• » 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

Who’s Ready For “Graduation?”

You know, for all the... um... “criticism” I’ve given about the guy, somewhere down the line I guess I “forgot” to mention that I actually like Kanye West (pause) [1]. Granted, not in the way that I think he’s the new DJ Premier or anything (he’s not even the new Madd Rapper, for that matter), but in that similar, Dip Set love-hate style. Plus, he’s willing to take great lengths in getting his name out there, even though he ends up looking like a whiny little bitch most of the time, which I can admire.

For any artist, trying to make oneself appear as if they’re a deeply conflicted, tortured soul despite the fact that they’ve likely spent more money on gaudy baubles than I have in my savings account is like the quasi-homosexual alternative to the typical wave cap-rocking gat-toter. It’s hard for me to take the shit these fruitbag tendencies seriously: I mean, all top-selling (and even some that go plastic wood grain) artists should instantly know that certain amenities the average nine-to-fiver enjoys like the ability to walk outside in public without being mobbed by a shitload of groupies gets thrown out the window once they hit the big time. I don’t know about you, but my Chicken Crunchwrap Supreme isn’t any less fulfilling just because Eminem can’t go out and get one like I can.

Whatever the case may be, it appears as if Kanye is leaning more towards Slim Shady’s now-legendary bitch fits that’s left him a reclusive shell of his former self. For years I’d see glimpses of this behavior in certain songs here and there, but now it looks like he’s fully ready to unleash that “time of the month,” douchebaggy attitude as a full-length album.

Whereas that leaked, soft-ass single he “co-produced” with DJ Toomp was more or less a hip-hop version of “I Will Survive,” his latest crapterpiece, “Stronger, [2]” seems to be taking shots at the Internets schmucks - such as yours truly – that call him out on his phony “hip-hop prophet” ideologies. From the surgically-repaired-but-still-fucked-up-looking mouthpiece himself:

So I started reading the hip-hop blogs... where they would say Kanye, one of his shoelaces ain’t tied…he’s a bitch... So those are some of the things that led to ‘Stronger, that don’t kill me can only make me Stronger.‘”

Oh really?

Basically, Tooda is getting asshurt because there are still those out in the hip-hop world who refuse to acknowledge him as some driving slipper-rocking rap deity, which I just find hilarious. For someone who could literally buy and sell this site I write on, drawing inspiration from those who call him out on his sideways-softy attitude to make a song is about as sauce as me plugging my ears up and bitching whenever some hump calls me out of character, which is ridiculously ass-backward. However, in the unlikely (but probable) possibility that I’m partly responsible for him making this song, while I'll definitely take a masochistic pride in the fact that i had a hand in this latest ear violation, I may consider changing my profile picture back to its former photo. Lord knows I don’t need some random-ass hump asking me for an autograph while I’m shopping for some honey buns.

[1] I am a fan of shitty music, after all.

[2] If you haven’t yet, feel free to check out Donwill’s post on the screenshots for this damn thing. And to those that live in the Tri-State area, please support duke and his crew Tanya Morgan by coming out to that Brooklyn Hip-Hop Festival going on this weekend.

25 Comments             

Downgrade You

Not to give away some ammunition for the humps that take my thoughts in another direction here, but I haven’t been on a meaningful date in almost a year. While part of me tends to think that this is due to my unwillingness to pay for the entire Denny’s check (surely it can’t be due to my strapping good looks straight from the darkest regions of Lagos), I can’t help but notice that I’m not the only one who has similar issues.

Before the Internets made it easier to cop a mixtape and rap was still in its pre-prima Donna phase, it used to be that if your means of transportation wasn’t a Huffy or a monthly pass, you could pull anybody off the bus stop with little qualms. Even fat asses like Big Pun and Frank White made the shit look easy. But somewhere between the time when Baby and Slim began tonguing down the Hot Boys and Diddy shot some random-ass bystander in the face and blamed Shyne did the public‘s ideals changed. Whereas you could roll up on a busted Peugeot and pull the flyest shorty on the block, now it seems a must that men have to literally wear their 401(k) in their mouths to even have a shot at talking to some random-ass ‘hood rat.

While I’d like to believe that as the quality of life improves - what with technology making it easier to see a pair of breasts almost at will now – most people should rightfully expect more than pink cookies in a plastic bag for a gift, it seems to me that hip-hop may have a hand in this shift. With songs supporting the woman’s independent lifestyle meshing with television’s portrayal of men as either a flossed-out, shallow hooligan or gun-toting, drug-running wife beaters, it’s not hard to see how fucked this scenario is for the average nine-to-fiver. I particularly remember an outing from a while back where my date’s career aspirations were to “marry a rich rapper and live off their expense.”

If only it were morally acceptable to slap the ever loving shit out of a woman in public. But I digress.

That’s not to say that women need to lower their standards when it comes to the entire scene, lest they’d end up with one of the zombie crackhead types that flood my city. But at the same time they shouldn’t automatically assume that all men are trying to smash as soon as they make eye contact with them. Perhaps if they weren’t so condescending on the way they perceive things such as interracial dating (read: Black man with a cracka-ass cracka woman) as well, some women would probably spend less time shitting on their friend’s mate while secretly plotting to screw him behind her back. I’m just saying.

Bottom line, love is not supposed to have any monetary value. And if people would stop listening to rap music like it’s Dr. Phil or some shit, maybe there’d be a little more unity in the culture to begin with.

45 Comments             

People Don’t Dance No Mo’

Last week while I was discussing the somewhat unsettling trend where dead rappers tend to get better promotion, I mentioned that while it shouldn’t be the cultural norm, murder is unfortunately a part of hip-hop culture. Not surprisingly (and perhaps due to my reputation here), the entire thing was cast aside as nothing but more negative banter, much like the rest of the gems I drop here. Most humps are quick to say that I spit the way I do to get attention like some scorned bitch or because I assume that the hip-hop audience is a sensitive bunch of schmucks whose satin panties get bloodied up whenever I open my mouth, when they fail to realize that I - like everyone else at this section of the Internets - am a living, breathing embodiment of the rebellious, anarchistic mores that got everybody open off of hip-hop in the first place. If anything, blame hip-hop itself for installing a “take no shit, speak your mind” attitude in this body of mine, which is the antithesis of this country’s subservient culture. I shouldn’t have to explain myself, but there are still those who still can’t see past the candy-coated vernacular for the gritty truth.

I sometimes hate to have to elaborate - or in some cases dumb down - on my ideals here because it unfortunately proves to me that there are still those twits out there who think that all there is to hip-hop is simply either listening to a shitload of mixtapes, reading a gossip section, rocking a Jansport with chancletas while eating some tree bark or using slang and expletives when posting a comment. Dumb humps need teaching nowadays.

When I imply that hip-hop and murder are intertwined, not only do I mean it in the literal sense of some random-ass thug undeservedly pushing the wigs back of our favorite rappers-turned-martyrs, but also in the cultural and mental sense as well. Hip-hop is the most homicidal culture; you’ll hear about someone getting bodied in this shit more than any other musical genre.

For years the TIs have known that controversy creates cash (word to Eric Bischoff). So what better hullabaloo is there than murder? This is why you see and hear shirtless, ‘roid-raged drug addicts rhyming about killing each other more so than anything else every day. Is there any wonder why rich pricks across middle-class America would rather pop a cannon instead of read a book? As overrated as I think he is, I have to give it up to Kanye West for at the very least attempting to instill a smidgen of normalcy in hip-hop. It probably would have worked better if he didn’t run around with a murse all day, but whatever.

Quite a few of the readers here were up in arms because I felt no remorse for the likes of Stack Bundles. Honestly, I still don’t understand the logic of showing respect to anyone whose life ended in the same manner their lyrics were molded after. If anything, part of the cause of his death should be placed on the TIs’ hands, since they are primarily responsible for programming the shit into the collective consciences in the first place. By that bizarre logic, I suppose I should feel bad because the guy who supposedly ethered Stack Bundles got Stack Bundled himself, right?

That’s not to say that anybody deserves to die or should have death come to them just because they either rap about or are affiliated with murder all day long. At the same time, if a rapper (or any goonie goo goo for that matter) is heavily involved in that scene, it shouldn’t be a surprise when a green-eyed devil decides to light up a Camborghini or crush a retina, Kimbo-style. It’s sad really: violence only begets more violence. And unless the rest of the hip-hop nation wakes up, the shit will continue long after I’ve exhausted my pen.

30 Comments             

The Armchair Revolution

You gotta love this shit: humps worldwide come to this section of the Internets to read up on the latest news of their favorite half-tard rapper, listen to the next shitbag single that’ll make them uncontrollably do the Whop in clubs, read interviews by intelligent-deficient artists or simply come to the blogs to see who the fuck is gonna catch a mean one. Where else can you see a site host an online listening party for Pudgee The Arabian Fat Bastard one day, then jump on his ass because he likes to drop the dreaded n-word the next? Blogs are one of the few joints based on the forgotten element of hip-hop: the cipher. An e-panel discussion, if you will. Someone’s here to open up a topic of interest, and others come to respond back, or in my case, call me out of character and demand for my e-impeachment. I don’t mind, though; if I can get just one hump to expand their thought process a little bit past the dregs of media television, I know I’ve done my job. And it’s not like I do this shit for a lot of money either, so consider these my gifts to you. I spit these crowns to leave your heads wrapped with jewels.

I give big ups to some of the peoples, places and things that inspire me to keep doing this shit. If it weren’t for this little thing called hip-hop, I’d probably be writing some quasi-homosexual bullshit about Jesse McCartney or something. I’m actually surprised at how many people are willing to jump down my throat in the name of their favorite rapper, even if said rapper reminds me of Rowlf the Dog and/or rock vice grip-tight V-necks and meatwatcher jeans. So I know I must be doing something right, regardless of the slander mail I receive.

Speaking of which, I’ve noticed that my other blogging brethren followed my lead and have carved out their own niche here. It was about time too; it was getting lonely being the only one that talks shit here. Had I known Donwill was gonna show up, I probably wouldn’t have yoked his crew’s album off the Internets. That shit took forever to find, but it was worth the search. Brillyance is coming correct giving love to local crews; I’m too much of a cynical bastard to attempt that. J-23 is like my paleface alter ego; he’s blacker than a lot of you suckers out there. I ain’t forgot about you either, Shake; keep stirring shit up. Andres is probably the only Latino I know that actually hates “Lean Like A Cholo;” can’t go wrong with that. And have you seen the women here? I don’t know why the humps would swoon over some shitty singer whose bobble head weighs the rest of her body down when you got genuine wifey material here. I know I wasn’t the only who fell a little bit in love with aliya after her ode to H.E.R. a few days back. A.H.L.O.T. got the style game on lock, and Soopa Starr’s like my e-baby moms; her swagger is a wonderland. All three of them are on some “flowers & candy,” old-school chivalry shit. That’s the prototype right there.

Extra shout outs go to the rappers that take the time out of their crazy hectic schedules and drop jewels here. Stimuli keeps the young’ns schooled and you’d be hard-pressed not to root for Termanology and Torae. Crooked I reminds me of that one live wire cat in your crew that doesn’t give a fuck and says whatever pops up in their mind. You gotta respect that.

Recognize that hip-hop ain’t dead because some cantankerous chump says so. If the shit did suck, I wouldn’t spend a good part of my life writing on it. The armchair revolution will not be televised, so either get down with it or lay down from it.

Fifty posts down, and I’m just getting started. Fresh for ’07, sissies!

22 Comments             

Rihanna? Are You Serious?

A few days ago when I dropped a post on another site I write for (which you can read here), I made the allusion that White people have been primarily responsible for resuscitating R&B and soul music, while shitbag no-talent Black hacks can’t seem to get it right. I’ve already admitted earlier how UK chanteuse Amy Winehouse’s Back To Black gets more play in my iPod than the likes of Illmatic nowadays, but I’m gonna go out on a limb and quite possibly “ether” my own credibility here (like I give a shit about that anyways) that perennially hip-hop producers like DJ Premier, Timbaland and Polow Da Don never sounded better in the past few years than they have providing the sonics for the likes of Christina Aguilera, Justin Timberlake and Fergie respectively.

To quasi-reference producer/crackhead Dallas Austin, perhaps the “magical elixir” between their legs provided such grounds for inspiration, yes?

In any matter, with all the pink toes running around moving platinum numbers utilizing a predominantly Black-oriented sound, it appears as if Black artists have resorted to trying to yoke the palefaces’ soundscape, which in actuality was a shitty hybrid of other shitty Black-inspired sounds to create one extra fucked up-sounding genre, more commonly known as pop music. Problem is, pop music stunk to high Hell to begin with, so it’s no wonder we’re seeing more and more no-hit wonders pop up and violate our minds more frequently than before.

Ironically, one of those eardrum crushers has managed to become more popular, which is something I’d never expected: Rihanna. With Def Jam’s machine as her backing, she’s managed to become a female Akon (who’s certainly no Marvin Gaye himself) of sorts: worldwide acclaim and high-selling albums yet still a sub par talent who couldn’t sing her way out of a wet paper bag with scissors in her hands.

It’s hard to imagine that in today’s climate (well, not that hard) that some random-ass island broad with vocals that remind me of my car brakes could be so revered. When I was in Trinidad earlier this year, I’ve never seen so many people go apeshit over Crash Bandicoot, which leads me to believe that either that country has a poor taste in music or they’re just so misguided and downtrodden by the harsh conditions there that they’ll praise some anchor-headed chick like she was the last king of Scotland [1].

It also doesn’t help that she has Grandpa Simpson in her corner, as he’s blatantly molding her into this weird amalgamation of Beyoncé and Machel Montano. Unfortunately, he’s tricked the most of the music world that she’s the greatest thing since peanut butter and chocolate sandwiches. He pulled that same stunt trying to force Memphis Bleek down our throats, and that shit failed miserably. Shit, for all I know, Rihanna could just be Bleek in a mini and a painted Alien Nation mask.

I guess in the days of crappy albums and shittier record sales, some people will look towards anything for a hit. But I never assumed that music’s general population would be so gullible that they’d allow this no-talent to get so internationally known while simultaneously shitting on the ears of the world. On an off kilter but semi-related note, Amerie just put out an album ten times better than Rihanna’s, but it’s only relegated to the overseas markets. Plus, Amerie’s much easier on the eyes than her ass to boot. Where’s the justice in that?

[1] Sorry, aliya. But when that country blasted her music more than they played their own soca stylings, something is definitely wrong. I just call it like I see it.

143 Comments             

The Dreaded N-Word

Question: when did become culturally acceptable for non-black people to start saying the dreaded n-word? Never have I seen such furor over one word like it was the secret code word for a bucket of chicken or something.

But here’s the thing: did cracka-ass crackas, chinks, camel jockeys, wetbacks and other non-black ethnicities start using the word because they heard it in a rap song, hung around black people who say it all the time or because they know most black people are now too lazy to slap the ever-loving shit out of them whenever they drop the n-bomb? Personally I could more or less do without some random-ass jig saying the word all the time like it’d bring out Jambi The Genie, but I’ve rarely brought myself up to want to beat a jackass down for saying it because it doesn’t rile me up as much as it used to in college.

Besides, I can never be a thug; they don’t dress this well.

Not to say that I don’t understand why other Black people would want to fuck somebody up, as in the case of Timbaland snuffing some random-ass paleface a few days ago in Germany. I mean, if some honky ran up on me screaming out the dreaded n-word with malicious intent, I’d also be more than willing to put a foot on the back of his neck, Bloodsport-style. But I’d be hard-pressed to want to mow down some cracka-ass cracka who’s singing along to “Ratha Be Ya N.I.G.G.A.,” as I saw on the freeway while on my way to work the other day. Outside of looking like a general dumbass, people like that guy aren’t doing a disservice to anyone.

Since I’m on the topic of shitbag artists that don’t do shit for me, if Black people get so asshurt whenever some Iron Sheikh-looking DJ blabs it out on Rap City, why is it considered okay for Blacks to call him an sarong-rocking terrorist, other than the fact that it’s fucking hilarious? If a red-dot featherhead doesn’t get upset that we call them out of character, is it not a double standard to get mad whenever we catch it back?

While I do understand that the dreaded n-word is an expression steeped in slavery, discrimination, segregation and pretty much every other thing that’s been designed to fuck over Black people for centuries, it’s odd to consider how Black people themselves use it as if it were some sort of bizarre fraternal word. Not to turn the spotlight back on me, but I really don’t care if some random-ass gook blurts it out like it was going out of style. At the same time, other races shouldn’t get worked up whenever Blacks return the favor back to them. I mean, cracka-ass crackas take most of the good jobs in this world as is. The day I stop calling a honky a honky is the day they get ran for those forty acres and mules they promised Blacks all those years ago.

Much like all negative things, one must be ready for any backlash that comes from their actions. We already know that Black people have the most ripped off cultures as is. Can we really be angry when another random-ass ethnicity steals our slang, especially one as societally damaging as the dreaded n-word?

83 Comments             

A Weed Carrier’s Eulogy

You may not know it, but this Saturday would have marked Tupac Shakur’s 36th birthday. And while most people like to proclaim that the hip-hop society would be different if he or Biggie didn’t get shot the fuck up, I’m pretty sure the two would be lambasted and categorized as “old man rap” they same way we bitch about Jay-Z not wanting to give up the mike. On the other hand, had Suge Knight not held him up to the passenger window and used him as a human bulletproof vest, would he still be held in such a high regard as he is today? Hell, I bet if perennially grumpy old coot KRS-One caught that metal lungie in his neck instead of Scott La Rock, music critics, hipsters and message board hounds alike would be calling him the greatest rapper of all time. What’s fucked up is that while all of the good ones (with the exceptions of Soulja Slim and, of course, Stack Bundles, among others) are getting picked off, the shitty rappers are still running around violating the ears of the hip-hop world. Who would have thought that Lil’ Wayne would have more longevity in the game than Big L? That shit is astonishing.

The funny thing about death in hip-hop is that once some random-ass rapper catches an ethering, other random-ass schmucks start giving a fuck about the person as if he was Jim Morrison or some shit. Sure it may suck when some douche like Camouflage gets his brains turned into Gouda, but I’m not about to run out and spend my sneaker money on any of his craptacular albums like he paid my bills or something. If I didn’t give one-eighth of a shit about him when he was alive, it wouldn’t matter that I don’t give a shit about him now that his body is floating somewhere in the Gulf Coast, right?

And with so many people singing the praises of Biggie and Eazy-E, why doesn’t anybody care about the likes of Cowboy, Marlon Brando, Mausberg and the rest of those dead dickheads? We’ll never have a street named after Freaky Tah in Queens or some park bench devoted to Bloodshed in Harlem. At the very least I’d like to see a crack spot dedicated to Slang Ton. Latasha Harlins did more for hip-hop than the three of them combined, and that broad didn’t even rap. Why doesn’t she have a recognized holiday?

I could more or less give a shit about a rapper getting his kufi shot off. Call me remorseless (among other things), but I can’t feel bad when some no-name ganja grunt gets annihilated in a pissy project hallway for their chain. My question isn’t who did the crime; it’s what the hell was that person doing still living on Section 8 with a fur coat and a chunky neckpiece like they’re the motherfucking man anyways? That’s ridiculously ass-backwards as is. Fuck “keeping it real;” the day anybody moves into a higher tax bracket they should “keep it alive.”

While I’ll agree that murder shouldn’t be the cultural norm as my fashion sister from another mister A.H.L.O.T. said, if their raps weren’t filled with such homicidal banter, most jigs probably wouldn’t have gotten killed in the first place. You don’t see anybody sticking up weenie-ass Pharrell for any of his big-ass chains or getting Common for his crocheted pants and fedoras, do you? On the other hand, celebrating the trials and tribulations of any artist is just as retarded. It’s a little surprising to see so many people support singing degenerate R. Kelly after he unloaded on that jailbait’s face more so than the fact that he squirted on her in the first place. In that sense, I suppose we should all laud that jig from Crime Mob who’s locked up for going all Peter North and touched his little brother on the inside, right?

Alongside materialism and misogyny, murder is unfortunately a part of the hip-hop society. While I know that the shit’s not gonna stop any time soon, I’m not gonna pour some of my box of wine on the ground every time someone gets murked. As tragic as their deaths may be, those shits aren’t fucking up my day. Hell, we’re probably not going to remember or give a shit about Stack Bundles in six months anyways. I know I’m not.

37 Comments             

It’s Not My Fault You Ain’t Selling

One of the many problems within hip-hop is that everyone wants to point fingers at someone else’s mistakes. Many critics attack the South for supposedly injecting a minstrel-flavored taste into today’s current musical melting pot, abandoning the lyrically driven concepts of the past for goose-stepping and hand waving, while one hump yesterday had the gall to call me out for preaching blasphemy and ignorance. The way that person threw such a bitch fit (I’ve never seen so many big words in my life!), you’d think I was the one who green-lighted “Lean Like A Cholo” or something.

If only I had that much clout.

In any case, throwing the blame on someone and hoping it sticks is a relatively weak reasoning for anything. For the most part, the music business (and pretty much all businesses that try to sell you something) try to convince its target demographic into buying whatever bullshit they put out, under the guise that it’s the “next big thing.” While I’m somewhat elated to have met people who have an IQ that’s higher than a turnip and are able to sift through the bullshit, there are still those that call a shitty album a classic since it can make you bust out the Robocop dance in the middle of a club, which is just silly.

A while back I mentioned how women are having the toughest time out of everyone in hip-hop. While I still allude to the fact that the chances of a woman being taken seriously were nigh impossible unless they either were the color of a yellow highlighter or were shaped like an hourglass, the basis of that observation comes from the decidedly male-run corporations that subliminally tell women the exact same thing. Let’s face it: in a climate loaded with machismo, nobody wants to have an image of thugged-out broad thrown in his or her face. I for one use music as a temporary escape from the bullshit issues I face on the daily. Call me a chauvinist, but the last thing image need when I watch television or listen to music are a bunch of chicks that remind me of Snoop from The Wire splayed all over the place.

Once women decided to drop the baggy clothes for some booty shorts, they actually started selling records. In an ironic twist however, that shit’s now passed off as nothing more than a sexist representation of the female population, and rightfully so. I probably would have never stolen all those copies of Hard Core if I hadn’t seen that promo poster of Lil’ Kim squatting with her monkey damn near falling out of that leopard bikini. And while many people are yearning for that “average Josephine” rapper to hit the big time, the reality is that the majority of hip-hop buyers prefer gun talk, crack sales, dance moves and other delusions of grandeur over “reality rap” [1].

A few days ago some hump was on this site proclaiming that females are fucking up hip-hop. I don’t really believe that when they’re only doing what their TIs are telling them what to do. And contrary to popular belief, there are some women in the industry that hold a lot of weight behind the scenes.  But it’s kind of sad if you think about it: genuinely talented (and jaundice-toned) rappers like Jean Grae and Rah Digga will always be passed over for some random-ass skeezer who won’t sell shit, all because they don’t have a closet full of assless chaps. And if that isn’t ignorant, I don’t know what is.

[1] And don’t give me any bullshit on Kanye West. Running around like a fake-ass “Evel” Knievel ain’t real.

30 Comments             

It’s Not All Good In The ‘Hood

On an interesting note, I was thinking of writing this over the weekend, only to find out a member or Jim Jones’ crew of, err, rappers was killed yesterday morning. Without giving my “thoughts” on the ordeal (it’s way too soon for that), I’d just like to send my condolences to the family, fans and friends of Stack Bundles.

Anyways, during the days of Cross Colours and African medallions, cities from South Central to Brooklyn and everywhere in between were some of the gulliest spots in the nation. While the ghettos made for fodder in some of your favorite “’hood movies,” the reality was that none of them ever came close to depicting to harsh realism of those cities.

A common mistake made by out-of-towners was rocking the “wrong colors” in the ‘hood. Whereas nowadays most hipsters can now roam freely with red laces in their shoes in Long Beach, lots of unfortunate people were either shot, stabbed or jabbed in their eye, alongside getting stuck up for their jewels for doing the same thing a good 20 years ago. Growing up raised by a ridiculously strict mother, I don’t even think the colors red and blue were allowed in my closet.

Eventually the TIs that run these cities had the great idea of purging some of these rougher spots of their criminal elements in order to attract other TIs’ businesses, thus inspiring cracka-ass hipsters all over to convene in spots like Williamsburg and Los Angeles whenever a Starbucks popped up. Not to say that I enjoy cruising through Downtown Long Beach and seeing a shitload of skinny jean-rocking quasi-homosexuals, but if cracka-ass crackas moving in keep crack moving out, who am I to judge?

I guess I’m a little salty because while other cities got bourgeoisie shit like Trader Joe’s and Red Lobster, mine just got stuck with a couple of random-ass Target stores, but whatever.

Unfortunately, now that the hipsters have cleared out the best weed spots, most of the hooligans have resorted to either thugging it out in square-ass cities like Pasadena, or they’ve taken to the Internets to cyber-bang for the fuck of it. I figure that they’ve been inspired by The Diplomats’ resident MySpace hackers/goon squad, because now most of these schmucks have taken to that site to throw up their sets. Ironically, I know someone who works for MySpace, and I’ve been told that some of those same people also like to post butt-ass naked pictures of themselves, which is just wrong on a shitload of levels. Meanwhile, I can’t even go to seemingly neutral spots like the City Walk in Hollywood without seeing some shit jump off, as it almost did last weekend.

I guess that with all these rappers running around barrel-chested and boasting about moving weight or turning somebody into Swiss cheese, many of their lemmings yearn to follow in their footsteps. Sadly, none of them want to “glorify” the repercussions that come with the territory. Whereas in Stack Bundles’ case there are those that will still take it there, I’d never envision the day where so-called thugs would try to flex their dominance on sites like this one of all places. Then again, I’ve been e-threatened countless times since I got here, so it’s not like I should be surprised.

58 Comments             

The Cycle Never Ends

A while back one of the illest writers I know asked me to share my opinion on the decades-long trials and tribulations of one Mumia Abu-Jamal when fire-breathing emcee Immortal Technique expounded his thoughts. In all honesty, I found that to be one of the more difficult requests I’ve received since I’ve been occupying this section of the Internets. Admittedly, I haven’t kept up too much with his ordeal since I graduated college, aside from a web search here and there. Not to sound like a prick, but when you had bills to pay and no job to pay them with, certain things must unfortunately be placed on the backburner.

Being a part-time anarchist, I’ve always considered the laws and enforcement system to be ridiculously imbalanced and unfair. Whereas they were particularly aimed at shitting on the Black population [1] in the past, they are now designed to make sure the poor population [2] won’t make it, which is wrong. However, being a part-time realist, I recognize that they are needed in some way, lest some random e-thug actually puts something hot in my face (pause) and gets away with it. And we can’t have that now, can we?

While I do believe there has been some shady shit going on in Mumia’s case, the same shit designed to keep him coming out of prison is now ironically trying to keep cracka-ass “socialite” and Hollywood nutrag Paris Hilton stuck in the baby bing for the next month. Being stuck on the West Coast, not a minute goes by where I don’t hear anything about this broad. Granted, this is a hip-hop site and the only rap-related thing Paris has probably done was Fat Joe [3], my future ex-wife aliya ewing made a mention about it last week, and it had me thinking of the whole thing on a grander scale.

If you look past the candy-coated spectacle of this shit, the ordeal this skank is going through is comparable to the slaps on the wrists your favorite rapper gets. Why many detractors on this site could more or less give a fuck about her I don’t understand, especially considering most of the shit that’s gone down in the first half of this year falls right along the lines of the overall picture of Paris’ situation: those that are in that higher tax bracket are destined to have preferential treatment by the law. Busta Rhymes and Eve get to drive through cities drunker than my deadbeat uncle while Tony Yayo runs around Dragon Punching teenagers through walls, yet they only receive paper punishments. I’m sure I’d be used as currency in San Quentin by now if I ran around doing the same shit they did, all because I frequent the swap meets more often than I’d like to, yet Paris gets a cell to herself for six weeks. Shit, I’ve had a cell to myself since I moved out of my mom’s backyard, and I gotta pay to stay in this shit. So who’s really got it bad?

While I derive some sort of amusement watching Paris get some form of comeuppance, I really can’t support nor defend the results of the whole thing. Besides, if I were to open my virtual mouth, I’m pretty sure I’d lose my PAWG contingent here, and I’d like something to come home to if and/or when the nappy-headed hoes get tired of me.

[1] Like we really wanted to get snatched up from the land of topless cola bottle-shaped women all those years ago.

[2] If you’re not in that 5%, you’re poor.

[3] I just threw up in my mouth a little at that visual.

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