I was totally content with letting this blog die a slow, crusty, gangrene-ish death. I'd been hired at a new company, which at first completely kicked my ass and killed any possibility of free time, much less the mental capacity to blog about anything. The funny thing is that even while I didn't update, the blog kept a quiet little buzz, and even received some anonymous comments from time to time, including prayers that I'd one day be castrated by my own scythe.
And while the buzz died down considerably (which happens after 2 years of nothing), the praise for this whole experiment remained somewhat steady, the only buzz I was trying to build was the kind that came from quality vodka, Hoegaarden, or $14 South African wine to settle my nerves after a day on the job, and from writing whatever prose I could conjure up from my cold, janky heart, especially if there was a freelance check involved.
I have to admit that it was the anonymous comments that made me want to start again. Sure, many of them are in Chinese characters, and seem to be the kind of stuff that nobody should click on, that is if they prefer not to have their laptop explode or emit Agent Orange through the speakers. But some of the comments were actually encouraging, and some of my friends still ask if I'm doing the blog anymore.
So here's what I'm gonna try to do, since we're all dying anyway I've become better at time management. I'll make better attempts at keeping this thing current. That might mean one or two posts per week for a minute, but I'll try to keep them worth every effort put forth by your ever-yellowing eyes.
EDITOR'S NOTE: Look, I don't need no Secret Service problems. That title isn't to be taken literally, so don't get all tight about it and start goon monitoring me from Langley at the secret underworld headquarters of the National Obituary Desk. The concept here is political death, not physical. So leave me the hell alone. I shouldn't even have to say that, but there that go.
Man, I called it. And I'm still calling it now, even though it probably won't be announced until Sunday or Monday. Senator Roland Burris will vacate his Illinois senate seat, and unless he's a complete boob, he'll do it sooner rather than later. That's money.
See, this guy should have known that this was a bad idea all along. You already saw WHAT HAPPENED TO JESSE JR., when he tried his political hand at Obama's former spot, and found out that not every black politician is Barack Obama. Hell, not many white ones (or Jindals) are either, for that matter, so don't get too gassed about your chances. Those are some big shoes to fill, oh my brothers and sisters.
Now that he SOMEHOW GOT IN, he's the loneliest black guy in the Senate chamber, even without the ethical cloud that is raining poop water on his head. Taking the offer (or should I say "deal"?) from former IL governor Blago was stupid in itself - can we say instant self-ether? The smart move would have been to stay out of the line of fire, until the man with the target on his dome was exterminated by the political media's firing squad. Blago was already alluding to his complete coolness with taking others down with him. Some of those statements he made on his TV award tour, prior to his impeachment, had some slick undertones; it sounded to me as if he was quietly saying, "Look, this is how politics is. You pay to play. Now, don't make me have to get Nino in the courtroom on y'all. You know you got money in the freezer too, fool!"
The Democrats have been trying to keep a clean house recently, especially now that they're too busy running the government to expose gay Repubs anymore. But all that means is that the G.O.P(enis) is looking for some retribution rape, now that they're all the way uncovered as racist homosexual morons. You see they got rid of THIS GUY, and THAT GUY, so they're obviously not trying to wait on anybody to slip up, now that they're 1 seat away (Franken's gonna win) from a filibuster-proof Senate vote. That makes Burris the new problem.
I've got to admit that I was disappointed in Congressman Bobby Rush's "lynch" language, at that early press conference when Burris was just named by Blago as Obama's scab. Was it really necessary to bring race into the whole affair? If a black guy was the last person to hold the job, with outstanding performance, how can you assume that the next black guy won't get a fair chance at it -- unless you think that there's some secret issue that could ruin the whole orgy, like 1 person in the group had crabs and didn't bother to inform everyone else. But if you already know how everybody in the clusterfuck of Illinois politics gets down, then you should already know what's up, and you shouldn't show up anyway, now should you? Don't tarnish your gallant reputation by getting in bed with freaks.
Now, Rush, our proud former Black Panther, is sitting his ass down, and Burris having the marble toilet he had mounted blown up from underneath his balls, on some Lethal Weapon 2 ish. And Blago was doing a good Sgt. Riggs imitation, except he didn't stay around long enough to pull Burris's ass away from the explosion, or just to give some spirit-boosting encouragement, like "Guy's like you don't die on toilets."
White House Press Secretary and Obama weed mule Robert Gibbs said with nuanced subtlety on Friday that Burris ought to STEP THE FUCK OFF. The new Governor of Illinois, Pat Quinn, made his position clear by saying that Burris is a WACK MC that should be tossed off stage by the draws. Plus, one of Burris's senate aides told him HE PLAYED HIMSELF, and went back to his former position as the Tony Yayo of Senate Majority Leader Harry Reid's G-Unit.
So now, "Senator" Roland Burris is looking like Rick Ross. If I were him, I'd pack my bags, steal as much Senate stationery as I could get my hands on, and run back to the lab to record a new political mixtape about his experiences. I might even download it for free.
Dag, my brothers and sisters. Just when it was becoming media overkill, and people were starting to ask axe that awful question, "Well, what did Rihanna do to deserve it?"... it seems that the guy who has been called "Usher's Replacement" (everyone), "The Young Mike Jack" (Nas), and "hot" (my niece G), is pretty much going to become one of the most reviled men in entertainment since O.J. Simpson, Ike Turner and Kobe 2004. You even have the whole "leave Chris Brown alone" campaign going on, where cats like this guy below share their intuitive thoughts on the situation they know so much about, because they know about shit like this. Plus, "how can guilt look so cute?"
Chris Brown had a great thing going for him, and I don't mean the love of the guy above. He was handsome [ll], talented, young, rich, famous, charming [ll] and even seemed humble. Not at all the type of guy you'd see in one of those animated cartoons, where "the bad guy" is terrorizing some pearly young damsel, as she cries for a superhero to save her from the terror. CB was winning awards, had almost completely wiped clean the spectrum of modern male R&B singers, and was well on his way to at least 5-10 years of upward mobility in his career. Then, his goon hand came crashing down, repeatedly, on a woman. A woman like any other woman, except that she happens to be one of the finest and most famous women walking the planet right now.
I say that the storm was settling, because the major news pundits were starting to weigh in on the subject of the violent beating of Rihanna. Once the major news networks start letting their hacks get at a person, it's only a matter of time before some cash-poor publicist/"crisis manager" would come calling, offering to vigorously defend CB and bring him back to comfortable levels of public relations. Sure, it wouldn't be easy, but people are forgiving when it seems that the media isn't being fair or letting you have the chance to either defend yourself on television or raise even more questions about your effery, like A-Rod's recent roid press conference. It was even looking like Rihanna might show mercy (read: weakness/love), and publicly forgive CB, to take the edge off the incredible shit stain he placed on his own career. T.I., Will and Jada, Terrence Howard and all other types of celebs who probably have their own private or public dirt, were coming out of the woodworks to try to help the rest of us understand that these things probably happen a lot more than we think, and that there are ways to fix them without demonizing the guilty party.
I had my questions as to whether or not there was some incredibly strange situation that led to this beating, even though it was never in question as to whether or not he deserved to be publicly denounced for his actions. You just can't hit women, under any circumstances, is what most people believe. I tend to think that if a woman raises a gun at me, she has earned the right to get her ass whooped, just like a man. Barring that, the only option is to walk away, if your temper reaches the level that you are seriously considering letting your fists fly into her face.
So you can imagine that I was waiting to hear what CB would have to say about the whole ordeal before passing any personal judgment against him. I was also not completely sure of what happened, and there had been no available pictures to document how severe the assault had been. But alas, oh my brothers and sisters, the picture of Rihanna is worth a thousand words, and all of them are the same: "Damn."
When you wake up tomorrow, Chris Brown will be just a figment of your imagination. You won't be able to remember the lyrics to any of his numerous hit songs. You won't think of him as you chew your gum. You won't be able to name three things he did last year in the public eye. All you'll remember is the busted lip, scrapes, scars and swelling on Rihanna's face. And you'll look at her eyes. Closed, but tight, revealing pain that seems deeper than anything physical. She looks helpless, confused, and emotionally hurt to the point that tears won't even fall. And though she is completely beautiful, she is, in the TMZ picture, the new, ugly face of domestic abuse.
This blog is in the memory of Chris Brown's career. It is dead and gone. Hope you ladies enjoyed the show while it lasted.
Here's a little reassurance for you skeptics out there. I know, I know; you're still struck with those dag-blasted heebie-jeebies about tomorrow, even though you keep hearing about all that security and the precautions taken to ensure a safe and happy inauguration.
Fear not; it appears that the last thing anybody wants is a problem with the super-official Obama entourage. In case you were unaware, this is how President #44 is rolling out in these skreets. Now ask axe yourself; do you want beef? This dude has the pimp game on clack-clack!!! See for yourself below:
But nah... go right ahead. See what your foolishness and unprepared mind will get you in 2009. My advice? Chiiiiiilllllll.....
Before you go all Obama/Dr. King/Biggie Smalls crazy with the rest of your holiday weekend, I just thought I'd come back to say hello and burst your bubble with regards to race relations in America, and specifically in the south.
Absolutely 100% true story:
Last night, after doing research for the job, I went to my old bar hangout in Marietta, GA. It's called Churchill's Pub. You don't normally see a lot of black folks in and out of there, but they do come through. I get treated like some sort of celebrity by the staff and owners, simply because I've weathered 2 years of coming in consistently. Working across the street at another bar made it accessible, and the fact that they have really good food, free wi-fi and would let you order a pitcher of beer for yourself were enough to keep me coming, even though I would sometimes sense race hate from the other side of the bar. Which I never pay much attention to anyway, but sometimes I would actually engage the people directly with a sarcastic smile and a knowing look.
It wasn't that way last night, but there was this dude that I know pretty well from seeing him there a lot, sometimes with his mom and dad. He was hanging out with this guy that looked like he was born in a hunting jacket; like he literally fell out of a deer's coochie one morning, reached for a rifle and shot his own mother dead. This guy was short, pudgy and had extremely wild eyes -- probably from meth of coke or... who knows -- and did all he could to get my attention when he played "99 Problems" by Jay-Z on the Rhapsody jukebox. I gave him a salute and even played along with him when he shouted out the lyrics to the part of the song where the officer is talking to Jay. You know: "Cuz I'm young, and I'm black/and my hat's real low/do I look like a mind reader, sir?/I'ont know..."
This is ironic, because 20 minutes later, as I walk over to say what's up to the other homie, he meets me in front of the jukebox, like, "Are you gonna play some shit!!@?? (drunk as hell). I was like, "Um... yeah!?" And he was then like, "YEEEEAAAAAAAAHHHH!!!!" So I guess that meant we were cool. It had to mean he had established some type of relationship with me, at least in his mind, because not 5 minutes later, as I'm looking through the web, he does the irritating thing which people always do when I take my computer into a public place -- ask if I'll go to some stupid website or YouTube video. This time, I said "Sure," and actually found this really cool site that showcases a local artist who lost his arm or something and draws completely with his mouth. So I say to him, "That's actually cooler than I expected it to be, my man." And he says, "OH!!! YOU WANNA SEE SOMETHING COOL?!??!@@#%?! CHECK THIS SHIT OUT, MAN!!*#!"
That's when he pulls out his phone and shows me how he won last year's Halloween costume at a neighborhood party.
I actually got the guy to send that picture to my email address. That's really him. Now, if you're white and reading this, you might be thinking, "Aww, come on, Mike. That's not really racist! It's just a harmless joke! Stop being so damn sensitive and taking all the fun out of something that's not even that big a deal..."
True, true. Sounds great, but what was I supposed to say about the picture of his black dog, who he called his "down-ass nigger" and bragged about how well-trained he is, and why I'd love him, and why I should come over to their house to get really drunk(er) with the whole backwoods family.
I politely declined, shook my head a little and laughed. Finished my drink, turned back to him and asked a very simple question:
"So, did you vote for Obama?"
He said no.
I paid out my tab, walked over to the bartender and gave her a hug, tipped my waitress, threw the deuces to our shared homie, and after putting on my long, black winter coat and throwing my Macbook back into my leather shoulder bag -- looking like a future black senator, I might add -- I extended my hand to shake that of my new, ignorant-to-his-own-racism friend and said:
"You're actually a cool cat, besides your bullshit. Hope you think twice about your picture and the N-bomb in the future. Oh, and happy MLK day."
Sorry about the lapse in posting continuity. The new year brought a super-cool new job, new money and new toolery. Now that I'm working 9 hours a day on a MacBook, things are a little more complicated and I haven't yet figured out some of the deets when it comes to grabbing images and such, so it looks like I'll be having to switch back and forth from my trusty PC (Sade) and this new laptop. Which is probably for the best; nothing like a bunch of weird blog posts that don't relate to the job sitting on a company hard drive to kill your career before it's really born.
So thanks for the patience, and especially thanks to THE GEORGIA BLOGROLL, which just added your faithful and humble narrator to its listings. I'll be back around in a few hours. Hey, at least I'm Twittering more often!!
Yes, bitches. I've made it. 31 years, and not a single bit of evidence that would suggest aging. Maturity? Surely. But I'm a child of God, and I retain my youthful spirit and I remain young at heart. I love being alive at this point in time.
Can you believe that we actually have a black president?! I mean, take away the horrible recession, the toxic sludge in the Tennessee River, the still-unfinished business in New Orleans, the pointless violence in Gaza, the ignorant racism of the Republikkkan party--especially in my beautiful south, the lack of self-belief and the persistence of power-lust and you have a serious opportunity for change. And, as you can tell, I'm not one for the fantasy way of seeing things. I see dead people.
I also see live people. I see the chance to make the miracles that we think only God has the power to perform actually happen, with our own work. And I'm ready to make my mark on the world. We're not in a recession, as it would relate to the richness of the human mind. We're more capable of thinking our collective way out of this mess that we've made than at any point in human history. Why waste it?
Give me the green light. I can go all night. And all year. And all my life. I've been ready to go, and right now is as good a time as any in my term on this planet. Let's all get serious about life this year. Let's not substitute anything for hard work and dedication. As my man White Jesus always says, "Get prolific."
If you read this blog, peace and blessings to you in 2009. Thanks for supporting writers and readers.
This vid that I copped from Failblog.com is funny as hell and I think you should watch it as an introduction piece before I go into this next post:
I guess I'm posting it because it seems like the reporter should have used his common sense and not gotten in the way of an unstoppable force. He looked like the swaggering, confident sports journalist when the vid begins, but alas; he loses his standing, is sent spinning out of control and lands on his American ass.
Then he has the nerve to try to sound "cool" (get it--snow!) while laying on the white. He then collapses. When he is finally helped back up by a supporter whose face shall not be seen, he staggers--not swaggers--off into the distance in shame and stupidity. Maybe he should have questioned the wisdom of trying to be so close to something he couldn't control. This, oh my brothers and sisters, is what happened to still-Governor Rod Blagojevich. He saw the gravy train a-comin' down the mountain and had to be the Christmas turkey that got glazed [nl].
It is reported today that Gov. Blago WILL NAME OBAMA'S SUCCESSOR, in what has to be one of the most defiant political moves I've seen recently, next to Senator Larry Craig's STALLED ATTEMPT AT MAN-LOVE and subsequent refusal to accept even his own guilty plea in court, dragging his public embarassment out longer than necessary.
The move by Gov. Blago has already drawn a line in the snow between himself and THE DON MEGA HARRY REID, with the Senate Majority Leader repeating the party line that any person appointed by the disgraced governor would be blocked. Since it's everyone's intention to have Blago not only impeached but possibly prosecuted, it makes perfect sense that he would not take the idiotic step of tainting SOMEONE ELSE'S good name by telling the world that he--in all of his political morality--has decided that said person was the most qualified for such a powerful and significant position. But politics = Pandora's box, lest we forget...
My question: why is it that Blago keeps shitting on black candidates? Pardon me if my colorblind philosophy is blurring my actual vision, but wasn't President-Elect Barack Obama a black senator? Why would Blago twice put his slimy stamp of approval on two otherwise respectable black men with upward mobility and political aspirations of grandeur? Is this some type of trade-off? Do blacks in Illinois have to pay a penance for Obama's success? Sacrifice two knights to get one king? Checkmate?
Or is this something more politically poisoned? Is Gov. Blago putting his finger in the Obama Administration's proverbial EYE OF PROVIDENCE by spreading his own disgrace among other candidates that share a similar ethnic background to Obama, as long as he is hung out to dry by the new Democratic establishment? Maybe his posturing is a way of saying, "Look here, Mr. Magic Negro; I will not be the only one to fall on this one, so you'd better look for a way to save me and my political legacy before I start flipping even worse than the reporter in that YouTube video above."
And seriously, what does that "Warning" sign next to Blago mean? Is there some subliminal message in the choice of being snapped by a photog next to something that says the word "rats"? Hmmm...
Hopefully Blago will smarten up quickly and realize that he's already fallen. No need to keep playing yourself for the cameras, dude. You are the victim of your own epic fail. Just collect yourself, turn around and walk away. And please don't expose those that tried to help you get back up in the process. Let them have their dignity.
We're getting close to the end of this chapter, my brothers and sisters. And what I will tell you is that we need some motivational mottos for the coming year. We've still got Republikkkans on that racist b.s., Israel and Palestine are still beefing and the media is still hyping the recession. But there's good news all around, if you can sift through the seasoning salt.
Me? I'm taking the next 48 hours to determine what will stay and what must die in my own cypher. In the meantime, while I get my green on, here is a list of possible mantras that you might hear me drop once the ball in Times Square falls. Feel free to use anything you like in your own dialog with other progressive peoples. Add one if you wish!
THE UNDERWRITER'S AULD LANG SYNE IN 2009:
Time to shine in 2009 (Be a star)
On the grind in 2009 (Don't wait for anything; go get it)
Smoke some Pine in 2009 (Why not?)
Vintage wine in 2009 (Spoil yourself)
No Calvin Klein in 2009 (Pause. Nolo.)
Grow some spine in 2009 (Where your heart at?)
Free your mind in 2009 (The rest will follow)
Please stop lyin' in 2009 (Real talk.)
Gon' get mine in 2009 (Get yours!)
First class flyin' in 2009 (As long as you're paying)
Fly design in 2009 (Swag is dead)
Not left behind in 2009 (Stay ahead of the curve)
Style divine in 2009 (Do it like Jesus would)
Deserve to dine in 2009 (I gotta eat)
Lead the blind in 2009 (Dumb rappers need teachin')
No mo' cryin' in 2009 (You can complain, but who'd listen?)
Beat Ben Stein in 2009 (Get money!)
Get off the vine in 2009 (Gossip and rumors are for girly boys)
Read, then sign in 2009 (Don't get jerked!)
Don't rewind in 2009 (The movement moves forward, not in reverse)
Clean vagine in 2009 (Because feminine hygiene rules)
Fresh behind in 2009 (Gentlemen: wash your draws)
This could go on forever. The point is that 2009 does not have to be lame as hell. Power to the people, wisdom, success, health, strength, honor and happiness to you and yours. And be safe out there on Wednesday night, whatever you do.
First of all, the governor of Illinois looks like an aging porn star. That mop he's wearing is too suspect for words. But if he intended to upgrade to the JOHN EDWARDS HAIRCUT price range, he should have figured out a better and more realistic way to earn the chee$e he needed to pay the bill, instead of charging others to play the political game and getting recorded over a federal wiretap. What a dumbass. But alas, you already know that politicians are not smart. And if you haven't already seen the video of Patrick Fitzgerald, the same U.S. Attorney that brought down Scooter Libby in the C.I.A. leak investigation, then check out this YouTube of Pat reading aloud the alleged words of Governor Rod Blagojevich, which I guess were recorded and transcripted. As you can tell, "bleep" is the new "fuck."
In other political news related to Hip-Hop, CNN.com ran A STORY ON COMMON, Chicago's original native son, and how he believes that Obama will change Hip-Hop for the positive. I have to say that the homie is 100% on point. It's going to be awfully hard to rap about selling drugs, pimping hoes and gang life when the POTUS is a black Harvard Law graduate and has an extremely intelligent wife and two beautiful daughters. Mark my words; it won't be long until Obama has to rebuke some dumb rapper for saying something sexist or crime-related in the same rhyme that he celebrates having a black prez. If Obama will turn his back on a corrupt white dude with whom he had political history, he will certainly throw a cold elbow to Shawty Lo or Gucci Mane or one of those other cats. Shouldn't matter much to them; they can still hurry up and make an Obama song while the frenzy still hasn't peaked. Obama ringtone, anyone?
Everybody is making money off Obama right now, or at least trying. Even my sweet old grandmother fell for the PAINTED OBAMA COIN commercial and paid $29.99 by credit card for a set for your faithful and humble narrator. God bless America. Obama might just sell us out of this recession. The question is, does Obama own his own name, or does it now belong to the American public? Who's really getting taxed, oh my brothers and sisters?
Ladies and Gentlemen: Your favorite blogger will not speak to you tonight. His time is up. I have taken it over. You were to read a post covering bullshit black gossip, stupidity in the form of “urban news” or the current legal fuckery of your favorite rapper—whatever you normally check for on the internet that has recently occurred in the world of Hip-Hop and/or politics. That is what you are going to hear.
For two years, you—the dying music industry of Atlanta—have been asking axing, “Who is Mike Jordan?” This is Mike Jordan speaking. I’m the guy who loves and values Hip-Hop. I’m the cat who does not sacrifice his love or his values. I am the dude who is relieving you of your victims and thus destroying your world.
And if you wish to know why your record labels are perishing—you who dread fresh, innovative, empowering and creative Hip-Hop music, I am the writer who will now present it to you on this post.
You, the A&R, music executive, program director, record label owner and--hell, yeah--magazine publisher, have said that this is an age of creative crisis in the music business and that southern rap’s sins are destroying Hip-Hop. But your chief virtue has been sacrifice. You have sacrificed innovation to sales. You have sacrificed empowering lyrics to demoralizing chants. You have sacrificed development to current market conditions. You have sacrificed art to commerce. You have sacrificed talent to hustle. You have destroyed all that which you held to be evil, and achieved all that which you held to be good.
Why then, do you shrink in horror at the sound of the Hip-Hop music that surrounds you in your Mercedes-Benz’s Bose stereo system? That music is not the product of your sins. It is the product, the rhythm, melody, lyrical content and chorus of your virtues. It is the moral ideal of your musical reality brought into its full and final perfection.
You fought for it. You have dreamed of it; you have wished it… And I am the man who is helping to grant you your wish. I am removing the sources of all those evils you are sacrificing—one by one. I am ending your battle; I am stopping your cipher. I am depriving your world of The 5th Element.
Writers do not represent the culture, you say? I am withdrawing those who do. Writers are insignificant, you say? I will withdraw those who aren’t. I’m showing them the way to live by another morality: mine. It is mine that they are choosing to follow. Will you soon be crying that this is not what you wanted? The culture of Hip-Hop in ruins, abandoned by its embedded and entrenched yet mentally emaciated writers, reporters and journalists is not your goal? You did not want us to leave?
You damned Atlanta. You damned Hip-Hop but never dared to question your code.
Yes, this is an age of creative crisis but it is not Hip-Hop that is on trial. It is your moral code. And if you wish to go on existing in this culture, what you now need is not to return to creativity but to discover it.
Sincerely Yours, Mike Jordan
a.k.a. The Underwriter a.k.a. the black John Galt a.k.a. The Best Writer Alive a.k.a. Jihad Ballout Jr. a.k.a. Perry A. Pelagreeno a.k.a. Mickey Reagan a.k.a. Grumpy McNasty
[This blog was inspired by Atlas Shrugged, a book that I highly recommend to any serious reader, writer or thinker.]
I tell you, oh my brothers and sisters, the times, they are a'changin' around this beeaieyach. So let me begin by saying that I hope you had a great Thanksgiving, and I hope that you're not only thankful for that gluttonous meal you ate Thursday afternoon with your fat-ass family, but you're also in the spirit of giving something to those who might be in worse need than you this winter.
Keep in mind that I'm not a fan of baseless charity; I prefer that people find something that they love and want to see bettered through personal investment. Deserving a gift is the ideal. But let's be fair; we're in a recession and there are hungry and cold people out there who may have fallen through the cracks under Georgia Bush's reign of terror on the American government. Prayer helps, but action is necessary in these times. Let's all pitch in.
Speaking of Georgia, since it is one of the states that I represent through my honorary position as Senator to the southern tri-state area of Tennessee, Alabama and Georgia, and I do most of my business in Atlanta, let me keep it ultra gutter and tell you what's really hood in the city that made me. Here, as food for thought, are the top 30 reasons why the City of Atlanta is pretty much dead. Listen to me now; believe me later on.
THE UNDERWRITER'S TOP 30 REASONS WHY ATLANTA IS DYING OFF:
1. Shakir Stewart's death (R.I.P.) 2. T.I. going to jail 3. Luda going Hollywood 4. Gucci Mane in jail 5. Young Jeezy cooling off 6. Soulja Boy 7. Jermaine Dupri running a club & destroying Janet's career at once 8. L.A. Reid in the Hamptons 9. 1/2-ass Janelle Monae project management by Bad Boy 10. Lil' Jon M.I.A. 11. Hot 107.9's A-Team fired; replaced by Ricky Smiley 12. Maurice Garland M.I.A. since 11/5 13. Gyant gaining fame 14. No clear cut female rap queen/leading lady 15. Jax death (R.I.P.) 16. DJ Drama still in legal limbo 17. Killer Mike fadeaway 18. Usher in career limbo 19. Dallas Austin on permanent vacation 20. Alfamega 21. Kaya becomes Club Vision, then torn down for Trump condos 22. The death of Freaknic (R.I.P.) 23. Mike Vick not coming back 24. Traffic 25. Price of a$$ & foreclosures ^; local economy & city budget down 26. Continued water (& weed) drought 27. Polow Da Don recent brick marathon 28. Still no Real World Atlanta 29. Chicago's comeuppance 30. No alcohol sales on Sunday except clubs & restaurants
To be certain, there is only one hope...
The Dungeon Family. The first shall be last and the last shall be first. Anybody who has been here since the mid-90s can tell you that even moreso than Dallas and Jermaine and only second to LaFace, the DF made Atlanta cool, so only they can reinstitute the groove and save the city. If that fails, expect me to speak to you from New York or Los Angeles in 2010.
Fortunately, there are three OutKast projects and one GOODie MoB. album on the way. Thank God. Shout to the homie Dallas in town for Turkey weekend.
Jesus, I had no idea how zooted I was when they shot this video. That's what two Ls of Sour Diesel and plenty of vodka will do to you. Anyway, here's that video I told you about from the New York post.
Let there be no doubt that I was feeling extra glowy with those blue lights all around me.
Chicago's own Common came to my homestate last weekend, so I stopped by the all-new Club Sky to check it out. To be certain, this guy Common brings the women out in full force, and there were plenty of Lisa Lisas (80's version) in attendance. I wasn't alone, so I had to do the honorable thing and stay by the bar getting OVERTHROWED until dude hit the scene around midnight or so. Wouldn't want to look thirsty like the ladies, and man were they parched...
When I say that the ladies spazzed, I mean it. I knew that Common had fans, but I didn't know that he is, on the low, approaching L.L. Cool J status with the female rap base. Maybe on the high. And when I say that the high majority of these women were sexy, I say it because the shit is true, on the low.
Com came through, sat at the couch with an extra big bodyguard from Birmingham that my homegirl says she dated for a second. This dude was widebody like a walrus, but he had that roscoe/biscuit/heater/toolie/pistola on his hip, and his size alone was suggestive enough that nobody really tried to push up on Chi-Town's Nas like they couldn't control themselves. Yet he still managed to pull off his job without reaching for the burner and keeping an ill mean mug on his grill, just in case a heifer started acting a donkey, if you will. With his fat ass.
I let the ladies get their kicks and giggles before running up on Common, Bamma-style, and saying, "Thanks for coming to Alabama, cousin." He seemed pleased that he was so well received. It's funny, oh my brothers and sisters; most outsiders always seem super-surprised when they visit the state in which I was raised. They have a wide-eyed stare, and a simple smile that suggests that they didn't expect so much deep south love (NOLO). Common definitely enjoyed the crowd's response to his appearance.
From there, Common cut through the crowd with the assistance of the big dude and stood in the stairwell that led to the DJ booth and pool room--pretty much the only place from which he could effectively perform. He commenced to rock. See video below, and please don't bitch and moan about the darkness; just be grateful for the flashing lights of nearby cameras. You want better quality, I suggest you invest.
Here's the Com'z rocking "Go!" from his debut album on G.O.O.D. Music, Be...
Here's "Testify"...
Check the crowd response to "Universal Mind Control", the Neptunes-produced lead single...
From there, he dropped "The Light" (which would have come in handy for my camera) and closed up shop to loud applause and cheers. I have to say that I continue to be impressed by Common when it comes to longevity. He's one of the few rap artists that has been around for ten years of which I can still call myself a fan. Really, it shouldn't be much longer before we just stop fronting all together and put him in the Top 5 of all time. Like he said on "Get 'Em High": "Real rappers is hard to find--like a remote... control rap is out of."
Next up: Musiq. That's right; the cross-eyed R&B singer. I caught him doing his thing as well in Alabama, so I figured why not post it up. Check back tomorrow or the next day for that. And hey!! Thanks for giving me your attention for the last two years.
Make sure you cop Universal Mind Control when it drops (hopefully) on December 9.
"Should have my own reality show called, Soul Survivor." -Common; "Get 'Em High"
If you haven't seen it yet, I strongly suggest adding D.L. Hughley Breaks The News to your weekly schedule of television intake. Jesus knows that we don't need another hour of TV in our lives, but this one actually helps you to dissolve all the other nonsense available on the variable VH-1's, MTV's and BET's of the digital audiovisual world and learn more about what's really good in the world today. In a black comedy way, of course.
The first show I caught in full was the episode on the Sunday after Obama's victory. It was just perfectly timed for relevance, humor and appropriateness; it seems that someone in the higher offices of the CNN building is smart enough to realize that if you want someone to be able to apply comedy to the first black presidency, they'd better be black. Brilliant!
Wow; how the world has changed in the past six months, huh? Looks like change will continue to come well into 2009 and beyond, oh my brothers and sisters, and we've got to learn to live with the difference in order to have any input or effect on the future. Especially when the guy in charge looks more like America than any other candidate in recent history. Now that we've got a leader, we need supporters, workers and buffers. As long as we have intelligence, art and dialogue, we'll have a national discussion that will lead to something positive.
But enough of that. Seriously, D.L. Hughley is funny as hell. To be fair, I have noticed that his show can be somewhat off when it comes to the other characters that are featured. It's like someone took the Dave Chappelle idea and made it more politically astute but more watered down; sometimes the people overplay their posturing and the jokes fall flat, leaving a lot of pickup duty for the host. Luckily, D.L. has a knack for improvisation and delivery, so he always ends up with a good show. Personal opinion: I've always thought that he's best when he moves between politics and picking random people in the audience to roast. Sure, he's heavy on the profanity, but why the eff wouldn't he be? He's a black comic, for God and Pete's sakes, providing people of other persuasions than African-American rhetorical proof that you can get away with anything that comes out of your mouth if it hints at a strong intellect.
Anyway, here are just a few clips from the performance. Check him out when he's in your town, and support D.L.'s TV show so that CNN keeps cutting checks for black folks with creative, activist minds like mine.
Coming up next, Common (yes, that Common) comes to Birmingham this past weekend. But did he kill? Tune in tomorrow to see.
Somebody get Bryan "Baby" Williams from Cash Money Records on the phone and tell him that Governor Sarah Palin would be an excellent choice if there's an opening at Lil' Wayne's recording home for a new "Birdlady." Not only has she proven over the last three months to be completely incompetent and bird-brained on the national stage, but she obviously doesn't mind some "cut-up", and is proud of herself when it comes to being a "chicken-head."
The milfy, intellectually challenged governor, in another unprecedented display of public relations fuckery, has recently conducted a TV interview in Wasilla, Alaska, in which she probably intended to show mercy and goodwill to a lucky turkey in the spirit of Thanksgiving leadership, but ended up looking like a heartless animal slaughterer auditioning for a starring role in Vick II – The Alaskan Turkey Holocaust, which must be coming out soon in a made-for-TV movie on Lifetime.
There's not much else to say about this, except that Palin's publicity team should definitely have engaged in mass suicide weeks ago on some Branch Davidian ish. Don't worry about seeing anything graphic; MSNBC made sure to blur out any jerkish claw movements, splattering turkey plasma, flying gizzard remnants or airborne beak particles so that you can keep on thinking that the Lawd sends us fresh, pre-butchered turkeys from either Heaven or the North Pole right in time for the holiday season. I'm not even mad at this if Palin was intentionally trying to stage a publicity stunt for to make her upcoming book advance go up a few more millies, but she can pretty much kiss politics goodbye after this. The sleeping public is not ready to see this type of thing.
Visiting New York City is a surreal experience for anyone from the deep south. To be honest, I've always been against the idea of living in The Big Apple but happy to visit for a day or two. The feeling I've always taken away is that nobody should have to pay that much just to survive, no matter how cool the people are. But there is the key; the people in New York do make the city, and the environment creates a hardened (nolo) perspective--the NY State of Mind--that exists in even the most anti-social residents of any and every borough.
The first major difference I felt was when I opened up my laptop at the Chili's Too in La Guardia. Nobody tripped. Not that I would have cared; I do it all the time in Georgia, Alabama and Tennessee, and nobody says shit then either, but the feeling that is displayed on their faces takes body language to a new level of expression, especially when it comes to looking like a hater.
As you see below, I've been riding with Obama since the beginning, and the sticker along with my smile should show you just how I feel if you're looking at me sideways. But again, that's what I'm used to in the south; in New York City I was reminded by the relaxed look on the faces of onlookers that I was among friends, even before I had branched out into the city. As a welcoming sign of acceptance and mutual political thought, it was quite a relief.
Being the third trip I've made to NYC since I've been old enough to drink, this was by far the best time I've had. After an incredibly janky flight, we landed and were towed into the gate as the flight crew threw on "The Sweetest Taboo." Don't ask axe me why our plane couldn't steer and push itself. At least the mood music calmed me down after all the turbulence and whatever else was really wrong with the damned plane. Thank God for Sade and solid ground.
Anyway, I was in town for an interview with a NY-based website that shall remain nameless until the word is official, possibly longer. If you haven't noticed by now, I'm really into anonymity. Fame is an unnecessary side effect to being effective at my craft, and I'd rather sacrifice the spotlight than the joy of loving the job. While I was hanging around SoHo, I visited The Huffington Post before taking the R train to 57th street to get up with the homie White Jesus.
[The homies White Jesus, David and Stella Artois]
Because I was already planning for and expecting a positive trip, I setup my iPod while still in Atlanta Thursday night with NYC-inspired music, to give me a better respect for the subway ride and scenery. While moving through underground Manhattan, I was listening to shit like "Pacifics" by Digable Planets on repeat. That's always been a song that reminds me most of how you NY cats live. Funny how it made much more sense when heard on the subway. You hear, through the headphones, the influences of the train itself in the music, through background noise captured in the track. The sound effect gives it way more clarity than if you were listening through home stereo or car speakers. Experiencing NY Hip-Hop in NY is like drinking Evian directly from a river stream in the French Alps, without the hassle of the plastic bottle. Fresh.
From there, I made the trip to the area (edited) where the homie White Jesus lives and works. Having a best friend who happens to have a good job (edited by request) is a perk in any city, but in NYC it makes a serious difference. The homie lives in an area that is straight out of Seinfeld or Friends. Very urban, but very sociable and lively. And very Jewish. Like the homie says, "It ain't Karate..." Inside joke. Think hard enough and you'll get it.
Back to the story, we got on some Ketel One at his crib, then took a cab to TriBeCa to get up with some other friends who live in town. They had the hookup on the leprechaun delivery, so we stayed put until around 11 p.m., chiefing that great, high-powered Sour Diesel and Apple Jacks. Legalize it!!!
Next, we hit up the apartment of a former co-worker from my bartending days. She had recently moved to Brooklyn, so we were able to visit her and her roommates on the way to the club for a few extra free drinks and our first game of "Thumper." If you've never played it, it's another one of those games that white people play when they're getting OVERTHROWED. And that shit is pretty fun, especially when you have some drunk white women surrounding you in a semi-circle and doing all types of crazy dances and gestures. Here's an example:
Moe finally had enough and steered us towards the party in Brooklyn before we got too juiced up with the party girls, who were headed to their own little shendig around the corner. We took another cab to the club, where all we had to do to get in free was agree to be interviewed on camera about how President-elect Barack Obama has inspired us. Supposedly this video interview will be available tomorrow on their website. If so, I'll post a link. If not, forget that I said that. But I did take a photo of the guys doing the interviewing, just for posterity and so that I'd look like a tourist.
The party was ehhh, but at least there were some other cats that I knew from Atlanta in the building. We spoke to a few ladies, drank more than a few G+Ts and stayed until around 3 a.m. The women were weird; they stared all night but were too timid to respond when we spoke, so I left it alone. Don't you hate a shy chick? Didn't really matter; I wasn't there to try my one-night stand luck; I was there to drink with the homies. Mission accomplished.
We'll leave all the other details out, but the moral is that I had a great time in New York. This was the way I always wanted to experience the city, and just when I've developed the proper mentality to deal with NYC, I see that the city responds to my demands. It gave me the impression that even though people swear up and down that it's an almost impossible lifestyle to lead, which I would have agreed with before this weekend, New York City is still the Mecca of American civilization and the birthplace of Hip-Hop. Because I've always been assumed to have originated in either NY or LA--yet I'm actually from Alabama--it felt like a homecoming of sorts. I can't lie; I pretty much fell in love with the city this past Friday, and I feel like I'm cheating.
The next day, White Jesus had a meeting at his job (edited) and I had a hangover that was not ready to quit before noon, so I woke up, popped a Claritin with a bottle of Pellegrino like the elitist I am and went right back to sleep on the couch. I woke up able to breath and refreshed, ready to hit the Sour Diesel again and grab a slice with the homie before hitching a cab ride back to La Guardia to make my grand exit.
On the way back, I had a great convo with the cabbie, who almost turned me down for a ride from the area (edited for White Jesus's anonymity), but changed his mind because "I talked to him with respect." My man was of Arab descent and a hard-core Democrat. We talked the whole ride about the historic implications of an Obama adminstration and how we've got to work as a world community to keep our differences from becoming rivalries, no matter how far apart we are geographically, ethnically or ideologically. When I arrived at the curbside check-in for Delta flight 925, he wished me good luck on being offered the writing job and thanked me for the conversation.
Jesus. I think I love New York. Don't be mad, Atlanta. Just step your game up before I leave your tired ass.
Anybody who went to an A.U.C. college or university in the mid-90's and remembers the 1995-1996 Morehouse Homecoming concert will understand why I'm writing this blog about the Maxwell + Jasmine Sullivan concert in Birmingham this past Tuesday night. Obviously, nooobody had heard of any Jasmine Sullivans back then, so of course the same went for Maxwell. But he was a new artist at the time, making rounds and paying his dues on the Chitlin' Circuit, and he was the unlucky bastard new guy that was scheduled to open for The Fugees.
If you remember Fall '95, that was the year when 2Pac's All Eyez on Me and The Fugees' The Score put Kanye vs 50 Cent numbers up on the Billboard charts, sparking equally lucrative tours, creative offspring and zealots of every sort trying to jump on either the west coast gangster rap or neo-soul bandwagon and ride that beeyotch to the top. So if you were opening a show for them and you weren't aready a star, you were taking a major gamble with your pride trying to "warm it up" for headliners that were obviously among the biggest names in the business at that time. You can imagine my crew's impatience, having executed a stampede to get past the line at King Chapel's doors for the concert, when the host announced some guy named "Maxwell" that was going to entertain us until Lauryn, Wyclef and Pras were ready to take the stage. Do remember how dude used to look back then, with the hair, glasses and either some dusty jeans or those kung-fu master linen scrubs.
Oh, my brothers and sisters, we booed that young man off the stage with glorious, reckless abandon, and I mean the whole crowd joined the chorus. I'm pretty sure I recall that he came on stage with a bar stool, an accoustic guitar and no shoes, maybe chancletas. Cats weren't having it. We pointed him away from the building with the same steadfast posture as carried by the statue of MLK out in front of the building, waving our arms and shouting for the music to cease. Hearty and magnificent in depth, the ringing and rolling boo went from side to side of the auditorium, with an awesomeness of vocal strength and determination that made it feel like a scene from the colosseum battles in Gladiator.
It was something like this...
But worse.
Anyway, thirteen years later, though we believed we had killed his career at the time, it has become apparent that Maxwell survived our unrelenting Apollo-styled reception of his performance and progressed. Maybe he just wasn't ready for the stage back then. Maybe we just couldn't dig his "energy" and "swag." Either way, he continues to excel at the job of singing live and making women swoon. He will be around for a while for that reason alone, even if he does put on a weird show. On the low, I bet 80% of dudes hovering around 30 have used Maxwell (nolo) for at least 1 romantic interlude with a special lady in the last 13 years. Maybe on the high. All I know is that he's coming back from a 7-year hiatus, and the comeback looks like it should be a success thus far.
Happening as it was on the first Monday after The Day, the crowd at the BJCC was quite dapper and upbeat, even though most of the people there were probably just coming off a shitty first weekday like myself. You could tell that we were all riding the Obama high for as long as it would last. You did get a sense that people's smiles seemed to be worn naturally on their faces with nothing to hide, as if tonight's ticket price for a well-timed musical performance was an uncharacteristic luxury that we all deserved for showing up at the polls. Oh yeah - don't let me forget about the abundance of black women with jobs, nice dresses and other special qualities that you didn't get to see, because you were commenting on somebody else's blog. You lost.
Oh yes, my brothers and sisters, women love Maxwell, with all his weird "energy" and "swag". He's strange for different reasons than he was in 1995, which may be the key to his career as a performer at a time when nobody's buying albums. Back when we first saw him, this guy was earthier than dirt--even beating out Erykah Badu in a male sort of way. But now he's weird because he does weird dances and says crazy shit on stage about how sorry he is for missing that last show... which, from what I heard, was like six years ago and nobody even remembers.
Then he makes a public plea for free panties, asking the ladies in the front to throw them, and suspiciously he receives a pair that must have been pre-planned for trajectory. And what kind of heifer already has draws in her hand ready to toss in 2008? More fuckery occured when he spent an extended amount of time on the floor with the mic stand between his legs, hunching the air while looking up at the spotlight, possibly searching for an answer to a question I wouldn't dare pose.
Say what you will about his "energy" and "swag"; the guy can sing. And he can pack a concert hall in a major city at seat prices starting at $70, which is way more than he used to get when he was onstage chewing an incense stick. Much respect to him and the lovely Jasmine Sullivan, who played "new vocal Whitney" to Maxwell's "R&B Obama", putting a serious dent in the coffin of R&B music, if only for one night. Musical highlights include Sullivan's entire performance--this girl is serious--and Max's "Lifetime", "Til The Cops Come Knockin'", "Ascension (Don't Ever Wonder)" and "This Woman's Work."
(Jasmine Sullivan and her painter's uniform)
The moral of this concert is that if you have true talent you can get away with murder on stage. Jasmine knows that she is wrong for wearing a Dickies suit with the legs rolled up to the knees. And Maxwell is a good enough vocalist that you don't even mind his "energy" and "swag". He's a true musician, and for that he deserves respect.
If he comes to your town anytime soon, go ahead and take out a payday loan so that you can go to the show with some change in your pocket, find a thirsty woman and groove to the rhythm of romance and blues. Maxwell has come a long way from sporting farm attire to wearing a suit and necktie. Now, if we can just keep him away from the "party favors" backstage so he's not getting geeked up before the show, we'll have a new-school Marvin Gaye for years to come.
Is it me or did Maxie steal the infamous "Soy Bomb" dance? You be the judge, dear reader. I'm about to go to bed. If you live in NY, let me know what's good for the weekend. I'll be in town.
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