The Case of Will Leitch and the Burning Q-Tip
PART 1.
Mr. and Mrs. Negro had one child. They called him TAN, and so did everybody else.
Mr. Negro was the head of all media, and the chief mind on matters of race and culture. The CEO or Chief Ethnocultural Officer. Whenever a TV station or radio show or magazine needed counsel, ideas, or understanding of some race/culture related issue, they’d ask Mr. Negro. And Mr. Negro always had a good answer for them. His track record in the realm of race was without blemish since 2005.
But Mr, Negro had a secret weapon. And that was his son, TAN. No one would believe it, but it was really TAN that provided Mr. Negro all his fodder. The streak since 2005 was no coincidence; it was also when young TAN started his blog.
Now TAN would help typically help his father solve cases for free. But after a while he realized he enjoyed ethnocultural matters so much he should open up a detective agency to help others solve the mysteries of race and culture. So he stole some money out of his father’s wallet, rented out a bodega, and set up shop. He hung up a sign to advertise himself:
As fate would have it, one evening around midnight Q-Tip came marauding into the office. He was clearly bothered by something. Q-Tip, of course, is a living legend, the lead rapper of iconic hip hop group A Tribe Called Quest. TAN immediately roused to attention upon recognizing the face.
Tip scanned the sign and fished around in his pockets. Eventually he took a quarter-water out from inside his jacket and looked TAN in the eye, "I don't have any change on me, but I can give you this drink. I have a problem, and I want to hire you." Apparently Tip had happened upon some tough fiscal times of late.
TAN looked at the quarter water. It was cherry flavor. His favorite. He smiled and reached for the Bible on the desk that he hollowed out and used as protection for his copy of The Low End Theory. He lifted the CD towards Q-Tip and said, “Yo, Tip. Do you know how much prep school and college cooch this CD got me? If Obama owes something to the Cosby Show, then they owe something to you as well. You’re the soundtrack of our assimilation. Certainly mine. I’ll take the quarter-water -- cause you know I love me some cherry drink -- but trust, i got you on expenses and all of that for this case.”
“So, now, tell me, what’s the scenario? forgive me, but ... you on point, Tip?” TAN asked.
“all the time, tan!” Tip chorused back.
Q-Tip was calmer after quoting an old classic. but he was still pacing as he spoke, “I don’t know why I’m bugging out. But there's this crazy article online. I think it's offensive, but I'm not quite sure. it just feels wrong.”
TAN was puzzled, "well, it’s an internet article. why don’t you just ignore it?"
"hmmm, well yeah, I was going to do that.... but then after i read it I decided to say something."
“You COMMENTED?!!?” TAN knew entering the world of anonymous commenters could only spell trouble for a veteran hip hop artist .
A few weeks ago they released the 25th anniversary edition of Whitney Houston's debut album, Whitney Houston.
Whitney is sort of fascinating as a human embodiment of the philosophical conundrum of "Theseus' Ship (props to Jen Dziura's one-woman show for reminder on this).
The Ship of Theseus paradox poses questions of identity and authenticity in the form of a riddle/parable: If a ship leaves the port -- in this case Theseus' ship -- and while out at sea has all its planks replaced over time, piece by piece, when it returns to port with all new parts is it still Theseus' Ship?
Now you may or may not know that some scientists will tell you that our cells are regenerating every 7-10 years. In effect, we all have a little Theseus Paradox in us: our whole bodies are renewed over time, piece by piece, but we stay (in some essential way) the same person.
In the case of the fourth best-selling female artist, the paradox is striking: If when we met Whitney she was a god-fearing, clean-cut, singer from heaven, and then twenty years later all of her cells have changed, and she's a crack-smoking, Bobby Brown f'ing, reality show ghetto diva doing very little singing. Well, is that still Whitney Houston?
I don't know.... But, uh, ANYwhitney, I didn't want to unpack our enigmatic angel in this post, but rather her song, "Saving All My Love For You" which got stuck in my head upon revisiting her debut album.
Have you listened to this song recently? I personally had not, and after being briefly enamored with the parodic possibilities of turning the song into an ode to eye-crust called "Saving All My Crust For You", I realized the song is one of the most purely evil songs I've ever given my attention. It's selfish, obnoxious, and pretty much morally reprehensible. If that proves to be a harsh assessment, then it's at the very least disingenuous. Like some sort of romantic Trojan Horse purporting the spirit of true love, when it's no more than the the deranged fantasy of an intolerably narcissistic lunatic.
The title of this song suggets a paean to waiting, pining, fighting, and willing ones way into someone else's heart. In a different context, perhaps a noble sentiment. But as per the setup of the song, you get a sense of some rather questionable pathology lurking beneath the surface. Some notes on all this after the video below.
It started very innocently. I read a post about a White Castle Valentine’s Day promotion on Gawker, a NYC media and gossip blog I was contributing to, and left a comment indicating how the news caused me to experience a small orgasm in my mouth. I subsequently blogged about it on my own site and figured that would be the end of it. But not long after posting I got an email saying, "If you have a contest to win a White Castle date with T.A.N., I’m so there.”
Hmmm. My mind raced with possibilities, but I knew I’d need reinforcements. So I passed the email on to one of the Gawker editors and told them if they were interested, I was game. They jumped on it; and next thing I knew a couple photos, setup posts and days later I was choosing the “Win A Date with TAN” contest winner. Her name was Rachel: white, graphic designer, and according to her, in possession of a booty that made guys stop on the basketball court. And yes, she had me at "booty that makes guys stop on the basketball court."
Now who knew you’d be able to use the words “media buzz” about an ironic White Castle Valentine, but over the next couple days the promotion and contest were mentioned in the NY Times amongst other papers and websites. On Valentine’s Day I was getting text messages and phone calls from people I hadn’t heard from in years, all wishing me good luck with the “White Castle chick.” It was surreal.
But at that point in my online life, Surreal and I were good friends. We met in the fall of 2005, soon after I started blogging, and quickly became close. Fact was my whole dating life had transformed into some type of new media reality show — one with no producers, cameras, or television slot mind you — but all based on the premise of me exclusively dating people I met through my blog for about a year and a half. I imagine Mark Burnett would call it “Beauty and The Blogger,” or “Romancing The Blog,” or “For Negro or Love.” Some such thing.
Now this wasn’t a conscious decision mind you, I never solicited for dates, or posted about my personal romantic life. I was coming out of a long-term live-in relationship and had zero experience with online dating. So who knows how it began; maybe it was my oft-mentioned prep school pedigree; or the avid peppering of prose with parenthetical “hollas”; maybe it was because I showed more than a little love for alliteration; or maybe this was just status quo for a new blogger on the scene. Whatever the reason, somehow or another, my site had become a chick-magnet. An incredibly weak chick-magnet, that barely stays on the refrigerator without help from other magnets, but a magnet nonetheless.
My series premiere was a rousing success. A couple months after starting TAN I was invited to the 30th birthday party for a local sex columnist, and at the bar I could hardly mask my snickering as I got my first taste of people complimenting “The Assimilated Negro.” “Haha!” I thought. “They just used the word ‘negro’ with a straight face. Victory is mine!”
A few hours later, episode one would close with me making out on the street with the girl who invited me. The critics — who also freelanced as my friends — raved. The season looked promising.
But the bloom fell off the rose in the next episode when an otherwise average evening on the town would devolve into an unexpected one-night stand with a psycho-blogger. During a display of coital schizophrenia that would make Norman Bates grab his meds, and other guys grab a meat cleaver, she manic-depressively pulled me in and placed my hands on her body, before turning her head and telling me to “please, go away.”
When I then backed off she’d plead, “No, wait! Come back. I want you.” I almost wished I had viewers to text message in and tell me to “Go for it!” or “Get the hell out of there!” I didn’t know what I was doing.
But only a couple weeks after checking out of the Psycho-Chick motel, I found myself downtown in a writer’s apartment discreetly fingering the fishnet stockings of the femme-blogger sitting next to me. We had just met in person for the first time earlier that evening, but our numerous prior IM flirt sessions provided a more-than-adequate comfort level. There we were sitting on the floor in a circle of six people — four girls, two guys — when my hand decided to go confidently in the direction of its dreams. And I can only imagine her shock when five minutes later, I was lying down on the kitchen floor with two other girls on top of me; one kissing me, the other doing something that would probably be pulled down from youtube.
Now there had been some drunken talk about orgies earlier, and I distinctly remember using the word “girth” in an inappropriate way (is there any other?). But I thought those were jokes. And I thought these were all-talk-no-action bloggers. Who knew they were so ready to make it happen in the real world? Where was this going to lead? I remember the image of me waking up in a ditch somewhere with my laptop and the word “Fidelio” spray-painted all over it briefly flashing across my mind.
But for better or worse, the orgy never actually came to pass; the mood shattered when Fishnet-Girl would announce she was leaving. As everyone sobered up and sheepishly acknowledged they didn’t really want to participate in an orgy with relative strangers, Fishnet-Girl pulled me aside and asked, “what are you doing?” The question felt so familiar.
"What are we doing?
Rachel was asking me what we were going to do after White Castle.
The dinner had gone about as well as $10 Valentine dinners for two go, and Rachel was as advertised. Face: cute and smiley; Personality: charming and bubbly; Dress: short and clingy. My kind of girl. But I couldn’t quite tell if we were really connecting, or just getting along out of obligation.
After getting random emails and text messages throughout the day, it felt like me, Rachel and everyone we know were rooting for this zany rom-com sequel to Harold and Kumar go to White Castle. We couldn’t disappoint and do something like not like each other. Every laugh we shared premised a question: Were we just acting for our invisible audience? Was this a one-off publicity stunt, or did this Blind Date 2.0 have legs?
Well when in doubt, I always consult my own personal Oracle: alcohol!
“I thought we’d go to this wine bar I know a little further downtown.”
I lived nearby in East Harlem (or SpaHa, as I like to say the kids like to say), so further downtown meant the Upper East Side, where ambience and atmosphere go to die. A little risky, but I knew I’d receive points for knowing the one oasis of downtown style yet to be smothered by the stench of generic beer and interminable “Now That’s What I Call Music!” soundtracks.
Sure enough as Rachel and I loosened up over a bottle of Pinot, the specter of the contest began to loosen its grip on us. During a typical work day you take in a healthy dose of cynical “Valentine’s-Day-is-for-suckers” talk; but that chilly night we basked amongst couples who were as earnest as sunshine in july. And as our glasses filled with red, our hearts filled with romance; and slowly but surely Rachel and I transformed from "The White Castle Couple," to just another boy and girl looking for a connection— with sliders on our breath.
And our connection, like the tension, was building by the glass. When we stepped outside in the freezing cold to share a bummed cigarette (neither of us "smoked"), we had that wonderful moment when bodies hover over each other, still respecting that last vestige of personal space, yet bracing like a sea captain for the imminent breach. Kisses never lie. And ours was the kind that booked a second date without saying a word.
But before the second date, came the Inferno….. and The Inferno was the challenge that lurked in every episode when weird internet life and dating life intermingle....
So it was a fine summer day when I was coming out of my apartment building. I was heading to Blockbuster to return a DVD.
After walking a few blocks three plain-clothes NYC police officers approach me. They quickly make their presence known by getting presumptuous with my civil rights and forcing me against a fence. They search me while demanding information about something I know nothing about:
“What did you get from the store?”
“Let’s see what’s in the bag you have.”
“What is it you were shopping for?”
Unfortunately for me I had not been in a store, I was not carrying a bag, only the DVD I was returning, and I wasn’t shopping or planning to go shopping anytime soon.
So my answer was, “What the fuck is going on here??!!? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Meanwhile these guys are not acting like they’re actually curious about my response. No, they’re acting like they got the answers from god himself a few hours ago and the questions are merely a formality. After forcing me against the fence, frisking me pretty physically, and looking in every nook and cranny you can find on a DVD case, there’s now a crowd beginning to form on the street.
Undoubtedly spurred on by the lack of material evidence, they continue their informal interrogation.
“what were you doing coming out of that store?”
“what store?”
“look. You know what store. What were you doing?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I just came out of my house and I’m going to blockbuster. This is my first time outside today”
The officers pause to consider this unexpected fact.
Meanwhile I’m beginning to piece it together. Next to my apartment building there’s a bodega, and very often bodegas are fronts for weed-shops (something I, of course, know nothing about, other than they may exist). Anyways, I figure these officers thought I was coming out the store instead of my apartment. I relay this revelation to them.
They are not eager to reevaluate their situation but they do eventually back off me a little. At which point I get a little more assertive in expressing my dissatisfaction. I sort of play to the crowd and talk about how a “black man can’t even return his DVD on time no more.” I’m jabbing at them, but nothing too inflammatory.
The officers are talking amongst themselves, presumably trying to figure out how they botched this situation up. They’re also telling me to calm down, which of course only gets me more fired up. They’re the ones in the wrong, I have full right to be causing a ruckus, plus my ruckus was fairly tame all things considered. The crowd on the street formed because of their actions, not mine.
After some more back and forth I eventually raise my hands, one of which is holding the DVD, and declare, “I can't believe this is happening! This is ridiculous!!” I say it loud, but I’m quite certain that harsher, more threatening words have been used in similar scenarios. But apparently that’s not what the officer in charge thought, because upon hearing that he looked at me and then at the DVD case and said, “you’re threatening to assault a police officer.” He then tells one of his partners to cuff me and take me in.
In shocked disbelief, my hands are cuffed behind my back. My tone immediately changes from challenging to compliant. I apologize and say I got out of line. But the head guy is no longer listening. Still his order to take me in was so preposterous that a couple of his partners made an effort to verify that he genuinely wanted them to take me in. He did.
I was cuffed and taken to a minivan that was parked around the corner and down the block a bit. And that’s when this unfortunate misunderstanding evolved into an incredible educational experience ...
A few weeks ago Stevie Wonder performed at Madison Square Garden in New York City, and The Assimilated Negro was lucky enough to have a ticket ...
For Once In My Life: Before heading to Stevie Wonder's concert I asked on my blog what the appropriate outfit might be. Concerts are always a little weird for choosing an outfit because you're going to a special event, so you want to dress up, but it's music, and you're going to "jam" and "groove" and "be chill" so you don't want to overdress.
With a Stevie Wonder concert you also have to negotiate the appropriate reverence (no shredded or torn clothes; this means you, white people & hipster-punk negroes), as well as the full age spectrum of Stevie's audience, which is basically from newborn - to old guys being wheeled in as their last dying request. So while I only have two outfits regardless, I thought the matter demanded some extra consideration.
As I say in that post, I ascribe Stevie Wonder no lesser value than proof of god's existence, but despite his godliness, I wasn't sure what a concert of his would be like. Michael Jordan also lived much of his life as God's vessel, but he wasn't the same as he got older. And when spoken of as an artist certainly Stevie, like Jordan, is a performer nonpareil, but we also have to acknowledge that Stevie's contemporary material doesn't strike the same universal chord as his 70s early 80s stuff. He's essentially a genre/brand of music unto himself, but you might cringe a little if you heard he was only playing his "contemporary" material.
(we interrupt this concert review to bring you a TAN Concert Tip/Anecdote for People Saving Their Money: my aunt brought an eggplant sandwich right before the show, we were both unsure how strict the MSG no-food policy would be. Turns out, very strict. security guys examined her bag and demanded that she lose the sandwich (and brownie, and vitaminwater, and other snack). We were 5-10 minutes before showtime and my aunt was determined to be getting in our seats in a timely fashion, yet she didn't want to lose what amounted to $10+ dollars of food, snack and beverages. So she stuck the sandwich down the back of her pants, and brought it in like that until we got to our seats. And we got in no prob. holla! I'm very proud of her perseverance in the face of adversity.)
We get to our seats, which are back row a level above floor seating, in perfect time for what's listed as 8PM show time. But wouldn't you know it, even Stevie runs on CP Time. Tick tock, tick tock. Here comes 8:30, still no blind geniuses taking the stage.
My aunt and I were sitting next to an older black couple, I think it'd be fair to describe them as the ideal Stevie demo. I won't digress on that. To pass the time I figure I'd engage in some fun Q&A on Stevie Wonder trivia. First question: how old is Stevie? I ask my aunt and she suggests 50s, and even hints 40s possibly. I say no way, and suggest 60s might be more accurate.
I eventually ask Stevie's Target Demo, and the wife who is obviously the spokesperson for the couple says that he's definitely in his 60s because "he was 58 when his last child was born." Turns out Stevie Wonder is 57. So, there goes the Target Demo.
Just as we start approaching 8:40 I go to get some popcorn so I can pass the down time picking kernels out of my gums, and just as I get on line I hear the roar of the crowd. I rush off line -- it was short -- to see Stevie being escorted out by his daughter Aisha. I go back and get my popcorn -- the initial applause for his coming on stage lasted the length of the whole concession run – as i get back to my seat Stevie is just starting to address the crowd. As our second and final bit of Stevie trivia my aunt tells me she thinks Aisha is the baby who cries and gurgles on "Isn't She Lovely." Awwww. I offered a firm eyebrow-raise to express my appreciation of the trivia and settled in with my popcorn eager for a good show.
Visions: Before anything gets underway, Stevie walks to the front of the stage and talks to the crowd. He thanks everyone for showing and tells the heartwarming story of how the show was inspired by the passing of his mother in May of '06. After she passed Stevie basically shut everything down for a while, but then she came to him in a vision one night and and told him to stop mourning and get out there and do his thing. And when he called his producers and agent, they thought it'd be a year to organize and plan, but he made it happen in a couple weeks, and has been touring and reinvigorated since.
Once Stevie gives his intro the show opens with he and his daughter doing a duet of "Love's In Need of Love Today." It's sweet, and she's a good enough singer, but after a couple verses you can't help but think .... okokokokokok, thanks "Isn't She Lovely" baby, but time for Stevie.
After the duet he segues into “To High” and then “Visions” as the first extended showpiece. At the end of "Visions" Steve picks up the tempo and gets militant and angry, riffing off the song and singing how he envisions a better world and doesn't understand how in 2007 we're not there yet. "He can't understand it." And "it's unacceptable." Making war for peace (Iraq). "I can't understand it!" Jena 6. "2007, it's unacceptable!" No healthcare. "I can't understand it, it's unacceptable!" It's kind of corny writing about because it's the same entreaties we hear every day, but when Stevie gets all adamant with his preach-singing, you kind of feel it. I was ready to sign some petitions and beat up some capitalist pigs. In 2007 the drama is unacceptable!
Before I trot out a bunch of MJ posts, I wanted to point at what I found to be the most striking article I've read in the past week. That being Michael Kinsley's "The Prisoner of Commerce" on The New Republic.
The commerce/capitalist angle tells so much about MJ:
This points up a second way Michael Jackson's sacrifice for art is different from, say, van Gogh's. Jackson's art is also big-time commerce. Corporations supervised his development, and even bigger corporations are making millions off of him: CBS (which features Jackson on the cover of its 1983 Annual Report), Pepsico (which has $50 million riding on a Jackson ad campaign). Time Inc. (which sells magazines by putting him repeatedly on its covers), and others. It's happened in front of millions of paying customers.
So many people, so many corporate entities with a huge investment in one human being. So clearly not a way to live.
Kinsley also adds good points on the freakish elements of Jackson's personality being lapped up and/or exploited as part-and-parcel with his art. He takes a Time magazine cover to task for glorifying quotes like Steven Spielberg (after E.T.) saying, "He's like a fawn in a burning forest ... I wish we could all spend some time in his world." Yes, a fawn in a burning forest does sound like a rather pleasant afternoon now that you mention it, Steven.
Many of these "we're all complicit" takeaways are embedded in the tributes and articles being trotted out now, but the trump card here is Kinsley wrote this in 1984, when Jackson was 25. It's positioned as one of these counterintuitive articles that now represent the instinctive path for journalists. In hindsight the Spielberg quote, or Jane Fonda's "His intelligence is instinctual and emotional, like a child's." are ludicrous. Obvious warning signs. Back then they were part of the MJ publicity-puffery machine. Part of his aloof cool.
Kinsley is a big-time alpha-journalist with plenty of credentials on his resume. But as someone who leans apolitical, this is the sort of piece that gets me on his bandwagon. I want to call it incredibly prescient, but at 25 MJ had already been a "prisoner of commerce" for 15-20 years. So I guess it just underscores our collective lack of reflection, our willingness to be swept away.
But take MJ's capitalist incarceration, and throw in the child abuse and racism and you have the three pillars of his dysfunction. The imperfect storm that resulted in something that was more natural phenomenon than relatable human.
The End of Pop, looking at the story and legacy of Michael Jackson one song and video clip at a time.
1.2: The Wicked Witch of Motown
The songwriting collective that bequeathed MJ and The Jackson 5 four #1 singles was called "The Corporation", and they remind me of the wicked witch in fairy tales who shows up when The Prince or Princess is born and gives some sparkly gift that's also a terrible curse only realized over time. Like a diamond ring that allows the wearer to turn any piece of doodoo they touch into gold, but then every ten years, on your birthday, one of your fingers fall off.
That character in fairy tales is usually mean, and I wouldn't want to ascribe the karmic sin of "evil intent" to The Corporation -- songwriting collectives, after all, have the noblest of goals; championing Art over Artists -- but in the narrative of MJ King of Pop, these guys are playing that oft-forgotten role that sets our hero on his predestined journey. The gift-curse of the gold-doodoo ring, or somesuch.
"ABC" is the second #1 single, but the first that showcases a little of this weird yin-yang golden-doodoo relationship.
So on one hand it's a song that's the epitome of "bubblegum soul"; this is what a songwriting collective should produce: Fun, bouncy, danceable hits. On a musical-enjoyment level, it's brilliant.
But then, on the other hand, from a distance you might think: hey, wait a minute. did that 12-year-old befroed boy just tell the girl (presumably older) "to git up and show him what she can do?" And how "t-t-t-teacher's gonna show her how to get an 'a'?" Huh? What in tarnation is this fresh befroed boy talking about? What does he know enough about to t-t-t-teach anyone?
This is a definite theme from the early Jackson 5 era. There's an empty soulless precociousness that conjures images of Little Miss Sunshine beauty pageants and child labor laws.
Last night I read at WYSIWYG: Worst. Sex. Ever. It was my first time reading for a crowd. I've performed, but never read for people that actually paid money to have words read to them. So I was a little nervous. But I also felt good, because I used to read in class all the time. In fact I was a fairly dominant reader in grade school. Always had the hand up strong, confident, just thinking, "if you want the shit read right, call on this motherfucker right here. Don't call on the stupid motherfucker who might get left back over there." So anyways, I think that background helped me get through the experience in one piece. I think there will be video of the performance, and if/when I can get my hands on it, I'll post it. In the meantime, in between time, I'll post the story and the song/epilogue (that I didn't get to perform) here. Thanks to the TAN supporters that were in the house, especially whoever was yelling "Holla!" in the beginning, that always helps a negro feel at ease.
I'll be posting the story in segments, since it's sort of long for one big post.
And for the record, the following is a true story based on a sort of true story.
I went with a straightforward title on this and called it, "The Time I Had Sex On Mushrooms" Or alternatively "How I Got My First Wife, But Not Really"
An underestimated part of the assimilation process is the drug culture.
It’s always been interesting to me that rappers and street thugs are stereotyped as the “drug dealers,” “drug lords,” the “proud purveyors of proscribed paraphernalia and potent, perniciously poisonous product.” But when I was growing up in the Bronx, all I ever saw was weed. That was it.
Then when I went away to boarding school (choate) and college (trinity), it was a different story. This was when I had my mind opened - pot, coke, Ritalin, qualudes, lsd, mushrooms, MDMA, and that’s just the bare essentials. Maybe I was a naïve boy, but this is when I saw real drugs. And real drug users. At home in New York City, on the Lower East Side of Manhattan, sure we had crackheads. But then I’d go away to Connecticut, presumably getting away from the toxic environment, and now there’s motherfucking crackheads going to school with me. My freshman year in college, we had crackheads all over the place. Motherfuckers had money, but they were still crackheads.
Anyways, the universal pervasiveness of crackheadedry isn’t the point today, it’s just a little preamble to demonstrate I didn’t know anything about mushrooms until I went away to school.
So this particular episode started out with a big group. It was freshman year, and just one of those classic college weekends where twenty whipper-snappers get together on a Saturday afternoon and decide they’re going to get wasted. We were going to trip all day and drink all night.
There was an electricity in the air, that feeling of kids about to do a lot of wrong shit. Many of the veterans were breaking off into groups, planning different activities to do during the trip. For me, it was only my second experience with shrooms, and most of the activities sounded too advanced for someone planning to be insane for at least the next 6-8 hours. Based on my first experience, I was fine with just hanging around in the dorm staring at walls and floors. So I ended up with a group that stayed in the dorm. Three or four of us went to a room, and eventually I ended up paired off with this girl.
This girl, let’s call her Kate, was pretty. We lived in the same dorm, and saw each other around, but didn’t really know each other. So we ended up hanging out, and when you’re tripping and meeting someone it can either go horribly or swimmingly. And she and I were like effortless laps in the English Channel (this particular line was thrown in specifically for literary peeps, and because it was a "reading series," which is amusing because it's not phenomenally "literary"). We developed this trippy thing where we’d talk and then both of us would get thirsty at the same time and go to the hallway for a drink. Then we’d laugh and note our “thirst synchronicity” and start a new tangent.
After bonding for a couple hours, eventually some other friends from the group barged in on our connecting-session-for-two and announced they were going across campus to North, another dorm, and I was to join them. I wasn’t eager to leave Kate, but these were my guy friends, and I couldn’t diss my guy friends for some girl I just met while tripping. So I left Kate, and our connection, and our trips to get water, to go across campus with the fellas ...
I’m not a big person for the question “what is your best [blank]?” I don’t believe in the "best” anything. I believe in the Perspective Evolution. I believe in the Eternal Now. I believe every day I wake up a different man ...
But, I understand the need to occasionally work within the system. It's an annoying conversation when you're just trying to have small talk with someone and they're all, "every day I wake up a different man." So if you ask me my favorite movie, I’ll tell you Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind. And if you ask me my favorite book, I’ll tell you The Brothers Karamazov by my mizzah Fyodor.
But specifically on the book tip, my mind will invariably think about other potential contenders to the throne. I've cried every time I've read The Brothers Karamazov, and I think that's my primary factor in determining my best/favorite book. Crying, in my mind, is a tougher *get* than laughter, so if a book draws the tears out it receives extra points for difficulty. As such, the primary challenger to The Brothers K is a book I've only read once or twice, but sparked a memorable crying episode. And that book is: The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein.
Now it’s quite possible that I read The Giving Tree as a child. But for whatever reason, I don't remember it. So for all intents and purposes, my first real reading of The Giving Tree came my freshman year in college. And it wasn't in a class, it was while hanging out with friends. On drugs, natch.
All my incidents with 'shrooms were confined to my freshman and sophomore years in college. The experiences I had were sufficiently intense enough that I’m fairly afraid to try them again. I could give it a shot -- I'm about 90% sure I could handle it -- but fantasies of what could happen in that 10% zone are enough for me to play it safe.
This particular episode was maybe my third or fourth time taking mushrooms. In contrast to my previous escapades where I was full of vim vigor and vitality, on this occasion I was sick. Not just a little sniffle mind you, I basically had the bubonic plague; fever, chills, and a few days spent in three sweatshirts under mountains of covers praying for death. It was also dead in the middle of winter in Connecticut. All the ingredients you need to officially call yourself miserable.
On the bright side, it was college. And so I had visitors. One friend came by and gave me 20 vitamin C. Others stopped by just to say hello, or to laugh at my dilapidated state. The sort of love and camaraderie you don't get (or at least I don't) once you leave school. My roommate "Teeks" was very sympathetic; when he stole a keg from a frat house and brought it back to our room circa 5:45 AM on a Friday night/Saturday morning he took great pains to keep it on his side of our 12x12 dorm room. The friends who came to the impromptu kegger jumpoff that followed were also kind enough to not jump on my bed or spill beer on me. Everyone's so considerate in college, I kind of miss it.
Now I had gotten sick early in the week, marinated in my own pestilence for a few days, and woke up on Saturday, post-kegger, feeling nominally better. Once out of bed I found many of my friends had gathered for a weekend 'shroom festival, and it seemed like every hot girl on campus was in on the action. I was distraught figuring there was no way I could participate. I kept thinking maybe I could push it, but when they said they'd be taking 'shrooms I thought, no, maybe some other drugs I could do, but not 'shrooms. I was too sick for that.
BUT, it was college, and in college if three people decide they're going to walk on their hands in traffic and ask you to join, you're like, hmmmm, I can't walk on my hands, and the traffic sure looks dangerous, but ... welllllll ok. You only live once, etc. etc. The memory is fuzzy, but I'd guess 30 minutes or so after determining I couldn't do 'shrooms in my condition I was scarfing them down.
Magically, as the 'shrooms took effect I was reinvigorated. My sickness, apparently, was no match for the power of hallucinogenic drugs. And even better it seemed the over-the-top trippiness was used up in combating my misery. I was slightly loopy, but very much in control, which in my weakened state was perfect.
As was the norm with 'shroom festivals, the large tribe of drug users splintered off into traveling sects. I was still conscious of not overextending myself and stayed in the dorm. I ended up in a room with three of my closer friends, two girls, one cup guy.
At this point we're just hanging around having normal college conversation, and somehow The Giving Tree comes up. My friends start debating the morality of the story, but I wasn't familiar. Somehow we located a copy and started reading.
Right from the onset I found the story incredibly gripping. I could relate to the boy. I could relate to the tree. I'm a sucker for stories/songs/fantasies of unconditional sex love, and this is perhaps the most classic of them all. So in my mushroom-enhanced emotional state, I easily immersed myself in the melodrama.
Now if you're not familiar with the story, there's basically a boy, and a tree, and the tree loves the boy, and the narrative tracks the life of the boy as he grows from child to old man and constantly takes advantage of the tree using it for his own selfish needs and never offering anything in return. First he uses the tree as a playground, then for shade to hang with his girl, then for apples to sell, then for its branches and so on. But the tree doesn't mind because the tree loves the boy unconditionally.
Towards the end the boy actually cuts down the tree to make a boat or somesuch, just leaving a stump in his wake. And as the good-for-nothing brat leaves to carve up the tree that loved him the text reads, "And the tree was happy." Followed on the next page by, "But not really."
The way the book is formatted, just one line to the page, I thought that was the end. I couldn’t believe it. I was crushed. I had been sitting on the lap of one of the girls who was reading the story to me and, oh chile, when I read those words I was inconsolable. The tears started streaming and I smacked the book out of her hand, got up, and just started bawling:
"This is a story for children?!? How can they let kids read a story like this?? It's horrible! It makes me sick! That poor tree dedicated everything she had to that boy. He carved in her, and played on her, and used her for money, and this is how it ends?!!?!? 'And the tree was happy. But not really.' What?!!? This is bullsh*t. What kind of devil book is this?? This story is what's wrong with this f'ing world. I can't believe you let me read this evil thing. The book should be burned and the author should be hung.... "
Or something like that. It was probably a lot less coherent.
Needless to say my friends were taken aback. Back then, as I am now, I was a fairly cool, calm and collected individual. Yet here I was having some sort of nervous breakdown prompted by a fictitious boy chopping down a tree.
But it's a moving story, and emotions are contagious, so next thing you know the two girls are welling up over my display. Meanwhile my guy friend was being sarcastic and mocking me for crying at a children's tale. I'm not sure, but I'm guessing this was all happening at the peak of our "trip."
Eventually they calmed me down and revealed that the story wasn't over. In fact, there was more to it.
Oh.
I wiped the tears from my eyes and the snot from my nose and soldiered forward, fearful of being exposed to further inhumanity, but confident it couldn't possibly get any worse. Turns out the boy comes back one more time as an old man and while not totaling redeeming his lifetime of obnoxious behavior, he spends time with the tree (now just a stump) and the story concludes with the tree being happy. The End.
The finale was still bittersweet, and I remained a bit fragile until I came down from the 'shrooms, at which point my sickness returned. But now instead of hating the book, I love it, perhaps unconditionally, for the moment of raw, drug-induced, emotional release it afforded me.
I found two youtube renditions of The Giving Tree. One's a live action after-school special type deal. The other is a plain reading, much like the one that led to me exposing my malnourished heart one fine wintry day:
So if you didn't see this, the final three episodes of Chappelle's Show, which are apparently far from "Lost", are available on the internet. Defamer and blogger Jackson West are on leak detail.
I don't think any of this is really new. The Chappelle "I'm Not Crazy" Tour has pretty much been the same show, and seen by everyone who's interested at this point. But it's probably time for it to stop, as the inevitable backlash (the only things certain in this world are death, taxes, and haterade) is starting to build. No one wants to hear about a guy turning his back on 50 million the way Chappelle did for too long. It's sort of like Diddy's Making The Band 2, where no one wanted to hear these kids, especially Dylan, "complain" about particular aspects of what overall looks like an incredible opportunity that just about anyone would love to have, and just about no one will.
I can understand being tired of the schpiel, and maybe I've sipped too much of the Chappelle Kool-Aid, but the apparently growing sentiment that Chappelle's an asshole who needs to grow up is incredibly short-sighted and reeks of jealousy. Let's go over Ray Richmond's points:
#1: "I watched the first of three 'Chappelle's Show: The Lost Episodes' installments Sunday night on Comedy Central, and here's my take: It's funny, but not as funny as the first two seasons were." -- You've already lost me here, right out the gate. I saw the first episode and it wasn't as funny as the last two seasons. First off, obviously everyone's going to be looking at the show with an extra air of scrutiny. Second, a season has 3-5 sketches, a season might have 50 or more.
#2: He says he was initially understanding of the situation, "But once it became clear that Chappelle was not in fact returning, my attitude began to turn." -- If you're in fact understanding and empathetic, you don't turn it off when they do something you don't like. If a drug addict, or someone who has some cyclical problem (don't we all?) falls down or fucks up somehow, you don't turn on them. Or at least not if you're family or a good friend and care about the person. We were all unhappy to see Chappelle's Show go, but no need to turn sour on the guy for it.
#3: "He just held court last week with Anderson Cooper on CNN and continued to find fresh new ways of saying essentially nothing." -- As I mentioned before the I'm-not-crazy tour is getting old, but after seeing Chappelle say "essentially nothing" over again, it's clear to me that obviously he's still wrestling with the issues. And faced with the overwhelming pressure of needing to provide the media some "definitive answers" (lest they call him a crackhead instead of confused) he has to say something. I find his interviews feel like he's going through a repeated series of breakups with different girls, girls that he liked, but has to part with, for reasons he's unsure about. In that situation, you might hem and haw, and try to explain your philosophy on life and love. But if you ask the girl, she'd probably be annoyed and say you offered "essentially nothing." Meanwhile the guy feels he's saying a lot, he's baring his soul.
#4: "The truth is that Chappelle let down a lot of people who depended upon him and his show for their living." -- this is the start of the choicest graf, where I think we find the "jealous ones envy" reveal, "I personally know a lot of people who can't find work and struggle to make ends meet, and here's a guy who has it all and chucks it seemingly on a whim." -- first off, before chappelle's show became a beast, what were these people doing for a living? My guess is you're not going to find any people talking about how they wish they never got involved with Chappelle's Show in the first place. Two seasons of work is a lot more than other get, and there's probably no great programming on television more reliant on the talents of one person (including 24, since keefer madness doesn't write). If you're trying to get to hollywood from NY, and you're walking, and I'm driving, and I offer you a ride, but can only take you part of the way, for whatever reason, you can't complain I didn't take you all the way. Fuck that. I'll take you back to where you started ni**a. Get to walking.
#5: "What irks me the most, however, is Chappelle's gall in acting as if he didn't really owe Comedy Central a thing." -- Clearly this guy is a talentless no-talent dweeb with no talent. The rest of the piece he basically talks about how Chappelle is violating a contract, and is treating the NETWORK Comedy Central poorly. Entertainers, artists, etc do not get big paydays handed to them. These are businesses. If Chappelle gets 50 million, rest assured he's made this company a lot more than that in ad revenue and dvd sales. Big scores like this are not like job interviews where you beat out the competition. These are thank you gifts. Thank you for making us a lot of money. If you gave someone fifty mill to do some work, and they just took it and said, "fuck you, i'm feeling a little foggy in my head, I'm gonna just chill with your money." you would do what you can to get the money back, and promptly sever ties with the asshole. If CC has legal options to force Dave's hand, they're not going to be the "bigger person" and say, " whatevs." But instead of that you have CC president Doug Herzog saying the door is still open. Why? Because Chappelle made him a lot of money, and could make him a lot of money again.
Here endeth the TAN-getting-in-Ray-Richmond's-ass part of the show.
I can definitely empathize with Dave, some of my content can make me feel a little awkward in certain contexts, and multiply that by Dave's platform and exposure and, voila, you're in africa wondering why you do what you do. If a white guy somehow finds the frequency that allows him to satirize and have fun with racial humor, and he blows up, at some point he'll have to start wondering if he's some sort of racist-monger or whatever. Dave's negroness allows him to do a show like this, but it doesn't exempt him from having a conscience. Obviously he loves what he does, he's been doing it more than half his life and he's not even 40. It's not a "work" thing, it's about your legacy. If you get ten million or one-hundred million, at that point it's not about the dollars, it's about you and your mark. And if your "gift" is to make spot-on racial sketches, and allow millions of people to feel at ease using the word, "bitches" and "ni**a" that could give you reason for pause. A very long pause. Don't hate cause he's rich and can do what he wants. We all want the same thing. Respect what got him into the position.
And with that, I think I hear the "wrap that shit up" music playing in the background. So I'm out ... bitches.
Everyone likes to check out the google searches that lead to their site. For a long time I didn't really pay much attention to mine, but once I started looking I couldn't help but think of the poem on the Statue Of Liberty:
“Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she With silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor, Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free, The wretched refuse of your teeming shore. Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me, I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
Yes, TAN is a refuge for immigrants. Since this is not an actual place, it appears this is a refuge for what we might call moral-immigrants. Or perhaps intelligence-immigrants. Yes, if you are a cigarette butt in the ashtray of american society, and you enter some question or sentiment into google that has been burning on your filter for years, you are more than likely to turn to TAN for the answers.
Here are fifteen google searches I found noteworthy, parentheticals are mine:
do black babies have larger penis (not too bad)
Is semen good to drink? (obvs!)
photos de el pene mas grande (who's bilingual bitches!)
My daughter does black dude (does she? how sweet of her)
Is semen good to eat (hmmm ... eat or drink? more of a metaphysical query)
my daughters having sex with a nigger (same parent from before, now a tad angrier)
Is Angelina jolie negro (as shakhira might say, "you know my lips don't lie")
Can sperm go through panties (better to just eat/drink it all)
Dating a bartender (**NORMAL!!** somebody flag this isp)
is it good for health if men drink their own semen? (strong enough for a man, but made for a woman)
Look at that jungle bunny run (uh-oh, looks like the parent got rid of that 'black dude' boyfriend)
horrible smells you can spray on (get the xmas shopping done early if you can)
fart a lot when I drink soy milk (excellent, also see above)
Negroes love big white butts (look at that jungle bunny run)
Crackheads (genius loves company)
Intelligent negro blog
The sophisticated negro blog
Obviously the last two bonus ones had to be terribly disappointed.
*sigh*
Somebody please save me or give me fifty million dollars before I go Chappelle-Crazy.
Born October 4th (a Libra!), weighing in at, uh, a few ounces, (even less if you cop the digi-baby). A bundle of joy, you have your mommy's eyes, and your daddy's, well, CENSORED TOO HOT FOR TV/INTERNET, and as of this moment you're all future potentialYAY, SALES:
I can't say much on this. I believe these pictures say more than a million words about life at my alma mater *slowly shakes head in shame* Trinity College.
Otherwise, I guess all you need to know is, these pics are from Halloween '06. And the captions, when present, aren't mine, they come from the picture file names. I believe they're also uploaded on facebook.
I guess I could add that I never visited Trinity before I attended, but I suspect if I visited and this guy popped out the bushes holding a fake (hopefully?) army rifle I may have just stuck with my reach school, University of Phoenix.
Also, Trinity produces black folk like TAN, and white people like this guy. Slowly but surely getting a monopoly on churning out confused children. Go Bants! Get those admission apps ready!!
I've always had a fancy for Norman, his zeal for being bold and audacious. Of course he's given me fodder on the Negro Hipster quest in the form of his essay "The White Negro." But more than his accomplishments and literary legacy I think I've been intrigued by his status as a living legend who ultimately failed in his quest for lasting relevance.
Looking back now, his ambition and desire outsized his talent, which is a torment I relate with far too often. But his passing feels like a burial of that ego-archetype as much as Mailer himself. Narcissism and vanity run amok in our new media era, but it's mutated from the grandiose god-complex that was, in the end, his calling card. We still have ego-warriors, but they are incapable of ruling the land and commanding our attention the way Mailer did in his prime. I wasn't around in those days, but seems he lived his life like he was in a reality show, and back then that meant you were an american hero, now we know it just means you have an american ego.
I wonder, for black people, if we appreciate someone like Mailer. I know it's hard for me to think of him as something other than an old-school caucasian who The System forced me to place on a pedestal. When I first read "The White Negro" I was like, wow. Then years later reading James Baldwin tearing the essay apart, I was like, WOW. But Mailer's still compelling, not necessarily as an author -- where you might take him or leave him -- but as a personality. How does he compare with a Kanye, or a Terrell Owens, or a Kobe Bryant, or any of our celebs/stars who have legitimate talent but have taken a road that inextricably wraps their ego with their work? Sometimes I think black people in general suffer from a higher rate of outsized ambition and desire. Or maybe we all suffer from the ego-itis, but black folks have a tougher time reconciling the reality and dealing with it. We're not as familiar with the expansive middle ground of a happy life with modest, but manageable, goals and expectations. Too often we still only see The Projects or The Superstar....
I don't know, I'm rambling now. But I wonder if we're just now getting our Norman Mailers. Is Kanye walking the same dead-end road, or is he something new and different? Mailer, like 'Ye and so many others, wanted to conquer his industry and the world through his talent. And now he's dead. And I think that model of star-celebrity might be as well.
Not very long ago Gawker did a “Are you a hipster?” quiz. I took the opportunity to inquire about the “negro hipster” (see comments) asking for the more informed to provide examples of such a creature. I was quickly directed to a few candidates.
But the premise of my query still remains. Initially I proposed that perhaps the negro hipster doesn’t exist. Such a term might be redundant since so much of “hipsterdom” is about co-opting "hip" black culture (and I don’t say that with an "angry black militant" agenda, I say it like my boy Norman Mailer did, because it's true. Mr. Kamoji knows what I'm saying.)
I recently reached out to Byron since I was feeling a little out of touch with my hip hop contingency. And so I'll use his story as my launching pad...
In covering the fashion, music, and party aspects the most critical element to being a hipster is overlooked. Unlike being a black person, being a hipster is a state of mind. And so the hipster keyword missing in his breakdown is “meta.” Byron submits irony as the hipster common denominator (HCD), I submit that the irony is more of an affectation. It is the flag for meta. For intelligence.
Byron ironically notes the hipster love for non-racist racism. But hipsters aren’t actually mocking black people (or other minorities). They’re actually mocking people mocking people that mock people mocking black people. Which, I think, still means they’re mocking black people, but over drinks you could get an argument, and there’s no way you could pin them on it.
Byron accurately points out what hipsters think is ironic, or funny. But it’s not really funny. It's meta-funny. It’s ha-ha funny. It’s acknowledge this funny. It’s "smart. " It’s a blogger. It’s the ugly-duckling late-blooming swan. It's Dave Eggers. It’s passive-aggressive. (probably went a few terms to far here)
Hipsters are all about post-modern, post-ironic. They are acutely self-reflexive and self-conscious. They are a byproduct of the information generation. There is no longer any external advantage to be gained if we all have access to the same information/power. So the end result is to look internal. To go meta. This sensibility, more than anything else, may be the distinguishing characteristic for a hipster. It is the essence of the “cool” that fuels the hipster locomotive. And this coolness translates to music, fashion, and partying in many ways, as demonstrated by Byron's great hipster-bingo chart.
(As a related thought, but one too involved to explore in this post, I also see hipsters representing a break from the Christian morality of previous generations, to a more Nietzschean worldview. The hipster sensibility springs from a "will to power" value system, as opposed to a judeo-christian (generally speaking) value system. Hipsters like niche. They like "individual", which is essentially the ultimate niche. This is notwithstanding the fact that "counter-culture" always eventually morphs into "culture" thereby undermining its own agenda. So they turn away from the external crutch of religion and look to themselves. Sort of an ironic self-help generation.)
I find the racial underpinnings evidenced in the hipster sensibility fascinating because I believe they represent progress. Hipsters handle race in a whole different way. A way that would be foreign to any previous generation. Vice, a prime source for hipster gospel, believes race is a dead issue. I think hipsters think the same way. They’re both wrong of course. But to have that adamant belief circulating amongst our young whipper-snappers is indicative of a new era of race relations. In many ways, because of "the hipster" and our new racial epoch, The Assimilated Negro concept is dated (luckily for me, most of us are dated in this regard, so I still have plenty of potential readers who won't write me off for being old-school). Plus since I’m meta enough to acknowledge that deficiency everyone can still appreciate the fruit of my loins. I mean the fruit of my toils, err labor. You know what I mean.
Now what I was talking about. Oh right, me. Oh wait, no, hipsters.
Hipsters are our first graduates from the school of racial equality (SORE). They are our first look at a new generation. Of course they have gook on their heads, look a little underdeveloped, and generally make you say ewww (which, by the way, is the new "make you say hmmm"). They have issues. But the thing is none of those issues are race issues. You think Blackface Jesus is a product of "old-school Jim Crow" sensibility, or is he a product of "I could give a fuck about this race shit" sensibility. I'm guessing the latter. And if I'm wrong I guess I'll kick his ass later.
So I guess, even though I'm no hipster, I'm down with hipsters. I think it's the artist in me. Because while the fashion and music may be ephemeral, I think the sensibility, the "mind of a hipster" is here to stay. And I'm saying that, like, totally unironically. Seriously. No meta-irony here at all.
An investigation of the rise and fall of the contemporary hipster, via the scholars at literary magazine, N+1:
In addition to the panel transcript, the book includes responses from critics Jennifer Baumgardner, Patrice Evans aka The Assimilated Negro, and Margo Jefferson, as well as essays on douchebags, Hasids versus hipsters, and ill-fated sneaker shop Alife Rivington
Happy to sound off in this "hipster" death knell; humbled to keep company with smart do-gooders like feminist-activist extraordinaire Jennifer Baumgardner and Pulitzer winner Margo Jefferson. Hopefully we did former hipster ideologists such as Anatole Broyard, Norman Mailer, and Robert Lanham proud.
I'll post a snippet and offer more thoughts when the mixtape book officially drops (I brought the hip hop and gold-plated four-finger rings to the party), but click here to pre-order and then maybe start ironing your smarty-pants because everyone's gonna be sizing you up while you read this on the train, in the park, post-coitus, etc.
To my knowledge the debut of "Death of Auto-Tune" came via radio, Hot 97's Funkmaster Flex and Mr. Cee. Nearly immediately after, you had FWMJ on the scene. Miss Info followed up, and the net was off to the races.
It's odd to me that even in this micro-analyzed cultural landscape, we still don't have a basic blog/tumblr whathaveyou doing a run-through on the lyrics for all the major-release hip hop songs. Something that gives a quick, intelligent meta-analysis of the content and sizes it up strictly on lyrics. If I'm missing out, shoot me a link. But it feels like this is where the audio-literary impact of hip hop is slipping through the cracks; of course the alternative is maybe there's just nothing there.
well, only one way to find out. to the lyrics, Batman!:
Lyrics (italics)
Only rapper to rewrite history without a pen
No I.D. on the track let the story begin…
begin… begin...
So most should recognize Jay's trumpeting of not writing his lyrics down. He talks and rhymes about it all the time. I suspect this investment in "spontaneous genius" might be one of hip hop's tragic flaws; but it's definitely one of Hov's.
For hip hop: between the ongoing argument of "Freestyle vs. off the dome"; and the "Biggie wrote that song in the booth" t-shirts; and "Jay wrote this album on the toilet taking a shit" hand-warmers, and "Weezy ain't never wrote nothing down ever." OMG, dude is a genius! Huh? What??
In the late 80s emcee, philosopher, now elder statesman KRS-One formed the "Stop the Violence" movement. Obviously he wasn't totally successful in accomplishing the stated goal, much like my own personal "Continue the Sex with TAN" movement, but he/they did end up creating one of the classic songs and videos in hip hop history, "Self Destruction." It is mos def a song you should know:
Instead of the usual blessay about the song and its context -- after all, the context, message etc is self-evident -- we'll just fashion a not-really-live blog of the video:
0:00. How come the songs these days don't have Farrakhan and/or Malcolm X being sampled at the beginning anymore? That used to be a can't miss no-brainer move. Always hot! That's why hip hop is dead now. No Farrakhan intros.
0:10. Guest Stars! Lots of them! How come there's no monstrous posse-cuts with like 10 rappers anymore? That used to be a can't miss no-brainer move. Always hot! That's why hip hop is dead now. No Farrakhan/Malcolm intros, no 10-man posse joints.
0:25. How come there aren't as many clips of black people being harassed and such in videos anymore? It used to be it wasn't a hip hop video until you got some footage of us getting hosed or attacked by dogs. That used to be a can't miss no-brainer move...
0:54. Filmed at the Schomburg Center; I just learned that from this not-so-live blog.
1:00. Hey, where did KRS go? He doesn't come back into the shot. What a bastard, he lectures us on not killing ourselves then just leaves when the next guy comes on? How rude!
1:05. Seems like MC Delite got the shaft so we could get to Kool Moe Dee. That was literally like 5 seconds. He did pretty good though for 5 seconds, the "black on black crime was way before our time" is kind of wise. He'd probably make a good blogger. Also, caucasians, when your grandma asks for a dookie rope chain for christmas, she's talking about what Delite is wearing.
1:20. Kool Moe Dee "never ever ran from the Ku Klux Klan," I wonder why.
1:30. Gotta love how Kool is to kool to bop during the chorus or even look at the camera. What is he doing there? Just thinking about what he said?
1:43. MC Lyte's turn. She was possibly the best female emcee of this era. She's reminding me how the whole "posse cut" concept is particular to hip hop. I don't know why it didn't catch on in a big way. Like We Are the World was a hot posse cut. Why don't we have more of those with real songs? Hip hop mastered that, and I'm realizing right now that there's some special magic in those "golden era" posse songs. I have to mull on this more.
1:48. This is apparently the part where the director is asserting his own sense of "artistry." The purpose of "artistry" is to provoke questions, like: Why is everyone facing the wall? Why does it go from black-and-white to color? What is it that prompts everyone to turn around? We'll probably never know these things, and that's how art is sometimes.
2:06. I love how at this time we still didn't know what to tell the hype men and DJ's to do when they were in videos. They just stood there. And never smiled. Who started the whole "don't smile, cause smiles are for pussies" thing anyway? I'm glad we're over that ... kind of.
2:15. How come hip hop duos don't alternate lines like this anymore? That used to be a can't miss no-brainer for hotness. That's why hip hop is dead now, no quick back-and-forth with the rhymes.
2:30. D-Nice should have been bigger. He looks exactly like Bow Wow. And he's probably more talented. I blame that sweater he's wearing. D would have been huge with the teeny-boppers these days. Plus he could DJ? Pfft. Also, I LOVE the person dancing in the back. Is that a sheepskin they're wearing? That back line is like the late 80s hip hop version of TRL.
3:05. OMG there go the TRL people, and it is a sheepskin! Look at that coat, that is awesome. It's like they put a whole sheep on the jacket to serve as a collar. Man, I remember when having a sheepskin was like having an iphone. Those were simpler times.
3:14. Hmm, That guy kind of looks like a young DL Hughley getting arrested.
3:20. Star Jones Miss Melody... ha. I wonder what she's doing these days. We definitely need a Behind the Music on Miss Melody. She is not easily researched. If someone has the album she dropped, please hit me up.
3:42. Doug E. Fresh. The "moment in silence" line in this was classic. But it's pretty damn funny to think about a real funeral where someone says "let's have a moment in silence" and then starts beatboxing during it. That's highly amusing.
4:00. Doug was less rapper and more of a "vocal choreographer." I love the "And" arrangements here. Good stuff.
4:18. Rolling the statistics on black people was a nice touch. How come they don't run a ticker with statistics on black people in videos anymore? I think CNN and FOX and everyone else stole that from this video.
4:35. I almost forgot how dope Heavy D was. If I didn't know hip hop and had to pick a star who could do tv and movies and stuff from this video it would be him. He jumps off the screen! Also, more stats! This video is like a research paper and dope hip hop song in one. They just don't make 'em like that anymore.
5:26. PUBLIC ENEMY!!! PE was obviously brought in to bring this song home. They're like the ringers of the socially-conscious hip hop anthem set. Knowing the song, I always get giddy during the chorus waiting for Chuck to come on.... "to revolve, TO EVOLVE to self-respect" ....fire!
5:50. Ha, must have been the end of the day cause the whole crowd doesn't seem to be into it for the final shot. Maybe some of them, in fact, don't have a big problem with self-destruction. To each his own I guess...
God, I love this song. And if you made it through this not-so-live blog, you know me, and a classic hip hop song a whole lot better. Yay, you! Now go order that dookie rope chain for your grandma.
The Case of Will Leitch and the Burning Q-Tip
is up on Amazon.
proud. 
