy who isn’t about trying to erupt sexually inside of them and bounce once their period doesn’t show up on time.
There are ways where women can look sexy as all hell and still remain that touch of class that commands respect from their male counterparts. Think about it like this: if women were more Kerry Washington or Gabrielle Union than Angel Lola Luv or Buffy The Body, I probably wouldn’t have even written this long-winded diatribe in the first place.
By the way, Wahidah if you’re reading this, holler at the kid. Joking, of course.