So my mother calls me and leaves this message on my voicemail, "Your youth is officially over. Michael Jackson is dead. Wondering if you'd heard."
Of course, I'd not been able to answer her call because I was fielding millions of phone calls and text messages and emails and facebook poignance. It's an understatement to say that our generation is taking this kinda rough. We all have a lot to share about our relationship with Mike.
When I was six years old, the only thing on my list to Santa was Thriller. I cared about nothing else, and talked about it incessantly at school. When the flat, roughly 12" x 12" square appeared in tacky paper beneath the tree, I swore it was something else. I had built it up in my mind to be as big as my entire torso, enough to actually wrap my arms around. My sister, Louise had worked at Camelot Music in Bel-Air Mall and brought it home for me. To tell you the truth, I actually spotted it in a bag hanging on her bedroom doorknob prior to the Big Day, but couldn't really believe it was actually about to be mine to behold.
I learned to use our multiple record players at around four years old, having been taught how to lay the needle down ever-so-gingerly on the smooth line in between songs. Albums were something to be handled like china, and respected. I remember learning to hold them between my finger tips on the edges, fearing for my life if I dropped one. Already in heavy rotation at this age were Earth, Wind & Fire's Greatest Hits Vol. 1, Sergio Mendes & Brasil '66 Fool on the Hill, and Prince Controversy. I spent countless hours alone in my room listening to these and learning every little bit of the space between notes and the scant breath here and there. But these were my family's records, and Thriller was mine. All mine.
I gazed at Michael with the big kitty and fell in love with him. Spending so much time alone in my room with this record at such a young age, he was literally one of my friends. Thriller always scared me a little, but I did huge can-can girl kicks to the bit he ripped off from Manu Di Bango in Wanna Be Startin Somethin. I dreamed over he and Paul McCartney (as my sister had taught me all of the Beatles' names and their reverence not long ago), and wished I was the girl they fought over. Human Nature cultivated my first fantasies of a big city, and Lady In My Life just made be feel warm. I honestly felt I knew him. I decided he was my boyfriend, and when I announced it to my mother she discouraged me. So I decided he was my cousin, and I told everyone at school.
Whenever someone's sister or brother would buy the album, I was notified. The kids in first grade at St. Ignatius in Mobile, AL were mystified. I received them graciously. And today I heard from schoolmates that I haven't spoken to in years.
Yeah, we shared a last name. But the intimacy I had with this first album of my very own can only describe the void a child can fill spending countless hours alone in her room, gazing out of the window and petting her Doberman, waiting to go play in the graveyard.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Friday, January 2, 2009
My Christmas Gift.
This year I had a big schedule. I was to make an appearance in Tuscaloosa, AL for a friend's family gatherings, and then immediately depart Mobile to Charleston, SC to join my sisters, mother, father and his wife. We weren't too sure how this was going to go over, as it hadn't yet been tried with this particular wife of Dad's. As it turns out, I have no good material to report. Everyone behaved, and it was a total disappointment. We all ate well and laughed and drank and were merry as shit. I haven't had that functional of a family Christmas maybe ever, and it made me nervous.
But the fun part of the story is this small nugget of humor: prior to departing for Tuscaloosa I happened to experience the mad breaking of a months-old levy with a rather fetching young gentleman, and it left a visible toll on my face. Unfortunately I am a delicate flower. The skin on my chin could not bear to stay around to watch all of that crude sucking any longer, and simply left. My lips were indignant to the abandonment and swelled to a bright red anger, the one closest to my chin even throbbing with fury. So I wake to depart to meet my friend's family for the first time, and I have a nickel-sized patch of skin missing from my chin, and a mouth more opulent than a baboon's swollen, beckoning vagina. I do what I can for the chin, which is moisturize and apply concealer (the effect is something like wet tissue paper on silly putty), and liberally apply lip-plumping gloss. Because I just had to see what would happen. And what happened was massive, shiny, porn lips that I wished would stay forever (they returned to normal size by the next morning).
So I'm in a great mood, it's a beautiful day, and I'm thoroughly enjoying the drive. I'm just outside of Tuscaloosa, and it dawns on me that I have a ton of crap on my floor board. Not wanting to embarrass myself in front of my friend and her family, I stop at a gas station to throw all of the junk out. It's a glorious day in the mid-seventies, and I'm comfortable in jeans and a tailored t-shirt. I gather a full armload of junk into my chest, as I don't want to make more than one trip to the trash bin 7 feet away, and step out of the car to drop it in. Wanting to make this as expeditious as possible, I leave the car running and don't have any hands to close the door behind me. I drop the trash in the basin, wind blowing my hair into my thick coat of lip gloss. As I pivot around, trying to delicately remove the strands of hair from the sap on my lips without breaking the hair or leaving lines of color across my cheek, I watch the car door shut. I'm frozen. Please, don't be locked. Oh, please. But sure enough, that bad boy is barely engaged, but firmly locked. My cell phone and purse inside, and engine purring like a fat cat in the sunshine.
Some bystanders watch as I go through the first several stages of loss; anger, bargaining, depression, yadayada. I finally hit acceptance and walk inside to call Rape-A-Lock. I ask the girls behind the counter if they know anyone who might have a slim jim, because it is the kind of town where Billy might have one in his truck or something. They look at me blankly and shake their heads. But then the blood starts to flow, and the one one wearing large, plastic, vintage floral earrings with her BP golf shirt suggests that I ask the gentlemen at the car wash next door. The light goes off with all of us, and I burst out of the glass doors. I'm bounding across the parking lot with lips shining like-- I have to use this one again-- a baboon's swollen, flushed vulva, my giant hooters grazing my chin every other step, and smiling my ass off at the knights in shining chrome before me. As I slowly become aware of their probable perception of this, I stop the jogging. In fact, as I came to a stop, I found myself standing in the dirt surrounded by about seven men that you might not want to be surrounded by, say, alone at night. I've already called to them about the slim jim, suddenly realizing I was running at them begging for a freaking SLIM JIM. Merry Christmas, fellas.
Two of them take to the task, and they produce very quickly several objects with which to break into a car. This was not to my surprise. They had it open in seconds, and refused to take a dime from me. They saved me from losing $50 and an hour or so to Rape-A-Lock. Merry Christmas to me. The most meaningful gift by far this year.
KJ
But the fun part of the story is this small nugget of humor: prior to departing for Tuscaloosa I happened to experience the mad breaking of a months-old levy with a rather fetching young gentleman, and it left a visible toll on my face. Unfortunately I am a delicate flower. The skin on my chin could not bear to stay around to watch all of that crude sucking any longer, and simply left. My lips were indignant to the abandonment and swelled to a bright red anger, the one closest to my chin even throbbing with fury. So I wake to depart to meet my friend's family for the first time, and I have a nickel-sized patch of skin missing from my chin, and a mouth more opulent than a baboon's swollen, beckoning vagina. I do what I can for the chin, which is moisturize and apply concealer (the effect is something like wet tissue paper on silly putty), and liberally apply lip-plumping gloss. Because I just had to see what would happen. And what happened was massive, shiny, porn lips that I wished would stay forever (they returned to normal size by the next morning).
So I'm in a great mood, it's a beautiful day, and I'm thoroughly enjoying the drive. I'm just outside of Tuscaloosa, and it dawns on me that I have a ton of crap on my floor board. Not wanting to embarrass myself in front of my friend and her family, I stop at a gas station to throw all of the junk out. It's a glorious day in the mid-seventies, and I'm comfortable in jeans and a tailored t-shirt. I gather a full armload of junk into my chest, as I don't want to make more than one trip to the trash bin 7 feet away, and step out of the car to drop it in. Wanting to make this as expeditious as possible, I leave the car running and don't have any hands to close the door behind me. I drop the trash in the basin, wind blowing my hair into my thick coat of lip gloss. As I pivot around, trying to delicately remove the strands of hair from the sap on my lips without breaking the hair or leaving lines of color across my cheek, I watch the car door shut. I'm frozen. Please, don't be locked. Oh, please. But sure enough, that bad boy is barely engaged, but firmly locked. My cell phone and purse inside, and engine purring like a fat cat in the sunshine.
Some bystanders watch as I go through the first several stages of loss; anger, bargaining, depression, yadayada. I finally hit acceptance and walk inside to call Rape-A-Lock. I ask the girls behind the counter if they know anyone who might have a slim jim, because it is the kind of town where Billy might have one in his truck or something. They look at me blankly and shake their heads. But then the blood starts to flow, and the one one wearing large, plastic, vintage floral earrings with her BP golf shirt suggests that I ask the gentlemen at the car wash next door. The light goes off with all of us, and I burst out of the glass doors. I'm bounding across the parking lot with lips shining like-- I have to use this one again-- a baboon's swollen, flushed vulva, my giant hooters grazing my chin every other step, and smiling my ass off at the knights in shining chrome before me. As I slowly become aware of their probable perception of this, I stop the jogging. In fact, as I came to a stop, I found myself standing in the dirt surrounded by about seven men that you might not want to be surrounded by, say, alone at night. I've already called to them about the slim jim, suddenly realizing I was running at them begging for a freaking SLIM JIM. Merry Christmas, fellas.
Two of them take to the task, and they produce very quickly several objects with which to break into a car. This was not to my surprise. They had it open in seconds, and refused to take a dime from me. They saved me from losing $50 and an hour or so to Rape-A-Lock. Merry Christmas to me. The most meaningful gift by far this year.
KJ
Sunday, November 2, 2008
Why not?
Okay, I finally have something to say about this election. That's right, two days before I need to actually make up my mind, I finally made up my mind. And it hasn't been easy.
Before this historically massive crux of an election, I have to bashfully admit that I have not been the most politically informed cat. In college I dated this completely crazy but of course, as it always seems to be, brilliant (this is my type in a nutshell) freak of a political science major. As he won academic bowl after academic bowl for the local community college (on Dexadrine), I casually blew off his passions in the interest of his feedback on my then-perfect floating orbs of golden light-- you may call them breasts. Anyway, he about dumped me when election day passed (Clinton vs. who?) and I had no idea. But I had the orbs, so we worked it out.
So now I feel the guilt and embarrassment of this memory (which I have never shared, by the way) as well as the shame when exposed to my father's immense and staggering sense of patriotism. I am the youngest daughter of a WWII veteran; very lucky to have this perspective. He actually lied about his age to go to war as a Marine-- or his parents signed for him, one of the two. Either way, who the fuck would do that today? What are we missing? We are a nation of spoiled asshole brats. It's disgusting, and I am reminded of this every time I watch FOX news with my 81 year old father. It's no rant of his, it's all mine. But to just simply observe the ever-so-slight swell in his chest while casually observing the state of the nation... it's more reverence than you'll get from any half-hearted pledge of allegiance in school or at a ballgame.
I also remember with some embarrassment but mostly as a major turning point, an incident at a party in college where I found myself getting pretty hammered with some fetching Marines. I had already decided I was really conflicted with my deficit in patriotism or even nationalism at this point, and I figured these guys should be able to help me figure it out. Plus, they might be tempted to rescue me from my frightful plight of cluelessness. I asked them point blank: why do I not feel it? What do you feel about our country that makes you do what you do? What am I missing? And the answer was so simple, and it resonates in my head to this day. He said, "We make it so you can say what you just said."
So in effect, we are so freaking spoiled as a nation that we not only are allowed to question our loyalty, our freedom (Michelle?), but even publicly humiliate our leader in wartime. I have a real problem with this. I don't care how much the man might deserve it, but what do we say about ourselves to the world when we mock our President? We may as well mock ourselves, and we do. I'm sorry, it's just tacky as hell. I dare anyone to call President Bush an idiot in front of someone just home from Iraq. I dare you. Not so funny anymore is it? You think he thinks it's funny? Fuck Bill Maher. Fuck John Stewart. Fuck all that Comedy Central bullshit. It's in seriously poor taste. But that's Hollywood for you.
This said, I have searched high and low for answers with both of our presidential candidates. I subscribe to both of their newsletters, I read all of the mud-slinging propaganda on both of them, and have checked all of the facts (myself, not from their own "fact-checker" sections on their websites). And I was still clueless in this age of information. I have leaned to both sides, and ultimately resided in between, wringing my hands and biting my nails. Then I had a moment of quiet, whispering clarity last night.
I was in Blockbuster, cause I'm an idiot and don't do the Netflix thing. (As with most media purchasing or borrowing, I want to touch it-- another post.) Right in front when you enter the rows of jackets, there was a display with previously viewed DVDs. It had several copies of Barack Obama: Who Is This Guy? (or something to that effect) on it, and I briefly thought to pick one up. But I had kept walking to review the other selections first. As I was scanning the jackets on the New Releases wall, I hear behind me this child's voice, a whisper of wonder, like glimpsing Santa Claus on a Coca Cola commercial-- it couldn't have sounded more utterly American,
"(gasp!) Barack Obama!"
And I could hear him pointing to a buddy or sibling, I didn't turn around. Then,
"I love you, Barack Obama."
I froze right there as tears came to my eyes. And a million romantic thoughts tumbled through my brain that ultimately asked, is it just too awful and naive to look up to someone this way? Can there really, actually be Hope? Is it not just clever campaigning? Could we actually have reverence as a nation, as this child does? Is it just too scary to posit such a thing?
It may be romantic. But no media could replicate the voice of that baby. And he surely learned it from Momma and Daddy (or maybe just Momma?), but I've never heard that kind of wonder out of anyone's mouth in regards to one of our nation's recent leaders. Why not go for it?
KJ
Before this historically massive crux of an election, I have to bashfully admit that I have not been the most politically informed cat. In college I dated this completely crazy but of course, as it always seems to be, brilliant (this is my type in a nutshell) freak of a political science major. As he won academic bowl after academic bowl for the local community college (on Dexadrine), I casually blew off his passions in the interest of his feedback on my then-perfect floating orbs of golden light-- you may call them breasts. Anyway, he about dumped me when election day passed (Clinton vs. who?) and I had no idea. But I had the orbs, so we worked it out.
So now I feel the guilt and embarrassment of this memory (which I have never shared, by the way) as well as the shame when exposed to my father's immense and staggering sense of patriotism. I am the youngest daughter of a WWII veteran; very lucky to have this perspective. He actually lied about his age to go to war as a Marine-- or his parents signed for him, one of the two. Either way, who the fuck would do that today? What are we missing? We are a nation of spoiled asshole brats. It's disgusting, and I am reminded of this every time I watch FOX news with my 81 year old father. It's no rant of his, it's all mine. But to just simply observe the ever-so-slight swell in his chest while casually observing the state of the nation... it's more reverence than you'll get from any half-hearted pledge of allegiance in school or at a ballgame.
I also remember with some embarrassment but mostly as a major turning point, an incident at a party in college where I found myself getting pretty hammered with some fetching Marines. I had already decided I was really conflicted with my deficit in patriotism or even nationalism at this point, and I figured these guys should be able to help me figure it out. Plus, they might be tempted to rescue me from my frightful plight of cluelessness. I asked them point blank: why do I not feel it? What do you feel about our country that makes you do what you do? What am I missing? And the answer was so simple, and it resonates in my head to this day. He said, "We make it so you can say what you just said."
So in effect, we are so freaking spoiled as a nation that we not only are allowed to question our loyalty, our freedom (Michelle?), but even publicly humiliate our leader in wartime. I have a real problem with this. I don't care how much the man might deserve it, but what do we say about ourselves to the world when we mock our President? We may as well mock ourselves, and we do. I'm sorry, it's just tacky as hell. I dare anyone to call President Bush an idiot in front of someone just home from Iraq. I dare you. Not so funny anymore is it? You think he thinks it's funny? Fuck Bill Maher. Fuck John Stewart. Fuck all that Comedy Central bullshit. It's in seriously poor taste. But that's Hollywood for you.
This said, I have searched high and low for answers with both of our presidential candidates. I subscribe to both of their newsletters, I read all of the mud-slinging propaganda on both of them, and have checked all of the facts (myself, not from their own "fact-checker" sections on their websites). And I was still clueless in this age of information. I have leaned to both sides, and ultimately resided in between, wringing my hands and biting my nails. Then I had a moment of quiet, whispering clarity last night.
I was in Blockbuster, cause I'm an idiot and don't do the Netflix thing. (As with most media purchasing or borrowing, I want to touch it-- another post.) Right in front when you enter the rows of jackets, there was a display with previously viewed DVDs. It had several copies of Barack Obama: Who Is This Guy? (or something to that effect) on it, and I briefly thought to pick one up. But I had kept walking to review the other selections first. As I was scanning the jackets on the New Releases wall, I hear behind me this child's voice, a whisper of wonder, like glimpsing Santa Claus on a Coca Cola commercial-- it couldn't have sounded more utterly American,
"(gasp!) Barack Obama!"
And I could hear him pointing to a buddy or sibling, I didn't turn around. Then,
"I love you, Barack Obama."
I froze right there as tears came to my eyes. And a million romantic thoughts tumbled through my brain that ultimately asked, is it just too awful and naive to look up to someone this way? Can there really, actually be Hope? Is it not just clever campaigning? Could we actually have reverence as a nation, as this child does? Is it just too scary to posit such a thing?
It may be romantic. But no media could replicate the voice of that baby. And he surely learned it from Momma and Daddy (or maybe just Momma?), but I've never heard that kind of wonder out of anyone's mouth in regards to one of our nation's recent leaders. Why not go for it?
KJ
Thursday, October 30, 2008
The unbearableness of not being very light.
I have been really searching for something vacuous to expound upon, but just can't quite pull it off. So screw y'all. You have to hear me cry.
I have this friend that I've literally known my whole life; we were thrown in the crib together. Our mothers both had us a little later in life, so we got stuck together often. Our lifelong story has been tenuous at times, but I have never really stopped worshipping him. And now he's getting married.
It's the most unexplainable feeling. I've only felt it maybe once, when my sister got married 12 years ago. But I'm actually closer to this person than I am to my sister, if only because of our age difference. She's twelve years older, and we didn't really "grow up" together. Anyway, it's this ridiculous pain that you can't admit to because it means you're a selfish asshole. While my icy little heart leaps to see him so happy, I feel like I'm losing my appendix or something. And we don't even talk all that much anymore. I'm so puzzled. But it makes me feel very small. As in, character-wise. Hopefully I'll feel a wee absolved by your vapid validation.
So I'll recount fond memories of my pal. We used to put makeup on each other under my parents' big dining room table. We would fight over whether it was "yellow" or "lellow." He colored a tulip he drew with markers, cut it out, and scotch-taped it to a balloon for me when we had chicken pox. He led me by the hand out over the water, balancing on the side planks of the wharf his family was building when we were four years old. We spent endless hours on the "trolley" in the back yard of his house. We inspected dead lizards. We always went trick-or-treating together. We always did Mardi Gras together. Consequently we spent a lot of time on the floor sorting candy together. We launched just about anything we could find over his roof in a super-strength water balloon launcher. We got in trouble.
Somewhere around high school he started rolling his eyes at me and decided I was not cool. I was devastated.
Somewhere around college we started hanging out again. Felt better. We always call each other on our birthdays.
And now we're here. I try to control the involuntary asshole rays that pour from my eyeballs whenever his fiancee is around, to what level of success, I'm not sure. I do try, though. Didn't help that no less than five people at their engagement party thought I was his fiancee. Only a little awkward.
Anyway. Hopefully I'm done with all this now. Because now I have to worry about the "spot" on Dad's liver.
KJ
I have this friend that I've literally known my whole life; we were thrown in the crib together. Our mothers both had us a little later in life, so we got stuck together often. Our lifelong story has been tenuous at times, but I have never really stopped worshipping him. And now he's getting married.
It's the most unexplainable feeling. I've only felt it maybe once, when my sister got married 12 years ago. But I'm actually closer to this person than I am to my sister, if only because of our age difference. She's twelve years older, and we didn't really "grow up" together. Anyway, it's this ridiculous pain that you can't admit to because it means you're a selfish asshole. While my icy little heart leaps to see him so happy, I feel like I'm losing my appendix or something. And we don't even talk all that much anymore. I'm so puzzled. But it makes me feel very small. As in, character-wise. Hopefully I'll feel a wee absolved by your vapid validation.
So I'll recount fond memories of my pal. We used to put makeup on each other under my parents' big dining room table. We would fight over whether it was "yellow" or "lellow." He colored a tulip he drew with markers, cut it out, and scotch-taped it to a balloon for me when we had chicken pox. He led me by the hand out over the water, balancing on the side planks of the wharf his family was building when we were four years old. We spent endless hours on the "trolley" in the back yard of his house. We inspected dead lizards. We always went trick-or-treating together. We always did Mardi Gras together. Consequently we spent a lot of time on the floor sorting candy together. We launched just about anything we could find over his roof in a super-strength water balloon launcher. We got in trouble.
Somewhere around high school he started rolling his eyes at me and decided I was not cool. I was devastated.
Somewhere around college we started hanging out again. Felt better. We always call each other on our birthdays.
And now we're here. I try to control the involuntary asshole rays that pour from my eyeballs whenever his fiancee is around, to what level of success, I'm not sure. I do try, though. Didn't help that no less than five people at their engagement party thought I was his fiancee. Only a little awkward.
Anyway. Hopefully I'm done with all this now. Because now I have to worry about the "spot" on Dad's liver.
KJ
Friday, October 17, 2008
All that is good is nastay...
but all that is nasty is not necessarily good. I'm way behind on new music, but I just heard the cop car song by Lil Wayne yesterday and am completely crazy about it. While familiar with Lil Wayne as a figure from New Orleans and aware of his general schtick, I had only heard some mutated children's version of "Lollipop" (don't ask) as far as his actual tunes were concerned. I've read great things about his latest album, The Carter III, but nothing prepared me for the brilliance of this song.
I hesitate to say brilliant every time because the lyrics are pure trash, but damn they're clever. His homage to NWA somewhere before the first chorus, I think, made me squeal with absolute delight. While I thought to myself, come on, it's not that smart I realized that the cleverness wasn't the appeal, or even that unique. NWA was kinda clever, but its trail-blazing dirtiness was what drew me in as an adolescent. But why did I like it better than 2 Live Crew? And then it hit me: it's the triumph of the underdog.
Think about it. There are all of these super dirty rap songs with angry, growling, grunting rappers. They're dark. You feel dirty just listening to them, and can almost hear poor little teenage girls crying among the sounds of ass-slapping and dog fighting. It's disgusting. It's not fun. Listening to guys like Eazy E and Lil Wayne talk about getting busy-- now that's fun. Just the sheer tones of their voices brings a lighter vibe, and you can't help but enjoy the fact that these guys have made it into the baller club because otherwise-- well, I won't say it out loud. It ain't right.
So now for the hypothesis busters: first, Big Pun. I love Pun, but sometimes he gets pretty dark. I almost wrecked my car in an effort to clap my hands over my ears when I heard him say something about knocking a fetus out of place. But really, if this guy didn't rap, he would never-- well, you know.
Next buster, but not a rapper: Morris Day. Now anyone that knows me knows that I am crazy about Morris and give the creation of his persona far more credit than it really merits. I do honestly think the song Chile Sauce is truly brilliant. It's hysterical. Totally tongue in cheek, definitive clownin. But have you seen Morris close up? Dude's got mad freckles all over his nose and cheeks. Too adorable. Like, puppy adorable. If he hadn't ridden on the purple coattails, he would never have gotten so much-- yeah. Well, maybe. That band is damn tight. But for all of the light and funny lady killin, I had another tire-screeching, ear-clapping moment of absolute horror while listening to their second album, What Time Is It? The tune is called The Walk, and it describes a dance move named as such. (To be later referenced in their next album Ice Cream Castles, during the aforementioned epic, Chili Sauce: "Say, do you know how to do The Walk?" "Why certainly! Everyone can do The Walk!" "Well why don't you just Walk yo ass to the other side of the room!") But back to the horror-- as Morris explains why he wears baggy pants, "...zip, snap, and drop! Easy access baby, before they get a chance to holler stop!" I swear I almost died to hear such violence. The whole line is even spoken with an entirely different air. It's angry, dark, and scary; there's even an ominous-sounding echo on the word "stop." It makes me uneasy to the extent that I don't even listen to that album anymore. When I do its only for 777-9311, and Gigolos Get Lonely Too.
So my point isn't bulletproof, but it works in general: Dirty lyrics coming from someone that typically wouldn't have the repertoire to reference for such things kinda warms one's heart in a way. Like Eazy E's Christmas album....
(We'll save the topic of misogyny in black music for another day.)
KJ
I hesitate to say brilliant every time because the lyrics are pure trash, but damn they're clever. His homage to NWA somewhere before the first chorus, I think, made me squeal with absolute delight. While I thought to myself, come on, it's not that smart I realized that the cleverness wasn't the appeal, or even that unique. NWA was kinda clever, but its trail-blazing dirtiness was what drew me in as an adolescent. But why did I like it better than 2 Live Crew? And then it hit me: it's the triumph of the underdog.
Think about it. There are all of these super dirty rap songs with angry, growling, grunting rappers. They're dark. You feel dirty just listening to them, and can almost hear poor little teenage girls crying among the sounds of ass-slapping and dog fighting. It's disgusting. It's not fun. Listening to guys like Eazy E and Lil Wayne talk about getting busy-- now that's fun. Just the sheer tones of their voices brings a lighter vibe, and you can't help but enjoy the fact that these guys have made it into the baller club because otherwise-- well, I won't say it out loud. It ain't right.
So now for the hypothesis busters: first, Big Pun. I love Pun, but sometimes he gets pretty dark. I almost wrecked my car in an effort to clap my hands over my ears when I heard him say something about knocking a fetus out of place. But really, if this guy didn't rap, he would never-- well, you know.
Next buster, but not a rapper: Morris Day. Now anyone that knows me knows that I am crazy about Morris and give the creation of his persona far more credit than it really merits. I do honestly think the song Chile Sauce is truly brilliant. It's hysterical. Totally tongue in cheek, definitive clownin. But have you seen Morris close up? Dude's got mad freckles all over his nose and cheeks. Too adorable. Like, puppy adorable. If he hadn't ridden on the purple coattails, he would never have gotten so much-- yeah. Well, maybe. That band is damn tight. But for all of the light and funny lady killin, I had another tire-screeching, ear-clapping moment of absolute horror while listening to their second album, What Time Is It? The tune is called The Walk, and it describes a dance move named as such. (To be later referenced in their next album Ice Cream Castles, during the aforementioned epic, Chili Sauce: "Say, do you know how to do The Walk?" "Why certainly! Everyone can do The Walk!" "Well why don't you just Walk yo ass to the other side of the room!") But back to the horror-- as Morris explains why he wears baggy pants, "...zip, snap, and drop! Easy access baby, before they get a chance to holler stop!" I swear I almost died to hear such violence. The whole line is even spoken with an entirely different air. It's angry, dark, and scary; there's even an ominous-sounding echo on the word "stop." It makes me uneasy to the extent that I don't even listen to that album anymore. When I do its only for 777-9311, and Gigolos Get Lonely Too.
So my point isn't bulletproof, but it works in general: Dirty lyrics coming from someone that typically wouldn't have the repertoire to reference for such things kinda warms one's heart in a way. Like Eazy E's Christmas album....
(We'll save the topic of misogyny in black music for another day.)
KJ
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Gotta get more gold leaf.
My mental shopping list for on the way home from work today. Can't have enough gold leaf.
The urgency on this particular day is because I'm desperately trying to finish a painting to some meager standard of okayness so I can hang it at the gallery tomorrow. I'd started it in August sometime, and the concept was well laid out. I was pretty excited. Then I, of course, procrastinated and went to try and develop it last night but it was a disaster. Which brings me to the ultimate artist's cliche-- you really just can't force it.
The analytical side of me has fought this for decades, insisting that really that was just a load of crap. Real artists worked, dammit, and they suffered through whatever decontruction and reconstruction that was called for until that simultaneous orgasmic-denouement moment, so blessedly called completion. That other shit was a copout. But I'm starting to come full circle to my adolescent attitudes and think it just can't be pushed, man. I suppose these cycles mean something, but I'll think about that later.
What's inadvertently being illustrated here, as I write, is my horrific placement at the dead center of the spectrum between so-called left-brainers and right-brainers. I am telling you-- it's torture. I'm constantly drawn and quartered between guilt, carelessness, curiosity, and rationale. I can barely tolerate the artsy fartsy types, but I'm clearly no type A. It motivates me not to work harder or be more disciplined at either school, but to stagnate and whine. It really is pathetic. I'm not even the type whose self-loathing results in some brilliant creation, I'm too stuck in how I'll market my work to really let go. I don't even think I have anything to let go of. My work is rather superficial. I call them condo paintings. Nice to look at, but not quite good enough for your primary home. I hope that last statement isn't too telling....
So yeah, more gold leaf. And liquid adhesive. Hope I can bang this out.
KJ
The urgency on this particular day is because I'm desperately trying to finish a painting to some meager standard of okayness so I can hang it at the gallery tomorrow. I'd started it in August sometime, and the concept was well laid out. I was pretty excited. Then I, of course, procrastinated and went to try and develop it last night but it was a disaster. Which brings me to the ultimate artist's cliche-- you really just can't force it.
The analytical side of me has fought this for decades, insisting that really that was just a load of crap. Real artists worked, dammit, and they suffered through whatever decontruction and reconstruction that was called for until that simultaneous orgasmic-denouement moment, so blessedly called completion. That other shit was a copout. But I'm starting to come full circle to my adolescent attitudes and think it just can't be pushed, man. I suppose these cycles mean something, but I'll think about that later.
What's inadvertently being illustrated here, as I write, is my horrific placement at the dead center of the spectrum between so-called left-brainers and right-brainers. I am telling you-- it's torture. I'm constantly drawn and quartered between guilt, carelessness, curiosity, and rationale. I can barely tolerate the artsy fartsy types, but I'm clearly no type A. It motivates me not to work harder or be more disciplined at either school, but to stagnate and whine. It really is pathetic. I'm not even the type whose self-loathing results in some brilliant creation, I'm too stuck in how I'll market my work to really let go. I don't even think I have anything to let go of. My work is rather superficial. I call them condo paintings. Nice to look at, but not quite good enough for your primary home. I hope that last statement isn't too telling....
So yeah, more gold leaf. And liquid adhesive. Hope I can bang this out.
KJ
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
