• » Name: Meka Soul
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

Wildflower

A few words of advice to any aspiring rappers, singers... Hell, to all guys (and girls who get down like that) in general: sleeping with Karrine Stephans will probably not do anything for your career outside of requiring a year’s worth of Herpecin-L.

Seriously, the simple fact that I’m dropping her name in this blog shows how insidiously ass-backward this so-called hip-hop shit can be, because on the real, has this bitch [1] actually done anything other then half of the world’s population? Does she see feel any sense of accomplishment letting everybody from Spliff Star to fucking Bill Maher run up in her proverbial hot spot like some random-ass Queens-bred goonie goo-goo from the 30th floor of his high-rise HUD apartment does an unwilling towel head in his bodega [2]?

I’ve never understood the fascination with Superhead. For one, this woman (and I’m using the term ridiculously loosely here) essentially fucked her way to the top of the food chain, becoming a Brazillionaire in the process. Call me out of touch but technically, isn’t what she’s doing more or less prostitution? Then again, I’m watching a porno while I’m typing this shit (because I can multi-task like that), so it’s not like I’m one to talk about morals.

The obvious dilemma of this is, of course, the image she gives the actual aspiring “business women” who are “only using ‘modeling’ as a stepping stone to further their career,” not unlike the bevy of thick-bodied (damn Persian!) ladies that grace the Beauty and Brains section of this site. Not to say that any of them are money-hungry skeeze-bags like Ms. Stephans, but it makes me wonder if the rest of the world won’t see them in the same light, no thanks due to her exploits. But let’s face it: these women have chosen a profession where they’re made to appease to the red-blooded, hetero male’s (or dyke’s) carnal lust for all things sexual. So while I know that they’re not indicative of how all cola bottle-shaped women are, can they really blame us for responding in a manner like B&B comments All-Star 420westcoast’s rants? Shit, when I was younger I couldn’t stop thinking of sex, and half of the chicks who were doing this shit back then more or less resembled Kelly LeBrock circa Weird Science. Imagine today’s teenager seeing this shit, and they’ve more or less turned into mutants because of all the hormones in those Chicken McNuggets & shit.

***

Yes, I know about the fact that men do the same shit on a daily basis. But does that make the shit any better? Not to get all preachy, but this whole “we do it because you do it” rhetoric is a little flaccid. Step your respective games up, men and women; the "eye for an eye" theory is getting sad.



[1] It’s OK if I call this one a bitch, right? Isiah Thomas has essentially fucked it up for the rest of us, so I really can’t foot any kind of sexual harassment bill at the moment.

[2] It’s nice to see I can still fuck with people like that. I was starting to worry there for a second.

78 Comments             

Queens Lost

“For people to say, ‘He snuffed P,’ first of all, that’s what happens in a fight... People get hit. I been hit plenty of times in my face in a fight.” – Mobb Deep’s own Charleston P on the eye jammie he caught from Saigon last week

You don’t say.

In the heyday of East Coast hip-hop, no other town had more talent coming from its gum-infested streets than Queens. From mash-out posses like Onyx, to the thugged-out theatrics of Kool G Rap to its perennial All-Pro representative Nas, Queens, alongside Brooklyn, were a force not to be fucked with.

Even though the shitty radio stations played the aural violations of The Dove Shack, Kausion and Twinz, I found myself instantly attracted to the rhythmic lyricism of the East (North?). To this day, no other borough [1] could touch that city in its prime.

But leave it to the East to go and fuck shit up for everyone.

I guess I should have seen it when KRS-One was tossing Prince Be’s fat ass off his own stage [2], but I refused to believe it. But even after Daz of all people started punting their skyscrapers in that one video, New York began a subtle, yet steady, descent into the downward spiral it’s in now. Bad Boy crashed and burned worse than Dale Earnhardt’s whip in the Daytona 500, Cam’Ron is either losing his running mates to God, transsexuals or Curtsy and although he recently bailed him out of the claws of the IRS, Jay-Z yoked Damon Dash for damn near everything, leaving him to make fake-ass Air Force Ones to keep his bench warm in Marcus Garvey Park.

The worst thing about this is that I was more or less expecting this chaos to happen to Queens rappers, what with Sticky Fingaz getting punched out by some corn-fed YT rocker on MTV a few years ago, and Nas essentially reaching his peak with his first album. But it kinda pains me to see a city that produced Illmatic fail so miserably. Now everybody is (literally) taking shots at Prodigy, which in a sense ain’t saying too much nowadays. Shit, if I slapped out Prodigy that shit might ruin my bottom line here at DX. And I sure as shit don’t want that to happen.

Oh, and Nas? You’re about 3 years late on the “rappers peddling ugly-ass shoes” craze.

[1] Yeah, I know. Brooklyn’s the only one that comes closest, though.

[2] Why is there no YouTube of this one?

199 Comments             

Damn You, OJ

I’ll be honest: I’ve purposely refused to throw my own gauntlet down when it came to the case of the Jena 6 because quite honestly I can not lean towards one particular side. On one hand, I can’t help but feel some remorse for all the teenagers and families involved, as it was ridiculously insipid to attempt to try kids who haven’t even developed enough fur under their chins to be considered an adult as adults. For no legal action to happen to the idiots who thought that throwing nooses in a tree was a joke was retarded, and essentially gives that city’s denizens the notion that it’s also alright to chain someone to the back of a rusty pickup and drag them a few miles.

At the same time, I don’t really feel sorry for the shit the Jena (Gina? Jenna?)  6 are going through in the first place. Call me heartless, but the simple fact of the matter is that these kids stomped out the ever-loving shit out of another human being. Whether the victim was white or not, that’s still wrong on all kinds of levels. While the initial punishment was extremely exaggerated and unnecessary, comparing the following protests to the Civil Rights Movement four decades ago was just idiotic. I never saw Dobermans biting chunks of ass out of those protestors, but then I’m fucked up like that.

In actuality, the entire fiasco brought back memories of the circus act that was Detective Nordberg's murder case that happened in my city some thirteen years ago. I’m not comparing the two trials, mind you; I find it interesting how people will instantly jump to conclusions on some random-ass issue when it’s glaringly obvious they don’t know the half of it in the first place, like the time all those asscunts ran up on the freeways holding “Free OJ!” signs during his rather fruity low-speed chase. The fact that every channel broadcasting it cancelled out my TGIF programming, but I digress.

Interestingly enough, as soon as OJ was acquitted, many of his supporters were quick to push duke – who had long ditched Blacks for White people and Hertz commercials, before he went all liquid swords to Nicole’s tonsils – to the left, once they realized they let a killer walk free, disowning him like deadbeat parents do their children. And now with his latest foray into the Ski Mask Way not really helping matters, it makes me wonder if they start to ignore Mychal Bell, now that he recently got sprung from the pokey, once Sweet Daddy Grace inevitably decides to direct his wallet toward the next “racially motivated” case. Not to sound like a racist or anything, but in the rare case I get sent up the river on some pent up, exaggerated charges, I wouldn’t want A Pimp Named Slickback trying to get me off the hook. I can barely afford my rent sometimes; Lord knows I couldn’t even spot his premium.

52 Comments             

God(dess) Bless The Dead

If there were ever a reason not to trust those who are supposed to serve and protect this country’s denizens (read: chow down on doughnuts and gun-butt the shit out of some hapless Negroid every now and then), this would definitely be the case.

A note to all the non-minority demographic (read: honkies and Chinks) who read this particular section of the Internets: be glad you haven’t waken up one day looking like C. Thomas Howell in Soul Man, lest you’d actually welcome the overall sense of fuckedoverness jungle bunnies such as myself tend to face every now and then.

And it’s not like today’s Black “representatives” are doing anything to quell matters, what with them impersonating cops, slapping fire out of Whites at parties and the like, and this year isn’t even over yet. While the reasonable half of me shakes my head in disbelief at this shit, the inherently coon side that all Blacks have (don’t front) is more or less enthralled at watching my fellow man make an ass out of himself, because I’m a cynical asshole like that.

But with this latest development in Biggie’s case, one has to wonder why the fuck this random-ass inmate would wait ten years to say he’s been lying the entire time. His deposition would have you believe that his conscience was getting to him, but I’d like to think that of all the violent entries his asshole has received since being locked in the bing essentially made the bitch in him come out. Perhaps he’s trying to score some petroleum jelly to ease the insertions by doing this, but whatever.

You have to wonder what all of this means to not only hip-hop, but Black people as well. Think about it: some random-ass nut diddle has allegedly been lying to the fuzz for the past ten years. Now thanks to this hump, I can’t help but be even more paranoid for fear of some random-ass police officers ready to fry the (literal) shit out of me a la Nelly's number-one cheeba stasher Ali all because I asked, “What seems to be the problem, officer?”

But maybe that’s the conspiracy theorist in me once again talking. At the same time, Phil Spector literally shot a bitch in her mouth and he got off Scot-free, which leads me to believe that the negative attention these dumb-ass artists attract are permeating throughout the rest of the dark-skinned community, essentially fucking shit up for all of us who were born with melanin in our systems. Is that to say that Whites and Asians can pull the same shit with little or no repercussions? I’ll just conclude that Latasha Harlins had her kufi popped off for no reason, yet you hardly see gooks get their domes crashed, because we all know Asians can’t rap. I’m just saying.

And yet people still wonder why I bump Galt MacDermot more than Grandpa Simpson.

9 Comments             

In The Line Of Fire

On a side note: Burnett, this is the funniest shit ever.

Anyways, ever since crotchety-ass YT geezer Don Imus essentially made it so that the average Joe like myself can’t go running around calling skeeze-bags kinky-haired trollops without catching flak from fake-ass Sista Souljahs, soccer moms and whatnot earlier this year, the primary topic of discussion of hip-hop this year (outside of the typical gay rapper flim-flam and “Crank Dat” nonsense) has been the portrayal of hip-hop music in the media. Far be it from me to call shenanigans on the entire hubbub – because the fucked-up half of me loves to hear shit like that – but you have to wonder if this “debate” holds any weight at all.

When it really comes down to it, most of the shit is technically legal under the First Amendment [1], and essentially if I wanted to make a song, video or blog (heh) professing my infatuation for feminine penetration, recreational use of Dimetapp and the cost of my Air Forces 3s (the answer? Not much), I should be able to engage in such dumb-ass shit like that without worry of censorship.

Then I forget: this is hip-hop we’re dealing with, and some random-ass dipshit may actually look up to me for that.

The problem with my scenario is that society today has an issue with separating reality from fiction. It’s easy to throw the blame on the rappers, what with their unwillingness to at the very least provide some food for thought that didn’t come with an eight ball and a bullet. With an increasing number of single- and no-parent households, many of today’s children are inexplicably looking to this shit as if it will teach them a lesson at its end Fat Albert-style, thus being unable to tell what’s authentic and what’s phony.

But in another sense, the fact that there could be so many vodka-for-breakfast, retarded children could be for the fact that today’s prominently displayed hip-hop could give a shit about a simple bother like proper parenting, at least not when there’s drugs to be sold and Cisco to be poured on the ample backside of a horse-legged woman and such. So if the parents themselves believe the asinine jibba jabba that these shitbag “poets” are slinging, the shit fucks with the entire foundation of family in the first place.

On the other hand, it’s pretty lame for someone to actually be offended by this shit. Last time I checked my forefathers and foremothers fought for the right to actually put out music without some YT’s visage on the cover in order for it to get play in the record stores, so if they were able to withstand truck-draggings, lynchings and other such inane shit, then the generation today should easily be able to deflect what some random-ass honky says. I know I’m able to, so why isn’t anybody else?

So what’s the solution to all of this? I have no fucking clue, but blaming hip-hop for all of society’s ills is just wrong, not when people look to battyboys like Ted Haggard of all people for “spiritual advice.” And unless someone gives me a legitimate reason to stop, I plan on shooting out the dreaded n-word like I do “Chink,” “Jawa,” “hymie” and every other bigoted word from A to zinc as if it were going out of style.

[1] You know, it’s kinda hard for me to have faith in a country that imposed a law to make my black ass have the same rights as everybody else only four-plus decades ago, but that’s just the conspiracy theorist in me talking.

38 Comments             

In Defense Of Jay-Z

As with everything else in life, everybody is entitled to their own opinion, no matter how... err... “interesting” they are. Having a credible, visible avenue to express such opinions has definitely become one of the brighter spots in my, day, what with being able to spew wild jibba jabba on some shitbag artists with little fear of reprimand [1]. At its best it’s an update on one of the forgotten elements of hip-hop, the cipher, but at it’s worst (and often most hilarious and controversial) it’s nothing more than an electronic form of playing the dozens.

I’ll admit: I’ve thrown my fair share of grease-loaded shit talk in the few months I’ve been around. But in all honesty, some of the shit has gotten some of my brethren here to defend their stances. So imagine my amusement when our latest top-tier voices [2] Charlamagne Tha God took Grandpa Simpson to task for being a “ball hog” and not trying to give his younger compatriots sufficient playing time.

No disrespect at all (because I hold the utmost of it for all my siblings. Yes, even Ketchums as well), but excuse me if I call bullshit on that decree.

Granted, while Sean’s recent string of shoddy lyrics have left more mouths sour-tasting than Kim’s puss [3], the most obvious reason for that is, well, he’s not the same MC Flossy McDrugLord from his first album over a decade ago. The interesting conundrum about this is that he finally decided to go back to those ideals for his upcoming “concept album,” the same humps who wished he did that for Kingdom Come are now barking on that decision.

In order to compare Jay-Z to Number 23, one must also take into consideration the supporting cast each had behind them. Using that logic, it makes perfect sense that both Michael and Jay constantly had to throw their respective teams on their backs. Granted, Pippen was to Jordan what Silk Shirts is to Grandpa, but did anybody honestly expect Judd Buechler, Bill Wennington, BJ Armstrong or Dickie Simpkins to play any legitimate role outside of court filler [4]? If you need further proof, feel free to check Beanie’s and Memphis Bleek’s respective go-rounds, where they couldn’t even toss a beach ball into the ocean to will their audio rapes to sell.

It’s painfully obvious that Jay has tried at the very least to train his underlings to shoot a jump shot. But if they’ve constantly Sam Bowied their way to failure and shattered his confidence in them, why else wouldn’t he toss out a few sub-mediocre bars to keep his team in playoff contention. But perhaps this condescending nature of today’s culture, where some drug-addled, wombat-sounding “rapper” with no legitimate vintage material (a shitload of mixtape “quotables does not count) gets and insanely confusing (and at times invalid) amount of respect. I shouldn’t be entire upset, though: perhaps in my (not-so-) old age, I had lyrical leaders to look up to, not some shit like this. But perhaps today’s generation is cool with the fact that there is no credible balance of hardcore and thought-provoking artists in the public eye as there was a decade ago. Rather, there’s an overabundance of feet-shuffling show tunes, elongated rappers with a smidgen of moral sense and other delusions of grandeur.

No wonder why they keep losing.


[1] Unless you count MC iThug running off at the mouth, but who really gives a shit about them?

[2] And I’m not up there yet why?

[3] Anyone: Kardashian, Lil’, Cattrall, Action, pack guns, ridiculous.

[4] You don’t see anybody inducting Randy Brown into the Hall Of Fame anytime soon, do you?

62 Comments             

Sucker MCs

A little bit of information about myself: despite all the shit talking, the somewhat condescending demeanor and overall narcissistic (cynical?) attitude, I’m a nerd (N.E.R.D.?) at heart. Always have been, and quite possibly I always will be. I’ve always enjoyed the moronic simplicities of WWE Smackdown!, rocked a backpack way before Silk Shirts West softened them up and – like my latest blogging sister from another mister Ms. Bassa (moms keeps churning them out!) – was singing along with The Roots before Black Thought was banging that Jewish chick in that one movie.

Even throughout my years of robbing people and ducking mall cops for 40 minutes and such, the one thing that never changed was my inherent nerdiness that stemmed from a family loaded with nerds themselves. The (not-so) interesting thing was that I’d spend a good part of my life reading, studying and learning while my counterparts were out doing “normal” things, like trying not to catch The Germ from One-Track Mind Sally, becoming future WIC receipients and whatnot.

The reason I bring up this scenario is that I’ve never tried to come across as anything different (aside from that one time I thought I was 2Pac, but after he got his chest cavity exposed, not so much), particularly on the this section of the Internets. But it never ceases to amaze me whenever I see some random-ass rabble-rouser bark about their willingness to catch a red-eye to some other part of the city and smack the ever-loving shit out of another random-ass goon, Deebo-style, because their “alias” was called out of pocket.

I’ve even had a couple instances where someone tried to step out on me. A few months ago, one of the readers here took offense to the fact that a “square Charlie” such as myself was representing Inglewood because – to paraphrase something my M.I.A. blogging brother from another mother S.Y. Young would say [1] – having a decent grasp of the English dictionary’s not what’s popping in the hood. A couple of witty quips later, and duke is threatening to search the entire city of Los Angeles to plant a hot one in my face (pause!). Fortunately (I think) our issues have since been quelled, but it was pretty hard for me to take an Internets “menace” entirely too seriously, although I do recall that one situation a earlier this year where some cracka-ass YT traveled over 1,000 miles to find an online heckler and tried to burn his place down while he was still in it.

In a sense, nobody should ever try to come across as some pistol-packing über-thug on the Internets because, quite frankly, it’s pretty geeky to type out how you’re going to style on someone you’ve never seen, not to mention it comes off sounding pretty fucking Twinkie soft in the first place. But maybe that’s the evolution (I call deterioration, but whatever) of the thug: without the likes of Lesane running around thinking shit is sweet (with some bean pie pusher creeping up on his ass eventually), they’ve now become inspired by the V-neck muscle shirt tactics of the Dip Set’s MySpace hackers, and barking on a message board or a comments section is the end to all means. Personally, I’m more scared of my family’s hypertension history than those acts of Fagitry, but whatever.
 
[1] Yeah, I go “back there” sometimes too.
 

46 Comments             

Sucker MCs

A little bit of information about myself: despite all the shit talking, the somewhat condescending demeanor and overall narcissistic (cynical?) attitude, I’m a nerd (N.E.R.D.?) at heart. Always have been, and quite possibly I always will be. I’ve always enjoyed the moronic simplicities of WWE Smackdown!, rocked a backpack way before Silk Shirts West softened them up and – like my latest blogging sister from another mister Ms. Bassa (moms keeps churning them out!) – was singing along with The Roots before Black Thought was banging that Jewish chick in that one movie.

Even throughout my years of robbing people and ducking mall cops for 40 minutes and such, the one thing that never changed was my inherent nerdiness that stemmed from a family loaded with nerds themselves. The (not-so) interesting thing was that I’d spend a good part of my life reading, studying and learning while my counterparts were out doing “normal” things, like trying not to catch The Germ from One-Track Mind Sally, becoming future WIC receipients and whatnot.

The reason I bring up this scenario is that I’ve never tried to come across as anything different (aside from that one time I thought I was 2Pac, but after he got his chest cavity exposed, not so much), particularly on the this section of the Internets. But it never ceases to amaze me whenever I see some random-ass rabble-rouser bark about their willingness to catch a red-eye to some other part of the city and smack the ever-loving shit out of another random-ass goon, Deebo-style, because their “alias” was called out of pocket.

I’ve even had a couple instances where someone tried to step out on me. A few months ago, one of the readers here took offense to the fact that a “square Charlie” such as myself was representing Inglewood because – to paraphrase something my M.I.A. blogging brother from another mother S.Y. Young would say [1] – having a decent grasp of the English dictionary’s not what’s popping in the hood. A couple of witty quips later, and duke is threatening to search the entire city of Los Angeles to plant a hot one in my face (pause!). Fortunately (I think) our issues have since been quelled, but it was pretty hard for me to take an Internets “menace” entirely too seriously, although I do recall that one situation a earlier this year where some cracka-ass YT traveled over 1,000 miles to find an online heckler and tried to burn his place down while he was still in it.

In a sense, nobody should ever try to come across as some pistol-packing über-thug on the Internets because, quite frankly, it’s pretty geeky to type out how you’re going to style on someone you’ve never seen, not to mention it comes off sounding pretty fucking Twinkie soft in the first place. But maybe that’s the evolution (I call deterioration, but whatever) of the thug: without the likes of Lesane running around thinking shit is sweet (with some bean pie pusher creeping up on his ass eventually), they’ve now become inspired by the V-neck muscle shirt tactics of the Dip Set’s MySpace hackers, and barking on a message board or a comments section is the end to all means. Personally, I’m more scared of my family’s hypertension history than those acts of Fagitry, but whatever.
 
[1] Yeah, I go “back there” sometimes too.
 

0 Comments             

G-Unit: Hip-Hop’s Glass Joe

They say that in life, things aren’t guaranteed. I beg to differ, though; I know at least a couple things that are on a yearly basis:

* Birth
* Death
* Taxes (unless you’re a TI)
* The ambulance-chasing tactics of Sweet Daddy Grace Sharpton and Hymietown Jackson
* Prodigy of Mobb Deep getting punched out by some random-ass rapper

Seriously folks, has sucker-punching Tapdancer P become the new Diwali riddim? All jokes aside, if Saigon mollywhopping the sickle celled former ballerina in a crowd loaded with people and getting away with it is indicative of anything, it’s proof that not only is the once-mighty G-Unit dance troupe is a shell of its former self, but nobody fears their threats of sending rappers to the “artist graveyard” anymore.

My only question is why Fiddy would actually sign the diminutive pipsqueak in the first place. He’s not been the same since Grandpa Simpson turned him into a eunuch way the fuck back when I was living with in my moms’ poolhouse, Fresh-Prince-style, six years ago. But never would I imagine that the guy would get slapped out more than Barry Horrowitz, and that motherfucker was a loser.

But when has anything gone right for G-Unit this year? From poor album sales of crew members to vindictive baby mommas looting Curtsy for more money, G-Unit’s plane has crashed more spectacularly than the one piloted by Cory Lidle earlier this year. And despite the fact that Fiddy’s latest discus is annihilating Silk Shirts' own frisbee overseas, nobody gives a shit because in a sense, the entire crew deserves what’s been coming to them.

Think about a short list of every artist G-Unit has ruined. Ja Rule plays Kris Kringle at local elementary schools, M.O.P. have been wasting away and Styles P and Jadakiss have resorted to making shoddy music videos for “street DVDs” just to keep the lights on. It’s one thing to continuously rag on an enemy, but once the line that prevents said artists’ child from eating is crossed, that’s just wrong.

But who gives a shit about those rich assfaces anyways? As far as I’m concerned, Tru-Life could drop an anvil Wile E. Coyote-style on Prodigy and I wouldn’t give a fuck. And even though the shit is mildly entertaining, we must all realize that none of this is good for hip-hop at all, as it will just cause more conservative pundit pricks and closeted religious fags to use it as a scapegoat for fucking Osama bin Laden of all things.

***

UPDATE: Uh-oh! Guess who's back!

33 Comments             

Lost Ones

You wanna know what absolutely fucking sucks? I just renewed my subscription for Scratch Magazine a few weeks ago, only to find out the other day that their September issue will be their last.

Aside from being pissed that I just lost $12, I’m a little sad to see that one of my favorite paper publications died. What makes this truly depressing, however, was because Scratch was one of the few (if not only) mass-produced magazines that still held a torch to one of the original foundations of hip-hop: the DJ/producer. Granted, they sometimes royally fucked up by throwing the likes of former Fugee/current faux Marley kid Wyclef Jean on the front, but that was solely to attract the masses, as its contents touched on everything, from the birthplace of the Justo Awards (you know, before Justo got ethered and the show went to shit like pretty much every other Black-oriented award shows) and the location of the original D&D Studios to the tools your favorite producer (shitbag or otherwise) and mixtape reviews. And now it’s gone, much like my paychecks are come rent- and bill-paying time.

The obvious cause of the magazine’s demise? Quite simply, the lack of support from the audience they were trying to attract, also known as the Jansport-rocking, chewstick munching, faux-“real hip-hop” heads who couldn’t tell you what hip-hop was if Brother Ali ran up on them with the burner and forced it down their collective throats. Being that I was cut from both the “jiggy” and “alternative” cloths, I’m more than well aware of the bubblehead backpackers who claim they’ll only support that “real” shit by not listening to the radio or watching MTV, yet rush to their mother’s virus-ridden computer to rapiduploadspace the latest album by, um, the cracka-ass ginger kid who runs that Definitive Jux label [1]. While it’s understandable that they were probably turned off by the mag when they see the likes of the Southern version of Chris Kanyon and his n-word spitting, fake-ass DJ Pudgee The Arabian Fat Bastard grace its cover, had they perhaps opened up the magazine they’d have seen that the magazine was much more.

On a semi-related note, it was actually a brilliant idea for BET to quietly mention that their flagship show Rap City was being moved to a different time during the hubbub that was the Curtsy/Kanye maelstrom, in hopes that nobody would notice it’d been replaced by reruns of The Wayans Bros., what with today’s music videos resembling that piece of shit show somewhat unintentionally (yeah, right) nowadays. Maybe their underwear-with-the-dickhole-wearing female CEO finally wised up to the bullshit being spewed on that show and moved to shit to the real artist’s graveyard: the late-night time slot. If you ask me though, I think that it’s inherently trying to punish hip-hop for morphing from a colorful, lush culture to a misogynistic, violent shell of its former self. If these two things aren’t proof that this culture is in dire straits, I don’t know what is.

[1] And no, I’ve not gotten his shit, because I find it much more intriguing to discover dusty soul songs by Labi Siffre than listening to some guy lament about why he's so depressed in rap form. The perfect cure for those blues? Rubbing one out.

19 Comments             

Hip-Hop Homos

If there’s one thing that has always intrigued me the most about hip-hop, it’s its forever-wavering hypocrisy complex. Seriously, who really believes that Weasel F. Fraggle pushes more keys than Broadwood & Sons, when he can’t even get caught by the fuzz with a loaded gun? I’m not saying he doesn’t or hadn’t, however; I’m pretty sure he can stash the weight in that gaping hole that used to be his ass before Slim and Baby got to it, Bella Donna style (yikes!) [1].

Since I’m on the topic of butt-ramming, it never seems to disappoint whenever rappers turn their tunnel visions onto homosexuality. Actually, that shit could be the highlight of  this abysmal rap year: rappers jumping on gays as if they were the cause of all of society’s ills. I may be fucked up for this, but how hilarious is it that while they’ll say they’re not homophobes, rappers will gladly put a spiked cleat on a fruitcake quickfast?

To me, I’ve never seen a problem with homosexuality, especially when it’s two attractive women involved. But I find it a little contradictive that a rapper will rhyme about his slore having a slore on the side, but will calmly slap the ever-loving shit out of a gay person – as Busta Rhymes did earlier this year – when approached.

I have the sinking feeling that now rappers are attacking gays in order to re-energize their flagging careers. Take former G-Unit punching bag (and part-time mall Santa) Ja Rule, for instance. In his latest rant in Complex, he tried to take the tallest Israeli of them all, Viacom, to task for having two guys tongue-throttle each other on some random-ass dating show in the middle of the day, with the logic behind it being that he doesn’t want his children seeing that. Not to say that he’s wrong (as showing sexually-charged material during after school hours is quite possibly the main reason middle schoolers are having orgies in class while the teacher is out [2]), but if he really didn’t want them to see the shit, it’d be as simple as changing the channel, or turning off the television completely. On the other hand, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t object to seeing two women go at it in the same scenario (hell, I wouldn’t mind either). Um, double standard, anyone?

But parts of me wants to believe that this rampant homophobia is merely being used as a cloak for those rappers who are actually gay but are so deep in the closet, they’d still find the panties they rocked during their high school dropout years. Think about it: it’s common knowledge that the faggotiest ones of all are usually those who heavily deny the shit in the first place, not unlike Colonel Frank Fitts in American Beauty. In that sense, it wouldn’t take a rocket scientist to see who’s the real gay rapper.

[1] Seriously, Lil Wayne may knob-slobbers want to check this out. If you can’t even tell the truth about your age on the world’s most accurate website, how am I supposed to believe you don’t get touched on the inside?

[2] I wrote about this incident a while ago, but I’m too lazy to dig up the piece on it right now.

81 Comments             

Rap Is Full Of Shit

While I enjoy what I do and what’s happened to me since I returned to it, there are times where this industry you (the reader) and I (the cynical blogger/journalist) love so dearly (don’t front) will get to me. In this never-ending, always-demanding profession I chose to pursue a few years ago, there’s been a shitload of times where I almost put down the proverbial pen and said, “Fuck this shit.”

But not because of the cyber-haters, of course. They can bite my ass. [||]

There was actually a time where I actually put my writing game on hold, though. I mentioned it before, but when I started taking this writing shit seriously some three years ago, after a combination of fucked up politics, bitch-ass “rappers” and a lack of decent pay, my brain literally shut down the part of me that loved to write for the creative, artistic aspects of it when I realized I was only doing it to pay a phone bill a mere six months into the shit.

And I didn’t write again for two years.

In a sense, the sabbatical gave me enough time to recharge, re-evaluate and re-energize my confidence in my work. It also helped that I developed a much more wary attitude of the business as a whole, although some of you will call it “hating.”

The reason I bring up my scenario [1] it makes me wonder how these rappers can do it, with the extraordinary amount of pressure that gets knuckleballed their way all the time. While many of us like to bark on how they lost their hunger once they got rich, I highly doubt they could keep that energy consistently once they’ve become a public figure. Not to say I feel sorry for them when they bitch about not being able to get a McGriddle without getting mobbed by Stanleys (or if they’re lucky, slores), but you have to wonder just how much the shit takes it toll on them.

Take Fiddy for instance. After recently seeing that news video of Curtsy not wanting to do music anymore, I actually felt a little sad for the guy (I know). Think about it: he spends so much time playing the role of the ‘roided-out super-villain that he couldn’t show some vulnerability if he wanted to, lest the public eye jump on his ass calling him all kinds of homophobic jibba jabba. Need further proof? Check how he backpedaled literally 12 hours later, threatening to go to war with the rap version of Al-Jazeera itself.

But I guess it’s the sacrifice we all have to make in order to make it. Perhaps I’m looking to deep into it as I always do things, but it’d actually kinda suck if these thoughts held some sort of validity to them. But fuck it, though: I can vent on random cyber-thug #358 any day of the week to make me feel better.

[1] Food for thought: I had a breakdown six months into the shit (yeah, I know. Pussy, right?). Imagine being someone who’s been in it (except those cloaked TIs you never see) for damn near a decade or more.

89 Comments             

Rap Is Full Of Shit

While I enjoy what I do and what’s happened to me since I returned to it, there are times where this industry you (the reader) and I (the cynical blogger/journalist) love so dearly (don’t front) will get to me. In this never-ending, always-demanding profession I chose to pursue a few years ago, there’s been a shitload of times where I almost put down the proverbial pen and said, “Fuck this shit.”

But not because of the cyber-haters, of course. They can bite my ass. [||]

There was actually a time where I actually put my writing game on hold, though. I mentioned it before, but when I started taking this writing shit seriously some three years ago, after a combination of fucked up politics, bitch-ass “rappers” and a lack of decent pay, my brain literally shut down the part of me that loved to write for the creative, artistic aspects of it when I realized I was only doing it to pay a phone bill a mere six months into the shit.

And I didn’t write again for two years.

In a sense, the sabbatical gave me enough time to recharge, re-evaluate and re-energize my confidence in my work. It also helped that I developed a much more wary attitude of the business as a whole, although some of you will call it “hating.”

The reason I bring up my scenario [1] it makes me wonder how these rappers can do it, with the extraordinary amount of pressure that gets knuckleballed their way all the time. While many of us like to bark on how they lost their hunger once they got rich, I highly doubt they could keep that energy consistently once they’ve become a public figure. Not to say I feel sorry for them when they bitch about not being able to get a McGriddle without getting mobbed by Stanleys (or if they’re lucky, slores), but you have to wonder just how much the shit takes it toll on them.

Take Fiddy for instance. After recently seeing that news video of Curtsy not wanting to do music anymore, I actually felt a little sad for the guy (I know). Think about it: he spends so much time playing the role of the ‘roided-out super-villain that he couldn’t show some vulnerability if he wanted to, lest the public eye jump on his ass calling him all kinds of homophobic jibba jabba. Need further proof? Check how he backpedaled literally 12 hours later, threatening to go to war with the rap version of Al-Jazeera itself.

But I guess it’s the sacrifice we all have to make in order to make it. Perhaps I’m looking to deep into it as I always do things, but it’d actually kinda suck if these thoughts held some sort of validity to them. But fuck it, though: I can vent on random cyber-thug #358 any day of the week to make me feel better.

[1] Food for thought: I had a breakdown six months into the shit (yeah, I know. Pussy, right?). Imagine being someone who’s been in it (except those cloaked TIs you never see) for damn near a decade or more.

0 Comments             

Rap Is Full Of Shit

While I enjoy what I do and what’s happened to me since I returned to it, there are times where this industry you (the reader) and I (the cynical blogger/journalist) love so dearly (don’t front) will get to me. In this never-ending, always-demanding profession I chose to pursue a few years ago, there’s been a shitload of times where I almost put down the proverbial pen and said, “Fuck this shit.”

But not because of the cyber-haters, of course. They can bite my ass. [||]

There was actually a time where I actually put my writing game on hold, though. I mentioned it before, but when I started taking this writing shit seriously some three years ago, after a combination of fucked up politics, bitch-ass “rappers” and a lack of decent pay, my brain literally shut down the part of me that loved to write for the creative, artistic aspects of it when I realized I was only doing it to pay a phone bill a mere six months into the shit.

And I didn’t write again for two years.

In a sense, the sabbatical gave me enough time to recharge, re-evaluate and re-energize my confidence in my work. It also helped that I developed a much more wary attitude of the business as a whole, although some of you will call it “hating.”

The reason I bring up my scenario [1] it makes me wonder how these rappers can do it, with the extraordinary amount of pressure that gets knuckleballed their way all the time. While many of us like to bark on how they lost their hunger once they got rich, I highly doubt they could keep that energy consistently once they’ve become a public figure. Not to say I feel sorry for them when they bitch about not being able to get a McGriddle without getting mobbed by Stanleys (or if they’re lucky, slores), but you have to wonder just how much the shit takes it toll on them.

Take Fiddy for instance. After recently seeing that news video of Curtsy not wanting to do music anymore, I actually felt a little sad for the guy (I know). Think about it: he spends so much time playing the role of the ‘roided-out super-villain that he couldn’t show some vulnerability if he wanted to, lest the public eye jump on his ass calling him all kinds of homophobic jibba jabba. Need further proof? Check how he backpedaled literally 12 hours later, threatening to go to war with the rap version of Al-Jazeera itself.

But I guess it’s the sacrifice we all have to make in order to make it. Perhaps I’m looking to deep into it as I always do things, but it’d actually kinda suck if these thoughts held some sort of validity to them. But fuck it, though: I can vent on random cyber-thug #358 any day of the week to make me feel better.

[1] Food for thought: I had a breakdown six months into the shit (yeah, I know. Pussy, right?). Imagine being someone who’s been in it (except those cloaked TIs you never see) for damn near a decade or more.

0 Comments