Pimpin' stylez

Hip hop. I’m willing to bet there isn’t a civilized (and some not, even) country in the world which hasn’t been hit by the phenomenon. In fact I wouldn’t be surprised if National Geographic ran a cover story on rapping pygmies!
“I’m a P-Y-G, you can call me Rick. Only 3 foot 9, I got a 10 foot dick!”
Catchy, you say?
Hip hop has steadily been gaining momentum for the last decade or so, growing from its basic rap roots, with countless posers infiltrating the bastion of artists like Dr. Dre, Salt ‘n Pepa and Snoop Dog. More recently, there have been more new hip hoppers than I can count. But the most amazing part I’ve found is that there have been more successes than there have been flashes in the pan, which would indicate that hip hop music has been something of a short cut to success. “Get Rich Or Die Trying” somebody said. “Somebody”.
That seems to be the prevalent attitude of most wannabe bad boys breaking out on the music scene. What about the music? Oh wait…this is hip hop. Somebody, please keep reminding me!

What has any of this got to do with me? Nothing really, other than I have to see it everywhere I go and know that it’s here to stay, no matter what I have to say.
What’s my problem? Why can’t I just live with it? Yeah sure, like the rest of the sheep. Sure the bling is attractive and the skimpily dressed girls obviously conjure up wild fantasies. But what has society come to when we reward the objectification of women and advocacy of irresponsible sexual behaviour, with zooming record sales?
There was a time when most everything that was bad in the world was blamed on rock and roll. Violence, teenage pregnancies, anti-socialism... Rock music always took the fall. And not a parent would have disagreed. Give me that time any day. I prefer the time when men acted like men and women fought for empowerment instead of dressing like sluts and “belonging” to their men, thus the pimp – hooker relationship that is being so freely advocated by people who are held up as idols. Rockstars had their share of women without having to strut around in music videos, followed by a bevy of semi nude skanks and “singing” to their fans about what Casanovas they were.
And if rock music could have been an instiller of violent behaviour, rap doesn’t exactly take a back seat. The cases of Tupac and Notorious BIG speak for themselves. But still, it’s projected as cool to walk the roads adorned with rings and chains, with pumped high tops, floating in the oversized sports gear of a winning basketball team and the butt of a hand gun protruding over your waistband. Now that’s hip! Or is it hop? I never know…

This isn’t an attack on the West; it’s a remark on how this so called culture seems to be eating away at the established cultures of the world. A de-evolution of sorts. Morals are diminishing to nothing more than a topic relegated to the classroom and Sunday school discussions. And there are very few vanguards of virtuosity left in the world. I don’t want to sound like a preacher because that’s the last thing I could ever be. I just want the world to not collapse on top of everything that it has built for itself over these nigh on countless years. Call me a prude, but I would never want my kid aspiring to be a “Pimp” or a “Ho”. And yet, kids/teens are huge consumers and, I’m guessing secretly, a major part of the target audience for the propaganda that is gripping every continent.
No doubt, awesomely talented performers do exist in this field. Dre, Tupac, Notorious BIG, Snoop Dog, Eminem, 50 Cent and the like have carved out massive names for themselves in the music industry, not by any luck. Irrespective of the lifestyle they portray, they are geniuses in their own right and do have my respect.

I don’t want hip hop to go away. No, I listen to it myself! It is fun after all. And everybody wants to envision a hedonistic lifestyle for themselves, where they can drive down the street in a blinged out Lowrider with their personal set of beauties in the back seat. But my world wouldn’t exactly come crashing down if I didn’t have those images in my head. All I’m wanting here is some form of human realization of the direction that we’re heading in. As it is, I’m already pretty sure that all those prophecies of inevitable doom are just waiting to be proven right and they’re being helped along by every technological advancement that we make. But what’s the point in living till the end of days if civilization itself breaks down?
Today I can still enjoy music that was created in the time before my parents even. I don’t think that 30 years down the line I will have much music of my own time to choose from.


Motorhead – The Game

I'm not going to use the clichéd "Sunday, Bloody Sunday" line

Why do people hate Mondays? I don’t exactly like it like I like strawberries, but I don’t not-like it either.
Is it because the weekend is over and you have to get back to work and you have to wait a whole five days before you can even think about putting your feet up?
If you ask me, the real culprit is Sunday. Who would you hate more, the annoying old man who bangs on the door to break up the house party or the one who helps you through your hangover the next morning? (And by “one” I don’t mean “annoying old man”)
Yeah… Sunday is a cranky old neighbour.

Sunday signals the end of the week, ergo the end of the weekend. Sunday is a harbinger of work to come. Sunday says, “Tomorrow is Monday, dude!” Sunday carries a sense of dread and foreboding, knowing what’s around the next corner.
Monday brings no dread or at least it shouldn’t, because all the dread would have been used up on friggin’ Sunday!
Monday doesn’t really say anything. Monday just is. As are Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday. But Friday… ah, Fridays are always something special.

Sunday was always the day I hated most. As a schoolboy, Sunday was first and foremost, church day. Later in the day, Sunday was the day to take the clothes to be ironed. I had to skip down to the laundry guys’ place with a bundle of Dad’s shirts and trousers and sets of my school uniform. The laundry guys were right next door to this dude who always had an Alsatian running in and out his front door. So I had to time my walk in and out of the launderers so I always missed the great beast. As would be expected, it didn’t always work. I hated Sundays.
Sunday was also the day to catch up on homework. In school and for years after, Sunday remained the only day of the week “available” for completion of journals, readings for which were obtained by hook or by crook. Failing which, they were beautifully invented. Assignments due always reached fruition well past midnight on a Sunday, as did the realization of forgotten ones.
Although I have little or no experience of Sundays off in a professional sense, Sunday was always the day at work, which brought the most customer traffic with it, leading to extended hours and shorter breaks. Customer service is a bitch.
All in all, there was rarely a Sunday that served up peace of mind and freedom to lay back.

So, my inference is that all the bad press about Monday is just a case of mistaken identity. The blame is laid on the shoulders of a Monday only because it is the first day of a prospective tumultuous week, whose arrival was heralded by Sunday to begin with. Sunday is the one who says, “The honeymoon is over and that thing you’re looking into is the barrel of your new father-in-law’s new hunting rifle...” By the time Monday comes around, the firing has already begun and any day could be as bad as the next.

If you’re the suicidal kind who’ll impulsively slip a nasty note under the boss’ door after work on Friday, drink yourself silly that night, wake up in surprisingly good spirits on Saturday afternoon and find yourself in the mood to party till 4 a.m. Sunday morning, don’t worry. You’ll still have 20 hours of Sunday left to wallow in regret and worry about the shit you’re going to be in on Monday morning.
Stay with me now.
Which of these days would be the worst? To die a thousand deaths on a Sunday of anxiety, or survive the tantrums of a portly, megalomaniacal fifty-something on Monday?
Well, to each his own.

Listen to Vanessa Paradis’ Sunday Mondays.

“The sea was angry that day my friend, like an old man trying to send back soup in a deli.” – George Costanza on Seinfeld.

Urge Overkill – Girl, You’ll Be A Woman Soon
Pulp Fiction!! This song has been haunting me with the image of an OD-ing Uma Thurman.
Roy Orbison – I Drove All Night
I know last week I put in the Cyndi Lauper version, but I love the original! And that video… Jason Priestley and a young Jennifer Connelly; what more could you want?

Aaaand, because this song gets me more pumped than Guerrilla Radio or Song 2 ever could, I’m just gonna post the lyrics to Killing In The Name Of.
A cautionary notice for those of you who dislike explicit lyrics like you dislike two headed snakes, you may take a walk now.

Rage Against The Machine, like groups such as U2 and more recently, Greenday, use their music to covey their political sentiment, as can be plainly seen. Ok, enough talking.


Killing in the name of!
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that burn crosses
Uggh!

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!

And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya

Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites

Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Some of those that were forces are the same that bore crosses
Uggh!

Killing in the name of!
Killing in the name of!

And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya, (now you’re under control)
And now you do what they told ya!

Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Those who died are justified, for wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
You justify those that died by wearing the badge, they’re the chosen whites
Come on!

Yeah! Come on!

Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me
[start the screaming, baby!]
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!
Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me!

Motherfucker!
Uggh!

Cold cuts

Everyone has a secret companion even though they might not realize who it is. When you come home, you’re coming home to her, when you leave on vacation, you won’t go without saying goodbye to her. And how many times has she saved your life?
It’s almost reflexive, the number of times a day we stroll into the kitchen and open the refrigerator door. Hungry? Thirsty? Just plain bored? Check the fridge.

The refrigerator has always adapted to changing lifestyles, going from surprisingly useful invention to household necessity to that thing that holds the leftovers and beer and now hardly a ladder step above a non-entity, that we take for granted but could never get by without. Morning, noon and night, there’ll always be something for everyone in the fridge. All you have to do is look and she gives till it hurts. Ever notice that she never sleeps? How could she, with that damn light on in there?
Coming home from school, work, or whatever, you’ll give your significant other, if any, a peck on the cheek and then you gotta take a look in the fridge. Make a sandwich or take a swig out of a bottle (when no one else is looking) or simply pick up something to nibble while you’re parked in front of the tube. My choice used to be cheese or a sandwich or [insert Cola/fizzy drink brand name here]. Like I used to be a waist 32. Now I prefer grabbing a carrot or two to gnaw on. They’re really quite satisfying. All the munching you’ll ever want, some sweetness thrown in, without the accompanying calories.
You wouldn’t be afforded these conveniences by a washing machine or a stove or a dishwasher or a microwave or any other appliance that you might see fit to include in your domestic scheme of things, or scheme of domestic things even. (Snagglepuss anyone? I loved that pink dude…why did he look like the Pink Panther?)

I’ve always had and acknowledged a relationship with my fridge.
While in school the fridge top was my study table, even though there were plenty of other more inviting, well-lit table tops crying out their availability for book-resting. Don’t ask me why. It just was. I’ve spent many late nights and early mornings standing near that fridge, fiddling with the magnet thingies on its face while attempting some last minute cramming. Maybe it had something to do with the fact that I wouldn’t fall asleep while standing and the fridge was the only thing that forced me to do just that. For that matter, I don’t suppose anyone else falls asleep standing up either, not counting some very strange human beings.
I’ve lived out of the fridge for more than a week when I’ve been on my own. There’s something disturbingly romantic about putting a casserole back into the fridge knowing that tomorrow at dinnertime you’ll be in front of the TV, still eating the same thing. Or maybe that’s just me.
I’ve had to share the same fridge with a gecko for a few days. Stupid thing got in one night when I opened the door to get a bottle of water. No way was I about to put my hand in and feel about for a twitching tail! So I just closed the door. I expected it to be ready to jump out when I next opened the door a few hours later. No such luck. What happened to its coldbloodedness, I’ll never know. I thought the dinosaurs died out for that very reason. Then why the fuck was there one terrorizing my leftover casserole? And not to mention, Me. I started leaving the fridge open for a few hours a day, hoping he’d be tempted out. Three days later the creepy coolly crawled out of the fridge as if he’d been cruising in Monte Carlo. I never knew the cursed things could strut!!
If I had a hammer…
I still have the same fridge; I don’t study by her anymore although I still look out for geckos trying to get in on the goods whenever I open the door. It’s a curse every house I’ve lived in has borne… Lizards.

The reflex has developed uninhibited though. Idle? Check the fridge. There’s always something in there to fill the time. This is an attribute that will probably contribute in a major way to rising obesity levels and could soon become a pre-natally imbibed response to…absolutely no stimulus at all…
For now and for always, the refrigerator will remain the silent, unappreciated partner in every kitchen, patiently stocking up, knowing you’ll want her eventually, waiting for the moment your hands will stroke her smooth handle, bringing her to life in all her splendour, her most private parts at your disposal, ever ready to satisfy. Take the first step in the right direction today, treat her to a turkey or two, maybe some ham, a roast chicken or even some gouda; you don’t need to wait for an occasion to show her she’s loved. And she’ll always return the kindness.
But don’t forget the carrots.


The job interview I’ve been hoping to get is finally scheduled for tomorrow and now suddenly I don’t give a shit anymore… Apathy sucks.

Valentine’s Day? Get a life! No, I’m not bitter.


Cyndi Lauper – I Drove All Night
The Cars – Drive

Hmmm... Drive, Drove... I just noticed it.

Sonofabitch

This time I’m all about absurdity…

Eeeeeeeeeeeeverybody wants to be famous...
Number one on the list is American Idol. Or any Idol for that matter, except that I didn’t watch any of the others. No doubt some good has come of it in the form of Kelly Clarkson, Carrie Underwood and Bo Bice, (I don’t like the other ones much) but all in all, it’s more like a freak show of talentless goofs setting themselves up for ridicule. I cannot believe the number of people lost in delusions…and the fact that their families are so supportive of it! Haven’t they heard them sing? Can’t they hear themselves sing?
Obviously, everybody can’t be so good and that’s fine, as long as they don’t force their merry singingness on the entire frickin’ world… I’m not saying I’ll do much better than them, but at least I have a gauge of my own abilities.
Waaaaiiit a minute…y’know what? Fuck you all…this is MY blog, so if I say I’m Frankie Sinatra, you’ll believe it, brother!
Back to my point, people, don’t screw up TV! I don’t wanna sit down to watch nuts who just aren’t good at it, try to sing. If I wanted to do that, I have friends who do it pro bono.

Whatever happened to Bon Jovi? When Bon Jovi lyrics start to sound like something I might come up with if I keep writing, that can’t be very good. For them or me. So what if we have the same initials? So what if they aren’t our real initials?
I’ve been a fan ever since I heard Crossroad. I know it’s cheap to become a bandwagon-hopper after hearing a Greatest Hits album, but I couldn’t help it. They were popular and I was netted.
Welcome to wherever you are? Gimme a break…what a rip off!! INXS just got cut.
Have a nice day? Crush? WTF? This sounds like commercial churn out Mr. Bongiovi…this ain’t nowhere near New Jersey or Keep the Faith. I respected you man…

Still keeping with the flow, the nasty interiors of the nation never fail to throw up something juicy to hold to ridicule. So, there’s this dude from some village who has to prove that he’s…hold your breath…ALIVE.
His family’s performed his last rites and now the guy, who IS alive by the way, is treated as a ghost by the entire village! Turns out the fellow had been in prison for a while and fell ill while serving sentence. He was moved to a hospital in another state and that’s all the family ever heard of him. Loving folks that they were, they quickly went ahead with his ceremonial last rites to ensure that he had a peaceful “afterlife”. Unfortunately for all concerned parties, Mr. Man recovered and returned to his village after completing his sentence.
Now he has no job, no cash, no family and apparently, no life. He’s been completely ostracized and he’s become the bogeyman to the village young ‘uns. Hmmm…apart from that last bit, poor dude pretty much got screwed.
If he has to regain an ounce of dignity, the Panchayat (village elders) wants proof of his non-death. And with no job or family member who will even deign to recognize him, that’s not about to happen. Who in their right minds would ever imagine such a situation anyway? Well, the good news for him is that if he jumped off a cliff, things would actually get better, since his afterlife is already taken care of.

I think that should do it for now. There’s absurd-aplenty left in the world but I’ll leave the cribbing for another day.


Johnny Cash – Folsom Prison Blues

Wonder Years

I’m posting twice in the same week this time. Its simple, I have nothing much to do with my time, at least for now. Lets hope I don’t show up again before next week.

I was watching TV the other day and I got to thinking. Its absurd how the most superficial idea of happiness next to breast enhancement and maybe the Playstation (game boxes, squares, cubes etc. inclusive) could be thought, thought provoking.
Just a small note before I proceed: I may label breast augmentation as superficial but it doesn’t mean that I’m not one to enjoy the vision of its bountiful results. Thank you.
Finally winding down to my point, I started thinking about the ironies of life. No, not the profundities that emerge from overzealous liquor consumption but the more everyday stuff.
The way I see it, being a kid/young adult is just as tough as being the parent of one. A good parent, that is. As a parent, your double-edged duty lies in the well being of your children. Guiding them, making the tough calls and coming to the rescue are all part of the job. On the other hand, experience is most often the best teacher. If parents don’t knowingly allow their kids to makes mistakes and take bad decisions, how will they know when their kids in turn have reached the point in their lives where they’re bound to trip over the folds in the rug? They want to be around to help them up. At the same time, simply allowing your kids to learn from their own mistakes sets a precedent for a long chain of what amounts to parental neglect.

Kids (and by kids I mean young adults too) always have two choices.
a. Listen to the folks. They’ve been around the block before, so it’s probably smart to take their opinions “under advisement”.
2. Don’t.
Do what you want, how you want and when you want to. Chances are, this will land you in many a stew, but hey, at least you’ll be the cook. You’ll learn eventually and time will see you much wiser but not without a fair share of event and mishap, which might have been less severe had you chosen option A.
It’s a decision kids everywhere are torn with. To obey or not to obey…that is the question! On the one hand, parents always have your best interests in mind. On the other, who doesn’t want to be a rebel?
I think, and I’m assuming here, that every kid at some point between the pre and post teen years develops into a rebel. It’s a phase that can either pass quickly or linger, even developing into a way of life, depending on the family background. I find it healthy in so much as it’s the first stop on the road of self-expression. I’d be seriously surprised if this were untrue.

In the end, things go round one way or another. Parents (and I still mean good parents) will always try to tell you what’s good for you, even when you’re forty. Kids will make their choice everyday, maintaining a fine line between good and bad, which can often become blurry. The choice won’t always be the same and the effects of these choices decide which kids grow up to emulate their parents, good and bad.
Everyday choices, sometimes they work out okay, sometimes they bite you in the ass…the best odds on life anyone will ever have is always fifty-fifty.


“Harry, I’ve reached the top!” – Marv the Sticky Bandit

If you’ve watched Home Alone 2, you’ll find this single line as hilarious as I did.