The rapper Drake is about as concrete as they get: He has shit and he wants shit, including money, nice things, and your pussy. He describes what he wants and what he'll do with it. Sometimes he talks about his superiority. Other times he talks about obstacles to acquiring the things he wants. But generally his rhymes dwell on shit that is possible to acquire in the physical realm.
And you ain't even have to ask twice/You can have my heart or we can share it like the last slice/Always felt like you was so accustomed to the fast life/Have a nigga thinkin' that he met you in a past life
"A past life," as in "reincarnation?" Damn, that's some metaphysical graffiti right there. My initial reaction was, "he thinks like this when he gets high," but I realized that it's possible he just wrote that shit off the cuff, without concern for the dissonance it creates. So I'm gonna save his bacon right now. Here's how Drake should play it, if anybody asks about his spirituality: "Yo, I talk about that past life shit not because I'm into Hindu or whatever, but because I want money and your pussy in that past life, too."
If you were up in this piece today, you might've seen some crazy malfunctionz, including some pictures that didn't belong here. This glitch was not user-error. The appropriate officials have been upbraided.
As far as catch phrases go, this one has legs as long as a 5'11" stripper. Thank you Teresa, real housewife of New Jersey, for saying it. And thank you Danielle, real skank of New Jersey, for prompting Teresa to say it. The applications are endless. Use it on your housewives, your momz, your boyfriends, your kids, your bosses. Doesn't matter what the situation is. Burned your toast? "Prostitution whore." Windows Vista is acting up? "Prostitution whore." Somebody is watching a Bravo reality show while an important sporting event is on? "Prostitution whore." Don't let go, people. It's a keeper, and the world is full of prostitution whores.
There were a few years when "Michael Jackson" was punk code for "all that is wrong with the music industry." So, because the tag line of Yer Cesspool is ripped off from The Minutemen -- and I occasionally feel obligated to rep their shit properly -- I present D.Boon/Mike Watt/George Hurley, "Political Song For Michael Jackson To Sing." Now go make some loud musical noises, all you nostalgic sproutlings. The battle never ends.
The worst Michael Jackson impersonator needs nookie, too, y'all.
UPDATE: I realize why people are celebrating him so heartily in death. We finally get to remember him exactly the way we want to, without fresh heaps of bullshit getting in the way.
... I start to hear Enigma's "Sadness, Pt. 1" in my head.
That is, various chunks of this hot mess, such as this silly nugget:
In the meantime please sleep soundly knowing that despite the best
efforts of my head my heart cries out for you, your voice, your body,
the touch of your lips, the touch of your finger tips and an even
deeper connection to your soul.
... should be read aloud, and reverently, to this colossally unsexy '90s bullshit:
Creeping toward middle age has increased my tolerance for things that originally had succumbed to my penchant for stereotyping. E.L.O.? I used to think they existed solely for the mustachioed cokeheads and partytime alcoholics that constituted the nation of "rock fans" in the late '70s. Now I'm down with Jeff Lynne. I mean, I'm not breaking out "Don't Bring Me Down" on a regular basis, but I totally get where the fuck it was comin' from.
10cc? Not so much. "The Things We Do For Love" came on the '70s channel this morning (on Music Choice, natch), and for a second, I was prepared to devote some revisionism to it. "Fuck, maybe this song is a stone classic of popcraft, and I should detatch myself from my long-held notions of it," I said to myself. Wrong. That shit is bugged-out and busy, and I found myself numbed by the process of analyzing its structure. If I had barbituates, I would have taken them.
I agree with most of what Christopher R. Weingarten says here about the net effect of tech on the act of gettin' critically wreck with rekkids. But I reserve a little boo-friggin'-hoo for the part where he talks about it not payin' moneys anymore. Dude, I've written about hundreds of records over two decades for nothin' more than a free copy and "a pat on the head." It kinda sucks, and it kinda doesn't, so welcome to the club. I guess I learned long ago that -- despite what teevee tells you -- not everybody makes a living at doing what they love. Maybe I was just afraid to take the plunge and do it full time. Maybe I had a hunch that the lifestyle wasn't for me. Or maybe life got in the way. Or maybe I wasn't good enough. Anyway, I'd like to think I was more "realist" than "sucker" or "wuss." (And for the times I did get paid good money to review a record, I'm eternally grateful, in hindsight.)
