FRIDAY NIGHT LIVE IN NEW YORK CITY

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.

HOW MAXWELL SURVIVED MOREHOUSE

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.

HOW TO KILL A COLD IN 24 HOURS

Nobody has time to get sick and take a day off anymore, espeically in this wack-ass economy. Today I had to go to traffic court in C(ount)O(n)B(eing)B(usted) County to pay a ridiculous speeding fine, race back home before noon to finish an article by deadline, pay two bills, collect one work check and return a "favor" of sorts to someone at my old job who tried to get away with something shady. I must say that even with the small financial loss, which can always be replaced, today was a 100% success as far as a daily checklist goes. And I did it all with a severely nasty allergy cold--the kind where you sneeze violently and uncontrollably out of nowhere and for no reason, with leaking eye sockets and nostrils, red corneas and pale skin. I felt like I was the color green all damn day.

I'm something of an accidental health nut, and with the exception of beer, I really don't get down with a lot of mainstream food that tends to affect one's body. The crazy thing is that it's usually by accident. For instance, I hate cheese, with the exception of mozzarella on pizza. I'll drink a milkshake every few months, but I don't dig the taste of milk. And I'll be damned if I eat anything made of cream, from mayo to ranch to alfredo sauce. Again, this is not about health; it's all taste and preference.

Either way, I still get quickie-sick for a day when the seasons start to change, every year, like clockwork. So here's how I get rid of the bug when it bites.


WATER: The Essential Ingredient


You're supposed to drink 8 glasses every day anyway, but if you really want to shake a quickie-sick cold, you've gotta flush your system and stay hydrated. Especially if you're going to have 1 or 2...


HOT TODDYS: The Fun Part


Mix hot tea, brown liquor (preferably Courvoisier, Crown Royal or Jack Daniels), honey and lemon in a big-ass coffee mug and drank that ish. Good times!


CHINESE FOOD: Tastes Good, Seems Healthy


You've gotta avoid the fried stuff and anything creamy, because like milk, it carries bacteria through your body and prolongs the recovery process. But Hot & Sour soup is always a winner. While you're at it, you might as well get a bottle of...


SAKE: The Asian Wino's Hot Toddy


Sometimes this stuff can be a bit much to bear, but when you can't breath you can't smell the vinegar, so it loses the funky stench and just tastes like sour hot wine. Which still isn't great, but it does wonders for the chest.


ACAI JUICE: Antioxidants Are Gangsta


I've always liked the term "free radical." It seems like something that I could call myself. But these FRs are not good to keep around, so stuff like pomegranate juice, blueberries, cherries, dark chocolate, green or white tea, green veggies and other "superfoods" will wash away the ugliness that may have been hiding out in your bloodstream.


JALAPENO PEPPERS: Man Up


Eucalyptus, mint and peppers are great ways to jumpstart your nasal passages and breathing patterns. I've tried those little Vicks inhalers that look like suppositories, but the look you receive when you put one in your nostril and sniff it is enough to make you ashamed of yourself when you've done nothing wrong. I rock with the vaporizing balm, although it does kinda feel like Crisco when applying it. Let your lady do the honors; you'd do the same for her, right?


MULTI VITAMINS: For Extra Kick


You don't have to go buy a bottle of Centrum or anything, but having Vitamin C and Zinc is essential to this thing. Orange Juice is great, and Vitamin Water is aiight, but a supplement in the form of a big-ass pill works wonders. Trust your homie.


CHLOR-TRIMETON: Because Drugs Can Be Good


When allergies are kicking your pale ass around the house, you need to be practical. When you've had it with snotty tissue and brain-blowing sneezes, even the most hardcore naturalist will surrender to pharmaceuticals. I can't do Benadryl for the same reason I won't drink "lean." If I want to sleep, I'll just lay down. Benadryl works and all, but the drowsy side effect takes your entire day away and renders your alarm clock useless the next day. Claritin isn't bad, but it takes forever. Which reminds me; even when you become impatient and see no immediate results...


THINK POSITIVELY: Don't Worry; Be Happy


Maybe you can't wish yourself better, but you certainly can't expect to recover when you lay around, suffering, whining and talking about how miserable you are, even if you are. My thing is to subconsciously repeat to myself, "It's almost gone." By the time I'm tired of repeating the line or just forget to remember it, I'm usually feeing better. Some Bob Marley will also help, but no smoking, if you can help it.


This life is yours, in sickness and health. There's no use in giving up 24 hours just because of a 24-hour bug. Keep your mind and spirit healthy, listen to some good Hip-Hop and follow all of my advice. You'll be better than you've ever been by the second day, or double your money back. Oh yeah, what money?

Just take the advice, fool. You don't have to do all of the above, but make sure you drink water and pick whatever other trick you think best suits your lifestyle. Exercise can't hurt either, I guess; you can just dance like the dude below. Just get healthy, and don't say I never tried to told ya something good. Think about it: if Hip-Hop is to continue to survive we've gotta live longer and better lives.




If I missed anything or you have any tips, send 'em on.

HYPHY IS SCREWED

The news is that Bay Area rap star Mistah F.A.B. is "BEEFING" with the local Oakland Hip-Hop station, KMEL-FM. This is just another chain of events that sparked the creation of this new post, oh my brothers and sisters. Let's investigate the phenomenon of drug-promoting music and its accompanying culture as they relate to specific places on the American map.

Whether I'm a big fan of "Hyphy" music or not, you've gotta admit that it's dead, at least outside of Oakland's ungerground rap scene. As long as we're being honest here (and I don't know why we wouldn't be), most regional sounds that were sold as the next big things a few years ago are all dead.

I mean, look at "Screwed" music, and compare it to what happened with Hyphy. Both of these subgenres of Hip-Hop have been in existence long before some rich white dude decided to cut a mainstream check and put them both on. Representing Alabama, Georgia and Tennessee, I can attest to the fact that I've been hearing screwed mixtapes for close to fifteen years via cousins that visited Texas in the summer. It's nowhere near new. But what was new a few years ago was when Houston rappers Mike Jones, Chamillionaire, Paul Wall, Slim Thug and others started getting major record deals, one after another, all on the strength of a combined 12-month run of consecutive songs - all of which broke the local mold and went from regional to national recognition.

I admit, I was as proud as anybody else from the south that another state was finally getting its just due, as it were. But I also admit this: Screwed music sucks.





I never understood why people liked listening to rap songs that had been "screwed and chopped." Every time I've been forced to listen to any Screwed song for more than 15 seconds, it's always been depressing, sleep-inducing, boring and just... slow. Too damned slow. That shit would drive me to the depths of insanity if I ever got nabbed by terrorists and told that I'd be tortured with a 24-hour private Screwed and Chopped listening session if I don't snitch. I'd confess to all types of shit I've never even thought about doing to get out of that one. And I'd say that Gangsta Rap made me do it.


Once Screwed music got outside of its natural habitat, it was a wrap, because, like Hyphy, it was built upon pillars of salt, or should I say "snow." You can't expect a whole nation to become localized to your city unless the music is that good. Country music comes from Nashville, Bounce music and of course Jazz both come from New Orleans and The Blues were born in the Mississippi Delta. They all spread throughout their regions to national and worldwide ears, but there is a distinct difference: These subcultures are build around actual rhythms, beats, sounds, harmonies and melodies. Without great songs and plenty of great artists down for the artistic cause itself, it just doesn't happen. It's gotta be about the artform more than the afterparty, and both had better be better than anything experience previously if you expect the story to spread. And I'm not saying that Miles, Dizzy and Bird weren't getting loaded on the daily, because we all know how that story goes. But they were still great musicians.

Every city has it's own style that can't (and maybe shoudn't) be made global, especially when you add in the quietly kept secret that - gasp! - Screwed and Hyphy music are both really about doing massive amounts of drugs and being proud enough to sing and dance about it, out loud.

Compare and contrast: As the soundtrack to the lifestyle of codeine and promethazine abusers, Screwed Music was made for Texans who sip "syrup", the mixture of the two drugs combined with Sprite, Big Red soda or any other sweet, carbonated ghetto beverage. Rap artists, taking cues from the "slab rider" culture of Houston, drink it in public and continue to make songs glorifying its consumption, even after it killed one of its most famous rappers - Pimp C.




In Oakland, Hyphy was created as the musical companion to taking Ecstacy pills or "beans", and the subsequent erratic speech, dancing and general behavior. To be high on E-pills, therefore, was to be "hyphy." Some of the Hyphy stuff I heard was nowhere near wack, but it was always a bit too crunk for my blood. And you've gotta be high to want to do some SHIT LIKE THIS. "Go dumb," indeed...





I've pretty much held the same stance against Hyphy since I figured out what it was about. You can't have any type of positive message in a type of music that outright encourages drug use. Now before you even try it ("But what about Gangster Rap?"), I would argue that the social commentary that exists in the Thug Life style of Hip-Hop is necessary to show that people are economically suffering to the point that they would risk their lives and others' to make a dollar. So they pick up a gun and do horrible things.

I've always felt that if you make the terror of the gangster lifestyle look as ugly as it really is, you will save some people from ever wanting to enter it, even if you attract those who would wanted to be gangsters anyway. I never wanted to be a gangbanger after listening to N.W.A. - not once. But it was cool to hear their stories, accentuated by gun shots, excessive swearing and less-than-romantic ideas about women. To me, it's the same as watching No Country for Old Men; it's crazy, entertaining as hell and a great piece of art, even though it's gruesome to the point that I wouldn't have wanted to be in any character's shoes in real life.

The only way I'm convinced that a person can have any positive influence from Hyphy or Screwed music would be to suffer a complete meltdown, go through intensive rehabilitation and emerge from the ashes of doom like the Phoenix. Either that, or the artist just overdoses and dies, causing enough grief from fans and guilt in the hearts of close associates to spark a movement of sobriety, removing all the momentum from the power of the drugs and placing it back in the hands of the people to create things that don't cause mental damage and self-genocide.



It's my theory that the reason why TEXAS MIGHT BE DEAD and HYPHY IS REALLY DEAD is because you can't mix narcotics with your music and expect everyone to follow mindlessly forever like the living dead. Eventually, people wake up and realize they've been drugged. And then what?


But I can't front; THIS SONG is still dope. But if you listen closely, it's not all happy. Just listen to the chorus...

DIG THIS: ROLLING STONE'S 25 FUNNIEST WEB VIDS

Rolling Stone just dropped it's "25 Funniest Web Videos" list, and it already stole an hour of my Friday night, because I'm a nerd like that. I won't give it all away, but I had to put this one up again, because in my view this could have easily been #1:




R.S. used a different version, but I think the one ^ was actually much funnier and straight to the point. By the way, this happened in the "D", where it's so cold.

SOBRIETY IS DEAD

[Me, right now, after last night's horrible fourthmeal choice]


Still recovering from last night. Here's some free advice: Don't eat collard greens at 4am, on top of 100 ounces of Heineken and two shots of Patron. Your stomach will lock up like San Quentin and you'll be in bed for 24 hours, like me right now.

Speaking of getting overthrowed, here is a clip that I've been waiting for, even though I didn't expect to see it remixed like this. I don't know if you watch Intervention, but it's one of the best shows on TV. It really doesn't get any realer.

The last episode I saw was about a girl named Allison. She's far from your average geek monster. I mean, this chick is the biggest fiend that I've seen thus far. Hell, I didn't even know that people actually got high off inhalants after the 2nd grade. That's up there with sniffing glue and breathing in unleaded gas fumes. I just don't get it. These people never heard of the chronic? Way safer, that's all I'm saying.

But anyway, here's the clip.




Kids, don't do drugs. Those things Allison sucks are meant to blow the dirt off your computer keyboard. Legal or not, you probably don't want your lungs to freeze and shatter inside your chest.

Where are the Reagans when you need them?

"PINEAPPLE EXPRESS" - The Autopsy

Saw it last night with my Bahamian homie Ahmahl and my white girl connect Ponton. We got properly zooted while the previews played and rushed in to find seats at the beginning of the movie. The plot of Pineapple Express is pretty simple. It's a weed film. The star and co-writer of the film, Seth Rogen, makes a purchase of "Pineapple Express", a rare strain of cannabis which, in all likelyhood, PROBABLY EXISTS IN REAL LIFE as a result of the tropical climate and transcontinental winds that pass through Hawaii and Canada. And you already know that islanders and Canadians get extremely zooted like every day.





Dale, the main character played by Rogen, witnesses a murder, and he and his weed dealer, played by James Franco, are being stalked by the local weed kingpin and his corrupt cop girlfriend. Strange fuckery ensues.

The movie is pretty classic, and the dialogue is hilarious, full of half-baked ideas and half-cocked concepts. A very funny detail is that their marijuana-induced paranoia actually saves them from being killed immediately after the main character sees the murder and flees the scene of the crime. Like Rogen's first runaway hit, Superbad, this movie has some very wild parts (selling weed to high school students?), but actually comes across as a morality tale of sorts. Lots of subject matter, including love, marriage, friendship, responsibility and loyalty are displayed in the two-hour timespan of Pineapple Express, and since my buzz was strong enough to last the whole duration, I was pleasantly happy.





There is a lot of nolo-esque stuff going on towards the end, but besides that I can't really complain. If you have friends, roll up a couple and have a smoker's night out (no cigarettes!). If you don't, look for Pineapple Express on the net, or just wait for On Demand or Netflix or whatever. As a stoner film, it makes more sense to catch this one on DVD, just because you'll have the ability to munch out as much as you want without having to deal with movie theater prices, and the movie is definitely a collector's item. But if you have some friends who are down, it's definitely a good idea to watch it on the big screen after putting a stick or two in the wind. Good times.

NICOTINE ADDICTION: HARD TO KILL

I'm in my second night of smokeless life.


It's crazy how easy it is to stop inhaling tobacco smoke if you distract yourself with work, exercise and other alternative activities. I'm one of those people who thinks that smoking cigarettes is an oral fixation more than a physical addiction; eff what science says.

I've stopped smoking cigarettes before, for almost two years actually. The only thing that made me start back was a bad incident hundreds of miles away. I was powerless at the time to do anything to stop it, so the only option I felt I had was to smoke some Newports.

Free advice: Don't smoke Newports, especially when you've quit smoking for more than a year. I literally felt a cloud of death overtaking my chest from the inside after the very first pull. It is a feeling I never want to have again, because it was like Satan himself had entered my arteries and lungs, laughing and shouting, "Yes! I've got your little mulatto ass now!" The cigarette did nothing but start my nicotine dependency all over like a bad relationship with a revolving door.





Smoking is a nasty, disgusting, dirty and stinky habit. But when I'm smoking a cigarette, I don't have a problem with that. Especially when I'm drinking and in front of my laptop. But after recently realizing that my strength, endurance and breathing had been badly affected by the constant cheap smoke, I decided to give life another try.

So I'm going on the lam again. Running away from the Parliament Menthol Lights. I'm not missing the nicotine as much as I miss the activity. I guess I'll practice the saxophone, write another blog, fold some clothes, download some music, organize some important files, return some emails... damn. I guess there's a lot to be done. And maybe in a couple of days I might even be able to take my ass to the gym and finally get rid of the lingering baby fat I've carried for 30 years.


If anybody has any other suggestions for a successful end to my seven-year tobacco habit, I'm all ears. Until then, I'm just going to find some shit to do and wait until the itch is gone. Wish me luck.

LEGALLY-DEAD MCs

I apologize in advance, because I just have to curse on this one. This shit is a total fucking disgrace. It's so unbelievable, I can't even believe it. But I'll be damned to hell if it isn't the truth.


YOUR FAVORITE RAPPER DMX HAS BEEN ARRESTED - YES, AGAIN, for some brand new bullshit. Just click that link above and you'll get the story; I just can't even do it anymore. At this point, I can't even excuse any excuse he or his attorney might have, either for the judge or the media. What the hell gives anyone the right to be arrested so many times in one year and not go to jail? Isn't he beating Amy Winehouse's record right about now? It's so bad that all you have to do is type in "DMX arrested" in Google, and you'll find more pages than any encyclopedia will ever print. Ever.


But alas, I guess he had to keep on "keeping it hood." All we can do at this point is offer his name up in prayer. Dude is obviously a complete geek monster, and will be deemed as such until further notice.


Just for continuity, below you'll find that hilariously sad video from a few months ago where The Dog was severely geeked, throwed, twisted and shitfaced, all at once, in the booth. SMMFH at DJ GQ (the Asiatic dude at the mixing board), who co-signed this absolute tragedy. But I guess it makes sense, because people act any old way when they have friends enablers around them 24/7.




"With friends like that, you don't need enemies!"
Whodini - (if I really have to name this song, you don't belong here.)

THE MOURNING AFTER…

Shout out to COX RADIO, my corporate sponsor, for providing the free room and tickets to the 2008 Essence Music Festival, which went down like a laxative. Made me feel regular again. Maybe you’ll catch the real rundown in a magazine or newspaper or something, if I feel like selling it.

In case you need it, here’s a quick list of what to do and what not at Essence 2009, for anyone who didn’t make the event this year. Just a head’s up: next year’s show, which is being headlined by Beyonce, will certainly be just as crunk. If you can get there, I suggest you make the trip. For the record, there are more women than you can shake a scythe at. Don't take my word for it, just ask axe somebody.

On with the list, and off with your head...


1. IF YOU DRIVE FROM ATLANTA, GET SOMEBODY ELSE TO RIDE WITH YOU

I drove a rental down I-85 and made it to New Orleans in about 7 hours. The drive wasn’t that bad, but it would have been much cooler if I had somebody riding shotgun to offset any suspicious vibes I had that the cops might have been following me, which they weren’t. But it’s not very cool when you see thirty to forty cars pulled over in a row between Georgia, Alabama and Mississippi. Very, very sketch. I’m still shook and I’ve already made it back safe and sound.


2. DON’T STAY AT THE RITZ-CARLTON IN THE FRENCH QUARTER

Sure, it’s at the top of the food chain when it comes to nice hotels. And most of the celebrities had rooms there, so it was cool to be walking outside to Canal Street and seeing people like Lynn Whitfield and Kenya Moore walking past you on their way in. Plus, I got my room for the freeski, so I can't complain too much. Then again...

On the other side of that, there’s the snitch factor. Not that I would dare be dirty in the most esteemed hotel of the upper class, mind you… Let’s just say that I had a funny feeling Sunday night while I was getting "prepared" for the concert, and less than 10 seconds after, the cleaning lady came and knocked. After that, I was pretty much sketched out for the remainder of my trip. Plus, the ladies at the check-in/check-out desk tried to play me with some extra charges, which I deaded immediately by being proactive enough to check my balance before checking out.

An Ill side note:
On my way out of the hotel on Sunday night to the Superdome, right after the cleaning lady interrupted my session evening, I was walking down the hall, on my way to the elevator, and saw a Swisher Sweet box laying in front of a room. Next to it was an iPod Nano and a rope of disco ball-colored beads. Guess what was in the Swisher Sweet box? Can you say, "Dro?" Better yet, can you say, “Free iPod?”

Then again, maybe you should stay at the Ritz, with those type of free goodies. But I’d recommend the W. It’s way more jumping and way less sketch.


3. DON’T BE A HOT BOY

I said that I would consider going to the 9th Ward to investigate the progress after Katrina. That was until I realized that the locals would much rather come to us in the French Quarter than invite us back into their territory. When I say that New Orleans has it’s own culture, I mean it. And those people can spot an outsider pretty damn quickly. Ever heard of a ghetto pass? Get one, or you probably won’t be welcomed into the Mac-Melph-Callio.

Still, I got plenty of local love (nolo), probably because I’m from Alabama, and I know when and how to use local words and phrases like “out chea”, “baby” (pronounced “bey-be”) and “boy, that’s cold.” Get like me.


4. BRING CASH (WHERE IT'S SAFE)

There was so much authentically-fly art being sold by street vendors that I felt like a loser when I realized that I couldn’t buy a single painting on Visa or AMEX. Most of it you’ve probably seen at your local Black Arts Festival, but some of the stuff was simply incredible. And the good shit was not even that expensive - $150 could get you something unique and exclusive, and I'm killing myself for not coming up on this ill Obama painting that was set against a newspaper backdrop. I can't even describe how cool that shit was.

Too bad I spent most of my cheese on hurricanes, pina coladas and gumbo.


5. DON’T PARK YOUR RENTAL ON N. RAMPART AND BOURBON ST.

Bourbon Street was ridiculous. And the atmosphere was electric. But I don’t believe that even the crunkest of street parties gives somebody the right to stand on top of someone else’s (literally, not mine) Jeep, unless of course ninjas were shooting and people were just trying to get out of the line of fire. So maybe those dirty bootprints were just from some lucky fool who had a MJ-inspired vertical and got away from certain death. I applaud that. Now, if I would have caught said local dancing to Lil' Boosie and Webbie on top of a car I was too cheap to have insured? Let's just say it he would have been "down bad."

Speaking of which, Bourbon Street did get shut down on both Friday and Saturday night/morning around 2 a.m., because locals were either engaged in massive street brawls or just good-old murder capital shoot-outs. From what I heard, some cats did unfortunately get bodied. Sorry, I was throwed off the hurricanes and too happy to get shot for the home audience. Tell CNN to save my eulogy and celebrity tribute for later.

My 2008 Essence Festival motto: "I'm too cool to die for a rental car."


6. GO TO THE CONCERT

The good people from Cox Radio, with whom I was chilling, were not trying to go to the actual event. They spent most of their time either in the hotel or on Bourbon St. getting throwed and trying to be like your faithful and humble narrator. Made no sense, especially when Chris Rock, Mary J. Blige, LL Cool J, Jill Scott and even Keyshia Cole (no, really) tore it down at the Superdome. And I was there to see it.


Proof, in the form of photo images and video, is forthcoming, once I get some sleep. For now, I need to unwind, relax and detox. Reserve your room at Hotel Underwriter (The W) today, or miss tomorrow. In the meantime, holla at a playa when you see me in the streets, trick. And don’t drop your iPod or Swisher Sweet box on my hotel floor unless you won’t miss it.


“I feel like lying / down in a cigar; roll me up and smoke me, ‘cause I feel like dying…”
- Lil’ Wayne; "I Feel Like Dying"

CLAMWEISER: THE WORST BEER ON EARTH

So I hit the road for Birmingham on Sunday night, to stay at a decent hotel and enjoy a few days away from the hellhole I know as Asslanta. Time for another mini-vacation, oh my brothers and sisters. See, when I take these quick little road trips, all I ask when I’m visiting a different city is cold beer, comfortable living quarters, decent weather, good times and a change of atmosphere that I can appreciate. Maybe a pool table. Monday would be slow and settling, and I’d have a chance to relax a bit while doing some “Spring cleaning.” But, of course, I wanted to get the beer first.


Here’s where, as usual, it all started to go wrong:


First of all, if you’re going to cop some brews before noon while on a mini-vacation, don’t ever – ever – ever, buy, drink, taste or even look at those Budweiser + Clamato beers they sell at the gas stations.

It still may be too early to make such a broad and timeless statement, but this has got to be the worst beer that anyone ever made. If you want a colorful review, I’d say that Bud/Clamato tastes like the original brewer/inventor took one sip of his own creation, killed himself and had his assistant pour his blood into the entire vat, before packaging it in 16 oz. cans and sending them across America.





I didn’t know no better at the time; I just saw an opportunity for adventure, and I like trying new beer, so I’m usually down to take a taste test experiment, as long as it’s not malt liquor. Plus, I do Corona every now and then, so I figured I was safe. So I copped the four-pack from a Racetrak for $5.24, and swooped back around the corner to my sound-proof suite at Hotel Underwriter. The plan was to sit on those 64 oz’s and use the whole day to pimp my priorities.

What I discovered after taking my first sip is that I’d rather drink a goat’s bathwater than to ever drink a Budweiser Clamato again. I thought it was just Bud’s first attempt at a Chelada. If you aren’t familiar with Chelada-styled beers, they’re pre-mixed with salt and lime. They’re usually pretty good, like a Corona after you doctor it up. So, since I’ve already rocked with Miller Chill, I figured that since Bud’s versions looked way mo’ gangsta in the 16 oz aluminum can, it would probably be more authentic. If not, at least it would be only a half step down from a Corona, like Miller, so there was nothing to lose.





My immediate reaction: this is disgusting, nasty, pre-historic dookie water. After the first gulp, I almost ralphed into my rented kitched sink. I picked up the can, eyes wide open, and looked at the nutritional info on the side of the can for any abnormalities. Oh, the horror: “Contains: Shellfish / Clams.”

*Further quoted reaction has been censored by editors*

Let’s just say I was pissed. $5 US gone, just because Anheuser-Busch wanted to compete with Miller for the Mexican beer market. Speaking of which, why the eff would Mexicans drink clam-flavored tomato juice beer? Who knows. If only I had CLICKED HERE before wasting my money. Oh well; may the brewmaster’s soul eternally sizzle in the poisonous Budweiser dewshpot without ever being sipped again. This shit juice excuse for a Chelada-style beer can simply be described with two words. Liquid ass. Nolo.




100% CO-SIGN.


Stay tuned for “The Birmingham Fiasco.”

MONDAYS ARE DEAD

What had happened was…

In honor of that last post for my homie ToeJoe (R.I.P.), I was going to write this cool ass post tonight. On some real, “Michael Jordan – Journalist At Large,” type of blogging. None of that, “THE UNDERWRITER could care less about your dewshy-ass feelings,” type of thing. That real journalism that other Hip-Hop bloggers write about, like the Erykah Badu listening party that just went down tonight at Mid City Café. Maybe even the Rick Ross shindig, or even the local rock band’s show at Drunken Unicorn that my white homie told me about.

But alas…






(See, this is why the F*ck I don’t go out in Atlanta. Niggas like Blaze ask axe me all the time what’s poppin’ in the clubs. I give them the same fonky ass reason. This city is built for tricks, and tricks are for kids. I’m not the one to be out chea using my check card to finance a lifestyle I’m not so sure I condone anymore. Sure, I like to get swervy like the rest of my heathens, but not to the tune of $100 or more, just to be seen by other niggas while I’m doing it so bigly.

And this is why I’m hot. I’m mad cuz I drove, about a hunned blocks. This is why, this is why, this is why I’m hot. I still spent a hunned dollaz - that I ain’t got. This is why, this is why, this is why I’m hot. The spot wasn’t fly; promoter should be shot. This is why, this is why, this is why I’m hot. So I’m back at the crib, with Coronas and some pot. This is why, this is why, … You get it.

So here's where the phuckery began...

It was supposed to be a night of Hip-Hop journalist research. I was done running errands by 5pm, so I figured I'd get a head start on the buzz, since I had to drive downtown from East Cobb County, where Ne-Yo just tried to ghost-ride the whip a few days ago and found himself in the hootie-hoosegow. Better to get the buzz early and let it wear off by night, Cobb County boys ain't nuthin' to eff with. By the way, Ne-Yo's mugshot DOME GAME (nolo) is pretty unbecoming. Anyway, I called myself hitting up my favorite wireless bar first, to get pre-scummy off gin and tonic and Bass ale, right around happy hour. Cheers!

Two rounds of each, then an Alabama Slammer, just for the good folks back home. That’s five. Now, to all you M.A.D.D. motherf*ckers out there, don’t get upset. The gin and tonics were short. Plus I had a stomach full of MSG from lunch at China Dynasty. So I was still pretty clear headed by the time I rode out, on my way to meet the Leprechaun, en route to hear the new Erykah Badu.

Come on, now. Don’t act like you don’t know the Leprechaun. There’s a little green man in every hood who might be elusive, but if you find him, he’ll lead you to a pot of gold. I caught his ass and got the prize.

So that’s another action item scratched off my itinerary. I’m now cruising down 75S, on my way to Mid City Café, which according to Mapquest, was located at 845 Spring Street. I even went the extra mile and wrote down the address and other helpful information on a bar napkin earlier. It was between 5th and 6th Street, near West Peachtree. It was close to the Georgia Tech Barnes & Noble. I know the area.





The question was, if I really know the area, why the f*ck am I driving around in circles in midtown Atlanta, looking for a place that doesn’t seem to exist? See, this is how MA$E got caught up a few months ago, except that I really wasn’t looking for transtesticle prostitutes; I was trying to find the new Badu album party. And it would be so much easier if the building numbers didn't just jump from the 900’s to the 750’s on Spring Street, with no other club venue in sight besides The Cheetah, the notorious trick factory strip club.

I finally get tired of doing block donuts and park on a side street between 5th and 6th, figuring that I couldn’t be that stupid. Mapquest said it was right chea. So I walk around the corner, still on Spring Street, and what do I see? 845 Spring Street – Mid City Lofts. Some high priced condos that look tricknificient from the outside. But where’s the club?

I see a sweet, old black lady sitting behind the front desk, behind the door. Security, I guess. She buzzed me in, and I asked axed her if she knew where Mid City Café was. She smiled, and said that everybody kept axing her the same question that night. The lounge was on the other side of the building. The side facing the other street. In other words, the club wasn’t really on Spring Street at all; it was on West Peachtree. Thank you Mapquest, for your directional dewshery.





So I walks in and see that it ain’t poppin’. Not at all. The venue was a slit in the building’s front skirt, wide enough to look into but not enough to be happy about. Plus I felt like I looked pervy for showing up alone, dressed semi-rugged for what I thought was a Badu-inspired party. I walked in, and west-side walked it out. Shit was lame.

So what next? Let’s see about that Rick Ross thing that one of my editors told me about earlier via Gmail. Of course, I had earlier said, “Eff Rick Ross,” in conversation, but I didn’t really mean it now that I had driven 30 miles, for a lame listening party with no host and no real Baduism. At that point, I was just ready to hang out. But I was reminded by my editor by text that the Rick Ross event was RSVP-only. And yes, they were checking names at the door. Eff Rick Ross.

That left Option C: the local rock band at Drunken Unicorn. D.U. is located on Ponce de Leon, which ironically is also known for transtesticles, winos, doo-doo head-dummies and various losers, but there are some cool hangouts as well. FYI: If you’ve been to Atlanta and never visited MJQ, you aren’t really connected to the real scene.

So I park and approach the door, when I see a sign above the door that says they accept cash only, thanks, at the door and at the bar. I reached into my pocket and found 2 fives and 1 one. Not good enough math for a good time. So I walk in, get carded and ask axe the doorman to direct me to the nearest ATM. He said it was right outside, and the cover was $8.

I walk back outside, probably looking like I had been rejected for having a fake ID, and head for the ATM. I get there and see a sketch of some lunchbox white guy who I guess had been robbing fools left and right at the ATM. Not my problem! So I go for my card, and get all revved up for a good swiping. Then I notice the screen says, “Out of Order.”





F*ck!!

So I look at the only viable alternative: The Kroger across the street. Surely there would be either my bank or a Bank of America inside, which is usually the custom in Atlanta. So I start walking across what has to be the longest grocery store parking lot in the metro area, smoking a ciggy and cursing the devil. I walk through the automatic doors, right up to the fat bastard security guard who looked like he was one chicken wing away from heaven, and asked axed him to point me towards the ATM.

He said, “Oh, it’s right there, my brotha!” I looked behind me, and lo and behold, there it was. A shitty little ATM machine that you could probably lift and run away with if it weren’t cemented to the floor. But I didn’t care at all. I loved this little financial booger bear, because it was going to set the night to music for me. All would be perfect. I once again reached for my check card, and this time I let it rip proudly through the reader like Nelly in “Tip Drill.” PIN number? Yessir! Fee? No problem! Amount? $40, please!!

… waiting patiently…

“We’re sorry; this machine is temporarily unable to dispense money. Please try again later.”





F*ck this. Three strikes and I’m out.

So I start the long walk back across the parking lot, probably looking like a loser who's balance was overdrawn and couldn't buy crack for the night. Lucky for me, one of my all time favorite spots in Atlanta, Dugan’s, is located directly across the street from Drunken Unicorn and known for the supercrunk chicken wangs. So I moved the car about 50 feet, grabbed my laptop bag and ate 10 lemon pepper joints, had a glass of Heineken, checked my email, read some blogs, used my Visa check card and called it a f*cking night for Atlanta. Sayonara, bitches.

On my way home, I stopped and copped a six of Corona, ate my leftover egg roll from China Dynasty and called the Leprechaun to thank him for the pot of gold he had given me earlier.)





That’s what you call a happy ending.