1. For everyone who said the Yeesuz album sucked. Last night, there were about 15,000 people who disagree with you.
2. According to Kanye West, YEESUZ doesn't mean he compares himself to Jesus, it is an anagram for Ye Is Us.
3. I understand the Yeesuz album much better now that I've seen the songs performed live.
4. Some white people’s bodies still respond strangely to rhythm.
5. As an artist Kanye West is an instigator. Everything he does is calculated. He is trying to get under our skin deep enough to keep us talking about him. He wants to live in our mind's forever.
6. You won’t kill Kanye West’s motherfuckin' dreams. I heard this so much last night I believe it.
7. When you hear an arena full of people singing the chorus to “Don’t like” in Unison while simultaneously holding up the roc-a-fella sign, shit starts feeling and looking cult like.
8. Kanye West's music is so good that it makes white girls hug each other and cry.
9. Kanye is really pissed off at the fashion industry.
10. Kanye West feels like a martyr or at least that’s what he wants us to believe. My Libra senses were tingling last night and I paid attention to all of the messianic imagery and religious overtones. Dude believes he is a pop culture sacrificial lamb or some shit. To be clear: He'll die for his art and he doesn't give a fuck!
I've seen a lot of live shows in my time and this was one of the most impressive live concerts I've ever seen. The show included a 50 foot mountain with a circular projection screen hovering above it showing images throughout the performance, an ascending stage, a dozen or so female dancers, an insane light show, two epic Kanye rants and a wolf with LED eyes. I was both amazed and inspired last night. Kanye gets a lot of flack for the outrageous statements he makes, but what intense creative doesn't make questionable statements from time to time? Kanye has been every bodies homie in at least one Jam and all of his antics aside, I get Kanye and what he is trying to accomplish in music and in the fashion industry, but I think often his passion gets confused with madness. Anyway, epic night. Had tons of fun. Til next blog...Two fingers.
The MTV Music Awards invaded Brooklyn, NY last night. The
annual event was held at The Barclay's Center on Atlantic ave in The County of Kings
for the first time. I didn't watch the show. Ridiculously paid singers,
under performing in front of a room full of other ridiculously paid
entertainers, groupies and weed carriers just doesn't appeal to my
entertainment value system. On my usual morning trek around the internet
universe I came across a few videos of performances from the show. Justin
Timberlake performing and receiving the Michael Jackson award or some shit for
his contributions to music, Bruno Mars singing what sounded like a love song
titled Gorilla and Miley Cyrus doing
everything she could to make you weep for the memory of Hannah Montana.
Upon further investigation I realized that I am not the only
person that wanted to bleach out my eyes after seeing her performance which
included, horrendous singing, random horny teddy bears and a 20 -year old Miley
twerking her emaciated ass cheeks all over 36- year old Robin Thicke’s crotch while
he was decked out in Beetle Juice couture and looking smirky and comfortable in
the glory of his Marvin Gaye thievery. Blurred Lines is a cool song, but it is “Got
to Give It Up” the White dude version. I mean, come on people.
Anyways, Social media is on fire about Miley’s attempt at
entertainment last night. I came across so much hilarious slander from tweets, statutes
and comments this morning that I had to add my two cents. A big area of contention
is over Miley Cyrus ‘fascination with twerking. Twerking is a dance that young hood women (and
some brothers 0_0) did happily
and without public scrutiny in strip clubs, house parties and bedrooms all
across America until a few celebrities caught
on and made its ratchet genius known all over the world. Just to be clear, twerking was a
phenomenon before Miley Cyrus and to be real she is horrible at it. You can go on YouTube, WorldStarHipHop and other video sharing sites and see young, supple bunned tenderonis
shaking their money makers to whatever song that brought the twerk out their
scantily clad spirits doing it the right way. You can even find some older, molded pieces of bread
shaking their cabooses too, but I digress.
My two cents is: I
don’t give a shit about a young, white and filthy rich singer adopting one
element of black hood culture and utilizing it to her professional advantage.
That is nothing new. Our less melanated brethren and sistren have been doing that for
years. Miley isn't the first singer to use her sexuality to compensate for a lack of vocal talent. I was more horrified about her running around on stage, half naked, rubbing her flat pale turd cutter against Robin Thicke who was dressed like a prisoner from the 1800's. All jokes aside. I’m too old to be concerned about what a 20-year old that is not
my daughter is doing anyway. To keep it real and right, it’s her ass, her image
and her life; she can do whatever the hell she wants to do. Her choices. Her consequences.
I think that the effect of criticism blood lust perpetuated by
bandwagon bashing makes some folks forget that popular entertainment is just an
illusion. None of that shit is real, so relax. I get that comment threading is
a virtual cultural experience, but why get so worked up over something that
doesn't personally affect your life? Miley seems to be doing what other former
Disney stars have done in the past and that is aggressively asserting her adulthood
because she wants to do what other
adults do without being stigmatized because of a show she started before she
got her period. Public acceptance of her new life seems to be the motivation
for her behavior (and perhaps recreational drug usage, but that’s another blog
post.) She isn't Hannah Montana. That is a character she played when she was a
pre-teen. And I’ll bet money that she isn't the tongue wagging, awkwardly
twerking chick shaped like Hank Hill from King Of The Hill in the privacy of her
own home with Thor’s brother or around
friends and family either. The fascination with Miley Cyrus twerking is the blue pill.
The entertainment industry profiting off of our fascinations is just the other
side of the game. No Badu.
Let me start this review by saying I liked Lee Daniels’ The
Butler, however, I think it would've been a more potent and affecting film
without the quickie presidential drop –ins by big names stars wearing bad make
up. And although I couldn't deny some of the stumbles in this epic historical
drama about the battle between Uncle Tom-ism and radicalism that divided
African-Americans during The Civil Rights movement, Lee Daniel’s The Butler
captivated me and won me over by movies end.
Based on the life of Eugene Allen a fixture in The White
House for over three decades. The Butler begins on a segregated cotton
plantation in 1926 where a young Cecil Gaines watches his mother (Mariah Carey)
raped and his father (David Banner) murdered by a white plantation owner (Alex
Pettyfer). Taken in and made a “house nigger” by the family’s matriarch
(Vanessa Redgrave), Cecil soon leaves, picking up a job where he is trained to serve professionally, that lead to
employment at a ritzy Washington D.C. hotel and ultimately 1600 Pennsylvania
Ave. The opening scenes in the film do
a good job of indicating the fear that builds subservience in Cecil’s psyche.
At The White House Cecil’s humility and charm disarms his
fellow butlers (Lenny Kravitz and a great Cuba Gooding, Jr.) and the various
presidents he serves. Those scenes are
cool but, it’s the family angle that gives The Butler its greatness. Oprah
Winfrey is a revelation as Gloria, Cecil’s obstinate and not so dutiful wife,
who sublimates her frustration over her husband’s devotion to The Oval Office
by finding solace in booze and an affair with a neighbor (Terrance Howard).
Winfrey is awesome; she fills her role with heart, attitude, and wonderful resilience.
It’s Gloria who tries to provide common ground between Cecil
( a stellar Forrest Whitaker) and his oldest son Louis (a solid David Oyolewo) who looks
down on what he perceives to be his father's servitude to the white man and
sprints in the opposite direction by attending marches and meetings. The father and son rift reaches a breaking point when
Louis indicts Sidney Poitier as Hollywood’s Uncle Tom, a not veiled attack on
Cecil that make the dramatic sparks roar. The Butleris at its best in those
moments when it's addressing how the different approaches of two men to racial
inequality — one working from within, one from without — can be equally valid
courses of action and might even complement each other. The rest of the time,
the film is entertaining but awfully slender — a light look at heavy history.
Despite its flaws,
The Butler is strongly crafted, solidly acted and it shows Lee Daniels’ has
evolved as a director. It is a turbulent, emotionally, overpowering film at
times that’s a touching reminder of how the possible is possible and for that
reason you may leave with a tear in your eye, if not a few.
Jive Talkin' With The Universe is the title of my first chapbook. Although, the pieces I selected to be included in this collection are pretty old, I am satisfied with how the book came out. I struggled with the idea of releasing a chapbook initially, but after various threats, teeth sucking and eye rolling from various friends who felt that a book release was long overdue I decided to put this collection of poems together with Two Pens and a Lint publishing services. The pieces in the book represent a certain time and space in my life and a lot has changed since I first penned these particular poems. Some of the themes are no longer relevant to me, but they are damn good poems-- to toot my own if I may. Themes include: My introversion, marital separation (we are still great friends though.), my adoration for Nas, self-reflection, love, individual expression and other stuff. If you like me and I know you do, I mean, how could you not? *big smile* You can purchase my book at http://www.twopensandlint.com/jaeoctober/ or order it from me directly, just send me an email inquiry: firstname.lastname@example.org and I will send you an autographed copy. Titles Included:
One morning you are driving to work, and as per usual you are running a bit late, so you are driving a touch faster than the speed limit. You reach down to your stereo to change the CD, when all of a sudden your car hits something solid. You spin to a stop, but not before several more cars have run into you and each other in an attempt to avoid the accident.
As you look up and out of your car, you can see that you hit a person, and that the person is not looking very good. In fact, you are sure that they are dead. You shakily get out of your car, and look around at the damage that has been caused. Several cars have been badly smashed up, but more importantly you have killed someone with your careless driving.
As you are standing there in shock, a woman comes up to you, tears running down her face, and obviously very shook up. As a natural reaction, you ask her what is wrong. She gives you a funny look, and then she explains that she just ran over someone. You ask her where this person is, and she points towards the person that you ran over!
You don’t understand why, but for some reason this woman thinks that she caused this accident and killed the person, when in fact you are well aware that you were the cause. Whoever accepts the blame is likely to be placed in jail for a very long time. If you let the woman take the blame, there is a very good chance you will get away with it all. However, there is also the chance that you could be placed in jail for even longer for trying to cover it up.
What it do everybody! After months of contemplation and
procrastination I have decided to resume my illustrious and legendary (not
really) blogging career. Several factors contributed to my decision to come
back to blogging. Boredom and Boredom. Did I mention boredom? But most importantly, I missed the daily
interactions that I had with my blogging family. We were a crew, a clique, a
mob, a team, a squad, I think you get the gist. Anyways, a lot has happened in the past
10 or so months that I've been away; I rode around and was getting it in my spaceship
coupe, I randomly yelled hell yeah! Fucking right! in heavily populated places and
found myself smack dab in the middle of a bizarre situation involving a stuffed monkey, a
midget hooker, a peyote trip, a punch bowl of tapioca pudding and a Prince
impersonator, but I’ll save the story for another post. So, fasten your
seat belts and enjoy the ride because I am back on the scene ringing bells
Quasimodo style ….Ya heardddd meh!
Here is a short list of some of things I did while I was
I became a regionally semi-famous performance artist of prose and poetry. Crazy right? I even get recognized from time to time too. The whole thing is a trip.
My first chapbook "Jive Talkin' With The Universe" was published and people actually buy them. (I am not being a dick by admitting this. This poetry thing is really amazing to me.)
I've traveled some.
I've read a gang of books.
I started playing the guitar.
I started watching shows on Netflix that everyone else is crazy about, but I've never seen. (Breaking Bad, Mad Men, American Horror Story.)
I did a 15 day coconut water fast.
I started taking pictures and painting.
The video accurately shows the excitement I feel about blogging again.
A little creative writing for your cerebral enjoyment.
I still recall my first night spent
alone in Mount Rainier. I followed a whore down Bunker Hill Road through the
dark hours as she moved like a Cobra head searching between houses for dick and
long green. I was on her like a mosquito
in heat, simultaneously, watching my back because death comes with no refunds
and that is why I keep guns that cripple suns. I can’t explain my fascination
with her, but her facial expressions gave me answers that her tongue was ashamed
to and her hips told lies that the truth wouldn’t dare to. She was an Amazon,
six feet easy, carob skin, breasts spilling out her red bra, and lips like two
sticks of dynamite ready to blow the face off of any man that kissed them to
long. Face erased of make-up except the masses of mascara that made her
eyelashes look like brush bristles. It was as if someone threw a Salvador Dali
painting at the bottom of a cesspool, and after years of vile notions and rude
thoughts that produced strange things, out of it she became, delivered onto
these streets of this wretched suburban hell in a fired red 67 Chevy, but she walks
and walks and walks because there is nobody who can match her price.
That was a year ago, but every once in
a while I unleash my hunger and swim through these blocks like the stinking
sewers of Kingston. I am breathing reefer breaths, wearing an erection like
fashion and scheming across the sky trying to decide how many stars to
steal. You must be alone to achieve this
wonderment, oblivious to passers bye so they must be anonymous. And sin is the
only sex that my mind will allow. With June Jordan as my witness, there is
nothing worse than running into someone you know on Rhode Island Ave. Small
talk and awkward stares, reminiscing about the Spiced Pumpkin cake we ate at
The Glut. Other than that it’s loud
silence; except for fire engines and cop car sirens, the howls of alcoholics, the
threats of the black Israelites, and the absence of protection in every
direction of the night. Every time the
thought arises of that walk up in Brooklyn, which my musician friends
constantly recommends by mail---an escape--I must think of the consequences of
the quick fix, abandoning fantasy, reality has been locked so long in its cage,
evaporating like semen on a bed spread. But for now, I inhale the horror of a
place where the wrong people know your name, a town without two way streets,
without a sure way to live, but a thousand ways to die. Here nobody calls your
name; they only point their finger, and then move it, slowly but without
caution, toward its own end. For, Jim Carroll