There they are…my son, Cash Lover From Da East Side, and JKFGT, thumbing their noses at the blood sweat and tears men like Kool G. Rap and KRS 1 endured to make this an America where a no talent hack like Lil B can demand $25 for the general public to witness him rap…and sell the damn venue out.
Sleezy Trees and his cohorts over at getondown.com are murking the hip-hop merch game as of late. Boogie Down Productions puzzles, ODB wallets, OB4CL shrines…they got the innanet goin nuts.
Story of my life…Trees builds two websites, one of them a revolutionary exercise in marketing rap music, the other, a site where M-Dot and a scooter named Maxine are regularly featured. And which one do I get involved with?
Here we see a robust DJ Delz geeked from his getondown.com purchase that just arrived in the mail:
I have teflon thick skin when it comes to insults thrown my way. Short jokes, Jewish jokes, bald jokes…I’ve heard em all, and at the end of the day, words are words. Nothing to get upset about.
Unless a chick I fornicate with hurls disparaging words towards me. Cuts like a dj knife.
When it comes to an intimate emotional/physical relationship with a chick, I understand that I’m the Microsoft Windows of her computer love universe. I’m the ultimate operating system that all other installed programs yield to.
I actually make it a point to fuck every woman in my life on a chair with three legs while she’s bleeding as I recite the 48 Laws Of Power. That’s usually the 2nd date.
With that said, I can’t comprehend a female walking away from the supreme mental Mandingo experience that is David Cohen, insulting me.
Shaleelah is 5’5″ with an onion. Piercing in her eyebrow, drives a Beetle with a “BOSSBTCH” plate, and once dated Benzino. Smokes 6 L’s a day, makes a mean chicken/broccoli, and doesn’t believe in condoms. My everything.
Things were gravy for two weeks. At 2pm, our kids would be playing video games in her living room while we pork in the shower. At 4pm, we all at Franklin Field playing basketball while Shaleelah and I sip tomato juice/vodka out slushy cups.
At 6, 8, and 10pm, we’re porking again. Thank God for video games.
After an 11:30pm dinner, we take the kids to Boston Bowl, and I later shtoop her while she wears nothing but her free bowling socks. Marriage material.
Here is why I’m not built for relationships: Kanye’s swag is on a trillion. Same goes for my neurosis.
If a chick loudly crunches food, incessantly talks about her co-workers, or wears high heels to an activity that requires ample walking, I am fully prepared to hire a hit man to place a bullet between her eyes. Shaleelah violated one of my peeves. Being late.
The plan was to come to my barbecue, kick it for a while, then hit another barbecue on Dot Ave. Simple enough.
Shaleelah told me she had errands to run first, and would come through once she wrapped everything up. Cool. I text her at 2pm and ask if she’s done. She hits me back. “I’m coming now.” She lives 10 minutes away. FOUR HOURS LATER, she announces that she’s outside. I want her dead.
I tell Shaleelah not to bother getting out the whip, and to go home.
“How you live 10 minutes away, say you’re on your way, and pull up 4 hours later?”
“I told you I was running errands!”
“Nah, you told me you were coming through! I’m straight, do you.”
“What is your problem- you’re so fuckin controlling!”
Controlling is Ike Turner. Controlling is Bishop Don Juan. Voicing displeasure in someone keeping you waiting for 4 hours is what a normal human being does.
Our little rift suspended communication for three days, after which Shaleelah called to inform me how much of a heartless bastard I am for coldly cutting her out of my life over such a trivial matter. I told her I’m a man of principle. We somehow squashed shit, and porked later that night. Post pork, Shaleelah says she has a surprise for me the next night. She wants to take me somewhere, and I should be ready by 10pm. She stresses the importance of 10pm, as she spent $100 on our plans, and if we’re late, she loses the money.
God bless her. This is her way of making up for the other day, and she made plans implemented with a time constraint no less. I recognize she’s trying, and feel bad for willing to never speak to her again because of her multi-hour tardiness.
The next night, I rush home after an unexpected long day at work, shit shower and shave, and apply my finest body spray. With ten minutes to spare, I’m waiting for my boo-boo. Where could she be taking me on a Monday night at 10pm that costs $100? A hood boat cruise? An appointment-only late night massage parlor? Perhaps she collaborated with Trees and got us into a $50/head Ron Paul fundraiser. The possibilities are endless, and I felt like a giddy Appolonia about to be whisked into the night by Prince. Shaleelah is a keeper.
10pm comes and goes. 10:15. 10:25. I call.
“Where are you?”
“I was waiting for you to call me so I know you’re ready.”
My face turns red. Blood pressure on a trillion. Teeth clenched. I work myself up.
I hurried home and got ready with respect to the fact she stressed 10pm and losing $100. We discussed it. She spoke, I listened, I agreed, we had a plan. Like Clint Eastwood addressing his Asian neighbors in Gran Torino, I responded in quiet disgust.
“Why would you need me to call you when you said we have to leave at 10, and it’s almost 10:30?”
“Alright! Daaamn! I’m finishing gettin ready, I’ll be there in ten minutes!” Hangs up.
15 minutes later, I get this call:
“Hurry up, I’m downstairs exchanging papers.”
“Huh? Exchanging papers?”
“I got in an accident…hurry up!”
I open my front door to see a car of yt’s pull up behind Shaleelah. I can’t even scream on her for being late yet again, because in the midst of being late, she gets in a fuckin car accident! At that point, I’ve checked out for the night. I had a long day at work, rushed home to sit around waiting for this chick, now I have to stand around for this bullshit.
Shaleelah runs down the accident.
Shaleelah stopped at a red light, but realized her car was a few feet in front of the cross-walk median, so she decided to back up. Behind her is the car o’ yt’s, which she doesn’t see.
You know how it is…very difficult to recognize a non-moving car behind you as you back up.
SMACK! Backs up into their fender, and dents their shit up.
PARKED CARS ARE TRICKY FOR HER…HERE IS ACTUAL FOOTAGE OF HER PARKING AT THE MALL.
Their party consists of two guys and a girl, who was driving. Their whip has New Hampshire plates, and they seem to be on some Abercrombie shit. Very odd that their cruising around Mattapan at this hour.
We’re all huddled around their car inspecting the damage. Shaleelah casually exclaims, “Well, that’s what insurance is for!” Thank God her paperwork is in order. As Shaleelah goes to retrieve her insurance info from her glove compartment, the other girl, we’ll call her Becky, approaches me while she’s on the phone.
“Just to let you know, I’m calling the police to file a report…I got into an accident a few months ago and it turned out the other person didn’t have insurance. I just can’t afford to get burned again.” I say, “Why you calling the police? You have her license plate, she’s gonna give you her information, this is just a simple traffic accident.” Becky says, “I know, but I’ll feel better with the police here.”
Fair enough. Bottom line is, she did nothing wrong. Her shit is fucked up cuz someone plowed into her while she’s parked behind them. Only problem is, good luck getting cops to the hood for a minor car accident in a timely manner. I know our plans for the night are a wrap.
Shaleelah hands her a paper with info written on it, and asks Becky for her info. With assistance from her two guy friends, she searches for her registration and can’t seem to find it. Shaleelah gets in her driver seat as I stand by their car and smoke a square.
“Daaaavid! Daaaavid! Come here!”
I walk over to Shaleela’s driver side window.
“She has my shit, we can still make it if we go right now…police ain’t gonna do nothin but make sure we exchanged papers.”
“Naaah, she already called the cops, and she’s all nervous and shit…just wait.”
Shaleelah whispers, “My inspection sticker is no good, if they come they’re gonna tow my car.”
“Well, you can’t just leave…these people are yt! You think they haven’t already written your plate down? Plus they saw me walk out my house…you can’t leave an accident scene after they called the cops!”
“Police ain’t even gonna come! I’m not getting my car towed! Get in and let’s go!”
“Are you crazy? I got past shit for assaulting police, I’m not getting in the car with you…you have a bad sticker, you’re leaving a fuckin crime scene, and you want me to drive around with you?!?”
“I’m not staying here, are you getting in or not?”
Shaleelah peels off. Becky starts freaking out.
“Omygod omygod! Where is she going! She’s driving off! She’s driving awaaaaay!”
Let’s review. I’m left standing there with two dudes and a hysterical Becky across the street from my home while the police are on the way. I approach them as casual as possible and say, “Everything’s good, she has to run home real quick and grab the tickets she forgot for our plans tonight…she’ll be back in ten minutes.”
Becky gets back on the horn and calls the police again. “I’ve been involved in a hit and run! Please come quick!”
That’s my cue. I start to walk off. The broseph’s are concerned.
“Whoa, whoa, whoa…where are you going?”
“I’m out, I ain’t got shit to do with all this. Wait here, she’ll be back.”
One of them gets in front of me and grabs my shoulder. “You know her! You need to stay here until she comes back!”
I push the shit out of him and say, “You don’t want problems out here. Put your hands on me again and the two of ya’ll gonna be dealing with this whole block!”
Fake it till you make it. My block is filled with retirees and adorable little children. There is a menacing Asian lady next door, but the most she could do is scowl them to death.
I get to steppin and pray they’re as pussy as I believe them to be. I walk up the street and cut the corner. Shaleelah and I don’t speak for a week until I run into her at a Jamaican restaurant.
“So what happened with your car accident?”
“What did I tell you would happen? Nothing! I still can’t believe you didn’t get in the car!”
“Shaleelah, I have a felony on my record…I’m not gonna put myself in a position to ever deal with the police again. I planned on a night out with you…not jumping in a whip that hit another car with the police on the way…why the fuck would I get in the car with you?”
“You know what…you’re just not hood like that.”
“I’m not hood cuz I avoided dealing with police? I think that’s called being an adult.”
“Just the way you handled the whole shit…when I told you let’s go, you sat there all loud and shit screaming “Noooo…you can’t drive awaaaay” like a little bitch. That was some lame shit.”
“Me not putting myself in a situation to deal with the police is lame? A situation I had nothing to do with?”
“There you go again! You make everything about you. You were supposed to have my back. You were more concerned with that bitch crying on the phone. Instead of listening to me, you wanna blow up the spot arguing with me not to leave.”
“You’re damn right I’m about me when it comes to dealing with the police! You left me standing there having to deal with two fuckin dudes over a situation you created by backing into a stationary car!”
“Whatever, we ain’t gonna see it the same way. All I know is, that was some lame shit.”
And there you have it. In hindsight, she was right…cops never came, and she gave them bogus information, so nothing happened with her insurance company.
Back to her insults. What was lame about my decision? Did I conduct myself like a shook Girl Scout, or make a responsible adult decision?
Most of Flying Lotus‘s shit to me is something like this: at first you’re not sure what’s going on, so you give it some time. You still don’t know what’s going on, but it’s enough to intrigue you and hold your attention; there are some good ideas flowing that seem to be building to something. Then something happens. You aren’t sure what it is but this is like the big point of the song right here so hold your breath. Get it? Then the rest of the song is like a long exhale, where you’re not sure where it ends or how you’re supposed to feel after. You can’t really describe what you just heard, but it was kind of cool, maybe just because it didn’t make total sense.
So this is like the video version of that.
Some pretty pictures, some really bizarre shit that you think is going somewhere, some interesting ideas flowing around. Then the long exhale. The three featured songs (in order) are: “See Thru to You” (f/ Erykah Badu), “Hunger” (f/ Niki Randa) and “Getting There.”
I like weird shit like this, even if it’s totally self-indulgent and doesn’t have any sort of cohesive narrative. I’m looking forward to being confused by Flying Lotus’s new album of the same name on October 2, maybe even to the point of ordering the sexy ass collector’s edition 180g vinyl. Cause I’m artsy-hipster-retro like that.
This is some shit I’m actually excited about. After the first few listens, I already know I’ll be deleting music off my iPhone to make room. Probably delete some old shit. Some JTTS-reader-type shit. To the open minded, download this tape. Features from Green Ova family and such. To the old, burnt out, jaded heads, fuck off. This site sucks and so does your dead end job. C-section field day. <3
Pretty self-explanatory stuff here. Chuck Norris and his Fembot companion “Gena” (2012 model) don’t want you to necessarily vote for Mitt Romney, they just want you to vote against plunging our great country into a apocalyptic nightmare future, in which our children will toil in salt mines and cocaine-fueled Cuban refugees swarm our shores in the name of socialism (which is also the plot of Invasion USA…SO REAL).
If there was any season in which Faraone should have taken up the Sox Mobster title in full force, this was it.
While he’s out live Tweeting every time a protestor farts in Mitt Romney’s general direction, the Sox…do I even need to say it? Is it possible that after killing Andrew Breitbart, he focused his psycho kinetic powers on Bobby Valentine and Adrian Gonzalez, two hapless fools who would be marching next to him with the rest of the 99% if they didn’t know how to throw a ball and/or invent a sandwich? If so, I can only tip my cartoon Oriole hat to you sir.
First place bitches. The Orioles, yes. Like it says in the picture above.
Now stop me if this sounds familiar: a team with a large blue-collar fan base and rich baseball tradition endures years of disappointment, disfunction and failure. The fans, while still loyal, become embittered and hardened by the experience, as they watch teams in their same division bring home championship titles. The arrogance and power of these teams instills an us-against-the-world attitude in both the club and its fans. Then, thanks to the work of new management, things start to turn around. Using the siege mentality forged from years of failure, a team of mostly unheralded veterans and young players fighting for their futures starts to mount a substantial challenge to the established powers. As that team rises, the big teams, bloated by big egos, high salaries, poor management and a sense of self-satisfaction with their prior achievements, is exposed and falls from grace in spectacular fashion.
How’d you like that long paragraph? I’ll make it easier: the 2004 Red Sox and the current Orioles team ain’t that far apart (the Yankees never trade places with anyone…they are always the villain).
It should also be noted that the guy who built the 2004 team, Theo Epstein Dan Duquette, now works on Eutaw Street.
But don’t worry: the bandwagon still has plenty of room for late-comers, considering the O’s are only pulling in around 10,000 people to come see them smash teams with double their payroll on a nightly basis. But trust me buddy: once people are resigned to accept the whims of whichever reptillian overlord the Illuminati deems worthy of being a puppet president, there will always be baseball. In October. In Baltimore.
What could possibly bring me back to this god forsaken blog? Something like this, an appropriately bizarre, tweaked-out trip through Detroit courtesy of House Shoes and Danny Brown. Turn off all the lights and smoke your dust juice to this one. Or watch it in your cubicle.