• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
• » Member Since: 04/09/07
• » Bio: Providing clarity in hip-hop since 1981.
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• » Yung Berg Lost
• » Goofies, Monkeys And Doofies
• » The Nerve Of Those Tall Israelis
• » Legends Of The Fall-Offs
• » Did Puff Daddy Jerk Pete Rock?

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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Yung Berg Lost

With all due (dis)respect to the guy, I knew I should have sensed something fishy when Yung Berg boarded the same coach flight as my stankin’, half-broke ass to New York back in March.

See, this was back when the only thing he’d done of any significant importance (and I use that term loosely) was that “Hey Sexy Lady” song with that Latino-looking Sisqo sound-alike. Can anybody actually recite anything other than that song’s hook?

I thought not.

Anyways, I was quite comfortable knowing that this guy was well on his way to rap obscurity, until someone over at Koch had the zany idea of getting Yung Berg get into a beef with Bow Wow, then have him team up with muh’fucking Ray J, who was busy making doofy mixtapes with Kay Slay, and do a couple of songs together.

I’m not gonna front, though; I actually enjoy the travesty that is “I Like To Trick.” But I digress.

All the sudden, this muckluck is back in the public eye, and I’m getting email blasts from his handlers asking to post his music on the side hustle. Call it what you want, but that Alan Grunblatt (too easy) guy is a greedy genius.

I figured the resurgence had gotten to the Yung one’s (no Ruff Ryder weed carrier pun) head, because the next thing you know he’s talking wild reckless about fellow shitty rappers. First he made wise crack about Flo-Rida, which then got this other no-name rapper named Brisco to hop all over the Internets threatening to beat his ass. In Yung Berg’s defense, I’ve been threatened countless times over the Internets also, so it’s not like those shits are to be taken seriously.

The difference is, however, that I don’t run around thinking shit is all gravity, and I especially don’t run around thinking shit is all gravity while being a 5’7”, high-yellow dude with a gaudy chain. We’re all aware of how Yung Berg walked into Detroit, and hobbled out a few pounds and one Transformers chain lighter. You would think homeslice would keep his mouth closed after that, but since being humble isn’t hip-hop he opens his mouth in the direction of Maino last week and ends up getting the ever-loving mierda slapped out of it for his troubles.

Berg, you don’t know where you at?

Let’s make things clear: I’m not a fan of Maino. I never liked that “Rumors” song, and I particularly can’t stand that “Hi Hater” joint. However, I know waaaaaay better than to get out of pocket with some burly, scarred, heavily tattooed ex-con from Bed-Stuy.

Yung Ber… no, let me address him as a man… Christian Ward, Black man to high-yellow Black man, for the love of Vishnu, please keep your ego in the coat check every now and then. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with taking an L now and then, but being on the receiving end of an open-palmed smack on a daily basis? You would think one of his piff pocketers would tell him to pump his brakes, but as I said before, being humble isn’t hip-hop.

41 Comments             

Goofies, Monkeys And Doofies

My days and nights are probably like every other average person. I drag myself out of bed every morning at any given hour, jump on this technological snot box where I then spend the next few updating the side hustle, finishing up a project, reading sports checking out my various online neighbors (What up Alumnah? What up Gangstarr Girl? What up herfection?) and, of course, searching for pictures of naked women on message boards around the globe. If I’m lucky – and I’m usually not – I don’t get to do too much, which means I can spend more time doing the things I need to do to keep me under the roof of the no-room mansion I currently dwell in, finish up on pieces for this site and other venues, attend an event or two and crack up at the butthurtedness nature of random-ass mouf breevers and “co-workers” as they try to show my other, more cynical half the error of his ways on this site, as if they still don’t know that their complaints and pseudo-lashings about the way he puts words together are nothing more than the psychological equivalent of hot sauce on his fried chicken omelets.

Delicious.

Crazy thing is, he has more in common with my detractors than A.I. and Jay-Z’s affinities for ballin’ and rhymin’ (Get it? More in Carmen?). See, he’s the archetype of AmeriKKKa’s average male minority: young, Black and just don’t give a fluck. He enjoys procreation and purple Kool-Aid like everybody else, has called women out of their name more than his fair share of times (errr…sorry, ladies) and tries to live life to the fullest, despite the fact that my bank account acted all kinds of retarded once JP Morgan yoked up Washington Mutual last week. Or maybe one of my uncles in Abuja (not Lagos, get it right) finagled my bank account number from somewhere when he tricked some dumbass YT out of it with those emails.

It wouldn’t have been the first time.

In other words, my other half could be doing a lot worse than, say, slandering those loveable turban rockers in the Middle East [1]. With the way things are going right now, chilling with our newest blogger in South Afrika doesn’t seem so bad. And if you think about it, his ways of thinking are probably on par with the silliness displayed in these presidential campaigns. Shit, it was almost as if Sarah Palin, Mad Dog McCain and the rest of those bum-ass Log Cabin Republicans discovered a way to pull the innermost sullied thoughts from my head and actually say them on a national stage. Kind of like what my other half does here, but much bigger.

Ironic how I can’t stand those assholes.

Most of my compatriots are probably voting for Obama, what with all that paraphernalia found on street corners, mall stores and dive bars across the nation convincing them to do so, and with all good reason: who the hell would want a full-blown, White, middle-upper class version of my sour half running the country for the next four years? With all that power? Sheeit, even I’m not that stupid to want that mistake to go down. Sad thing is, I’m probably not voting for either, should I even decide to do so. Why? Because I’m young, Black and just don’t give a fluck.

The moral of this story? Vote McKinney.

[1] Can somebody explain that to me? Are they a race, a religion or both? *Wikipedia search* Ah, okay: they’re both. Nevermind.

10 Comments             

The Nerve Of Those Tall Israelis

To be honest, sometimes t.Is will get things right every now and then. Granted they’ve all but usurped all power and creativity out of hip-hop and twisted it into their own sick image, probably because Black people kept beating them in the very sports they created, but they’ve successfully been able to crank out a few good ideas once in a while. I mean, they were able to take a financial chance on this loud, foul-mouthed culture known as hip-hop and expand it into a global phenomenon.

Take B.E.T. for example. True, a Black man started the channel, but who do you think he got the loan approval from? That’s the thing about a t.I: they know a moneymaker when then see it. And when Bob Johnson sold off his pet project back to the t.Is, they were more than happy to oblige.

They even managed to turn VH1 – a music channel that used to cater to baby boomers and former disco cokeheads – and turned it into… um, whatever it is now. And although they’ve mercifully pulled the switch on Rap City, they still feature programming and events that pander to hip-hop, even if they are stupid as shit.

Every October the t.Is at the channel throw their annual Hip-Hop Week, which culminates in the Hip-Hop Honors show. While the show itself has become trash – as if a Hip-Hop Honors plaque means something! – the programming prior to the event is surprising decent, even though it was made up by a crew of people who probably couldn’t tell you the difference between Scott La Rock from Scott Hall, yet can recite Yentl word for word. That Reasonable Doubt documentary was pretty dope, and their upcoming doc on N.W.A. this Friday looks promising also.

However, you can’t help but get the feeling that they just can’t get shit right no matter how hard they try. Case in point would be their “best hip-hop site” voting area, where nominees include muh’fucking Bossip and Concrete Loop of all things, and their current television series of the 100 greatest hip-hop songs of all time. Although I was too busy watching Heroes to catch their opening 20, I watched their 80-61 countdown last night where, smack dab ahead of songs like “You Gots To Chill,” “I Used To Love H.E.R.” and some other shits I can’t remember, was TI’s “What You Know.”

Word?

Now, I can understand them putting it ahead of Common and EPMD off the strength of Clifford’s rap moniker sharing the same letters as their designation, but I just don’t get how the song would even make the list in the first place. I don’t think it’s done anything noteworthy to hip-hop outside of landing on at number three of the Billboard charts, and it hasn’t done anything to shape the soundscape of hip-hop period; it was just a really popular song two years ago [1].

If anything, I’ll give props to TI for turning into the Southern version of Fiddy and Ja Ruling the fuck out of Lil Flip’s career, but that’s where it stops. As for the t.Is’ latest misstep? I would feign shock and awe, but sadly I’m too used to this kind of fuckery now.

[1] I’m sure some of youse yokels are gonna say some shit about me hating Southern rap and all kinds of dumbass jibba jabba, but that isn’t even the case this time around.

17 Comments             

Legends Of The Fall-Offs

It’s a known fact I talk all kinds of wild reckless here, and for the most part it’s with all good reason: being a journalist, one is subject to the many rules, whether grammatical or ethical, and thus is always limited from fully speaking their minds most times. I’ve done a fair share of interviews, album reviews and random-ass shit where I’ve had to leave on the safety, and – barring some random-ass-but-not-unforeseen circumstances – for the most part I’m free to say what I want and how I want to say it here.

Unless I talk about Jews in a not-so-positive manner. Those people just can’t seem to take a joke sometimes, I swear.

At the very least, readers here should be happy I write all kinds of nonsense – like most religious writings – and I’m not getting paid for it like any number of slores who’s came out with a book over the past few years. Not to say that if women spent more time in the kitchen and less time doing dumbass YouTubes of anal beads and such the world would be a better place, I’m just saying.

I’m kidding, of course. I’m not that misogynistic anymore (Right, Shay?).

Besides, I talk shit because I’m nothing more than a freelancing quasi-hermit who isn’t even sure if I’ll have a crib to call my own in the next three days thanks to Washington Mutual going belly up, and getting money the Ski Mask Way is something that isn’t my style… or at least anymore it isn’t. And thanks to the combination of both a rapidly increasing gentrification rate and decreasing dollar value I probably wouldn’t be able to squat over at Sedgwick and Cedar, especially now that the legendary home of hip-hop is being sold off, presumably to the same Yiddish folk I can’t talk about without incurring the wrath of Tetragrammaton over here.

Capitalism is a helluva drug.

Is it any wonder why the women of hip-hop have to resort to tawdry tactics to make a buck sometimes? Hell, I may have get up on my rap chick secks game as well, so I can go ask my sister’s roommate if she can hook me up with a deal with Harper-Collins. Although I’m aware of the vicious sexual double-standard between men and women, I honestly think that with my above-average prose I can put together even the finest of tales that could land me the same opportunities other slorefathers before me have gotten. But knowing my luck – as well as the fact that I’m Black so it’s automatic – half my checks would be garnished to fund the candle budget for the junta of Jew mongers’ annual Hanukkah celebration.

The moral of this story? Some tall Israeli is running this rap shit.

24 Comments             

Did Puff Daddy Jerk Pete Rock?

Whenever you’re sick, you never really think about much outside of being sick, or – in my case – things that take your mind off being sick so that you’ll be able to function throughout the day. Mine in particular happens to be an unwavering focus on el grande nalgas, which I may think could be a problem since my newfound Internets fame and refocused journalism hustle has me essentially chained to a damn computer more often than I’d like to be. But we’ll talk about that issue another time.

Speaking of dark butt discrimination, before I took my, errr, extended vacation from this section a few weeks ago I had planned on tossing up some half-assed post on why Cassie could inexplicably get it five ways from Friday. But outside of disclosing certain fantasies that would likely debase this section’s “reputation” (who do you think got that disclaimer tossed at the bottom of every blog?), I couldn’t really think of anything outside of, well, the fact that she’s a rake-thin, half-talent mixed chick that happens to be easy on the eyes. Not that I don’t discriminate, but when two skinny people are having sex it’s like a pair of twigs being rubbed together to start a fire, and that’s not my particular cup of Kool-Aid.

* Insert Yung Berg-style discrimination against skinny women protest here *

On top of that, Puff Daddy (likely) beat those walls in, and that shit is an instant turn-off to me given his over-the-top antics and cutthroat demeanor, each of which I’ve always felt contributed to the murking of the greatest rapper of all time, the Notorious B.I.G. [1]. Think about it: had Puff not insisted Big should stay in Los Angeles for a muh’fucking Soul Train Awards after party – does Soul Train even exist anymore? – he likely wouldn’t have a Swiss Cheesed corpse chilling in a New York cemetery to continually rape for his publishing via those shitty “posthumous” albums.

But even if he weren’t financially BuFu’ing Voletta’s only child he’d be finding some way to make money on the back end, probably through his beat jacking hustle. It’s a known fact that Sean has always taken a Dr. Dre-esque approach to producing, i.e. plucking a group of wet-behind-the-ears rookie producers off some random corner, giving them a gaudy necklace and promising to fulfill their starry-eyed aspirations in hip-hop by making beats, only to add a random-ass snare and some adlibs and claim the beat as his own. The most famous of this is when he swacked Pete Rock’s entire idea for what became the beat for “Juicy.” Although Pete claims he’s content with everything, perhaps Pete feels some sort of karmic retribution coming back to him because of the people he may have screwed over in the past, or at least if you ask the Internets. Or maybe his being so calm, cool and collected over what could have been a career changing beat getting hijacked could be the result of Puff’s legendary gully status in the industry, and his willingness to shatter a Cîroc bottle over anybody’s head if they dare step out of pocket with him. My guess would definitely lean toward the latter, but that’s because I’m an asshole like that.

In a sense, I’m almost glad that Biggie isn’t alive to see his legacy burn worse than Travis Barker and DJ AM. At the same time if Chris were alive, would we see such funnystyle behavior from his supposed homeboy? I wouldn’t even answer that question, on account that I like having my skull in one piece.

I’ve said it once, and I’ll say it again: if he had the space in his coffin to do so, Biggie would be turning in his grave.

[1] I’m sure there will be a couple “2Pac > Biggie” comments from that line alone, but needless to say I don’t give a shit.

30 Comments             

Loser’s Circle

“Soy un perdedor/I'm a loser baby so why don't you kill me?” - Beck

Since I’m on the topic of bitchasses this week, what’s been more baby-shit softer than so-called “urban” music? Of all the musical genres porch monkeys like my dark-skinned brethren invented [1], nothing is more flawed than the only sounds Blacks are most prevalent in. Whether it’s fake Pfizer kingpins or fake revolutionaries or fake style icons or fake rock stars or whatever fake shit I’ve left out, urban music has got to be the most schizophrenic music that’s out right now.

Most rappers are sweeter than fructose, yet fans will clamor to their every brazen, violent threat under the disguise of real. We consider average Joe rappers gay because they’d rather take a chick to the movies, Applebee’s, Blockbuster’s or state fairs while dipped in the finest of wears, fitted or baggy, yet praise phony kilo pushers that contribute to the spread of STDs, parentless children and men and women left scorned from their relationships. I should know; I still get pissy-mooded at one that crash-landed before it could even take off sometimes. And so-called lyrical people-lifters are as equally contradictory, and I feel most of them just use that propaganda bullshit to get more ass than a toilet seat. Case in point: all the YT chick love dead prez was getting at a Rock The Bells after party I attended while in Denver a mere hours after they were railing against palefaces at the festival.

We got underage bootyhole pirates running to BET and can still pull numbers at stores and sell out arenas across the country thanks to the same demographic they sexually prey upon. We got bitchmade schlups thugging over the Internets of all places. The only thing I’m not too mad at are the cats catching the chainsnatcheyejammie disease. I feel in an almost karmic way that those humps getting punched in their mouths for their gaudy necklaces are actually deserving of it, because it’s a physical reminder that they can get shot off their high horse at any given moment.

What’s a damn shame is when cats in other countries are doing the shit better than we are in its birthplace. I’ve heard and read many stories on how places like Japan and Toronto are killing it with their interpretation of hip-hop, dancehall and R&B (no rap and bullshit), and although my firsthand experience is limited, I’ll have to concur with the majority. Hell, on a semi-related note international women >>> Amerikkkan women, including those over here that have like 26 different ethnicities in them, like the Beauty & Brains broads. Have you mucklucks seen Brazilian women? Jesus Cristo.

I’ve spent a lot of time, rage and chicken-fueled vitriol on everything from quasi-homosexual rappers to anchor-headed R&B chicks to everything in between over here. Real talk is that I’ve lost most of the energy to go in on that shit anymore not because it’s passé to do so, but simply because it’s just sad watching that shit go down in the first place. I can’t even relate to rap anymore; I’m too old to be running around like a retarded hybrid of Stevie Williams and Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers, but too young to be considered a so-called “old head.” My expectations in music are lower than Ketchum’s latest list, so how would I look like trying to prove to people that Lil Wayne is wack, overexposed and overrated?

[1] I dare someone to prove to me that minorities didn’t have a hand in creating every genre of popular music out today. Go on, I’ll wait.

47 Comments             

It’s Hard Out There For A Simp

I used to think that the reason rap has an issue with the homosexual community is because of its unwillingness to expose of its own vulnerabilities for fear of making them come off as the very thing they detest. Think about it: every time a rapper decides to, say, jump on the vocoder and hoot and holler through mush mouth vocals about 808s and heartbreaks or some random-ass shit, everyone from rival artists to Twinkie soft c-sectionals will jump on said rapper’s figurative ass with a plethora of incessant, wild homophobic jibba jabba.

Is it really all that bad, however, exposing your softness at times? I mean, nobody’s a hard-shelled, stone-cold G.I. Bro at all times of the day, no matter how hard they front like they are. Emotions are what makes us all human beings in the first place, and I ironically tend to question those that try to mask it under a shroud of faux- toughness because the shit reminds me of Ving Rhames’ character in that Chuck & Larry movie.

*shudders at the thought of Ving Rhames’ character in that Chuck & Larry movie

I think I may have been a little off with that hypothesis however. No, the real reason why cats don’t want to expose themselves is because they don’t want their private lives being so public, whether its been thrown out all over the Internets via a YouTube (or to a shittier extent, World Star Hip-Hop) video, MySpace blog posting or – my personal favorite – the “tell-all” exposé. And since nobody’s making much money in rap (unless you happen to be of Yiddish heritage, but that megillah is for another time) everybody from the two-bit slore to the disgruntled former employee is dropping knowledge on the tawdry pasts of rappers in video or book format.

What agitates me is how these money-hungry vultures attempt to disguise the shit as “cautionary tales,” like one of those “The More You Know” skits NBC used to play during commercial breaks of Saved By The Bell, as if it’s supposed to “enlighten” the audience and hip them onto how the game really works when most of really know otherwise. A personal highlight (lowlight?) of mine was when muh’fucking Superhead of all people came to my alma mater (go Cal State Dominguez Hills Toros!) as a part of Women’s History Month a few years ago when her first book came out. I guess Roxy Reynolds was too busy giving a CPR lesson to some lucky guys’ schlongs to discuss the dangers of premarital sex that day, but whatever. Fortunately I was too busy making coffee for a bunch of crotchety cracka-ass crackas that day to attend the momentous occasion, but my friend did tell me Supes praised the inventor of water or some dumb shit during her speech.

*Eli Porter stare*

It’s no wonder everybody in rap is damn near on some Deebo status. If I was a rapper (and thank God[dess] I’m not) I’d probably have to pay off every woman I was with in Reebok 5411s just to keep her from trying to make money off my private life. Last thing I need is some made up shit about how I sound like Reh Dogg while we were in between the sheets being all out there.

22 Comments             

The Wide World Of Fuckery

I’ve pretty much spent the past two weeks of my so-called life in a catatonic state so to speak, bemused at the bullshit that surrounds this arena I chose to pursue a career in, from simple shit such as dealing with beak-nosed tall Israelis whose very existence seems to be dedicated to bringing others down, or having to keep your cool and maintain your focus while the world and all its infinite glory decides to start fucking with you.

Enough about my trivial problems however; that ain’t nothing booze can all but fix, and being that I live in a city that has nothing but bars and clubs around me, I’m a hop, skip and a jump away from drinking away the pain. Not to mention, many of those places play music by artists who are having their own problems, so to speak.

It’s almost a damn shame when the most sensible artist on the planet at the moment happens to be a dreadlocked jig with his own checkered past, but then again – and I hate to use duke’s vernacular – really, not really. If anything, the past two weeks have proven nothing except that hip-hop – despite being in its thirties – is still a juvenile (no “Ha”) essence, not unlike the Happy Meal and wet dream.

No better are the “fans” of this rap shit too. In my ever-so-humble opinion, cyber-fans are essentially the most bitchmade of the bunch, with the culture itself essentially broken down into three groups: the hater, the stan or the e-goon, the latter of which is more feminine than a yeast infection. Damn if the shit isn’t entertaining at times however, and it’s even funnier when an artist steps out of pocket from catching feelings over an Internets heckling.

The fuckbwoy sensation isn’t only limited to just rap music either, although some theories claim that it just started there. I’m probably like the other 98% of the world (you know, the meaningful percent) who’ve never heard of Sarah Palin prior to a few weeks ago, and when given a chance to prove herself on a national scale twice, she came across as both an idiot and a bitch. I’m almost half-tempted to fill out this voter registration form that’s been sitting on my couch for the past few days just so I can give my vote to the right person: Ralph Nader. Yeah, I’ve said I’d vote for the Black guy only because he’s a Black guy, but you yentas know I live to flake out on shit. Why the hell you think I’ve been gone for two weeks anyways?

Outside of my issues with the management, that is.

You’ll have to excuse me while I slowly get my bearings back, as it may take a while to fully return to shit talk mode and embrace my inner nihilist. But give it time; I’m sure I’ll be back to calling your favorite rapper a butt-fucking fruitbag with the lyrical skills of a premature ejaculator soon enough.

30 Comments             

Sometimes These Ni**as Need To Stay In Jail

You know for all the time and energy the bacon battalion puts towards locking brothers up, beating and/or shooting them and shoving Billy clubs up their various orifices and whatnot, they obviously aren’t doing a good job of keeping them locked in the clink when they actually get the chance to do so. And, given the frequency of which these idiots seem to find themselves in trouble, the revolving door theory has never been truer.

A personal theory of mine is that most cops were either bullies with some weird Napoleon complex, or dweebs that were picked on, teased and ridiculed during their years in high school which – thanks to an absence of self-confidence that subsequently prevented them from being able to partake in some whoopee – take their frustrations out on the first person that doesn’t use their turn signal, which explains their lack of intelligence to keep rappers under the earth. How asinine is it that there’s a task force solely dedicated to keeping rappers under constant surveillance, yet are unable to stop their revolving doors from spinning out of control?

A few prime examples would be the blatant fuckeries from DMX and Suge Knight. Earl has been locked up more times this summer than I’ve gotten ass this year, which is pretty sad on both parts, while Suge – who is obviously still rife with embarrassment from catching a two-piece and a buttered biscuit from a barber of all things a few months back, despite the fact he had 2Pac killed (don’t front) – was released from jail a few days ago, even though he was caught by a few people smacking the flames out of a woman’s ass. I’d say that they’ve been able to evade prison because of their notoriety in rap as well as being financially fit to diddybop out of jail, but we all know those two are probably the brokest people in hip-hop today.

Which is still way richer than my own menial bank account, but at least I’ve never had to shower with 12 other grown ass men at once.

My solution? Keep these jackasses locked up for at least a month or two, which will likely lead to their assholes being turned into funnel cakes. Let’s face it, people: everybody who’s been locked up for longer than a weekend has either been fucked in the ass, seen somebody being fucked in the ass, heard somebody being fucked in the ass and/or have been in the general vicinity of someone getting fucked in the ass, which is quasi-homosexual no matter how you slice it. Perhaps after seeing some burly inmate repeatedly getting taken dry by Fleece Johnson would compel them to think, “Hey, I might just get fucked in the ass while I’m here. Maybe I shouldn’t do dumb shit that would put my sphincter at risk so often.”

Shit, that video scared me straight!

You could be the so-called hardest one out, but just being around a dry reaming would make anybody squeamish. Think about it: if Suge Knight can get cold-clocked in front of everybody and the assailant can get away with it, who’s to say that he won’t be used as currency in prison? It’s not like anybody’s really scared of him now anyways. Imagine if Suge of all people did get anally violated in prison; I guarantee you nobody would rap about getting locked up for nothing anymore.

Oh, and *stop, eject* to this entire post.

22 Comments             

Politricks As Usual

News flash: I can’t stand politics, almost about as much as I don’t like when some random-ass person walks up on you and asks you about Jesus. Shit makes me want to punch them out, I swear. Same thing when it comes to asking me to discuss my thoughts on this political shit, because to me today’s representation is nothing but meaningless bullshit designed to make people look as if they’re serving in the best interests of the people they’re supposed to be serving, yet the powers that be are blatantly using their authoritative dominion to better their own personal ills.

Am I going to vote this year? Probably not. Realize that voting is no longer the preeminent shining beacon of the American citizen’s Constitutional given right to choose. With a seemingly simple yet absurdly complex so-called “electoral college,” the true power behind actually selecting who you’d like to see run your KKKountry is about as sincere as a pimp’s promise to a slore to give her a better life. Ask Al Gore who, although received more votes, got his spot swacked from today’s current harbinger of desolation. Or ask the Heinz Ketchup pimp who lost because “we the people” had to vote for the lesser of two evils. And if I were to vote, I’d solely vote from the Black guy because he’s Black, or at least since it says so on his employment applications. Nothing more, nothing less.

Which is why I’ve looked at the hoopla surrounding Decision ’08 with the same side-eye I did four years ago, except now this incarnation has turned into nothing more than an old White codger and a Black guy with an A-Rab moniker simply playing the dozens on a grander-scale. Debates have turned into old-fashioned mud slinging. The media would rather focus on rap’s Bizarro World association with the Demon-Cratic nominee or OD on the multiple shots fired at his character by his Pink Elephant Republican opposite rather than the reasons these two are vying for the presidency. No matter what the result is, we the people will remain the loser, because none of the two are sincerely out for our best interests.

Gas is high like giraffe throats. The cost of living is beyond far-fetched. Muh’fuckers can’t even kill themselves properly because they can’t afford it. Why should I give three-fifths of a shit about false promises of hope when I can barely cover my rent at times? I hope that my landlord doesn’t put a lien on my no-room mansion; give a fluck about Clinton co-sign.

I long for the day where I can actually have some semblance of faith in our country’s future leaders. Perhaps then I’d learn how to walk on water, dunk from the three-point line and make an honest woman out of Kerry Washington all in one swoop. But since the likelihood of all those things are slimmer than that chick in Calvin Klein pantses, my third eye will stay wide shut with a smirk pursed across my face. Besides, that’s the shit that powers these posts in the first place.

21 Comments             

Adventures In Denver

Before I begin this shit, I’ll just say that I can see why Kobe fell into that trap while he was getting his knee fixed in Colorado. But more on that later.

Seeing as how I’ve split the better part of the past decade between New York and California – with journeys to Miami, Las Vegas, Tijuana, Trinidad and Puerto Rico spliced in between – I thought I’d seen enough to get a general idea of how other parts of the KKKountry works. So hitting up Denver should have been a cakewalk.

Never have I been so wrong in my life. And I tend to call the various ethnicities of the world their respective slurs, so that should tell youse something.

In my ever-so-humble opinion, Denver is not only the most random-ass city I’ve been to, but also it by far may be the whitest in the entire Northern Hemisphere. Add on the events prior to the Rock The Bells tour stop, as well as the city gearing up for this week’s Demon-Cratic National Convention, and my normally demure self was flabbergasted at all the shit that went down.

To describe it more eloquently, think of every White person stereotype your fragile little minds can formulate, then imagine that shit come to life, amplified by rap music and cheap booze:

* White people with dreads? Check
* White people with no teeth? Check
* White people getting shitfaced and subsequently punched out in public? Check
* White women wanting to partake in the Black experience? Check, and check. Now it all makes perfect sense…

Not to say that there isn’t any stranger things in the world, but when you spot a furry enjoying a meal at a bistro on a 90 degree day in between a bunch of random-ass protesters in between get-rich-quick schemers pushing buttons and an Obama minstrel puppet that resembled Bill Cosby circa his Jell-O Pudding Pop days, something is definitely not aligning with the stars with that city.

As for the festival itself... well, Denver lost on that one. With three of the better acts missing in action, Denver’s Rock The Bells was a shoddy rendition of the California show I attended, and I spent more time firing off free CDs and selling t-shirts like a Central American day laborer than actually watching the acts. Shouts to the peoples who stopped by the so-called bad guys’ booth just to give me props for all the charitable work I’ve done on this blog, though. Not to sound cynical (right…), but for all the talk from the faceless schmucks in the section below this shit threatening violence yet it still not happening, it really makes you wonder who actually says that shit in the first place. My guess is that they’re more bitchmade than period blood.

Not to say that I didn’t enjoy the experience, but visiting a spot like Denver on my own volition isn’t really on my to do list. But I’ll give props though: despite the fact their best wide receiver was Ed McCaffrey, Broncos fans are a dedicated bunch. And had I stayed longer, perhaps I would have appreciated the city for, errr, the fact that Wonder Bread originated from there. That shit is crack.

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Another Day, Another Rock The Bells

I’ve never been to Denver. I don’t even know what the fluck a Denver is. I’ve not heard of any form of rap from there, and I tend to get Denver mixed up with Utah for some reason. Seriously, the only way I decipher Utah from Denver is that in Utah you can have a harem of dust bunnies, while Denver you can’t breathe because of the elevation. And I think that’s the same place where Kobe dry-reamed that YT a few years ago also.

Whatever the case is, I won’t spend too much time rambling about wild nothing, because by the time you goobacks read this shit I’ll likely be some 30,000 feet (legally, that is) on my way to the Mile-High City to partake in another round of this hip-hop shit called Rock The Bells. Since I’ve never been to Colorado, I’ll admit I’m more excited about being in a relatively new world. Plans to try to partake in some of that viva la white girl McLovin’ is out of the question thanks to Mr. Bryant ruining that for Black men the same way Robert Sylvester ruined our inherent fantasies of mating with a nubile high school senior.

Don’t front.

In any matter I saw a good chunk of the show during my last excursion, so chances are that I’ll likely be scoping the scenery and perhaps trying to find a bedmate for the weekend instead. At the very least it’ll provide me with an escape from the random acts of fuckery going on in hip-hop. Rappers squabbling over a game of Madden is what’s popping in the streets now? That’s about as gully as Lamar from Revenge Of The Nerds.

You may not know it, but it’s festivals like these that keep the balance of hip-hop in check. Granted, you won’t see Rakim hit the 106 & Park stage any time soon, but fans still are able to see one of rap’s finest still rip shit like he’s bringing ’88 back. Or check out the antics of Tyga over on the second stage, if you’re bitchmade like that.

As usual I invite any and everybody to stop by the booth, or just be on the lookout for the self-proclaimed bad guys hawking cheaply-produced garbs and passing out free CDs at some nondescript booth full of meatheads, myself included. As always, the opportunity to be berated is always available, and I’m more than willing to oblige. And yes ladies, I am still single for those who are crazy enough to try out a Nigerian on a blogger’s salary.

L’chaim bitches.

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Why Rap Needs The Diplomats

Let’s be real: rap needs another beef like the Internets need another nude online “model.” I mean sure, it’s nice to see someone degrade themselves in the hopes of attaining the almighty dollar, but after a while the shit gets boring to the average person. Whatever happened to keeping it covered anyways? Part of the reason I dig women so much is because of how tantalizing their curves are when wrapped in the finest of garbs. When a chick is just butt-ass naked for the sake of being naked, the element of surprise is taken out.

I could go on about why women should stay clothed more often than not, but that wouldn’t be the point of this post.

One thing rap does need, however, are the antics of Harlem’s Dip Set crew. A few weeks ago I had the task of interviewing Hell Rell, and I’d be lying if I didn’t say it was one of the more enjoyable conversations I’d had with a rapper in a cool minute. Rather than wax poetics about the quintessential jibba jabba like his album and where the fluck Cam’Ron is (my cousin suggests he’s jumped into the real estate game with Harold Miner and the O’Bannon brothers), the gabfest turned into one of the most random-ass Q&A’s ever as duke answered every question I proposed, no matter how zany.

And that was the thing with the Dips: that whole not-give-a-fuck attitude that was refreshing before the shit became trendy like skinny jeans. Everything from their fashion sensibilities to their lexicon has been adapted, altered and molded into the hip-hop consciousness. Rock star chains? Check. The invention and subsequent frequent use of the term “no homo?” Check. The worst ad-libbing this side of Greg Nice? Check. Nevermind the Roc; the Dips were a dynasty unto themselves. And let’s not discuss the times Cam decided to pop up in televised interviews.

But like all good things, shit came to an end quickfast. Tru-Life made a habit of punching out Cam and sticking Jim Jones up, Juelz damn near fell off the face of the planet and today’s incarnation of the Diplomats resemble the Bad News Bears moreso than an actual rap group. Whatever happened to that Sizzurp (no Robitussin) drink anyways?

Like the tales of all short-lived rap dynasties, the story of the Dips ended the same way: a bunch of obscure rappers still trying to maintain a sense of relevance in the game. I will give credit for one thing: at least they’re not running around doing Garnier commercials like Bleek is. That shit was just an epic fail unto itself. I’m pretty sure Big L would be rolling around in his grave if his former protégés started turning tricks for L’Oreal to keep their lights on.

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A Hitchhiker’s Guide To The Rap Galaxy

Real talk is that a nug needs to get up on his gwop game something terrible. I can’t speak for everyone, but I know there’s a good chunk of us who wish that buck that bought the bottle could have struck the Lotto, or at the very least that bullshit stimulus check stretched out for longer than a week. Me? I planned on hording my government-sponsored rebate, but I saw a nice pair of kicks with my John Hancock all over it. Then I dropped the rest on some random-ass shit I don’t even remember. Buyer’s remorse is a muh’fucker. Besides, with prices so dumb high it’s not like it could have stretched for too long.

I know one thing that my middling funding will not go towards: music. Although in a sense people are still paying for music indirectly via their Internets connections or dropping duckets on the local bootlegger, I’d say we’ve all gotten our money’s worth and then some. The simple fact that I just downloaded about five copies of L.A.X. the other day just to find the dirty version can attest to that.

It’s now to a point where I can do about five different things at once, as I’m wont to do whenever I sit around a computer, and two of those things involve the acquiring of music and the way-too-frequent-to-be-considered-occasional-anymore adult flick yoking. On a semi-related side note, that “Birthday Girl” chick Sasha Grey? I don’t see the hype at all.

Honestly, the peoples’ addiction and worship to the almighty Intel chip has gotten so out of hand that I sometimes have to step away from my shit for a weekend just to find some semblance of sanity. Then I find myself wishing I had a laptop, so sabbaticals don’t last too long.

But anyways, you would think the powers that be would be more adept at stopping this shit, what with them owning 95% of the world’s wealth and whatnot. I just see this shit as a way of sticking it back to them, because shit is already all kinds of fucked up as is. How I look like spending $10.81 on an album when I get robbed for about a Benjamin every time I get a freelance check? I’m not gonna even talk about the Jay Jerkin tactics I deal with here sometimes. Guarantee you that Game is making money off this muh’fuck, and I don’t make money off this muh’fuck. So when I snatch his album off one of the many e-shelves I frequent, I’m just getting my proper compensation.

I’d honestly wish some people would stop talking all that “support real hip-hop” flim-flam as well. News flash, people: the radio isn’t interested in playing someone rap about society’s ills, nor are people interested in hearing it. I got my own problems as is; how I look like listening to another person bitch and complain about theirs? I use music to escape my problems, not remind me of those shits. That’s what “real” hip-hop is supposed to be, not because some dwyckhead from New York can cram 40 polysyllabic words into a 16-bar verse. That’s why I take pleasure in old heads looking like fools or rappers crying like a bitch because they get confused every now and then. In that sense, my life doesn’t seem half-bad.

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