I know that a few of you are probably asking yourselves, "Why is he posting 'Archive' blogs? He's no Perez Hilton or Jam Donaldson! Who does he think he is?!? He's probably being lazy and not wanting to write anything profound again..." blah, blah, blah...
Nah, actually, I'm working on my books and, though there is a lot for me to touch on, getting these books done is MORE important. Be patient, though, I will make time to post more current rantings about life and the magazine (Middle Of Da Map, still coming soon!!!)!
So, with that said, I present to you, "What... I'm SUPPOSED To Be Doing Something Else???"
From: 10/11/2006
Category: Blogging
Man... It's been years, I guess, huh? The Kid's been busy.. Doing life, doing okay, doing my girl...(you knew it was coming)... But, you know, I can't keep loyal folks in the dark forever, right?
I guess I've been real introspective lately. You know, my grandma passed over a year ago, and I vowed to myself, that I would make the most of my life.That I would dream big, succeed even larger than ANYONE could imagine. So, I finished my first book, started writing my first full novel, started my near life-long dream of Daddie'z Home Entertainment, and started a new relationship. Suffice to say, not much has come of all my dreams. I did start recording music, but, personal demons have hindered the fruition of the complete album. Though the first book is complete, finding a publisher for it has been an uphill battle. The novel... Let's just say, genius takes time. Test readings are phenomenal, but, I can't put bullshit out to the masses. The new relationship... turned into another new relationship, which is "different" from past exploits in the meaning that she has 3 (count 'em) children from a previous, and unrenounced, marrige (the divorce isn't final). You know, sometimes, the most difficult thing in the world is to look yourself in the eye and tell yourself to keep fighting. But, thats what I do. Every morning when I wake up. And every night when I go to sleep. Cut from a bosses cloth, do what a boss does... If anyone is reading this, and thinking "Damn, I'm in a tough spot... I don't know what to do..." I have to say, look inside yourself, and find the boss inside. God is always with you, but you need to be with you, too. There's nothing worse than have the world for you, and ONLY you against yourself.
Yeah. I know. Not the typical chest-thumpin-I-can-fuck-more-bitches- and-dress-flyer-than-you type of blog you were expecting, huh? Another sign of a Boss, the ability to change and inspire.
Verse for the Day... (Damn, I haven't done one of these for a minute)....Beating blocks like a drum major/ never lackin paper/ got the block in left pocket, right beside the pager/ Watch my watch/ now you got the vapors, Call me Boss Biz/ Just friends with yo baby momma/ never mind the jizz/ Off top like pop fizz/ Ya'll needed me back/ Takin' over like a dictator/ Heat strapped to my back/ Call me Shaq in new circles/ push a chevy Laker purple/ Grape Ape in N-A-P/ 24's bigger than frames on the face of Urkel/ Lames/ Fakin, knowin' I'll hurt you/ still trying to battle me/ Savagery in these words, man/ you settin up for a catastrophe/ best to come out after me/ Soundscan-wise/ Number 1 holdin the bullet/ Soundscan don't lie...
Usually I leave you with a thought... Something halfway wise, for you to ponder in your day-to-day life... Not this time...
Quote of the Day: "Excuse me, while I whip this out!"-- Cleavon Little as "Black Bart"-- Blazing Saddles
Friday, August 22, 2008
Friday, August 15, 2008
Archives: The Most Dangerous Weapon in America...
Continuing with the myspace archives, I present to you "The Most Dangerous Thing in America: A NIGGA With a Brain!!!"
Subject: The Most dangerous thing in America: A "Nigga" with a brain!!!
Date: 2/2/2006
I got a real problem, folks... The problem is hair. Not my hair, or even your hair, but a type of hair. An "Ethinic" type of hair. For those uninformed, I am a black man (wow, buzz killer, huh?), and as a black man, I have a-typical "Negro" hair (kinky, wavy, curly, depending on your mix). Almost two years ago, I started growing my hair out in braids for rebellious reasons, but that's another story in itself. Since this decision, I've ran a retail store (mom n pop record store; Midtown Music, to those from Nap), worked in a major retail chain (Best Buy [fuckin' clown bastards]), and started my own business (Daddie'z Home Entertainment: Get on the bandwagon now!!). Now, being a 24 year-old black man in America is hard enough with the psuedo-racism, police harassment, et cetera, et cetera, but, my case is a little different. I stand 6'2 (6'6 with 'fro fully extended), I weigh around 275-280lbs. Kinda intimidating to the majority of the nation. I also have a college education, am extremely well mannered (given the environment I grew up in, that truly IS a compliment), given my surroundings, I can blend into any circle because I know how to play this game called LIFE. My beef comes with something I noticed during my tenure at Best Buy.
Granted, I ran an urban mom n pop for 3 1/2 years, so I know a lot about urban music. But, I listen to EVERYTHING!!! Beck, Foo Fighters, My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, Alicia Keys, Paul Wall, Garth Brooks, Trace Adkins, etc. I worked in the cell phone department in Best Buy, yet customers (read: WHITE PEOPLE) would approach me and ask (on a daily basis) what was the "blazing new music" from the marginally (read: BET spin cycle) famous black artist. I didn't really let it bother me, until I asked one customer, in a half joking, half "I-could-crush-your-head-with-a-40 ounce-liquor-bottle" tone, "Why did you pass-by ALL of the employees (read: White) in that department to ask my opinion?" His response? "Because, you know, man, you LOOK like you might know what you're talking about" (read: You're the same color as the guy on this cd case, so YOU must own this cd, right?). I officially started to take notice of what I was being subjected to on a daily basis. Of all the black employees in the store, I was the most ethnically appealling. The long braids, the cocksure swagger, and the Black skin I wear, not to mention my ability to decode ebonics, all play a part in how people perceive me. I ask "Why?"
My cousin happens to be a minister here in the city and for Black History Month, he's decided to grow out his hair and get a hairstyle called "Twisties," where the hair is washed, gelled, and curled around the end of a rat-tail comb all over the person's head. The end result (depending on hair length) usually is the "straw braid" effect. I asked my cousin why, after wearing his hair short for most of his life, would he choose to change hairstyles for one month, and one month only? His response, "Because I don't want to look like a thug all year long." So, me being me, a debate ensues, where the question is raised "Who says that black hairstyles have to be typified as "thug" hairstyles? Why are braids and dreadlocks demonized in American culture? Because a bad person wore their hair in that fashion? Hitler wore a taper, (barbers know what I'm talking about) does that mean that every German with a taper is evil? Osama Bin Laden wears a scruffy, unkempt beard, so (my point is proven here) does every male of Middle Eastern descent wish to harm America? NO!! But, ignorant, paranoid minds wish for you to believe the stereotypes. These people are called ignorant for a reason. They IGNORE facts! Yes, there are bad people out here with hairstyles that will cause you to always associate it with that person. I'm not trying to sound preachy, but this shit is ridiculous!! PEOPLE STYLE HAIR, HAIRSTYLES DO NOT MAKE PEOPLE !!!!
The fact that an individual, with credentials and accolades of their own merit, wears a hairstyle and assholes get to judge them based on a predetermined experience with someone of similar features or characteristics... Layman's terms: All Black, Asian, Middle Eastern, and Hispanic people look alike, is un-fuckin'-believable!! And it's sad. We live in a country that wouldn't be shit, if it weren't for the people who only wish to be looked at as equals in the collective minds of the majority.
I really want to know what it's going to take to get some unbiased respect out of one another, because, as much as I want to say it is... It's not ALL White people. There are successful black business professionals, that won't hire a black person because of their hairstyle. "Braids aren't professional." MY ASS they're not "professional!" There are Arab (Pakistani, Afghani, Saudi, etc.) Americans who stare, in awe, of someone from their native land in traditional garb or praying. Hispanic Americans who think ALL Mexicans are lazy. Asian Americans who really believe that they are ALL good in math and science (sorry buddy. No you're not.) These are nothing more than STEREOTYPES people (and I'm not talking Bose, Klipsch, or Pioneer, pally), and the more you play into them, the further you HELP set this country back. (I'm done ranting. Go eat some cereal, now.)
I don't have a verse for today... Really. That rant you just read took a lot out of me.
Quote for the day: " Reading is Fundamental"--- Literacy awareness PSA
Subject: The Most dangerous thing in America: A "Nigga" with a brain!!!
Date: 2/2/2006
I got a real problem, folks... The problem is hair. Not my hair, or even your hair, but a type of hair. An "Ethinic" type of hair. For those uninformed, I am a black man (wow, buzz killer, huh?), and as a black man, I have a-typical "Negro" hair (kinky, wavy, curly, depending on your mix). Almost two years ago, I started growing my hair out in braids for rebellious reasons, but that's another story in itself. Since this decision, I've ran a retail store (mom n pop record store; Midtown Music, to those from Nap), worked in a major retail chain (Best Buy [fuckin' clown bastards]), and started my own business (Daddie'z Home Entertainment: Get on the bandwagon now!!). Now, being a 24 year-old black man in America is hard enough with the psuedo-racism, police harassment, et cetera, et cetera, but, my case is a little different. I stand 6'2 (6'6 with 'fro fully extended), I weigh around 275-280lbs. Kinda intimidating to the majority of the nation. I also have a college education, am extremely well mannered (given the environment I grew up in, that truly IS a compliment), given my surroundings, I can blend into any circle because I know how to play this game called LIFE. My beef comes with something I noticed during my tenure at Best Buy.
Granted, I ran an urban mom n pop for 3 1/2 years, so I know a lot about urban music. But, I listen to EVERYTHING!!! Beck, Foo Fighters, My Chemical Romance, Fall Out Boy, Alicia Keys, Paul Wall, Garth Brooks, Trace Adkins, etc. I worked in the cell phone department in Best Buy, yet customers (read: WHITE PEOPLE) would approach me and ask (on a daily basis) what was the "blazing new music" from the marginally (read: BET spin cycle) famous black artist. I didn't really let it bother me, until I asked one customer, in a half joking, half "I-could-crush-your-head-with-a-40 ounce-liquor-bottle" tone, "Why did you pass-by ALL of the employees (read: White) in that department to ask my opinion?" His response? "Because, you know, man, you LOOK like you might know what you're talking about" (read: You're the same color as the guy on this cd case, so YOU must own this cd, right?). I officially started to take notice of what I was being subjected to on a daily basis. Of all the black employees in the store, I was the most ethnically appealling. The long braids, the cocksure swagger, and the Black skin I wear, not to mention my ability to decode ebonics, all play a part in how people perceive me. I ask "Why?"
My cousin happens to be a minister here in the city and for Black History Month, he's decided to grow out his hair and get a hairstyle called "Twisties," where the hair is washed, gelled, and curled around the end of a rat-tail comb all over the person's head. The end result (depending on hair length) usually is the "straw braid" effect. I asked my cousin why, after wearing his hair short for most of his life, would he choose to change hairstyles for one month, and one month only? His response, "Because I don't want to look like a thug all year long." So, me being me, a debate ensues, where the question is raised "Who says that black hairstyles have to be typified as "thug" hairstyles? Why are braids and dreadlocks demonized in American culture? Because a bad person wore their hair in that fashion? Hitler wore a taper, (barbers know what I'm talking about) does that mean that every German with a taper is evil? Osama Bin Laden wears a scruffy, unkempt beard, so (my point is proven here) does every male of Middle Eastern descent wish to harm America? NO!! But, ignorant, paranoid minds wish for you to believe the stereotypes. These people are called ignorant for a reason. They IGNORE facts! Yes, there are bad people out here with hairstyles that will cause you to always associate it with that person. I'm not trying to sound preachy, but this shit is ridiculous!! PEOPLE STYLE HAIR, HAIRSTYLES DO NOT MAKE PEOPLE !!!!
The fact that an individual, with credentials and accolades of their own merit, wears a hairstyle and assholes get to judge them based on a predetermined experience with someone of similar features or characteristics... Layman's terms: All Black, Asian, Middle Eastern, and Hispanic people look alike, is un-fuckin'-believable!! And it's sad. We live in a country that wouldn't be shit, if it weren't for the people who only wish to be looked at as equals in the collective minds of the majority.
I really want to know what it's going to take to get some unbiased respect out of one another, because, as much as I want to say it is... It's not ALL White people. There are successful black business professionals, that won't hire a black person because of their hairstyle. "Braids aren't professional." MY ASS they're not "professional!" There are Arab (Pakistani, Afghani, Saudi, etc.) Americans who stare, in awe, of someone from their native land in traditional garb or praying. Hispanic Americans who think ALL Mexicans are lazy. Asian Americans who really believe that they are ALL good in math and science (sorry buddy. No you're not.) These are nothing more than STEREOTYPES people (and I'm not talking Bose, Klipsch, or Pioneer, pally), and the more you play into them, the further you HELP set this country back. (I'm done ranting. Go eat some cereal, now.)
I don't have a verse for today... Really. That rant you just read took a lot out of me.
Quote for the day: " Reading is Fundamental"--- Literacy awareness PSA
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
From The Archives: How Do YOU Deal?
If you've been following me (as a reader, for you nutjobs out there) for any length of time, you know that I have been known, at times, to try and add a little depth to my, sometimes, sophomoric sense of reality... It's not often, but, frequent enough that people DO realize that I'm a normal (by SOMEONE'S standards), functioning adult in America. So, with that being known, some of you may have followed my original blog on myspace (www.myspace.com/twenty24! I want more friends!!!), and seen some of my rantings on that wonderful networking site. After speaking to a couple of readers, I decided to transplant a few of my more popular blogs over here to Da IN-fection, and introduce my new readers and fans to some of my older work. This one is from February 29th of this year, and something on my heart told me that needed to be posted for someone reading. Enjoy, and be blessed:
How Do YOU Deal?
I'm sitting here, moments after clocking out from work, thinking about life. And death. My cousin called me earlier today and told me that his grandfather, my great-uncle, didn't have much time left... If you've been following this blog awhile, you'd know that in recent years I've dealt with my fair share of death. And it's a changing experience... But, what struck me about his comment, other than the obvious grief that I truly haven't heard in his voice in some time, was the choice of his words. Not. Much. Time. Left.
We as human beings operate in what we call "Real Time." These are the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years in which we actually breathe and interact with other "real, live people." We get so caught up in Time that we obsess over it. We dread time. We fear time. We panic when we feel time is short, and waste what we call "free time." If you spent the time on Earth that my uncle, or grandmother and grandfather, my mom, my friends that have made the transition spent on this Earth, what would you tell everyone on the other side you did with your time? What stories will you tell the saints about your time in God's Ultimate Project?
I know, I rarely get all philisophical and preachy in this forum, but I think situations like this demand this respect. I love my uncle, and will always treasure the memories that I have of him and will pass on the life lessons that I learned from him to my children. I also know that I have members of my family that are in pain, that probably never wanted to see this day arrive. But, one thing I do know, though I am no biblical scholar, is that God has already planned our year, month, week, day, hour, minute, and second to return to Glory, welcoming us with open arms to say "Job well done, my child."
I know that this blog may seem a bit pointed or even favored, but it's not. This message is for someone who is struggling with some kind of pain, worrying about a family member, or simply wishing that they had more time. I don't care who you are, either sitting at your computer, or even doing as I am, and checking up on myspace via a mobile phone. But, if you're reading this and you feel that one of these people are you, simply say this prayer to yourself:
"Father, I come to you today, humbled by Your presence, asking for Your guidance, asking for Your favor. I've lived my life, worried about the time I have, or the lack there of, wasted time, not fully appreciating the time that You have given me, and I apologize for that. I come to You today to ask that You guide my heart in the direction that You want me to go. That You look inside me and see that I only wish to please You and I seek only Your favor. I lift Your name, and place my burdens on the altar of Grace, knowing that You have already blessed my situation and have already bestowed Your favor on me. This I ask, I pray, I cry, I shout, I beg, I plead, I accept in Your Holy name. Amen."
Quote of the day: "Live by faith. Let go, and Let God."
Daddie'z Home...
How Do YOU Deal?
I'm sitting here, moments after clocking out from work, thinking about life. And death. My cousin called me earlier today and told me that his grandfather, my great-uncle, didn't have much time left... If you've been following this blog awhile, you'd know that in recent years I've dealt with my fair share of death. And it's a changing experience... But, what struck me about his comment, other than the obvious grief that I truly haven't heard in his voice in some time, was the choice of his words. Not. Much. Time. Left.
We as human beings operate in what we call "Real Time." These are the seconds, minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, and years in which we actually breathe and interact with other "real, live people." We get so caught up in Time that we obsess over it. We dread time. We fear time. We panic when we feel time is short, and waste what we call "free time." If you spent the time on Earth that my uncle, or grandmother and grandfather, my mom, my friends that have made the transition spent on this Earth, what would you tell everyone on the other side you did with your time? What stories will you tell the saints about your time in God's Ultimate Project?
I know, I rarely get all philisophical and preachy in this forum, but I think situations like this demand this respect. I love my uncle, and will always treasure the memories that I have of him and will pass on the life lessons that I learned from him to my children. I also know that I have members of my family that are in pain, that probably never wanted to see this day arrive. But, one thing I do know, though I am no biblical scholar, is that God has already planned our year, month, week, day, hour, minute, and second to return to Glory, welcoming us with open arms to say "Job well done, my child."
I know that this blog may seem a bit pointed or even favored, but it's not. This message is for someone who is struggling with some kind of pain, worrying about a family member, or simply wishing that they had more time. I don't care who you are, either sitting at your computer, or even doing as I am, and checking up on myspace via a mobile phone. But, if you're reading this and you feel that one of these people are you, simply say this prayer to yourself:
"Father, I come to you today, humbled by Your presence, asking for Your guidance, asking for Your favor. I've lived my life, worried about the time I have, or the lack there of, wasted time, not fully appreciating the time that You have given me, and I apologize for that. I come to You today to ask that You guide my heart in the direction that You want me to go. That You look inside me and see that I only wish to please You and I seek only Your favor. I lift Your name, and place my burdens on the altar of Grace, knowing that You have already blessed my situation and have already bestowed Your favor on me. This I ask, I pray, I cry, I shout, I beg, I plead, I accept in Your Holy name. Amen."
Quote of the day: "Live by faith. Let go, and Let God."
Daddie'z Home...
Saturday, August 9, 2008
More Poetry... Our Secret
Keeping up with my last couple of posts, this too, is from one of my posts on Black Poetry Cafe. If you guys haven't been to their website (www.theblackpoetrycafeonline.com), I suggest you go and check out some of the best and brightest poets in America (or as some on there would say "Amerikkka"). They have different styles, forms, vibes, and in the end, you're thourghly impressed, entertained, and inspired. This joint is called "Our Secret" and was posted in the "Erotic Poetry" section. It got me into trouble with a few of the ladies on the site, but, what's wrong with a little controversy within art? Oh, and before I forget, you can order my new book (this is no bullshit, either), "The EL-P", directly from me. Right now, I'm working out a digital deal, so, at LEAST for the current time, it only available in physical form. It's a compilation of short stories and poetry that I've worked on for a couple of years (hence the title, a phonetic spelling of LP for long process, instead of long player), and I believe that everyone will find something to enjoy about it. When you email me, please indicate whether you would like Hardcover or paperback, as prices vary between the two...
Now, with my gratuitous plug out of the way... I present, "Our Secret"...
Our Secret
by r. clark
Meeting was simple.
I got a silver tongue and that's what got your attention,
Heard me bragging with the boys and felt you needed to get a piece of this. Never mind my wife, or that I have a life outside of work, you just want to fuck, right? That's why you cornered me in the hall, asking questions you had answers to already, pushing up close to let me inhale your perfume, I think that's Phermone No. 69, right? Extra emphasis on words with "S", simply stating subtle sentences sexily, has me sensing seductive undertones in statements like, "No one has handles my files like you do..."
I'm not stupid...
And asking me to work late with you on a project not due for another two or three weeks, that sealed my fate.
Low lighting in the office pretty much set all the mood we needed,
While I'm sitting at this conference table, barely able to focus on work for watching you sashay, and lean, exposing carmel flesh,
Enough to have me imagine your breasts pressed against my chest and--- Wait, what am I thinking?
Apparently, you got that message before I could get it out of my mind. And you approach my end of this desk tugging at the hem of your dress,
I don't know if it was a signal or not, but telling me that you wanna taste my cock, caught me off guard. No hesitation, as I'm turned in this chair, and unzipped and then slipped into warmth unfamiliar... I shouldn't enjoy t-this... ooooh, God.... Watching you work is turning me on even more,
See, my wife doesn't like the voyuer in me, so she does it with the lights out, and now your mouth is taking the place of her cold lips, making me forget her name and face, and wanting to tear your skirt away from your waist, and you oblige... "I like it rough," you hiss, tearing open my shirt while rapidly tugging on my dick, while I rub my fingers in and around your clit, playing with moist, shaven lips, wondering if you taste as sweet as I'm imagining you do.
"Lick it... I know you'll like it," you purr, so I flip you upside down, letting my lips soak in your juices for a moment before burying my tongue inside your peach, and savor what I believe is the flavor of a ripe plum, trying to maintain my composure as you moan and hum on what you've dubbed your "Reese Cup"... must be my complexion... Never thought of you as the type to deep throat, but, the more you let slip, the more I want to feel the reflex flinch on the tip and the more I flick my tongue on your clit...
How long before we come?
"Fuck me, please..." you beg, and, we've gone this far, so I
Lay you back on this table and slip inside you, fighting back the pleasure of erupting, while you clutch and squirm, and moan and beg for me to go deeper, and harder...
Heavy pants and devilish smiles, pussy flexes and you pull your own thighs back giving me a clear target, I'm thinking, "I've only seen this shit in porn" and you give me more by licking your hand and giving me the eye as you vigorously rub your pussy.
"Beat this pussy, daddy" you demand, eagerly thrusting your hips back at each stroke, the sounds of flesh striking flesh become the applause of approval you need as you scream out in ecstasy and squirt so hard that it stains the carpet behind me,
"Come for me, please... right here," you instruct, licking your lips and tracing a trail from your lips to your tits, reaching for my piece even as it still strokes within your sugar walls giving me extra friction... You must be a pro, because extra touch means quicker release, and as you ask for the second time for my seed, I pull out, and you kneel in front of me, lightly pulling my lever for the jackpot you desire, and I get to watch you bathe in the creamy white release in amazement...
This is our secret. Now we look at one another through sex-hazed eyes, quietly paying respects to the event we created so many months ago, never acknowledging the attraction, snickering as we pass the same spot where primal lust took the place of vow and commitment. It's this secret that scripts this meaningless memory on this sheet of clear parchment, with all intents of making this reality... invisible.
© 2008 R. Clark
Now, with my gratuitous plug out of the way... I present, "Our Secret"...
Our Secret
by r. clark
Meeting was simple.
I got a silver tongue and that's what got your attention,
Heard me bragging with the boys and felt you needed to get a piece of this. Never mind my wife, or that I have a life outside of work, you just want to fuck, right? That's why you cornered me in the hall, asking questions you had answers to already, pushing up close to let me inhale your perfume, I think that's Phermone No. 69, right? Extra emphasis on words with "S", simply stating subtle sentences sexily, has me sensing seductive undertones in statements like, "No one has handles my files like you do..."
I'm not stupid...
And asking me to work late with you on a project not due for another two or three weeks, that sealed my fate.
Low lighting in the office pretty much set all the mood we needed,
While I'm sitting at this conference table, barely able to focus on work for watching you sashay, and lean, exposing carmel flesh,
Enough to have me imagine your breasts pressed against my chest and--- Wait, what am I thinking?
Apparently, you got that message before I could get it out of my mind. And you approach my end of this desk tugging at the hem of your dress,
I don't know if it was a signal or not, but telling me that you wanna taste my cock, caught me off guard. No hesitation, as I'm turned in this chair, and unzipped and then slipped into warmth unfamiliar... I shouldn't enjoy t-this... ooooh, God.... Watching you work is turning me on even more,
See, my wife doesn't like the voyuer in me, so she does it with the lights out, and now your mouth is taking the place of her cold lips, making me forget her name and face, and wanting to tear your skirt away from your waist, and you oblige... "I like it rough," you hiss, tearing open my shirt while rapidly tugging on my dick, while I rub my fingers in and around your clit, playing with moist, shaven lips, wondering if you taste as sweet as I'm imagining you do.
"Lick it... I know you'll like it," you purr, so I flip you upside down, letting my lips soak in your juices for a moment before burying my tongue inside your peach, and savor what I believe is the flavor of a ripe plum, trying to maintain my composure as you moan and hum on what you've dubbed your "Reese Cup"... must be my complexion... Never thought of you as the type to deep throat, but, the more you let slip, the more I want to feel the reflex flinch on the tip and the more I flick my tongue on your clit...
How long before we come?
"Fuck me, please..." you beg, and, we've gone this far, so I
Lay you back on this table and slip inside you, fighting back the pleasure of erupting, while you clutch and squirm, and moan and beg for me to go deeper, and harder...
Heavy pants and devilish smiles, pussy flexes and you pull your own thighs back giving me a clear target, I'm thinking, "I've only seen this shit in porn" and you give me more by licking your hand and giving me the eye as you vigorously rub your pussy.
"Beat this pussy, daddy" you demand, eagerly thrusting your hips back at each stroke, the sounds of flesh striking flesh become the applause of approval you need as you scream out in ecstasy and squirt so hard that it stains the carpet behind me,
"Come for me, please... right here," you instruct, licking your lips and tracing a trail from your lips to your tits, reaching for my piece even as it still strokes within your sugar walls giving me extra friction... You must be a pro, because extra touch means quicker release, and as you ask for the second time for my seed, I pull out, and you kneel in front of me, lightly pulling my lever for the jackpot you desire, and I get to watch you bathe in the creamy white release in amazement...
This is our secret. Now we look at one another through sex-hazed eyes, quietly paying respects to the event we created so many months ago, never acknowledging the attraction, snickering as we pass the same spot where primal lust took the place of vow and commitment. It's this secret that scripts this meaningless memory on this sheet of clear parchment, with all intents of making this reality... invisible.
© 2008 R. Clark
Friday, August 8, 2008
Mind Of The Misguided
I figured for the next couple of posts, I'd hit you all with a different view and side of me. Other than the wonderful magazine I'm prepping for your hungry eyes and minds, I'm also a pretty good rapper (yeah, I'm patting myself on the back like a younger, fresher, albeit DARKER-TONED, Barry Horowitz), and an accomplished poet and short storywriter... What can I say, God deemed it necessary to give me good looks AND talent, who'd a thunk it? Anyway, this first joint is something fairly recent, a sample of focused chaos titled "Mind of the Misguided". Don't let the title work you up, but, read between the lines: OH! And, just in case you're wondering, ALL of my work is registered and copywritten with the government... (I refuse to get caught assed out, again...) Now, you may read on:
Mind of the Misguided
Orig. By Double Ii
Here I am,
young gangsta mentality,
depressed
watchin life as it passes me
Stressed
Thinking bout life as a casuality
Death,
precedes life if you think about it
Rationally
Adam and Eve birthed life, or was it catastrophe?
If you askin me, we been on a crash course since we were watchin Sesame Street
No more book learning, we teach about weaponry
Lesson #3,
cop these 'fore dude lets his little weapon squeeze
We made the best of it
Frosted chains, fruity rings, krispy jeans,
Breakfast cereal references fill my speech it seems
And that's the best of it,
Cause I could be coppin sumo weight
in every line, and that's fine,
But the TRUTH is what I determine great,
Not fictionalized traits,
Pitched fishing lines with no bait,
Hopin the masses catch flashes, but,
Cops lazy and flash badges,
Now kids are relaxed vandals,
What happened to no samples
Old soul is our new saddle
Grab that young horse and let him rap over
That Frankie Lymon,
We scream about perfect timing,
But we're just a buncha virgins,
Ain't even damaged the hymen, so,
Why are YOU rhyming?
I spit for release,
yeah I wish for peace
So when I say it to you, I REALLY wish you no beef
I'm in these streets like I say on these beats
But, you?
You hit the booth, and expect the streets to embrace sheep
Let me rephrase.
You want these beasts to exist with the weak
C'mon!
You better off flipping beef,
Cuz we're playin for keeps!
This ain't that, guy, we shootin to 21
12 skunk? U out the game, make room for fresh lungs
See we rep the fresh blood
Ya'll been greedy for a while
Yeah, a couple bit your style,
But ya'll been biting in denial
Claim your rights
Ryu or Guile? Street fighting since the 90's
When R. Kelly had P.A. and they was singin back in the 90's
Call me polished/grimy
Washed and filthy rhyming,
Still writing my lyrics, guess I gotta perfect my signing
Ya'll deaf and ya'll ain't just lip reading
We automatic, not six speeding thru life, ya'll keep leadin,
But, when you hit that loop, that 465 the circles the circle?
You'll realize this whole time 317 was Eddie,
Just waiting for ya'll Urkels
Mind of the Misguided
Orig. By Double Ii
Here I am,
young gangsta mentality,
depressed
watchin life as it passes me
Stressed
Thinking bout life as a casuality
Death,
precedes life if you think about it
Rationally
Adam and Eve birthed life, or was it catastrophe?
If you askin me, we been on a crash course since we were watchin Sesame Street
No more book learning, we teach about weaponry
Lesson #3,
cop these 'fore dude lets his little weapon squeeze
We made the best of it
Frosted chains, fruity rings, krispy jeans,
Breakfast cereal references fill my speech it seems
And that's the best of it,
Cause I could be coppin sumo weight
in every line, and that's fine,
But the TRUTH is what I determine great,
Not fictionalized traits,
Pitched fishing lines with no bait,
Hopin the masses catch flashes, but,
Cops lazy and flash badges,
Now kids are relaxed vandals,
What happened to no samples
Old soul is our new saddle
Grab that young horse and let him rap over
That Frankie Lymon,
We scream about perfect timing,
But we're just a buncha virgins,
Ain't even damaged the hymen, so,
Why are YOU rhyming?
I spit for release,
yeah I wish for peace
So when I say it to you, I REALLY wish you no beef
I'm in these streets like I say on these beats
But, you?
You hit the booth, and expect the streets to embrace sheep
Let me rephrase.
You want these beasts to exist with the weak
C'mon!
You better off flipping beef,
Cuz we're playin for keeps!
This ain't that, guy, we shootin to 21
12 skunk? U out the game, make room for fresh lungs
See we rep the fresh blood
Ya'll been greedy for a while
Yeah, a couple bit your style,
But ya'll been biting in denial
Claim your rights
Ryu or Guile? Street fighting since the 90's
When R. Kelly had P.A. and they was singin back in the 90's
Call me polished/grimy
Washed and filthy rhyming,
Still writing my lyrics, guess I gotta perfect my signing
Ya'll deaf and ya'll ain't just lip reading
We automatic, not six speeding thru life, ya'll keep leadin,
But, when you hit that loop, that 465 the circles the circle?
You'll realize this whole time 317 was Eddie,
Just waiting for ya'll Urkels
On My Poetry Grizzlie
This happens to be a post I had on a great poetry website (if ANY of you cats out there are interested, of course), The Black Poetry Cafe. A quick shout out to everybody I met on there, all the inspiration that a brother gained while trading stanzas with you was and STILL is amazing... Now, what I'm posting is from a little excercise that was posted to test the poets creative limits. This piece came from a list of sentences that had absolutely nothing to do with one another, that we had to "create something magical" with... Enjoy:
Damn this foolish pride of mine...
Thru gucci frames her eyes sparkled,
A vision of beauty watchin' me take purple rain stained steps closer...
We met thru Elmo @ my homeboy's crib, he's Grover,
2 block over from South Sesame,
My man, Kermit, watched her sip lemonade over my shoulder
Told me, "Double, she's peepin' you, but the Count is on her heavy. You should give her some new digits... maybe ya'll could go steady?"
Smirking, I told him, "I ain't the type... That lovesick-like, lonely holding myself late @ night..." She ain't gon' have this boy saying goodnight, shuffling my Nikes down moonless streets trying to feel complete, like Tom Cruise and Renee Z-Zeel, Zw-Zwel...
Her spots pro'ly nice,
I bet she's got my book, The El-P, displayed all majestic on her coffee table proud,
I was rockin' a set and saw her in the crowd,
I remember cuz it was late in March,
She had me autograph it next to the 3rd stanza of "Spring is Hear", u know...
"... My heart is loyal
Old dogs resting by dirt road sides
Soft sighs escape the confinment of this old soul's rested bones
Vivid flashbacks to a time when we did more than talk and text
More than sit perched upon mantles before God and recite poems of protest
Back when we marched and took action,
Fought for what we believed, u know?
Back when oppression sic'd dobermans on peaceful sit-ins, and new masters used water hoses like we were children that just needed cooling off..."
She said she liked that part, at least, that's what Kermit said.
Bert and Ernie chimed in and told of times when they would hear her cry and plead,
Count wasn't multiplying that right
And she asked them if he, I mean, I would...
Make love with she, you know, (the letters of the day L-O-V-E) and sex is just commonality between us two,
We "make" love when we say Love or
Is it we take love... for granted.
I invited her back to my roots and had a black thought about her quest for love so,
We went to church and the choir sang amazing
But, grace gave her clarity enough to not get stuck in my delusions as a poet
My pretty words opened her mind's eye to my confusion
And she used it against me
And now
She sips lemonade across the room and Kermit watches her over my shoulder while she transmorphs from victim to victor
Her eyes thru gucci frames get bigger
As she watches me watchin her through a mirrored gaze
My panther pride stalking her sexy thighs like my own prey
copyright 2008 R. Clark®
Damn this foolish pride of mine...
Thru gucci frames her eyes sparkled,
A vision of beauty watchin' me take purple rain stained steps closer...
We met thru Elmo @ my homeboy's crib, he's Grover,
2 block over from South Sesame,
My man, Kermit, watched her sip lemonade over my shoulder
Told me, "Double, she's peepin' you, but the Count is on her heavy. You should give her some new digits... maybe ya'll could go steady?"
Smirking, I told him, "I ain't the type... That lovesick-like, lonely holding myself late @ night..." She ain't gon' have this boy saying goodnight, shuffling my Nikes down moonless streets trying to feel complete, like Tom Cruise and Renee Z-Zeel, Zw-Zwel...
Her spots pro'ly nice,
I bet she's got my book, The El-P, displayed all majestic on her coffee table proud,
I was rockin' a set and saw her in the crowd,
I remember cuz it was late in March,
She had me autograph it next to the 3rd stanza of "Spring is Hear", u know...
"... My heart is loyal
Old dogs resting by dirt road sides
Soft sighs escape the confinment of this old soul's rested bones
Vivid flashbacks to a time when we did more than talk and text
More than sit perched upon mantles before God and recite poems of protest
Back when we marched and took action,
Fought for what we believed, u know?
Back when oppression sic'd dobermans on peaceful sit-ins, and new masters used water hoses like we were children that just needed cooling off..."
She said she liked that part, at least, that's what Kermit said.
Bert and Ernie chimed in and told of times when they would hear her cry and plead,
Count wasn't multiplying that right
And she asked them if he, I mean, I would...
Make love with she, you know, (the letters of the day L-O-V-E) and sex is just commonality between us two,
We "make" love when we say Love or
Is it we take love... for granted.
I invited her back to my roots and had a black thought about her quest for love so,
We went to church and the choir sang amazing
But, grace gave her clarity enough to not get stuck in my delusions as a poet
My pretty words opened her mind's eye to my confusion
And she used it against me
And now
She sips lemonade across the room and Kermit watches her over my shoulder while she transmorphs from victim to victor
Her eyes thru gucci frames get bigger
As she watches me watchin her through a mirrored gaze
My panther pride stalking her sexy thighs like my own prey
copyright 2008 R. Clark®
Monday, August 4, 2008
Taking Steps
Won't lie to you guys, I'm struggling with the title a bit... Anyways...Trying to work my way through something, so you folks are privy to a subject near and dear to me.
Why is it so tough to be a step-parent? Growing up, I had surrogate fathers in people like my grandfather (R.I.P), both of my uncles, and a few of my mother's (R.I.P) boyfriends. The kid never had the pleasure of having "Stepdad" IN the house with him, though. Not that it bothered me, but, it DID kinda shape how I look at the role of a stepparent. Being a boy, I wished I had someone to toss a football around with, teach me how to ride a bike, steal my first porn from, and shit of that nature. I didn't, and vicariously shared those moments with my cousins who DID have both parents at home. I grew to appreciate the possibility of having SOMEONE other than Donna Rae and my little sis in the house with me. Some OTHER guy...
I've held to this my whole life, and, even in dating women with kids, held this same respect for stepparents. It helped that I saw the admiration my mother and uncles held for THEIR stepfather (so much so, that they called him "Daddy"... and so did I), and I assumed that this is how all stepparents must be treated, right? Well, sometime during my school years, I started hearing the contempt that kids my age held for their own stepparents. Granted, as a child, when you lose a biological for any reason, you tend to have feelings that you can't properly come to grips with. And, as a child myself, I sided with the kids who felt slighted by their newfound parental units. But, that changed when I began to venture to these homes and meet said "devils". Most catered to these kids' every whim and desire, bending over backwards to be that "perfect" mom or dad. The kids, though, didn't want perfect, though. And of course, you had the ubiquitous, "step from hell" that literally went out of their way to belittle, demean, and psychologically destroy innocent kids. But those steps were the EXTREME minority.
Even with the worse case scenario step parents, why is there an instant resistance to anyone "new" in a single parent's life in the first place? Why do children of broken or even single parent homes long for the familiarity of disappointment? My wife was married previously, and all of her children are products of said marriage. She dated briefly before meeting me, and the kids all loved me (or maybe I'm being delusional, who knows...) because I was a constant in their lives. Seemed fair at the time. Anyhoo, during the two years that we dated, and the month into our marriage, I was privied to hear how she interacted with her two (2) stepdads as well as the high regard she held her biological in. During there convos, I got a glimpse at the inner-workings of a kid with S.P. Syndrome (step parent, for those who needed that one), and, frankly, it was disturbing to me. Her dad married her mom VERY young, and split, then REMARRIED her, only to split again. From this union, my wife was born. After daddy flew the coop, he moved away, and moved some more, taking the time, every so often, to make a quick phone call or even the "surprise" visit. This pleased my wife as a child. Mom remarried, to which a baby brother was born, and dad moved again... Hell, I'm getting bored writing this part... Long story shortened, Stepdad number two was a good guy, didn't last, but stepdad number three kinda sucked in her opinion... Now, she also claims that S.D. #3 was jealous of the fact that she loved said deadbeat biological, and thusly cut her off from his own love...
And this is where my confusion lies. Now, the closest I had to a father was my grandfather, but, it's not the same, but, I DO know that I never held ANY one man to the standards my grandfather set. I gave all of my mother's suitors a fair shake, and, they all had their pros and cons. The one who had the most enduring impression was my little sis's dad. Not because he spoiled me (and he did), not because he treated my mom like a queen (which he did), and not because I was desperate for a father figure (which I wasn't?). He was enduring to me because of his flaws. He broke promises to my sister (his ONLY biological daughter). He lied to me and my mother. He disappeared for years on end, only to lie and break MORE promises. And oddly enough, it's these qualities that had a POSITIVE effect on my life. I never wanted to replicate what he did to us, and I definitely never wanted to have anyone I loved feel about me the way we felt about him. He taught me, in a backwards kinda way, how to be a better father.
But, now I'm the stepfather. Three beautiful, healthy, smart kids (2 boys, a girl in the middle) became related to me through marriage. I, now, have the ability to shape and form their lives in a positive manner. And sadly, all I worry about is whether or not they will respect me, and accept me as a parent, not just a step.
Why is it so tough to be a step-parent? Growing up, I had surrogate fathers in people like my grandfather (R.I.P), both of my uncles, and a few of my mother's (R.I.P) boyfriends. The kid never had the pleasure of having "Stepdad" IN the house with him, though. Not that it bothered me, but, it DID kinda shape how I look at the role of a stepparent. Being a boy, I wished I had someone to toss a football around with, teach me how to ride a bike, steal my first porn from, and shit of that nature. I didn't, and vicariously shared those moments with my cousins who DID have both parents at home. I grew to appreciate the possibility of having SOMEONE other than Donna Rae and my little sis in the house with me. Some OTHER guy...
I've held to this my whole life, and, even in dating women with kids, held this same respect for stepparents. It helped that I saw the admiration my mother and uncles held for THEIR stepfather (so much so, that they called him "Daddy"... and so did I), and I assumed that this is how all stepparents must be treated, right? Well, sometime during my school years, I started hearing the contempt that kids my age held for their own stepparents. Granted, as a child, when you lose a biological for any reason, you tend to have feelings that you can't properly come to grips with. And, as a child myself, I sided with the kids who felt slighted by their newfound parental units. But, that changed when I began to venture to these homes and meet said "devils". Most catered to these kids' every whim and desire, bending over backwards to be that "perfect" mom or dad. The kids, though, didn't want perfect, though. And of course, you had the ubiquitous, "step from hell" that literally went out of their way to belittle, demean, and psychologically destroy innocent kids. But those steps were the EXTREME minority.
Even with the worse case scenario step parents, why is there an instant resistance to anyone "new" in a single parent's life in the first place? Why do children of broken or even single parent homes long for the familiarity of disappointment? My wife was married previously, and all of her children are products of said marriage. She dated briefly before meeting me, and the kids all loved me (or maybe I'm being delusional, who knows...) because I was a constant in their lives. Seemed fair at the time. Anyhoo, during the two years that we dated, and the month into our marriage, I was privied to hear how she interacted with her two (2) stepdads as well as the high regard she held her biological in. During there convos, I got a glimpse at the inner-workings of a kid with S.P. Syndrome (step parent, for those who needed that one), and, frankly, it was disturbing to me. Her dad married her mom VERY young, and split, then REMARRIED her, only to split again. From this union, my wife was born. After daddy flew the coop, he moved away, and moved some more, taking the time, every so often, to make a quick phone call or even the "surprise" visit. This pleased my wife as a child. Mom remarried, to which a baby brother was born, and dad moved again... Hell, I'm getting bored writing this part... Long story shortened, Stepdad number two was a good guy, didn't last, but stepdad number three kinda sucked in her opinion... Now, she also claims that S.D. #3 was jealous of the fact that she loved said deadbeat biological, and thusly cut her off from his own love...
And this is where my confusion lies. Now, the closest I had to a father was my grandfather, but, it's not the same, but, I DO know that I never held ANY one man to the standards my grandfather set. I gave all of my mother's suitors a fair shake, and, they all had their pros and cons. The one who had the most enduring impression was my little sis's dad. Not because he spoiled me (and he did), not because he treated my mom like a queen (which he did), and not because I was desperate for a father figure (which I wasn't?). He was enduring to me because of his flaws. He broke promises to my sister (his ONLY biological daughter). He lied to me and my mother. He disappeared for years on end, only to lie and break MORE promises. And oddly enough, it's these qualities that had a POSITIVE effect on my life. I never wanted to replicate what he did to us, and I definitely never wanted to have anyone I loved feel about me the way we felt about him. He taught me, in a backwards kinda way, how to be a better father.
But, now I'm the stepfather. Three beautiful, healthy, smart kids (2 boys, a girl in the middle) became related to me through marriage. I, now, have the ability to shape and form their lives in a positive manner. And sadly, all I worry about is whether or not they will respect me, and accept me as a parent, not just a step.
Tha Real...
In all my infinite knowledge, there is one thing that has always eluded me: the definition of "real". Webster's and Oxford both claim the definition as "being of true and actual fact", but, that doesn't always end up being the case. My longing for the definition has been piqued recently with hip-hoppers claiming to be walking, talking, BREATHING epitomes of said meaning (usually being found out to be otherwise). Case in point, recently Miami d-boy rapper Rick Ross neé William Rogers was alleged to have fabricated his Tony Montana-esque exploits. Do I care? Definitely not, but, I'm also one of the few who don't live my life vicariously through the rhymes of others. But, the moment this "bombshell" made it's rounds through hip-hop media (rags and blogs), suddenly everyone from the ORIGINAL "Freeway" Ricky Ross to various artists had to express their two cents on how Mr. M-I-Yayo had ruined his standing in the hip-hop community. Everyone was clamoring to explain how he wasn't as "real" as he claimed to be... mind you, this is the same man who has claimed, on record, to know incarcerated Panamanian dictator Manuel Noriega (for you kiddies under 30, read about the Iran-Contra scandal under President Reagan...). Again, I don't live vicariously through someone else's rhymes, but even I knew that this guy isn't on a first name basis with Manuel Noriega! But, something about hip-hop gave this clown a pass to boast about drug deals so outrageous that REAL dope boys looked to him like some kind of patron saint of dealers! And it doesn't stop OR start with Mister "Trilla", rappers pasts being exposed is as was just as common in the 70's and 80's as it is now.
Which brings me to the other side of this word "real." Recently, Ice T made the internet go crazy when he verbally spanked 16 or 17 year-old rapper Soulja Boy. Ice's beef with young Soulja? Souja Boy's penchant for super-sugary pop hits like "Crank Dat (Superman)" and "YAHHH!!!" Ice even went so far as to blame the young'n for the decline in hip-hop sales, and the disinterest in hip-hop by fans of hardcore gangsta rap... Really, Ice? The man who recorded a happy little dance song for the movie "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo"? The man that tried to go mainstream so badly that he decided to play a cop in, not only "New Jack City", but full-time on "Law & Order: SVU"? This, of course, AFTER he and his rock band cronies recorded that now infamous tune "Cop Killer". But, I digress... Ice (and ALL his supporters) claimed that the music that Soulja Boy created wasn't "real" (there's that word, again...) hip-hop. Happy, party-inspired, danceable music set to an uptempo beat isn't "real" hip-hop? Or is it that his music doesn't invoke vivid imagery of violence, misogeny, dope selling, pandering, or other staples of the gangsta rap genre? People of the hip-hop generation have always had some long standing desire to be relevant in irrelevant times, popularly, about irrelevant things...
50 Cent was shot (and grazed) 9 times in front of his grandmother's home, a fact that, in all it's grandeur, has very little to do with anything. 50 turned, what should've been, an experience to change his lifestyle, into a multimillion dollar hip-hop career. Now, what's real? Is it that, in being shot, 50 became impervious to any shots (be they physical OR verbal), or that his (God given) strong will and work ethic helped him pull himself up through tough times? Which would you choose to believe?
I, like most of my family members, are products of the hip-hop generation. We all have our likes and dislikes, but one thing we can't all agree upon is one, silly question: "Who's the greatest MC of ALL time?" You've read my blogs and, though, though I tend to favor southern rap more than most other regions, I feel diverse enough to display my own opinions. One cousin feels obligated, at his leisure, to engage in debate with me about this subject, and his case for why 2Pac is the greatest. "He's the realest nigga, EVER!!" is usually his arguement. "Okay," I retort, "what makes him so real? And why does that reserve him the place of G.O.A.T?" This, more often than not, causes a complete meltdown of any "civil" conversation...
Reality in rap music doesn't make me like a guy/gal any more/less. Because you found a way to avoid jailtime in your previous criminal endeavors, only to boast about them in simple rhyme structure does NOT impress me. The fact that you claimed to have been on more poles than Jeff Gordan and Kyle Busch COMBINED (that's a NASCAR reference on yo punk asses!!), only tells me that you take pride in your lack of moral fiber. Honestly, I listen to music like I watch movies and television, to ESCAPE reality. I live in a fucked up enough world that, by simply watching the news or reading a newspaper, I get bombarded with atrocities that seem like something from Michael Crichton's (damn, this guy's just name-dropping today!) latest novel. Why can't I escape to a land where everything is upbeat, and I don't have to worry about recessions, ridiculous gas prices, fixed elections, senseless murders, kangaroo courts, police corruption and brutality, phoney preachers, pedophiles, and rape? A place where I can "Supersoak that hoe!!", and my chain "hangs low", and maybe "wobbles to the flo"... a place where I can enjoy music for it's creativity AND it's social commentary... I don't know. Maybe I'm too REAL to ever understand or accept that place.
Which brings me to the other side of this word "real." Recently, Ice T made the internet go crazy when he verbally spanked 16 or 17 year-old rapper Soulja Boy. Ice's beef with young Soulja? Souja Boy's penchant for super-sugary pop hits like "Crank Dat (Superman)" and "YAHHH!!!" Ice even went so far as to blame the young'n for the decline in hip-hop sales, and the disinterest in hip-hop by fans of hardcore gangsta rap... Really, Ice? The man who recorded a happy little dance song for the movie "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo"? The man that tried to go mainstream so badly that he decided to play a cop in, not only "New Jack City", but full-time on "Law & Order: SVU"? This, of course, AFTER he and his rock band cronies recorded that now infamous tune "Cop Killer". But, I digress... Ice (and ALL his supporters) claimed that the music that Soulja Boy created wasn't "real" (there's that word, again...) hip-hop. Happy, party-inspired, danceable music set to an uptempo beat isn't "real" hip-hop? Or is it that his music doesn't invoke vivid imagery of violence, misogeny, dope selling, pandering, or other staples of the gangsta rap genre? People of the hip-hop generation have always had some long standing desire to be relevant in irrelevant times, popularly, about irrelevant things...
50 Cent was shot (and grazed) 9 times in front of his grandmother's home, a fact that, in all it's grandeur, has very little to do with anything. 50 turned, what should've been, an experience to change his lifestyle, into a multimillion dollar hip-hop career. Now, what's real? Is it that, in being shot, 50 became impervious to any shots (be they physical OR verbal), or that his (God given) strong will and work ethic helped him pull himself up through tough times? Which would you choose to believe?
I, like most of my family members, are products of the hip-hop generation. We all have our likes and dislikes, but one thing we can't all agree upon is one, silly question: "Who's the greatest MC of ALL time?" You've read my blogs and, though, though I tend to favor southern rap more than most other regions, I feel diverse enough to display my own opinions. One cousin feels obligated, at his leisure, to engage in debate with me about this subject, and his case for why 2Pac is the greatest. "He's the realest nigga, EVER!!" is usually his arguement. "Okay," I retort, "what makes him so real? And why does that reserve him the place of G.O.A.T?" This, more often than not, causes a complete meltdown of any "civil" conversation...
Reality in rap music doesn't make me like a guy/gal any more/less. Because you found a way to avoid jailtime in your previous criminal endeavors, only to boast about them in simple rhyme structure does NOT impress me. The fact that you claimed to have been on more poles than Jeff Gordan and Kyle Busch COMBINED (that's a NASCAR reference on yo punk asses!!), only tells me that you take pride in your lack of moral fiber. Honestly, I listen to music like I watch movies and television, to ESCAPE reality. I live in a fucked up enough world that, by simply watching the news or reading a newspaper, I get bombarded with atrocities that seem like something from Michael Crichton's (damn, this guy's just name-dropping today!) latest novel. Why can't I escape to a land where everything is upbeat, and I don't have to worry about recessions, ridiculous gas prices, fixed elections, senseless murders, kangaroo courts, police corruption and brutality, phoney preachers, pedophiles, and rape? A place where I can "Supersoak that hoe!!", and my chain "hangs low", and maybe "wobbles to the flo"... a place where I can enjoy music for it's creativity AND it's social commentary... I don't know. Maybe I'm too REAL to ever understand or accept that place.
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