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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Don’t Blame Soulja Boy, Blame A Tall Israeli

A few weeks ago I played co-pilot as my friend spun records at a local bar, and it gave me the itch to try to restart learning to spin records, a knack I had picked up in college but eventually deaded once my friend graduated from college, taking his equipment with him. Last I heard duke doesn’t even do it anymore. Sad, really.

Anyways, the experience led me to slowly building a vinyl collection [1], so I went to the local Amoeba [2] and went digging through their vast selection, weeding through the shitloads of meatwatcher-rocking hipsters along the way. I’ve always felt conflicted about going to Amoeba; on one hand they have a pretty surfeit choice of music from any genre at practically any timeline, but going to that store – or the Hollywood store at least – is like walking into a pseudo-beatnik workshop on any given day. It’s like the times I would go to Starbucks for my old job and get weird looks because it was painfully obvious I was out of place while there. Fuck a $5 cup of liquid crack anyways.

Fortunately I have a reasonable knowledge of music anyways, so it was easy to zone out while digging for “Funkin’ For Jamaica," although I’m salty that my homeboy copped Thriller for $5. Corey, if you’re reading this, sleep with one eye open.

But then I stumbled across one particular vinyl which was, to quote my Long Beach blogging brother from another mother, coontastic that I couldn’t not buy it, just so I can frame the shit and hang it next to my autographed Pete Rock record [3]: Process And The Doo Rags.

If you honestly think I’m joking, think again: you’d be surprised at how a quick YouTube search can validate things.

But real talk is, I’m less perturbed at the fact that a group of jigs willingly paraded themselves in their search for the almighty golden watermelon, errr, money – shit, I worked at Waste Management for a few months, so I know about selling out to pay bills – than at the (probably crotchety) TI who cosigned the shit in the first place, similar to how some curly muttonchopped overlord was quick to snatch up Soulja Boy and sign him to a deal after seeing him rap about spermatozoa spray-painting a hapless cluck cluck’s back while swinging through trees like that cartoon monkey in those old-ass Cocoa Krispies commercials on YouTube.

Wait, he wasn’t swinging through trees singing about chocolate frosted, deep-fried rice being the diabetic part of your complete breakfast? You could have fooled me!

So while Ice T’s intentions on calling Soulja Boy the hip-hop killer were in earnest, instead of focusing his disdain for the ninth grade dropout, which to me is about as unreasonably inequitable as, say, Vodka Drunkenski teeing off on a wheelchair-bound Little Mac, he should bark on the record executive who had to gall to sign the stupid muh’fucker in the first place. After all, Soulja Boy is nothing more than a product of his (waterlogged) environment that is, interestingly enough, the same region of the States that’s produced such notable characters as the bipolar MARTA broad and Gangsta Ass Laterian Milton. So while something is definitely not right over there, Ice and the rest of us shouldn’t entirely be too aggy at the new-millennium Process.

[1] Yes, I yoke albums off the net, but I purchase vinyls every now and then. So you can’t tell me nothing about supporting artists.

[2] bananaclipse, Brills, Malcontent, 420, eighties and all the other West Coast proprietors of this site and c-section, you know what’s up.

[3] It also helped that the thing was only a half a dollar anyways, so it’s not like I was losing any stimulus check money on the shit anyways.

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