Who the hell planned Queens?

View Larger Map

You've got:
60th Ave
60th Road
60th Place
60th Drive
60th Street
60th Lane

All in the same area, intersecting all over each other in a three-block-radius clusterfuck. WHAT? Whoever planned this was insane. Or really funny.

Betty Butter Better Rappers

Been listening to Sit Down, Man quite a bit, and thinking about how quickly Das Racist's rapping skills have improved, but the reasons they rap have stayed true to their roots. There's a joy to linking completely different imagery in our heads, like some fast-paced visual essay proving mostly that there's an atmosphere of links that exist out there. Are they the collection of a million picture blogs and pop culture translated into english/spanglish/hindish quick quip smart man joke rap, but now for serious? I think so, and I think they're killin' it.

3rd verse:

Yeah, figs on the table call me Mabel Dodge Luhan,

Two man in Peggy Noonan's booty with Bruce Banner while Anne Coulter rocks her shit out with two hands, who down?

Insane brown posse solo dudes, Apollo Ohnos grow-homo soul patch it's so cool. Yo fool, rate yourself for your pro tools plus your fruity loops.

New dance, do the booty droop. Onto the next one, now do the booty scoop, do the booty up, do the booty ooty alley-oop, scooby dooby doo, I'm at Bally's so my fanny's cute.

I'm my own identical cousin, just call me Patty Duke, I'm stunnin' like my daddy do

Thug life right above my natty ice tatty too. - heh, stupid

Also of note: bits of Donkey Kong sound effects in the beat.

The Town was actually pretty good

I saw The Town starring Ben Afflleck and Jon Hamm and I have to say, it was actually pretty good.

You Only Act Hard In Your Backyard [ALBUM REVIEW]

As a young'un I was drawn to good beats. For me, that's what made a rap song- if the beat went hard, I could care less what the MC was saying, long as the shit rhymed. The Black Album was my holy grail, stuffed with bombastic, hard-knocking production that perfectly overwhelmed an aging Jay-Z caught in the throes of a mid-career crisis. 

Since then, the role of producers has only become more prominent in the rap game. If you listen to mainstream radio, you're going to hear names like No I.D., J.U.S.T.I.C.E League, and of course Swizz Beats, and musicians with little or no rhyming talent. These big-name producers get mentioned in track titles with the same import as featured artists. It's no longer "Rick Ross feat. Jay-Z," it's "Rick Ross feat. Jay-Z, Prod. The Incredibles." (btw, if you don't know the song Free Mason yet, it's a masterpiece, and a sterling example of how production can really catapult a song). Artists like Ricky Ross and Big Boi are gaining critical acclaim for their ability to choose beats, as much as they are their flow, rhymes, originality, etc...

Parallel to the rising prominence of producers has been my own development as a listener. Since my Black Album days, I've grown to respect good rhymes as much as good beats, and no longer see myself as a young kid easily influenced by a thumping bass drum. But in all my years as a listener, I don't think I've ever known production to truly influence a rapper's own talent. That is, in "Free Mason," Rick Ross is matched perfectly to a beat, but he's still Rick Ross, and rapping like Rick Ross. Even some of the great rapper-producer combos, like Doom and Madlib, are nevertheless complimentary acts, musicians that support each other. What you don't hear that often though, is beats that actively change rappers, that influence them to become something entirely different. That is, until I head In Search of Stoney Jackson.

Strong Arm Steady's In Search of Stoney Jackson, produced entirely by Madlib, is evidence that some production is too crafty to be reckoned with on a rapper's own terms. These are beats that demand a new style from their prospective MCs. They are slippery and loose with deep thumping grooves buried in the nether-regions of audibility, or obscure wind-chime samples thrown over pure funk bass-lines. These beats are a treasure.

And on Stoney Jackson, Strong Arm Steady seems up to the task. Strong Arm is a a West Coast coalition organized by Xzibit, and composed of Krondon, Phil the Agony, and Mitchy Slick. Until I heard this album, I was unfamiliar with most of these guys, but after youtubing around and listening to their solo acts for long enough I found that as rappers, well, they're OK. That is, they're certainly not doing anything starkly original, and they really haven't made names for themselves. But somehow, on Stoney Jackson, they come off as prodigious, wisecracking poets, who seem to nobly disobey standards of meter and rhyme in a search for rap enlightenment. Despite rapping about girls and weed and often other tired subjects, they come off as remarkable young hooligans. 

And if you ask me, it can only be thanks to Madlib's inspired production, which I think is forcing these guys to be better than average. It's that good. It's like a rhythm section that won't let the trumpeter get away with another tired solo. They're saying, "you have to do better." In this case, the players have responded with glee, and it makes for great listening.

William Cosby sweaters, there's only one thing better than cheddar, if life is a puzzle, I put it together. I'm like DMC, my Run Tougher Than Leather, I come from an era of golf hats, ball caps, pimp hats with feathers, plaid slacks with the button-up jackets to match. I blast at any knucklehead fucking with rap, I gotta chuckle at that. Rap black belt motherfucker but the buckle is back. Pro-rap, what you wanna do? Nothing with that, you suck like a hoe on Figaroa, you wack. Niggas know it and they talk to your back, behind closed doors and get a good laugh. Your name ain't Seinfield if you black. My clientele sell more than the crack that Reagan let in. Fuck your Meagan Good friend at the Holiday Inn. She look like her twin.

Searching for a code

Boats*Cars*Dollars*Girls*Helicopters*Jewellery*Skylines from Thomas Traum on Vimeo.

Thomas Traum searches for the definitive genre of hip hop music video.

Not Enough Time on Our Hands

Thinking about what Lil' Wayne might be doing right about now.

This Age of Information Has Hurt The (Human) Race

these guyz r getting better

Das Racist- Speaking in Tongues

A New World Border

I don't have much to say about this right now. It needs to play out over time, and I'm not trying to jump too many guns. Suffice to say, in light of the idiocy playing out in the Arizona state legislature, the Phoenix Suns basketball franchise has gone and done something rare. Tonight, they're wearing their Los Suns jerseys to "support the Hispanic community," and implicitly protest the new law. This is a big deal, not just because it's an example of athletes using their access to publicity to make a political statement, but also because sports are supposedly the the beating heart of mainstream, conservative America. I hope that this act of protest forces the guy watching TV with the shotgun in his lap to reconsider.

Also, maybe this is can be an impetus for us "intellectual fans" to start reconfiguring the idea of sports as merely the docile product of capitalism and traditional ideologies of gender, race, class, etc...

GO SUNS!

Sorry to open this can of worms again, but...

Beyonce Page is back. Rage on, debate, rage on.


"Why Don't You Love Me" - Beyoncé from Beyoncé on Vimeo.

Whippin My Mama Volvo

We got two volvo wagons in our driveway, so I figured I'd throw this one up. The video is shot in Ballard - a pretty white, middle class neighborhood in Seattle that Grynch and myself live in. Dude is actually a pretty-well established rapper in the Seattle, especially for a dude who looks 14 years old. He's made a name for himself by completely embracing the fact that he's a really average white guy who raps and doesn't bullshit on his verses. Thankfully, Grynch lacks that malady that seems to plague a vast majority of underground rappers, causing them to rap about richer rappers, why hip hop is dead, and why they should get a record deal instead of actually fucking saying anything. Whether or not you like the song, think it's corny or funny or dope, (and I can't even make up my mind myself) take a minute to respect the fact that this man honestly earnestly loves his fucking Volvo. There's no irony involved in this shit. Whether you like or not, it's real, and that's why you have a lot of people in the Seattle hip-hop community who are from completely different (i.e. ethnically diverse, poor, South-end) backgrounds than Grynch showing him respect. Plus the video looks good for a low-budget affair.

Along Came A Spider

Director/actor/stuntman Nash Edgerton's new movie The Square is getting love from the film blogs I've read. I haven't seen the thing so I can't endorse it but I DO endorse this short he made. It's only nine minutes of your time, so take a look:

The Next Masterpiece of American Culture

I wish I could put into words how fascinated/disgusted I am with this idea. Essentially, a normal dude diligently eats his way through the frozen food aisle, making sure he sticks to the highest possible standards of journalism. I bring you Freezer Burns

Lax On, Lax Off

Gentlemen, practice is tonight @ 8pm on the turf field.  Brose bowl is back.

Also, I would like to pay tribute to a fallen teammate, friend, and fellow alcoholic Justin "Bromaster". At rugby practice yesterday Justin broke his tibia, some other bone, and tore 3 ligaments in his ankle.  He is due to go into surgery around now, and we wish him a quick and complete recovery from this tragic laxident.  Obviously he won't be playing for the rest of the season.  Let's stay after it, so we may say that he did not lax in vain, but for a more noble cause, the defense of our 5th amendment right, "the right to remain violent" on the field and our 3rd amendment right, "the right to show arms" on the hill.

God Bless America and no place else.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gentlemen, one of the most difficult tasks facing a laxer is the choice of a Sunday morning spoon. Yes, on and off the field you are always expected to carry yourself with a certain swagger. Yes, even if you can't catch and pass you still might get some undeserved lax cred for selecting from a portfolio of neons.  But certain colors, like neon green mesh with purple shooting strings, might just be the feather that broke your hangover's back when you are reminded of all the green jello shots and purple haze you smoked last night.  In fact, I dare say I recommend the old school approach to the Sunday morning spoon... possibly a full wood stick with a traditional pocket.  Who are you kidding, you probably won't be able to catch and pass in between spews,  so you might as well fuck up someone else's day with 10 pounds of American history.

Anyways, Freeman Center at noon.  Bring your jersey if you walked off with it after the game.

Love,

Gary

Dream come true

US officials are investigating after a child was apparently allowed to direct planes at New York's JFK airport.

An air traffic controller thought it would be funny to let his kid come to work and play around at one of the busiest airports in the country. They figured this out after listening to a tape of the child giving directions to pilots. Some excerpts follow. 

In an exchange, the child says: "MS 4-0-3, contact departure," and then adds: "Adios, amigo." The pilot responds: "Adios, amigo." [!!!]

His father is later heard saying with a laugh: "That's what you get, guys, when the kids are out of school."

In one exchange, the boy is heard saying: "JetBlue 171 contact departure." The pilot responds: "Over to departure JetBlue 171, awesome job."

Now, this sounds like the coolest thing for any little kid. Actually getting to do this is one thing, but then to be told that you're doing "an awesome job" from a real pilot is totally insanely sweet. But when an adult does the same job, they get little in the way of congratulations. This brings us to a larger issue, which is the fact that all of these pilots on the tape appear to be completely fine with a child giving them directions. They encourage him. This is completely awesome on their parts, and it keeps me thinking that all pilots are inherently badass and cool as cucumbers. And this is at what you might think is a stressful place for a plane to extricate itself from. Whenever I go there I'm stressed out so why aren't these pilots? Do we really need to be so controlled and felt up and patted down and tensed up? The pilots seem totally fine, even when a child comes on the line. They're just chilling. But that's a whole different issue than what I'm trying to raise here. Air traffic controllers are a valuable position, but who really wants to be them? Kids. 

Perhaps you've read Ender's Game, dear reader. Now, imagine a world in which children were not maligned and prevented from fulfilling the jobs they wanted merely because of their small stature, tinkling voices and small vocabularies. Wouldn't it be so rad if the little persons were allowed at least, like, ONE thing they really wanted to do? Perhaps children really could do an awesome job at being air traffic controllers. I for one hope that this starts a long line of professional jobs held by minors. 

Source

Picture Show

Shameless self-promotion. Nothing at all like my thesis, but I did make this movie last year. If you haven't seen it yet, go head:


One Two Three from Sam Jones on Vimeo.

Still Wuthering Heights, Still Not Brontë

The White Dress version. Sometimes lighting strikes twice.

I'm Not Showing Off...

I'm playing basketball!



This scene defined my childhood.

Paradigm Shift!

Out on the wiley, windy moors
We'd roll and fall in green
You had a temper, like my jealousy
Too hot, too greedy
How could you leave me?
When I needed to possess you?
I hated you, I loved you too

Bad dreams in the night
They told me I was going to lose the fight
Leave behind my wuthering, wuthering
Wuthering Heights

(Chorus) Heathcliff, its me, Cathy come home
I'm so cold, let me in-a-your window

Oh it gets dark, it gets lonely
On the other side from you
I pine alot, I find the lot
Falls through without you
I'm coming back love, cruel Heathcliff
My one dream, my only master

Too long I roam in the night
I'm coming back to his side to put it right
I'm coming home to wuthering, wuthering,
Wuthering Heights

(Chorus)
Oh let me have it, let me grab your soul away
Oh let me have it, let me grab your soul away
You know it's me, Cathy
(Chorus)

A Leg Up

This blog is a lot of things, but I never expected that it would become what it has. This post is about just that: the unexpected creation of reality.

A few months ago, I posted about Tetris, one of my favorite games. Now, I'm not one for re-runs, but that post got me thinking about the viability of writing about Tetris in an academic setting. Due to the connections I drew to Confucian ideology of ritual and instinct, I pitched it to my philosophy professor and in the end wrote about this very issue for my final research paper in Confucianism and Virtue Ethics this past semester.

This is as much about the willingness of my professor to allow such a discussion take place, but because of the time I had spent composing my thoughts into writing on this blog, it made it easy to pitch this as a meaningful analogy and literal example of Confucian ritual. Because it was about something I care about deeply, the paper was engrossing to write and I think it turned out pretty well. There has actually been some scientific studies on the effects of Tetris linking it to brain development, specifically thickening the cerebral cortex. It's even been intimated as a "cognitive vaccine" for post-traumatic stress disorder. I would never have discovered this had I not been able to dip my toes in the waters of this blog.

Now, there's a lot of writing going on here at LegLeg, much of it is incredibly relevant to what's going on in popular culture, and it could very well serve as a jumping off point for further more "legitimate" forms of written work. This is the proof. What began one night as a kind of jest has become a consistent launching pad and work space for thoughts rendered from the impenetrable granite that is the internet. It makes me think about what a blog is for, really. College students spend so much time thinking about what other people think, getting trained to think quicker, more broadly, more specifically, and with confidence. Is a blog in this context about escaping from the framework of imposed subjects in order to apply our new cerebral methodologies to what we want to think about?

Or maybe we're learning more from this forum than we think, and it's fueling thoughts that might not have coalesced had we not taken this opportunity to say whats up. In any case, I'm just expressing my gratitude to the series of tubes that we call home, it's given me a leg up.

 

Wolfman

My dude Lucas over at Thoughts From The Wolf just finished an epic piece on the state of racial politics in America today. Among other things, he discusses the white middle class's love of hip hop, Michael Moore as a "White Nationalist," and the Tea Party movement. Read it, it's worth your time.

kill too hard

Lil' Wayne is going to be in jail soon. He's going to be out of our lives for a long time, and we need to think about that.

I believe in the metaphor "spreading yourself too thin." I think it can be a real thing, overextension to the point where the ends no longer justify the means, or where quality of the product suffers at the hands of overproduction. And that's the metaphor people have been tossing around in regards to Wayne, Lil'. Whether it's his involvement in rock and roll, or his constant outpouring of verses and obscure features, people are saying that dude has gone too far, lost the talent that put him on the map in the first place. That he needs to slowwwww downnnnnnn.

So let's dig in to this metaphor a little bit, "spreading yourself too thin." The implication being that rapping/making music is like "spreading," that one has a limited amount of butter, or art, to spread with, and if they choose a piece of toast too big, they'll be wasting their skills. Okay. So the toast is ambition, the butter is artwork or music, and the act of creation is not unlike labor. That all makes sense to me. But in regards to Weezy F. Baby, this conceals the truth. It implies that the butter is an object outside of the artist, an external, material rendering of his talent that is then packaged and sold to the consumer on the basis of taste. Furthermore, it implies that the artist has chosen to enter into relations with his field in the same way one might choose a summer job. That is, he wakes up in the morning and decides to get the butter out of the fridge.

The problem is that we can't talk about Lil' Wayne in a conventional way, with conventional phrases like "spread too thin." We must recognize that for Weezy art is not the "externalization" or "initiated activity" that the butter metaphor implies, but a constant state of internal creation, second nature, the result of which just so happens to be art. He's the first rapper to truly be raised in rap, encountering it in the same way that one might encounter their first language. At age 11, he was virtually adopted by the rapper and CashMoney CEO Birdman. At 13, he accidentally shot himself with a .44. At 15, he joined Hot Boyz and spit his first major label verse. We know the rest of the story.

What we're witnessing with Weezy, then, is rap music growing up and raising its children (I mean goddamn, Jay-Z is 41!). And like any good adolescent, Lil' Wayne is finding ways of rejecting the image of his parents, dabbling in rock and roll music with his album Rebirth, and taking the concept of "grind" to the extreme by generating an endless amount of material. And it may just so happen that some think this art is "bad" (or, like me, they don't), but maybe we should consider that what we're judging may not be art in any traditional sense of the word at all, but the result of a person trying to express their emotions, thoughts, and dreams, etc in the only way they know how, hip hop.

So when Weezy goes to Riker's, I think we're going to realize just how significant he really is to this rap thing. It's impossible to imagine the rap world without him, just like it's impossible to imagine Lil' Wayne without rap. The timbre of his voice is so recognizable that you might imagine producers wanting a Weezy feature in the same way they want a heavy synth line or a wicked drum sample, so deeply has he permeated the collective aural life. And in doing so, he has not spread himself too thin, but instead covered the entire planet in a thick, syrupy coating of butter.

Subject: Care to Lax, Bro's? [sic]

Gents,

Spring is almost here.  That means a few things.  It could be time to start building a base at Sol Tanning Center, start stockpiling for 4/20 before prices get too high, or plant seeds with girls lacrosse players who will finally lose all the weight they put on in the fall/winter.  Indeed, second semester is a busy, busy time.

But more importantly, the spring marks the beginning of the club lacrosse season.

As the most exclusive and renowned team at the infamous Tech, we have a responsibility to lax at a high level, drink at a higher level, and look great while doing it.  If you like doing any of these things, it would be in your best interest to show up for our first informational meeting at Usdan this Friday. Room TBA.  Shirts mandatory since its Usdan, I apologize for any inconvenience this causes.

Love,

Gary

Michael Marcovici: an introduction

and part 2



Michael Marcovici is a retired financial planner and entrepreneur turned artist who works in many medias, from painting, photography, and sculpture to artistic online monetary fraud.

Hell No This Ain't A Synthesis

If you know a little about hip-hop, you know that there's a widely perceived divide between "conscious" rap, and the mainstream stuff you hear on the radio. The narrative goes that conscious rap deals with politics, and leads to progress, while mainstream rap deals with diamonds, guns, and crunk juice, and is destructive to the hip-hop community. Hence, artist after artist proclaims, "hip hop is dead,"and the realness of the music has been sapped by materialist industry automatons like, say, Souljah Boy.

That's the story of hip-hop that any good fan knows. But what we don't always acknowledge is how the very act of telling that story is productive for the conscious rapper. It is a means of acquiring, in the eyes of fans and fellow artists, authenticity. It is a way of distinguishing oneself against the mainstream, and, as such, superior to it. Calling oneself a conscious rapper, or calling hip hop dead, is an elitist act which not only makes presumptuous claims about what's good for hip-hop, but also reinforces one's own position as insulated intellectual, and is by and large an act of vanity (To be clear, the act of "conscious rapping" is a beautiful thing, but the category is not).

Put that on the backburner for a hot minute, and let's turn to Beyonce and Single Ladies. The impetus for writing this was a minor question: "Is Single Ladies a simple upgrade of an old Betty Page dance?" That question birthed a major inquiry: "Is Single Ladies just another example of pop music upholding the ideological status quo?" That question birthed pages and pages of debate on this blog. And by asking that question, the big question, we stabbed ourselves in the heart.

For that question assumes that pop music is, essentially, an ideologically reproductive discourse. It labels pop artists as the automated mouthpieces of traditional American ideology, which in this case means consumerist, masculinist, and heterosexist. And then it asks, what is Beyonce's role in furthering those causes? Thus, we find, built into our very question is the elitist, intellectual, bourgeois, and liberal viewpoint that mainstream culture is generally bad for the people, for it upholds the status quo of conservative practice. So far so good. So we ask again:

Is Single Ladies just another example of pop music upholding the ideological status quo?

But while this question allows us liberals to feel safe about out own position as "above" mainstream culture, we actually prevent any type of liberal change to happen. That is, our very question cuts off the potential mouthpiece of progress (Beyonce), by constructing her position in society as powerless and ideologically stale. The question collapses our own ability to see Beyonce as progressive in her politics. And if you know anything about Beyonce, then you know her politics are radical. So, we silence the radical thought.

Beyond that, by critiquing pop stars on the grounds of stale ideology, like critiquing mainstream rap, we reproduce our own social status as the liberal intellectual elite. That is, it's incredibly safe for us, the critics, to call out pop music on its consumerist and masculinist tendencies, because that doesn't risk the production of new knowledge, knowledge that could be potentially harmful to our own comfortable position. If we listened differently to what Beyonce was saying, then we might actually hear something we think threatening-- that her, a pop star, really does support the swift execution of white masculinist rule in this country. By carrying out our typical liberal critique, we silence that voice.

So, here's your choice: A) You can buy into mainstream culture, and support mainstream ideology, or B) You can stand at a safe distance, and criticize it, further limiting mainstream culture's power to actually accomplish change. Both are ready-made, easy, risk-free options. And in fact, both support the status quo. You can take the red pill or the blue pill, and both come in a nice, safe, palatable package. Hell, THEY'RE THE SAME FUCKING PILL. This is the way American cultural hegemony works- it doesn't hide, it isn't secret, it's not a conspiracy. What it is is, though, is a dirty trickster, and it will convince you that your liberal, safe, stance on these issues is progressive, when in actuality your position is merely one half of the dialectical unity between you, the liberal, and the object of your criticism, the mainstream. Thus, we remain on our untouchable, protected, liberal island, the island of whiteness, class, and intellectualism, and all the while real instances of consumerism, racism, homophobia, sexism, ableism, etc... continue to circle us like hungry wolves.

So for those who are quick to proclaim Hip Hop Is Dead, or who believe that Single Ladies is just another sexy woman engaged in soliciting the male gaze, think about the power of your own gaze in constructing those stereotypical narratives. Think about the power of risk-free, procedural critique, which doesn't allow room for change, but rather encourages the further insulation of your own liberal values. Think about this, as you recede slowly into some irrelevant, white, safe middle distance, and your voice changes to that of the cranky old scholar, who's lost any ability to see the world other than the only way they know how.

Another case of malignant Upholsterization

I can barely see these guys

the best black box that I have known.

"This object perpetually attempts to sell itself on ebay."

Have you checked your emails lately?

Richard, here's the thing Richard. If you don't check your emails daily, you won't know your status as bidder in the auction. And if you win the auction, the box could sell itself before you even know it to be yours. You should be checking your emails at least daily. Because you won't have ever known it to be yours, the box.

I am imploring you to consider the ramifications. The simple fact that you have placed a bid on the box is alone cause for concern. Because it could be yours and it could take those pieces of you and put them inside, and you might not ever see them again, because the box moves on its own. In that way, it's bigger than you, the box, Richard. It kills via automation.

You must take advantage of this unique investment opportunity, Richard. To own the box, and to know it while you have the chance. To know death, this is what we offer, a unique investment opportunity. To know it, death, that is, and to give some small part of yourself over to it, before it moves on, automated, this is why you bid on the box.

We want you to be part of this thing, a unique investment opportunity. Please, keep checking your emails Richard.

The name of this sculpture is A Tool to Deceive and Slaughter, by Caleb Larsen, 2009. The box has an ethernet jack that automatically generates an auction for itself on eBay. When it's sold, it auctions itself off again. It's currently selling for $4000. You should buy it here.

yeleyeleyele

Haiti is in crisis right now... tens of thousands are dead, and many more are without homes and food. Text "yele" to 501501 to donate 5$ to Wyclef Jean's Yele Foundation RIGHT NOW. Money is what they need most. You'll be charged on your phone bill.

If texting ain't your thing, donate to the Yele Haiti Foundation online here.

For more info on Yele, click here.

That Was Then, This Is Now

Football steps into the cipher.






I attribute the chasm between these two exercises in football player chest-thumping to the intentions for distribution - something for the fans versus an inside joke that leaked onto the internet. I don't think we can use this for a 'things done changed' kind of argument about how rap or football has undergone a moral descent. The Miami thing is locker room talk with a beat under it, removed from the locker room and tossed into the public domain. Men have always joked about this kind of stuff - Walter Payton and Jim McMahon probably did it,  your dad and his bros probably did too -  they just didn't have the beat from an Aaliyah song and a bootlegged copy of ProTools to record it. Then again, I don't think it's a stretch to say that these amateur MCs are imitating rap as they perceive it, performing the role of rapper if you will. Maybe it's best to just sit back and remember that athletes are terrible fucking rappers and laugh. Jesus, these songs are corny.

Eternal Conflict #2: Geologist vs. Lover

Bloggers love this guy.

This song strikes a chord.

People think they can separate politics from personal. J. Cole says no.

Eternal Conflict #1: My Math Ain't Equallin'

I seem to be able to describe this song only by referring it to other cultural moments: the feeling of an 80's movie with Swayze; early Mariah song; Bladerunner. Usually that's the sign of a lazy writer, but I swear I'm trying. From what I understand, it's about the Rainbow Fish, who gave all her beautiful scales away until she had no more. Better yet, it's about how your greatest asset is also your darkest demon, or something. I'm feeling it, heavily.

(PS it's unclear whether the video lives up to the song)

I'm trying to calculate if this has any relevance to the epic, sweltering, improvised, and revelatory debate on how Beyonce figures in pop culture, happening in the comments section somewhere on this site.

"The things you own end up owning you."

I have attempted here to document the upholstering of the American male, to visually express the feminization and domestication of the modern man. For real though, this photograph was not set-up or staged. Sometimes everything lines up.

Long live Blake Hansen.

Still Free

We've already mentioned the merits of the Freeway/Jake One collaboration, specifically Philly Freezer's excellent "Know What I Mean". Below, for your pleasure, a music video to accompany that banger. Unfortunately, Jake One is not in the video, and I have to wonder whether it was for logistical reasons or because having the white producer in the video would knock down street cred a notch or two. Regardless, their album is going to go hard, and if you haven't investigated Jake's thoroughly dope album White Van Music (in which everyone from M.O.P. to Busta Rhymes to Brother Ali raps over his beats) you oughta do so. His ability to produce beats that FIT the needs and personalities of a wide range of rappers from hardcore, mainstream and backpacker traditions ranging from the virtually unknown to major label heavyweights is pretty incredible. Ain't no one-trick pony.



THE TRUTH.

Beyoncé Page

Though this is far from well executed, it does illustrate a very clear point: things haven't really changed much since the fifties.

We've seen stranger...? She-Wolf follow up.

what dreams may come

Nate Robinson played professional basketball last night for the first time in 30 days. D'Antoni called his name, and he didn't move. He said he didn't understand his coach. He just sat there, on the bench, like he always does, until a teammate told him that the coach wanted him to play. So with 3 minutes left in the opening period Nate comes into the game. In total, he grabs 41 points, 8 assists, shooting 18 of 24 from the field. He hits the last two shots for the Knicks to force OT, and scores 11 points in overtime. He scores 19 of the Knicks last 22.

Over in Jersey, we call Nate High Risk/ High Reward. There's this feeling, that putting him in the game is like going for a three pointer to win-- if you hit, you're a hero, and if you miss, you deserved to be questioned on why you didn't just play for the tie, find an easier shot. He's the polar opposite of compatriot David Lee, who gives solid numbers every night, but lacks the turn-it-up ability of real superstars.

But we have to question this easy way of thinking, this racialized differentiation of David Lee, white, Mr. Reliable, and Robinson, black, the Sparkplug that Couldn't, the Brainless Wonderboy. These are the stereotypes of an NBA that has been "overrun" with black players who are "all athleticism and creativity, but no brains." This way of thinking speaks more to an American insecurity with the dominance of black athletes in professional sports than it does to any truth about the "racial essences of ballplayers."

Last night, Nate, 5'9", was practically walking to the basket. That he scored 19 of the Knicks last 22 is one thing, but he was doing it on layups. The Hawks periodically threw Mike Bibby (crafty veteran), Joe Johnson (superstar), Marvin Williams (young-star-on-rise), and Josh Smith (high-flying-shot-swatter), out to guard him, to no avail. Note that Bibby is the shortest of these men, at 6'2", while Smith and Williams are both 6'9", a full foot taller than Nate. With ease he dribbled around each, finding his way to the cup time and again, using hesitation moves to literally get uncontested 2-footers. When they tried fouling him, he still made the shots. When obvious fouls weren't called, he still made the shots.

Only after a long stretch of finding layups, already in full turn-it-up mode, did Nate take what traditionalists call The Bad Shot, a contested pull-up 30 footer with little time taken off the shot clock. Naturally, he sank it, hopping up and down towards a howling Knicks bench after the Hawks were forced to call timeout.

We must question The Bad Shot. We must free ourselves from the chains of tradition, and think, for a long while, about this Bad Shot. Statistical evidence has shown that being "On Fire" is a questionable proposition. Then we must also question statistics. Because "On Fire" is a feeling buzzing through a crowd, a general notion that when the ball leaves the hand, it will find the net. The and-1 play is its proof, that contact will do nothing to deter Hot Hand from scoring. But the deep 3, The Bad Shot, this is the true meaning of On Fire, and we must accept that in hindsight, it was always going in.

Which leaves us with Nate, still a Knick, still sitting on the bench for attitude problems, for making bad decisions, who, when given even a glimmer of playing time, leaves the net in a heap of ashes, who doesn't see the other 9 players on the court, but a clear and open path to the basket every time the rock is in his hands. Our only recourse is to blame ourselves for what we have done to him, for planting the seed in his mind that he is anything but a baller. For using him as the racialized and criminalized symbol of risky basketball. This is the side of Nate that remains unspoken, that who we think he is is actually just who we say he is. Last night, he was saying something to us.