• » Name: Meka Soul
• » Location: Los Angeles, CA
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Slap-Boxing With Jesus

D.A.R.E. To Keep Rappers Off 然oids

Being a Nigerian with a ridiculously high metabolism in my family history (and hypertension. And a dash of adultery tossed in for flavor.) it’s quite hard for me to gain – and in some cases keep – weight. Not that I’m bothered by it, mind you; in a country where eight of the top ten most obese states are in the South (at least they’re winning one thing!) being in shape is more of a privilege than a natural occurrence. Can you blame the South for being so fat though? They invented soul food and the Kool-Aid pickle.

In a way my genetics are somewhat of a blessing, as I can only assume countless peoples who’d like to be in my proverbial shoes (not with my personal issues you don’t), particularly in the Hollywood lifestyle where resembling a waifish crack whore gives you more opportunities to shine some Slickback-rocking grease monkey’s knob in the hopes that they’ll land a cameo appearance in a Jack In The Box commercial. Well, at least it was that way until the TIs decided that cola bottle-shaped women were more desirable than Olive Oyl-looking mucklucks, yet another trend Southerners perfected, thus unleashing the wonderful world of Internets modeling upon us all. But shit, if a woman wants to parade around her MySpace page in nothing but some dih-duh-dih-duns, who am I to judge or object?

I guess where I’m getting at is that in this never-ending quest to become a member of the “beautiful ones” people will do damn near anything to achieve that image. So it wasn’t really surprising when I read that now celebrities are loading up on the Cream and Clear supplements. But who really didn’t see this coming? When your crew gets punched out worse than Glass Joe on an almost daily basis, you’d want to invest in the Roger Clemens Workout Plan like half of the Aftermath roster did also. Honestly I think they should just designate Prodigy as the token punching bag; whenever some nonsensical beef with another craptastic artist jumps off, Curtsy should just send Charleston P to catch a two-piece and a biscuit just on GP.

More disturbing though is how it’s proof that people will do anything to preserve their rapidly declining appearances in the name of money, because that’s really what it’s all about. Ironically these old TIs are convincing their Kuntas and Kizzys to maintain a youthful appearance so that they can appeal to a younger generation who wouldn’t know what a good song was if Biggie Smalls dug himself out of whatever grave he’s been rolling over in for the past decade and change and farted it out to them on a diamond-studded platinum plate. If anything blame those dumb ass teenagers for fucking shit up for the rest of us. Except the cheerleaders and Catholic schoolgirls, of course.

Oh please, like you’ve never thought of it either.

21 Comments             

B2Gay

Guess who's bizzack? Go in, Casey...

 

Hip Hop’s been a little boring right now for gossip and the like so I’ve been perusing the gossip sites for interesting news. Right now your boy Raz B is making the music industry a little interesting. Along with his brother, Ricky Romance a few YouTube videos and radio interview alleging, and then denying that B2K Svengali, Chris Stokes molested them and other members of B2K. Raz and Ricky posted a YouTube video claiming that Chris Stokes molested both of them including a taped conversation between Ricky R and Chris Stokes in which Chris tells Rick ‘I don’t do that anymore, I’ve changed,’ and another with Raz B and Chris Stokes sister, former rapper Smooth in which she admits Chris Stokes pattern of molestation of young boys. Following that video Raz B released a video recanting his previous allegations. After that Ricky Romance was on the radio claiming that gang members hired by Chris Stokes extorted Raz into making that video. After that Raz B went missing for a while only to resurface at Mr. Chow’s with his brother and alleged molester claiming is all family. What to make of this? Was Raz B lying to extort Chris Stokes? Why would Raz B meet with someone who used to molest him? Why would Chris Stokes meet with someone who accused him child molestation?

 I have a friend who has worked closely with Chris Stokes and he’s been telling me that he’s been queer for years. I don’t think that Raz B would make the fact that he was molested for an extortion plot. Being molested is not an easy thing to talk about and not something people are regularly divulging. Chris Stokes sister did not refute the fact that that was her voice on tape either. If you watch the retraction video, Raz B is clearly under duress and wearing a Cincinnati Reds hat (favored by Cedar Street Piru’s) so it seems quite possible that he was being extorted by gangstas into making the video. As for meeting with Chris Stokes, I’m pretty sure it was a negotiation settlement to keep Raz and his brother quiet. The meeting was at the most high profile restaurant in LA filled with paparazzi so it seems like a calculated PR move on the part of Stokes.

While the urban music industry is filled with older industry folks raping their younger artists it’s mostly in a financial way. Recently Lou Perelman, Stokes white counterpart who crafted Backstreet Boys and N’Sync was accused of molesting several boybanders. Is this a pattern of molestation among boy bands and their Svengalis? Did Maurice Starr molest New Edition (no way they would’ve beet his ass) he definitely raped them financially though and maybe he got up in a couple of the new kids too. Maybe Jermaine had Kriss Kross wear their pants backwards so he could hit it from the back more easily. Whatever Joe Jackson did to Michael Jackson must’ve been pretty bad to turn him into the albino planet of the apes extra he is today. Any suspicions I had about Baby and Wayne have only been raised by the Stokes situation. Stokes had legally adopted Raz B at around the same age that Baby ‘adopted Wayne.’ Baby had spent a fair amount of time in the pen and had perhaps taken on a taste for young men. Gillie the Kid had previously accused Baby of molesting Wayne and showed the infamous ‘Kissed My Daddy’ picture. Something is disturbing about a grown man calling another (older) man Daddy. Most grown men I know might refer to their fathers as ‘dad’ or pops, ‘daddy’ is a name for little kids use to refer to their fathers and for hoes referring to their pimps. Just as Chris stokes had B2K shower and bathe together for Stokes amusement, Lil Wayne admitted that under Baby’s orders, he kissed his other hot boys. If Baby could convince grown men to kiss him and each other on the mouth so the could be on some ‘black mafia shit,’ could he convince any of them to let him fuck them in the ass so they could be on some real jail gangsta shit? In Jamaica some of the Dons (gang leaders) rape little boys in their garrison for submission and loyalty. This seems to be an effective strategy in the music business as well.

    All jokes aside this molestation shit is no joke. This shit will fuck with you for life. Often times it can create a cycle in which the abused becomes the abuser. Other times it can lead to drug abuse, depression, violent personalities and homosexuality. One only has to watch Michael and in Season 4 of the Wire to see how much anger and disenfranchisement male on male molestation brings. The fact that people in power are using power, the temptation of fame and act as surrogate fathers to temp young boys into trading their manhood to turn into sex symbols for young girls is quite disturbing. Is it a family secret Hip Hop has been keeping quiet? Members of B2K came from broken homes often fatherless or with a parent on drugs. A few of them where Jehovah’s Witness’s too (like MJ) and Chris Stokes are supposed to be related to some of B2K, which is quite disturbing. Undoubtedly, Chris stokes has reaped millions from B2K, Immature, Marques Houston and Omarion, by being a false surrogate father to them. They came to him seeking fame and were in turned violated by the man they thought was saving them. Only the most perverted man would violate the innocence of a young man especially when they are in positions of being the boss and surrogate fathers. Raz and Ricky allege that Stokes not only molested Omarion and Marques Houston but is currently in a relationship with Marques Houston. Often times people who were molested share a bond with the molester and are loyal to them out of fear or submission. In the conversation with Smooth, Raz B was asked if he was doing it so long he must’ve liked to which he responded I didn’t like it…my ass hurt. Often times when there is a pattern of molestation in the family it keeps going on in silence often times for years and the person being molested begins to accept it as a way of life. Molestation has been a dirty secret that has been going on in the black community (and by extension the hip hop community) for years. Hopefully Raz B accusations will bring some light onto the matter and other people will feel more comfortable speaking out. I hope he didn’t meet with Stokes and take a settlement, and is gonna hire Chris and Snoop to put him one of the vacants.

32 Comments             

Lifestyles Of The Broke And Famous

For the better part of two weeks I’ve kept pretty busy, what with handling business with my job, journalizing (is that even a word?), trying to stay sane in my city now that the smellbad high schoolers fuck up the flow of traffic to work every morning, searching for a new apartment and trying not to look like a total dickhead around women. Obviously some things are more difficult and time-consuming than others, but at the very least I could sit back and relax knowing that I don’t have to pay back a shitload of money, either from college loans or an overly maxed-out credit card.

(Ladies, take note: if you want a guy who can trick on you, it’s best if you link up with someone who doesn’t have a shitload of loans, a bank who won’t answer calls or a horrible credit score. Either that, or simply give up the monk more. I’m just saying.)

In any matter, the idea of loans is a motherfucker. Here, tall Jews (to save on oxygen, let’s refer to them as TJs) throw thousands upon thousands of dollars at naïve young students while promising the “gift” of helping them achieve a better education, only to fuck them over with interest rates so ridiculously high they’ll almost always end up spending the next decade or so paying it all back. What most peoples don’t realize is that with the proper research they can find and qualify for a plethora of grants for funds they don’t even have to pay back, but damn if you see any commercials advertising for it.

The point of this wild random lesson is when you’re waist-deep and upside down in a pile of debt, you can’t even shave, shower, shit or sleep without a collections agency catching nuts from your phone number alone. But if you still insist on trying to front like your bank account doesn’t have a negative symbol before the numerals, here’s a few tips.

The swap meets are your best friend. By now, everybody who reads this sucker knows that I have an affinity for those marketplaces where a whole bunch of illegal, barely-able-to-speak-English Asians push off everything from phone cases to parakeets for half as much as the department stores (how this shit is still legal after all this time I don’t know, but I’m not complaining). Whereas it’d be taboo to cop even a pair of socks from there these shits have actually stepped their game up, providing almost the same exact items you’d see in a mall for more than half off. Plus, don’t act like you’ve never gotten a Pro Club from there before.

Cop a car that’s easy on gas. Part of the reason I’m essentially driving my twin sister’s hand-me-down Camry is because it gets great mileage. You want to save more dinero for dates? Take her out to a respectable food spot you two can walk to. At least then she’s getting her love muscles warmed up for the pounding it’s going to take later on.

Overtime, anyone? If you’re one of the few peoples in this country who managed to finagle a job that doesn’t require hand-to-hand transactions on the corner, put in as much overtime as humanly possible there since it can pay up to double the amount you originally make. Plus, knowing that you have employment period instantly impresses a lot of women, especially if you...

Wanna really stunt? Fuck her at your job. In my former manwhore life I can recall about four separate occasions where I’ve gotten that white stuff (guys, you know what I’m talking about) at the 9-to-5, and I can think of at least one moment when I got some getsome while I was on the clock. Not only will it provide verification of your employment, sexing on the lunch table and watching in disgust and amusement as co-workers eat on it the next day is fucking awesome.

22 Comments             

Wifey Material

Like every red-blooded hetero male with a functioning member, I check out this site’s Beauty & Brains section like it was a cheat sheet for a hard test. I’ll admit, there’s been those times where a few of the pictures make me yell out, “Got dayum she got some big ass titties!” I mean, take a look at LaStarya Tucker, and particularly picture eight. I mean good fucking Lord; her ass is almost three-dimensional in that shot. A few of the other, ahem, lovely ladies however? Not so much. It’s a very good thing I have Internets access at home; I honestly think I’d get fired for doing the “research” for this blog alone.

In any matter, with the way these and so many other women across the Web parade around with the boobs damn near popping out the top of their turtlenecks at any given time, it’s no wonder you see my fellow red-blooded brethren flood the c-section with colorfully creative ways of performing a donkey toboggan on any one of them if given the chance.

At the same time, should women be offended whenever this happens (more often than not, I might add)? After all, these chicks are making (or attempting to make) guap by catering to the male species’ most innate desire to mount as many women as we can until either our hearts give out from exhaustion or we catch a mean case of melt. And in some cases many of us have actually gone on to find that one person that we all need in our lives, rare as it may occur nowadays. The hells if I know if it’d ever happen to me at all, really.

If anything, women should not get pissy-mooded by the responses men have for fellow women, but for but for the ridiculously extravagant images of sexuality some women put out there for other women. I mean, if it weren’t for the airbrushed, Photoshopped, cropped, colored and altered images plastered all over magazines, billboards and computer, television and cell phone screens across the planet there wouldn’t be such a insanely high standard of beauty today, which means that women of all shapes, sizes and colors could probably land a guy who isn’t about trying to erupt sexually inside of them and bounce once their period doesn’t show up on time.

There are ways where women can look sexy as all hell and still remain that touch of class that commands respect from their male counterparts. Think about it like this: if women were more Kerry Washington or Gabrielle Union than Angel Lola Luv or Buffy The Body, I probably wouldn’t have even written this long-winded diatribe in the first place.

By the way, Wahidah if you’re reading this, holler at the kid. Joking, of course.

77 Comments             

The Low Brow Theory

If there’s one thing I’m not particularly fond of outside of the apartment I currently inhabit, exorbitant gas prices, D.L. Hughley and broccoli, it’s when dickheads do anything short of getting pegged to make a name for themselves in this already shit-plagued business. It’s one thing to act like a minstrel, coon, sell out or fruit bag because they’re really doing nothing meaningful to begin with, but sometimes the shits these yentas pull makes me really wonder if we all live in some deranged Bizarro World type existence.

Since I started writing again last year, I’ve seen a decent enough amount of success to garner a degree of recognition, and while I’ve enjoyed the fruits of my hard-earned labor, the reasons why I unfortunately cracked and took an extended sabbatical still arises from time to time. Fortunately I’m too much of a dickhead to let the shit bother me any more, but I digress.

In any matter, my recognition has attracted the attention of a plethora of humps who feel they need to flood that email addy under my all-seeing eye (not to mention on that other site I fucks with) with their latest mixtape, press release and other such random jibba jabba. While a good chunk of the stuff is dumped straight into my junk mail folder every once in a while I check it to see if I actually get something that commands my attention for more than 30 seconds, and a few days ago I got something that actually put me on stuck mode to the point I even refuse to put the link that was in the email on this bitch, though I’m pretty sure you yentas could find this shit with a quick Google search.

A few days ago some dickhead confessed to ethering Dip Set hash brownie Stack Bundles, and the video found its way to my inbox with the hopes that it’d get some play, not unlike the hood Muslim who felt that faking robberies on camera would get him some shine.  While you humps are well aware of my stance on dead rappers, it goes without saying that I care even less about rapper killers, especially those who snitch on themselves on the Internets. I guess Cam’Pon’s ethics don't really mean much now, right?

(I do find my talking about this shit to be hypocritical considering my stance on the entire thing, but notice I haven’t provided anything other than a description of the flick.)

I may not care for (read: give a shit about) many things outside my immediate circle, but even my borderline-psychotic ass has morals and limits. What’s sad about this whole video? Right after duke brags about killing ol’ boy, another wild random video pops up with some snaggletooth, ugly-ass, dark-skinned White girl (no Murs) giving her best “hood chick” impersonation. Yep, I’d say hip-hop’s getting off to a good start in 2008.

53 Comments             

That Ain稚 Gangsta

First off apologies are in order, as I was supposed to slap this up yesterday, but I didn’t want to be late for my first day at my new gig. Anyways, this one recurring thought sprouted throughout my dreadlocked skullcap when I read about the guy who got Swiss Cheesed in a cemetery on New Year’s Day: whomever pulled that stunt off (in broad daylight, nonetheless) has a mean set that probably drags on the floor when they walk down the street. Actually, I had another thought as well: that incident is a blunt reminder of how extra fucked up people can be. What made this even more interesting was that I wasn’t the only one with similar feelings, as my Long Beach blogging brethren Brillyance lamented about the other day.

For a lot of today’s shitbag artists to spit about clapping this, that, the third and their prom night dumpster baby (heh, good one Don) with seemingly little to no regard all in the hopes that they’ll look tough enough for listeners to overlook their shady pasts (damn P, you still mad after all this time?), I call bullshit on their deposits because their lives aren’t that distraught any more that they need to rap about that bullshit, especially when they’re making some form of currency off it.

Whereas I could be called a hypocrite for actually supporting some of the stuff while spitting grease at it simultaneously, I’ll have you mucklucks know that I’ve haven’t purchased any of that shit since Hell Hath No Fury [1], so it’s not like I’m really supporting it in the first place. But at least I’m not like this fake-ass “hood” Muslim dickwad who allegedly filmed crimes taking place, slapped it on a DVD and started pushing it off like Nerds Ropes. Now that word is getting out that the whole thing may have been staged, it makes him look even more of an ass cookie for trying to pull this stunt.

Like Brills said, it’s pretty asinine to rely on thug tactics as if it’s the only ways of making ends meet. As far as I’m concerned everyone (well, except for those born in those sand countries where they give you a bottle and an AR-15 when you pop out, but that’s another story) has the same opportunity as the next man and woman to make something of their lives, and simply falling into that trap of crime is another way of giving up in my eyes. But making money from the despair of others is low, and even I can’t get with that shit. If I were a really fucked up person, I’d have half a mind to upload that shit excuse of a documentary to some random site and pass it along to you guys for free, so you can see for yourself how insidious it is, not to mention loot this kumquat for his $27 to buy this thing...

Oh, who am I kidding? I am a fucked up person. L’chaim, bitches!

[1] Pharoahe Monch was talking about conspiracy theories and Quaker Oats and shit, so he doesn’t count.

23 Comments             

Who REALLY Gives A Shit About What I Say?

Here’s a little story I’d like to tell...

The best part of owning a digital music player is that I virtually have control of my radio at my fingertips. Say I want to listen to the Fu-Schnickens although I know I won’t be able to do so on the radio, which is somewhat ironic considering the stuff they do release on the airwaves reminds me of those A-Rab war cries backed by a beat. Them ol’ Xena scream shits. You know what I mean. Anyways, a quick flip of the wrist and I’m trying to mimic Chip Fu on the way to work. In that instant I’m grateful for the miniscule things in my life that piece together a much bigger picture.

What’s interesting is that something that probably means nothing to you is kind of a big deal to me. Take this small section of the Internets I’ve been occupying for nearly a year now. Despite the insults, threats, attempts at cyber-evisceration and bullshit message board posts to get me fired over this, that and the third, I still haven’t backed down or wavered from any of it due to the fact that I’ve had to scrap for what’s mine since I popped out of my moms after four sisters. And the fact that the same yaki tossers continue to read on despite the animosity proves that I’m doing something right; otherwise my overlords would have canned by Nigerian ass a long time ago. Besides, it’s always been interesting to see what come next from the mad minds of these e-hobos, since I do wonder sometimes what goes on in their skullcaps when they push those buttons on their keyboards.

At the same time, I still find it incredible (and incredulous) that I dwell in the minds of not only the naysayers, but the rest of the cyber nation as well, especially considering that the world that envelops us is practically falling apart at the seams. For the first time in about three years I actually didn’t travel to my cousin’s house to Xbox in the New Year, as I actually decided to stay in this crap shack once the sounds of fireworks gave way to gun blasts and cop sirens. Call me bitchmade but I’ve gotten to a point where I actually give a shit about my future since I’m a few years past the stymied statistic about Black men not making it to their 20th birthday, not to mention I don’t want to be the unwilling participant in some gat play. Plus, the thought of me getting bodied in a random-ass place like Los Angeles’ first homicide of 2008 just doesn’t inspire me like that. There’s fucked up shit and then there’s fucked up shit.

I guess I should feel honored that I occupy (fuck with?) minds so much, and in some ways I am. Then again this shit isn’t paying my rent yet, and Lord knows I can’t use my dwindling comments to cop a pair of sneaks. At the same time the yentas shouldn’t expend such an inane amount of energy to my insignificant ass, because I’m pretty sure this tiny thing isn’t helping with their bigger picture.

46 Comments             

Like Lionel Richie, Your Whole Style Is Bitchy ｩKRS-One

67. Women’s jeans. On men. Why?! WHY?!?! The women’s skinny jeans on the men just look awful. Please world, can we kill this fashion habit in 2008? My eyes are hurting. My future ex-mistress-in-law

What’s cracking goobacks? What a difference a week away from a computer and with family makes. The worst part about returning from the warm confines (and free utilities. Gain fabric softener is that crack) of my mom’s house for the ice-cold, cramped stylings for this shithole apartment I waste a good portion of my paychecks on every month is that I have to do a good deal of catching up to see what I missed while I was out. Fortunately, I didn’t miss anything in this small box loaded with microchips I probably can’t pronounce properly that sits on my desk in a corner of my living room that connects me to a world of sex, drugs and hip-hop outside of crazed Jawas ethering the shit out of Benazir Bhutto in Pakistan. The Middle East is more gutter than the hoods in this country, shitbag movies be damned. Oh, I ain’t forgot about you homey...

In any matter, the best part about the “holiday” season is that a plethora of bullshit that I usually don’t need is cheap as fuck, meaning that I almost always spend more time than I’m accustomed to in malls. The interesting conundrum is that I fucking hate those shits, because I feel increasingly older each and ever time I step inside one of those bitches and bear witness to these 90s babies running around. I swear, the shenanigans I’m a witness to leave me salty like a pickle sometimes.

Perhaps the most disturbing of it all are these ass-backward styles some of these young bucks have. A perfect example would be the weekend where I hit the Beverly Center and was surrounded by a shitload of meatwatcher jean-rocking 90s babies trying to find a tenderoni to catch some melt from. It’s bad enough there’s still those humps that match outfits or rock a different shoe on each foot or some other sideways-soft shit, but don’t these young whippersnappers know that not allowing their essence to properly breathe will give way to a host of nasty diseases and such?

Plus, when did it actually become cool to willingly rock a pair of young ass jeans? Back when I was a snot-nosed big head, I saw that a lot of financially underwhelming families could only provide the snug fits to their seeds, as it was the only things they can afford. So seeing these yaki tossers throw them on makes it appear as if they’re making a mockery of those who had to wear them back in the day. That’s pretty fucked up in my book.

Y’all motherfucks need to shut that shit down ASAP. That shit just looks foolish... maybe it’s those quasi rappers telling them to do that shit. Plus, my sister told me that the only peoples who rock that nut-crunching shit in New York are the battybwoys that run wild in Harlem. No wonder those motherfuckers haven’t won since “Dip Set Anthem.”

Pause, no Bow Wow bitch fit on this entire post by the way.

54 Comments             

Favorite Things

I’ll actually try to make this quick, as by the time you read this I’ll be lamping with my family for the next few days and quite possibly won’t be doing my thing here for a while. Besides people, it’s the “holidays;” get off the computer and enjoy the sunlight for a quick minute.

In any matter, hip-hop in 2007 may have been known more for its quasi-homosexual, ass-backward beefing, increasingly sensitive, censor-happy, nappy headed hoeing, ottoman-humping, 2Girls1Cup-watching, illegal artillery-purchasing, “Crank Dat” bullshit than anything else this year, but those who delved a little deeper were blessed with amazing new artists, returning favorites and a surprisingly thick amount of events, songs, albums and concerts throughout the year. Hell, I couldn’t even be too pissy-mooded at a good chunk of stuff that dropped, and while I only purchased one album this year (more on that later), my appreciation and love for this culture strengthened. Without further adieu I’d like to present my list of dope shit that I came across this year of the rat.

“Keys Open Doors” by Clipse. Hell Hath No Fury dropped towards the end of last year, and damn if I didn’t continue pumping this shit throughout this one; shit, my iPod is currently at some 57 plays of this song alone. They may have sold chicken scratch, but the fact that they finally convinced the curly-muttonchopped Israelis to release the album after four years was their birthday present to me.

Lessondary Radio. 2006 was the year I also got an album from Brooklynati natives Tanya Morgan called Moonlighting, which instantly became one of my favorite joints. Ironically when I returned playing the .45 (more on that later) for DX I became a co-worker of sorts with TM’s Donwill. Lessondary Radio is essentially the only non-iPod music I not only listen to but enjoy as well. True story is that Don and I were both at the same Michael Jackson vs. Prince party in Brooklyn this summer and basically walked past each other. Speaking of peoples who never caught on to who I was...

Rock The Bells 2007. One of the perks of writing of this site (despite my literally two-year absence... apologies to my overlords on that one) is being able to attend huge concerts for free. Meeting Shake, Lexx, Andres, J and Brillyance for the first time, sitting back while people propped me but not knowing I was standing next to them at the same time (who knew you couldn’t tell who I was from a shot of half my face?), going apeshit to Pharoahe Monch spitting “Simon Says,” watching random people fuck and shredding my vocals reciting “Wu-Tang Clan ain’t nothing to fuck wit’!” was definitely the high point of my year.

Jay Electronica, Wale and U-N-I. While everybody (including yours truly) bitched about the surge of Soulja Boy shit cakes plopping all over music, I was introduced to these three regional acts throughout the year. The U-N-I are akin to a West Coast version of the Cool Kids, I still bump “Good Girls” all day long and Jay Electronica makes me take back everything I said about the South being a giant musical cesspool. Almost.

Clinton Sparks mixtapes. I’m not a huge fan of these shits anymore, but a good 75% of all the mixtapes in my iPod are from this guy, as he breathed life back into Pharoahe Monch and Kardinal Offishall. Not to mention, We Got It For Cheap, Vol. 2 is the best mixtape of all time.

I actually bought Pharoahe Monch’s Desire. Like Clipse, this tongue-twisting lyrical beast was held back by label politricks for nearly a decade. When he finally dropped his long-overdue second album, it was well worth the wait.

Prodigy gets his swag back. Say what you want about Punching Bag P (I know I have), but teaming up with The Alchemist for Return Of The Mac was quite possibly the greatest career move he’s ever done. Not only did he regain my faith in his music-making abilities, he actually one-upped his G-Unit weed owner. If Jay-Z’s over-glossy album had Al’s beats from this joint, I’d be calling it the greatest rap album ever.

I have a shitload more of the things that made my 2007 worthwhile, but I have to go grab my twin sister from the airport. So I’ll just finish off by saying shout outs to all DX bloggers, writers, editors, marketers and any and every person involved with this site, including my loyal c-piff pocketers 88andup and BMore. I thought I told you earlier, DX is the motherfucking future. Act accordingly.

Oh, and special shout outs go to that one constant, positive force that kept me motivated throughout the year. Soon.

15 Comments             

A Day (3 Months) In The Life Of...

As a side note, you cheese wads may want to check out my ode to the almighty sneaker at Dallas Penn.com. While you’re there, hit up my co-dependant’s dedication to my favorite kicks on a woman (besides Dunks, of course), Fuck Me Pumps. Is it still considered ethically wrong to want to smash a co-worker?

Anyways, a while back I mentioned that I was going through some life situations that I was trying to work out. Now usually I’m not one to put my business out there [1], but I figure with the “holidays” (don’t ask why I don’t celebrate) arriving – not to mention the amusing visual I got of some smellbad concertgoer, um, literally cock-slapping our esteemed First Lady – I thought I’d switch up the tone for a minute.

Underneath the cynical attitude and nihilistic, somewhat racist (gasp!) ideals lies the spirit of a fighter since the day he popped out of his moms. Being the only son out of a family of 5 siblings, you’d be pretty hard-pressed to try to knock me down a peg, especially considering I’ve been scrapping for my ideals for well over two decades.

That’s not to say it hasn’t happened, however. Case in point: due to the then-impending writer’s strike that caused a trickle-down effect on the entire industry as a whole, I lost my job of two-plus years – that of an office manager at a top-5, award-winning entertainment company which produces everything from Jack In The Box commercials to Kanye West videos – in September. Filled with equal parts confusion, frustration and sadness, I took to the two thing that’s always had my back – music and journalism - to lessen the sting of suddenly being forced to collect unemployment, get repeatedly rejected at job interviews and work ungodly hours to make ends meet.

It started off slow at first. I’d freelance on a set or as an office runner for a day or two, then I’d be back to murdering folks in Halo 3 while eating children’s crack while waiting over a month for that job’s check to come to stave off insanity. To say it was stressful is an understatement; a few locks actually thinned out, I lost weight and my relatively young ass came across more gray hairs than I should ever have at my age. I became a recluse; limiting myself to solely grinding for something, looking for any meaning as to why I'm struggling to keep my electricity on, with nothing but my thoughts and muses to keep the battery in my back powered.

But like any strong-willed fighter I refused to quit. The jobs became more frequent and I started to see progress in my interviews, all while my journalism was improving (or getting more attention for all the “wrong” reasons, as if I didn’t plan that shit in the first place). Eventually the ultimate victory came in the guise of a two-headed dragon, as not only have I found employment at a better company but I’ve also secured my first print works in over two years, and I will be heading up the upcoming "blogging vs. journalism" dialogue for the Hip-Hop Journalism Association.

This blogging shit right here, it’s much more than talking shit, dropping racial slurs to see how far I can push the proverbial envelope and getting random-ass Internets message board kumquats to try to get me fired. This blogging shit has never been about trying to garner as many comments like this was a popularity contest. This is my crack music. This is my therapy. And at the end of the day this shit is hip-hop, mine and yours.

[1] Outside of the fact I just discovered either I’m really, really bad in Madden or the Eagles just suck like that. My guess is the former. Sorry, Brills.

12 Comments             

Licensed To Swing

Food for thought for you little yentas: is it alright to fight a woman who acts like a guy? I’ve always gone by the theory that you should never fight a woman unless it’s only in self-defense, but I’m a little hard-pressed when it comes to those dude-girls that remind me of an effeminate Daddy Mack. I mean, I know it’s a woman, but when they go all Baby D from Next Friday and act like they have a set to begin with, does that make it okay to scrap with them like you would a guy?

A good case study would be something like that chick in the YouTube that said Remy Ma ate her box. Excuse me for a second...

* Throws up a little bit in mouth *

Yeah, just thinking about that visual makes my retinas detach. Anyways, after trying to stomach through that “interview,” [1] the whole thing had me wondering about the state of gender reversal in today’s Fast Food Nation-esque hip-hop scene. It’s bad enough when you have a bunch of quasi-homosexuals running around talking about killing babies and smooching surrogate fathers and whatever sideways-fruity shit, but now we have women who are more thugged out than their male counterparts. What’s next, rappers getting the panties in a bunch over a joke?

Waitaminute...

Man, that was pretty bitchmade. Shad Gregory Moss lost.

Anyways, I’ve always felt that – if necessary and there was absolutely no other choice – to fire off on a woman if it is in self-defense. But whenever I see one of these dude-girls, I honestly think it’s perfectly fine to cut a rug Ashy Knucks style should it actually get the gall to try to take it to that next level. You see, my theory has always been that if you want to get treated like a guy, then by all means you should get knocked the fuck out like one as well. I’ll be got dayumed if some bulldog dyke tries to Spike me like it’s the thing to do. I wish that would happen and me not react.

Real talk if a woman wants to dress, act, talk and look the part of male, they should receive the same respect men get; meaning, they should get taxed for child support, cracked over the head by the baton of a crooked-ass cop and – most importantly – slapped out by another man if they want to run up on him like one. Not only do I feel it’s right, it’s also the American Way. Otherwise, we’ll be having a fuckload of he-bitches running around thinking shit is sweet, letting random muh’fucks creep up on their asses. Pause, no Mickey Avalon of course.


[1] I swear, you give some random-ass clown a Handicam and he’s suddenly the next Morgan Spurlock.

21 Comments             

Puff Daddy: The Gulliest Rapper Of All Time

A while ago I mentioned how today’s current hip-hop scene – in all its V-neck, questionable origins of teardrop tattoos glory – is loaded with more bitchmade material than a chick on the first day of what my friends and I lovingly refer to as “yuck mode.” In actuality this sideways-soft lifestyle has more or less been around since the beginning of (rap time), what with all those artists from the past all resembling the “tough guy” from the Village People. I mean damn, rocking smedium leather knickers in the summer? Kinda sorta suspect in my eyes.

But in any matter it’s gotten to the point where it’s more laughable (in a SMH/detrimental to society kind of way) than anything, because even the densest of listeners could (should?) be able to decipher the difference between what’s authentic and what’s bogus. Although the army of Stanleys came out in full force when one of this site’s own called out the questionable comments of one Weenie F. Bangkok (yipes!) last week, I was a little relieved that a few of them actually took those words with a grain of salt because not only does it show some traces of logical thinking in the youth (which is something I’m still a little unsure of), it also proves my theory of bitch asses bitches existing in hip-hop today.

If there’s something to learn from this trend, it’s that the more boisterous artists are probably the least likely to refuse a pegging behind closed doors while the ones you don’t expect are the ones putting in work. Case in point: Proactiv pusher and honest-to-God badass Sean Combs. Rappers should honestly study the blueprint from this guy, as he’s massacred more careers – both financially and physically – in his almost-20 year campaign than anybody.

As I’m sure you’re all aware Puff comes from a family of no-gooders. His pops used to run with that drug-dealing shyster Denzel portrayed in that movie I bootlegged but still haven’t watched. When he got killed, Sean and his moms were forced to move to Mount Vernon, where he began his reign of terror. Miraculously, Puff has gotten off each and every time he fell in trouble with the law. Getting people trampled to death at a Heavy D concert and selling clothes made with raccoon dog fur is one thing, but cracking people over the head with champagne bottles is only the icing on the cake.

Puffy and parties are like a dime piece with the clap: sure it looks tempting to enter, but it’s probably not a good idea to do so. Nevermind the fact that he put one club out of business for when Shyne shot at somebody who threw money in his face [1], the simple fact that B.I.G. got shot to high Heaven in the middle of one of the busiest intersections in Los Angeles that was loaded with people coming out of a party and nobody knows a thing damn near 11 years later shows how frightening his pull is. How is it that three months later duke gets Sauce Money to write a tribute song that sells a brazillion copies, turning him into a legitimate star in the process, and Chris’ moms hasn’t been able to sleep at night because she doesn’t know who killed her only son? That’s some extra fucked up shit right there. He might as well have been the one behind the barrel his got damned self.

I thought that Biggie’s death would have quelled his rampage, but already Puff still continues to wreck shit today, having already slapped the shit out of some YT who had the gall to try to stop Puff from macking his fiancé and gotten his goon squad to fuck another person up this year, and we still have a good two weeks left. I may need to just stay at my mom's place to get drunk for New Year’s; for all I know I could get hit by a bullet shot into the air from the joint Puff was holding.

And if Puffy doesn’t get a chance to murk you physically, he’ll simply fuck up your 401(k) to the point you'll be pushing brooms until you're 78. Just ask G. Dep, Loon, Craig Mack, Kane, Hoodfellaz, Dream, Total, B5, Faith, Carl Thomas, Ness, Babs, New Edition, Mario Winans and any other artist whose career has stalled like a manual transmission with a busted clutch while under his ill-advised care. Shit, Styles and Jadakiss had to beg Puff for their publishing back on live radio! In shiny suits you were the man, homie...

A word to the wise: if you want to show how gully you are in rap, take a few pages from Sean Comb’s diary of destruction. He’s danced and dodged his way to millions, leaving a trail of destruction in his wake like The Undertaker at Wrestlemania. Fuck Malcolm and Martin, these humps should aspire to be like Puffy. Raise your glasses and toast.

[1] I wish someone would toss money in my face. I’d pocket that shit and keep it pushing. But maybe that's just me.

31 Comments             

Tokyo Buffoons

I could turn this thing into a long dissertation about how hip-hop fucks with its audience's own self value system, but I just saw some expensive kicks with my name on them. Myself, in Wednesday’s comments section

Two days ago I mentioned how there are those schmucks still out there equating their material possessions with confidence. Now usually I’d simply call these homos dim-witted oxygen abusers for that fallacy, but not I’m beginning to see that’s it’s not necessarily their fault for being so easily manipulated into believing so.

Then again if someone is actually that retarded to believe so, I recommend a hearty dosage of the holy hand of fire across the face. I bet if people slapped the shit out of their children more often we’d not have them scrambling the brains of innocent bystanders in an open-air donkey market in the Middle East when they ether themselves with a prayer and some plastic explosives. But let’s save that tale for another time.

Next to their glaringly obvious attempts at making crack sales appear like a legitimate career choice (be sure you clinch and twist while you’re in there, homie. Naux haux maux, of course), rappers today are more label pushers than the ideal motivational speakers they used to be, so much so that I actually remembered about Artful Dodger via some random-ass rap song than from the novel he was in. Even I’ll admit that’s fucking pathetic.

And let’s face it, people: we’ve all been influenced somewhat into purchasing a whole heap of bullshit we really didn’t need, only to rarely use them at all. But when I saw a shitload of greasy-faced teenagers rocking their father’s old-ass blazers with the velvet elbows in the dead of summer, some shit just isn’t right to begin with. Hell, even during my college manwhore days I stocked my closet full of throwback jerseys, though in my defense I realized how dumb it was to try to rock a Wes Unseld joint to a job interview and pushed those bitches off like they were new on eBay.

I believe that hip-hop plays a huge role in shitting on its listeners’ own value system, and the cracka-ass (Israeli?) monopolies capitalized on the despondent demography’s utter lack of self-esteem to push expensive, gaudy products under the phony guise that they’ll gain social acceptance through their material possessions. This is why you see so many dingleberries getting shot, stabbed, robbed and snuffed the fuck up for some rubber, leather and nubuck fashioned into a $200 pair of Jordan sneakers: to get that same feeling I get when I slide into some vagina when they're around their peers, which is just wrong. I doubt that it’s really worth a lifetime of being used as currency in prison though, unless those that actually pull that shit off welcome the tingly sensation of another man touching him on the inside…

This all revolves back to what I feel is a lack of proper parenting. Had the children been trained to actually realize that rocking a chain made from the tendons of South African coalminers (no doubt employed by the Israelis) is not a proper expression of their own internal confidence, perhaps then we wouldn’t have so many homo thugs running around with fagtastic teardrop tattoos and more chains than the good ship Amistad. On an unrelated note, you wanna know how I know your favorite rapper isn’t a gangsta? If the muh’fuck wears makeup during a music video or commercial shoot, which, sad to say, is every fucking rapper that does a music video. And to think we all raise our glasses and toast these quasi-homosexuals.

21 Comments             

A Year In Hip-Hop

This is why Boston keeps winning. I still haven't forgiven them for trying to force Benzino down our throats though. Get 'em Casey...

 

20 years from now when vh1 classic has a documentary how Hip Hop was in 2007 how will it be portrayed. How will it compare to the many great years in Hip Hop history. Is this the Fall chapter for the epic novel the rise and fall of hip hop. Folr me it has been one of the most entertaining years in rap ever. Not that the music was good, but the beefs arrests, drama and gossip kept me thoroughly entertained. No epic albums, groundbreaking singles profound lyrcists, profound concepts or new movements. While it wasn’t the music itself that entertained me the youtube clips radio and interviews and hip hop gossip and blog sites kept me informed on all the juicy beef and drama in the rap world. Rappers have turned from artists to celebrities thugged out Paris Hiltons who are recognized more for their personas than their music.

The year started off good. Cam and 50 stared beef with a hilarious interview on hot 97 that soon escalated into a high tech version of the dozens. I haven’t been as amused by beef since my days as a teenager watching my friends crack on eachother’s mothers, appearance, sex life quietly hoping that they wouldn’t get on me. Two arrogant witty motherfuckers dissing eachother I felt like I was watching Macho Man Randy Savage and Hulk Hogan talk shit about eachother in the 80’s.