First off: WOW, I haven’t written a damn thing for this blog in ages. I really just forgot about it after it exploded because of the lockout post. That little write-up put me on one; I mean I was a small time celebrity among my friends thanks to the cojones that I showed. Not to mention the Twitter love I got as well. In summation, I took far too long of a hiatus from writing (those same six drafts from last May are still sitting in the queue mocking me and saying, “I knew you couldn’t follow through, ya bum!” Oh, I’ll show you, you piece of coding and letters clicked through a keyboard. Be glad I haven’t deleted you yet. Man it feels good to ramble nonsensically like this!) Today’s post is going to be pretty nifty: I am going to use a song’s lyrics to explain a real world situation. It’s going to be awesome because it involves one of the most notable hip-hop artists ever: Ghostface Killah. Welcome to Hip-Hop Exegesis 358: Real Life Rapping.
As people know, Ghostface is from the illustrious Wu-Tang Clan and he ain’t one to fuck with. Also, he has (or someone using his namesake) created blog where he sounds off on hip-hop and rap artists and their work in real terms with hilarious analogies. If haven’t taken the opportunity to read any of his musings, I highly recommend it. Now that you’ve met today’s Real Life Rapping rapper, let’s see what we’ll learn today.
Ball so hard, this shit crazy
Y’all don’t know that don’t shit phase me
The Nets could go 0-82 and I look at you like this shit gravy
–Jay-Z, N****s in Paris
Must be nice (Lyfe Jennings voice) Jay-Z, regardless of the Nets’ futility or this impending lockout, you will (still) indeed be balling. Even as a minority owner, you’ll be cooling. Same goes for the other owners around the league. As for the players, you’ll be good too, as long as you manage your money better than Charles Barkley and Antoine Walker ever could. I am actually 100% certain that is the exact reason the NBA has a “Money Management” seminar shortly after players are drafted… but I digress. As for the rest of us… the rest of us that have some employment connection to the NBA as arena ushers, concessionaires, game-day operation staff, well, we will not be as fortunate for however long this lockout lasts and continues to cut games. The ENTIRE NBA business model has decimated the preseason slate and is slowly chopping regular season games at the knees in two week intervals. The employees (and jobs) that are integral to making sure that the “system” runs properly for all of these NBA teams are being put up on the Mayan sacrificial altar as alms to the idol of the dollar sign in a vain attempt to make a collective bargaining agreement. Just like in Apocalypto, I am Jaguar Paw and that is not about to fly… not while I have a voice that yearns to be heard amid the dross of “I NEED MORE MONEY,” from the owners and players.
I had begun to write this post way back in May during a time where sleep and I were playing hide and seek… it goes without saying (though I’m going to say it anyway) that I finally found sleep and completely forgot to get back and finish this. In the same vein, I completely neglected this blog for about the umpteenth time, which has to make me one of the worst bloggers on the face of the earth. It isn’t as if I don’t have interesting things to share, I just seem to be selfish in sharing… here I go rambling and warbling like that annoying parakeet your grandmother has at her apartment. What was the point of this post again? The ambiguous, neigh, highly obscure title gives you absolutely nothing to immediately think of. However, I hold all the cards in this situation and you’re just going to have keep reading for a few more lines. This is called “drawing readership” because I know you are all dying to know what this is about (OK, pretentiousness finished, flipped to side B for regularly scheduled blogging).
To quote another Cool Kids’ song: “looked at the time and the iPhone said it was your [read: my] birthday.” While Chuck and Mike are talking about the birthdays of the bevy of beauties they know, the fact I have an iPhone and since 12 am this Saturday morning, anytime I check the time it is in fact my birthday. Symmetry for the win people. I don’t know what I want to do with this post other than to commemorate the fact I have turned a year older. I’ve finally reached the Michael Jordan of age, and like Kanye, my next goal is to get that Kobe number (1 over Jordan). OK, enough with the musical intertwining…
I can’t wait to celebrate my great friends today, and it all starts with this kickball tournament that Channing Frye is putting on out at Lents Park. From there, there is no plan– exactly how I like it. Nothing makes for better fun than spontaneity. The less I know, the more I know. Plus, nothing is more infuriating than having set plans and then those set plans crumbling quicker than the second little pigs house of sticks. Long as I can relive the glory days of elementary school by playing kickball and being the MVP I was and am still capable of being, my birthday will be a complete success.
My birthday should be a party, and I’m going to be more than pretentious and say, if you were looking for a reason to get down with the get down: do it for my sake. If you got those two dollars, go two buck chuck in the name of Clement because someplace else in the city of Portland I’ll be going HAM (with Provolone on wheat) with a stiff drink and a gorgeous girl in mink. It’s a jubilant day and hopefully I’ll see you, my friends, as I trek parts of downtown, or Alberta, or wherever my two size 9.5 black Air MAX 90’s with the lightning yellow laces take me.
For now I must dream and wonder how good this sizzurp Babs is making me is gonna be. About to be all 3 6 in this piece tomorrow, but no poppin’ of the collar… damn bromosapiens ruining polos for your boy.
Well, if that didn’t get your juices flowing, I don’t know what will. It has only been a bit more than a day since the Mavericks beat the Heat, and the reverberations of this feat have been felt throughout the country. Most of the reaction has been the criticism of the hubris, ignorance and disappearing of the biggest act in the NBA, LeBron James. Even in defeat, LeBron is still winning the press headlines instead of the championship rings he truly (which after this pitiful performance, can be questioned) desires. While it is and was amazing/saddening to see how completely the Heat froze up, it is and was remarkable and awe-inspiring to see the Mavericks rise up and claim the ultimate prize. Assuredly the league truest and possibly last (of a dying breed) unassuming players, Dirk Nowitzki accomplished a feat that had eluded him 5 years prior, and before that most of the early 2000s. In his latest postseason, Dirk Diggler performed at a level that was so unreal, so utterly amazing, that I was truly in awe of how far he has come and how damn well he plays the game of basketball. To my cousin Emem, who was dissing on Dirk during the disassembling of the “Lakers’ self-wiring computer” (his words, not mine): I told dude is bad, I told you: HE’S JUST RAW BRO! #whyumadtho, #dontbesalty, #enjoymikebrown haha.
Haven’t written anything for this spot in a long while, even though I have 7 drafts backlogged on the post queue. Those seven drafts were all done on a night when I couldn’t fall asleep, so I clicked on some classic Kanye and wrote until I finally heard the sweet call of slumber persuade me away from my laptop. My hope is to get those ones finished soon so you, my visitors, can read them. I also want to commend and applaud those that do come to this blog and check up on it, means a lot to me and while this place has been a bit barren in terms of material the fact you return means I am doing something right. (Right? And I know the song picked has nothing to do with the premise of the post, I’ve just been vibing to a lot recently.)
Southwest has a catchy saying that I absolutely love using in everyday conversation: “Wanna get away?” This saying is usually said after something disastrous, embarrassing or mind-numbingly stupid has occurred. For me though, at this stage in my young adulthood, that saying is more than just comedic relief. It is more of a piercing cry that fails to be heard, that falls short of comprehension and fully embodies my frustration since I graduated last May. The frustration of being underemployed, the frustration of not even receiving a single call back, the anger of being rejected constantly, the sheer confusion at watching lesser qualified (or seemingly inept) people filling a job I could do (how the hell do you not know that MD stands for Maryland? That’s third grade stuff!). The aggravation of real life bill paying, dealing with shiesty bank corporation dealings. The list is terribly long.
My wanting to get away is to escape the frustration associated with my current situation in Portland. My desire to just be done with everything and start anew. Pull some Jason Bourne-esque stuff and drop off the grid and go to India, except without the going to India bit. That is why my trip this Cinco de Mayo up to Seattle is my escape, my get-away. My chance to cut ties and go to a place to get where I can feel unshackled, untethered and enjoy myself. No insult to my city, but I’ve grown tired of you. Least I can enjoy myself tonight on this great escape.
The only problem is is that you’ll always be found. Somehow, some way, you will always be found and return to where you came.