The Epitomical Artist of Our Time

...is Ol' Dirty Bastard.

I don't mean the best necessarily. Not the most popular certainly. But the epitomical. The perfect representation, the epitome, of an artist from the late 20th/early 21st Century.

He created  the Wu-Tang Clan with his cousins the RZA and the GZA. They made a classic, culturally significant debut album and several successful, mostly classic, solo albums. Brilliantly, they all signed a deal to one label as a group, with a clause stating they could sign with whatever label they wanted as solo artists, giving them much more freedom and money. This strategy is still used by many artists nowadays, especially rappers.

Besides the cultural significance and commercial success, ODB also received a lot of critical success. He is a Grammy nominated, platinum-selling rapper who wrote all his own rhymes; even more impressive when you consider lyrics like: "Bluh bluh bluh bluh bluh, bluh, better stop/Doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-doo-Dirtiest place to be/You white Flintstone, bitch."

Clearly, he is a talented, successful, and influential artist. But is he the epitomical artist?

Yes. I already said that. Pay attention. Now here's why he epitomizes artists of our time. 

Crossover Appeal
To be a defining artist of one's generation, that artist needs to be successful. If you took one look at Ol' Dirty Bastard, from his ridiculous hair and teeth to his ridiculous name, you would assume he would be the last guy to have a mainstream, top 40 pop hit; yet, in the same year he had a hit rap single with a video of him bugging out with other Wu members in a dimly lit hallway, and another hit rap single comprised almost entirely in gibberish, he also appeared on a hit pop single with the one of the most successful musicians ever: Mariah Carey. It was an unusual and unexpected collaboration, but the outcome was magic. Mariah helped bring Ol Dirty, and the Wu, to the suburbs and the little white girls (and their parents' money) within. Oh, and Dirty absolutely stole the show. You can go anywhere, right now, and say, "Me and Mariiiiiiiahhh," and someone will finish the line for you. You probably just did it now.

This was an "Ebony and Ivory" moment for hip hop. It was bridging the gap between rap and mainstream pop music. Like "Walk this Way" allowed rock fans to accept rap and allowed rappers to venture into other genres, "Fantasy Remix" made it acceptable for a grimy rapper to appear on an R&B song. Another Wu member, Method man, may have gotten the Grammy voters approval with the "All I Need" Mary J. Blige remix, but Dirty really started the trend and perfected it at the same time.

He also made a rather coherent and entertaining contribution to R&B singer Jon B's song Everytime a month before he died, leaving evidence that he may have put out quality material if he lived longer.

And let's not forget Dirty's (once-again) show stealing appearance on "Ghetto Superstar" with Pras from the Fugees and Mya, off the amazing soundtrack from Bulworth. ODB wasn't afraid to work with anyone, and it usually turned into an immediate classic.

Horrible Collaborations

Not always, though. All the greats do random songs with questionable people, either for publicity or relevancy or just for money, especially rappers, and especially as they age. Look how many work with Bieber and Miley these days. They are not doing it for artistic integrity. ODB's song with Mariah, although certainly an attempt to appeal to the mainstream, was a good song with a credible artist. On the other hand, ODB had no shame taking 30 grand from those horrible clown rappers ICP and giving them incoherent mumbling over a 2 day studio session, which they turned into four lines on one of their unbearable songs. Google it if you want, it's not going on my page.

Criminal Shenanigans
The minimum requirement to become a "real" rapper is having a criminal record. Dirty had a criminal rap sheet longer than his rap rap sheet. The minimum requirement for "really real" rappers is getting shot. ODB got shot in 1994 and again in 1998, long before 50 Cent made getting shot an immediate path to rap super-stardom.

And of course, criminal activity is not exclusive to rap.

I'll leave this completely unrelated photo here.

Artists in general are known for getting into trouble with the law, but Dirty made artists getting into trouble with the law an art form unto itself. 

The same year he had an album in the top ten on the charts, he appeared on an MTV segment in which he took two of his thirteen(!!!) kids to the welfare office in a limousine to pick up his welfare check. I guess his debut album cover should have been a dead giveaway: Dirty wasn't playin around when it came to collecting from the government.

Pictured: a man who takes entitlements seriously.

No one even compares to Dirty in this category, and the streets would forever love him for these types of antics. 

In another "Hero of the Hood" moment, after escaping from a drug treatment facility, he recorded some music with RZA, did a show at a major venue in NYC, and was finally caught while performing and signing autographs in a McDonald's parking lot in Philly. 

Recently, an FBI file was released, documenting ODB's suspected connection to three murders, a shootout with the NYPD, and a RICO Act investigation against the Wu Tang Clan. Holy shit! What other musician ever had a RICO investigation against them?

Of course, the flip side to him being such a criminal (mastermind?) was that he often didn't show up to shows because he was on probation. And crack.  

Drugs
Yeah, his crackheadedness was not an act, unlike some so-called artists these days.

Again, photo unrelated.

He not only behaved, looked, and sounded like a crackhead, Russell Jones was an official crackhead. It's part of what made him such a great artist, or it was caused by his artistry. Or both. Who knows, but damn, artists be doin drugs! Like Phillip Seymour Hoffman or Ray Charles or Lil' Wayne (an artist who was directly influenced by the weirdness of ODB) drug addiction was central to the perception of ODB as an artist and to his creative process. Throughout history, artists and drugs have gone hand in hand, and ODB was a living representation of that symbiosis.

But like Clapton, nose to hand would be more accurate.

Award Show Interruptions
Everybody remembers Kanye interrupting Taylor Swift at the VMAs. It even became a meme: "I'mma let you finish..." Of course, Kanye wasn't the first (not even at an MTV award show) nor was he the most quotable. If Twitter was around when ODB interrupted the Grammy's, the servers would have crashed (I used the video of the incident to start my last post, which gave me the idea for this post.) Nowadays, interrupting awards shows is par for the course. Once again, Dirty pretty much started it, and he did it on the biggest stage possible for a musician. He also had an actual purpose. Everyone thought he was just babbling when he said "Wu Tang is for the children" (see? much more memorable quote) when in fact he was spreading the love and wisdom of the Wu. What most people never knew is that on the night before the Grammys, Ol' Dirty Bastard saved a 6 year old kid's life. He visited the kid in the hospital for weeks until the press found out.

Kanye might be a great artist, and I thought his stage interruption was hilarious, but he never saved shit.

Nicknames/Delusions of Grandeur
The entire Wu Tang Clan is known for popularizing the accumulation and utilization of numerous nicknames. Ol Dirty alone had over ten thousand nicknames. For his last incarnation, he named himself Big Baby Jesus. That's pissing in the face of the Savior on a larger scale than the Beatles could even dream of. And now guys are calling themselves all sorts of variations of god.

In some cases, they even make songs proclaiming "I am a God" and tell people to hurry up with their damn croissants. That level of absurdity can only be attributed to the influence of ODB.

Notice the position and pose of the artists in the above images. Damn...I never realized how much Kanye copied ODB till just now.

Big Baby Jesus aka Osirus aka Dirt McGirt aka Ason Unique aka Dirt Dog aka Peanut the Kidnapper was an artist who didn't care about convention and attacked taboos. He recruited Pharrell (way before the gigantic cowboy hat) to produce the majority of an album named "Nigga Please". He is the Richard Pryor of rap, saying anything he pleased in order to shock and amuse (their drug habits build the connection, too). Just going to a store and buying an album called "That Nigger's Crazy" or "Nigga Please" is a socio-political statement. Nas tried to do something similar years later but chickened out and called his album "Untitled" instead. It takes balls, or a serious drug addiction, to release a major label record with that word on it, and ODB had both.

Reality TV
Here's undeniable proof that ODB is the epitome of our celebrity culture, if not the epitome of an artist: he had a VH1 reality special about his life. True to ODB, it was filmed while he was on parole and living in his mother's house. This is the type of show washed up artists would kill for these days.

Early death
Lastly, and most importantly when it comes to being a legendary artist of a mythic stature: he died too soon. You can be a great artist and live long, but a true artist dies young, leaving us all to wonder what they could have been, instead of finding out what they actually turn into.

Forget sympathy for the Devil, have some sympathy for your fans and  stop already!

And in the case of legendary artists like ODB, looking back at their lives, there seems to be no possible alternative ending. Jimi Hendrix and Kurt Cobain are other examples. It's hard to imagine Jimi as a 60 year old man. His death is so iconical it's as if it had to happen when and how it did. The same goes for Dirty. Russell Tyrone Jones wasn't meant to live till old age. 

Towards the end, a writer for The New Yorker said ODB was a "folk hero" because of his words and actions, especially his interactions with the law. There's also a numerological conspiracy surrounding his death (that I completely made up) which always adds to folk hero status: Dirty's death was foretold in the introduction of his solo debut album. In an audio clip from a kung fu movie, a character says, "We have only 35 chambers, there is no 36." Another voice replies, "I know...but I want to create a new chamber." ODB died 2 days before his 36th birthday at RZA's recording studio, 36 Chambers Records.

But despite what the first voice says, Dirty did create a new chamber: a level of artistry that all can aspire to reach.

ODB was the 36th Chamber.

He is the epitome of an artist from our time.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed

I'll give you something to talk about

I was gonna put Bonnie Raitt's "Give em Something to Talk About" here, but then I realized...it's Bonnie Raitt. So instead, here is ODB, giving the world something to talk about at the Grammy's.

This post is a Public Service Announcement for all those deficient in the art of small talk. I often find it difficult to engage in the mindless, meandering word-combination chaos known as "polite conversation," not because I don't enjoy the company and conversation of my fellow humans, but because sometimes I simply find the act of making my mouth form audible, coherent syllables about the weather too tiresome. However, the real problem I have is avoiding topics deemed off limits. I'm like a dog with food; just because you put it out of sight in the cabinet doesn't mean I don't know it's there. I will sit and stare at that cabinet the entire night until I get that juicy piece of conversation. Somebody at the dinner table thinks the president is a muslim socialist communist? Let's discuss! A friend of a friend at a party is wearing an eye patch? You're damn straight we're talking about what's underneath.

I understand that some people prefer avoiding topics that may be uncomfortable or that they, god forbid, might disagree on, so I've provided two topics that are guaranteed to please a crowd and ensure that nobody accidentally brings up that thing on Jason's new girlfriend's lip.

Everybody seems to love talking about these topics. I've seen people get very passionate about their choices, and yet remain respectful of everyone else's choice, a prerequisite for healthy conversation. Basically, at your next family gathering, these are much safer discussion topics than America's foreign policy or the moral superiority of atheism over monotheism.

Acceptable and beloved conversation topic #1:

If you could have any superpower, what would you choose?

See? Easy. Everyone loves, or at least knows, super heroes. We've all imagined ourselves as a super hero at some point. So this one taps into fond childhood memories and lets you run wild with your imagination in an inoffensive way, unless of course somebody chooses Ant-Man's power of punching his wife in the face (hope that's in the upcoming movie!). For some reason, every time I've had this conversation, the only powers people bring up are flying and invisibility. It's like they never heard of Wolverine.

Anyways, the correct answer is flying. Yeah being invisible and going to the Brazilian Women's Swimming team's locker room would be great, but you gotta look at the big picture. With the power of flight, you could just fly to Brazil, where they have nude beaches. No sexual harassment charge for you when the invisibility inevitably wears out.

So flight is the answer. Hands down, no argument.

Shit. This was supposed to spark conversation. Oh well, on to the next one...


Acceptable and beloved conversation topic #2:

If you had to give up one sense (seeing, hearing, smelling, tasting, feeling) which would you choose?

Everybody has thought about this one. If you are fortunate enough to have all five senses, it's fun imagining the world without one of them.

Wait, why is that fun? Sounds kind of fucked up, to be honest.

But let's go with it. Seriously, though, this is better than talking about world affairs or religion? Ok.

To begin, let's look at all five senses.

Ok, so after a little research, I learned there are a lot more than five senses, and I'm not just talking about Haley Joel Osment. There's our sense of time, balance, relativity, and many more! For the sake of this post, let's just focus on the ones our middle school teachers thought we could handle, which in turn narrowed our perception of ourselves and the world around us, but I digress...

Smell. This seems like it might be the easiest to cut out. No more b.o.! No more nasty farts! Awesome! But at the same time, no more farts? Who would want to live in a world where you can't even smell your own fart and fully enjoy the havoc your anus wreaked on other people's nasal passages? And you'll never be able to tell if you stink, so dating would be interesting. No more smell of bacon. I don't even eat bacon any more and I still think the smell of bacon cooking is one of the greatest sensual pleasures a man can experience. And don't forget, if you choose to give up your sense of smell, your sense of taste is fucked because taste and smell are intimately connected (hold your nose while eating to see this effect in action!). Plus, no more sniffing out the gas in the kitchen from the broken stove and now your house just exploded. Good choice, hot shot.

Taste. This may not be the most important sense, but it's one that makes life worth living. Without the sense of taste, you might as well eat rice cakes and celery for the rest of your life. No juicy, greasy fried chicken. No nacho cheese melting in your mouth, hitting every taste bud down your throat. No Reese's peanut butter cups.

No thank you.

Touch. Same as above re: "makes life worth living." Case in point: try imagining sex without the sense of touch.

Yeah. No. Next.

Sight/Hearing. These are the big two. As with the first topic, humans can only handle binary decisions, so this conversation inevitably winds up being about which is worse, loss of sight or loss of hearing.

Sight is our dominant sense ("I'll believe it when I see it") and it's hard to imagine not being able to see a sunset or a beautiful woman or tv. But envisioning (see, vision is the dominant sense even in our language. Look, I did it again with "see," and yet again just now with "look") a world with no music is almost impossible to me. No "Beethoven's 5th" or ODB's "Return to the 36 Chambers".

I would think being deaf is incredibly isolating; you can never be comforted by the sound of a friend's voice. You'd be excluded from the conversation by default. When I close my eyes, I can still sense what's happening around me, but when you plug up your ears you lose your sense of surroundings, and your sense of balance is all off.

At least with blindness you could get a dog, even though you could never see how it nuzzles its ridiculously cute snout into the blankets to keep warm at night or the hilarious way the folds of skin in its face flap in the breeze when it runs.

In order to properly answer this question, you really have to put yourself in the shoes of somebody less fortunate. What would it really be like if you didn't have one of your main senses? And what would it be like if you didn't have that sense all your life and one day you finally got it?

Funny you should ask! Here's a girl hearing her voice for the first time in her 29 years of life:

Wow. That was powerful. I'm gonna need a second. What? No, I'm not crying, it's just. I just...shut up. Who the hell wanted to talk about this stuff anyway?

Oh.

Sorry. I told you I'm not really good at small talk.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

The Arnold Palmer 5

Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4

He thanked the custodian again and limped to the front door, for some reason still trying to hide the fact that his toe was broken. Despite all evidence against it, he maintained the idea that this was the best way to handle his situation.

He opened the door and stepped into the dark night.

-begin part 5

Rain. Of course it was raining.

The cold water on his face actually felt good. He could almost hear steam hissing off the top of his head like in an old Looney Toons cartoon. In fact, this entire day had him feeling like Wile E. Coyote.

He continued to limp down the sidewalk, maintaining his balance by keeping his hand against the building. He saw the blue mailbox a few paces away and muttered under his breath:

"Stupid goddamm letter."

He hopped the remaining steps and opened the lid. It screeched open. He lifted the letter to the bin, then hesitated. He had an eerie feeling that something would happen to prevent him from sending this letter.

He looked around. The street was empty. There were no rogue, giant vacuum cleaners or custodians or beautiful brunettes out to sabotage him.

Yet, he could not send the letter.

Maybe he should go to the post office first thing in the morning and get it sent certified. He never really trusted the mail-people he saw around this street anyway. And "mail-people" sounded suspiciously like "mole-people," which was kind of creepy.

Maybe he was being ridiculous. Did Mr. S. say anything about sending it certified? He said it was important, but he didn't say it needed to be sent overnight or express or anything special. And if it was that important, why wouldn't he just use email?

He was being ridiculous. He opened the lid to the mailbox and slid the letter in.

He started to hop away when a thought occurred to him.

Was there postage on the letter?

Shit!

He leaped to the bin and opened the lid. He looked inside then thrust his arm in up to his elbow. There was no use.

"Ok. It's ok. I'm sure there was a stamp. Definitely."

He took a deep breath and hopped away, trying to forget the entire incident. Trying to forget the entire day.

When he finally reached the company's gated parking lot, he took out his keys and unlocked his car. The chirp of the alarm let him know where the car was, as the events of the day had caused him to forget where he parked. The fact that he still didn't have his own parking spot, even after three years of working for the company, and even though Dana got her own spot despite just starting last year and basically doing the same job he did (he wasn't bitter), didn't help matters.

He opened the door to the grey Corolla and fell in to the front seat. He was exhausted. The long nap in his office just made him more tired. He put the key in the ignition and started the car. His foot was throbbing as he stepped on the brake to shift out of park.

He came to a stop in front of the gate. The attendant/security guard was long gone, and at these hours, you just pressed a button to get a ticket. A fee was then added to your monthly parking bill. The company really knew how to treat its employees.

Steve rolled down his window and pressed the button. He grabbed the ticket and put it in his pocket, then waited for the yellow bar to rise, allowing him to finally go home and get that deliciously sweet, yet perfectly sour Arnold Palmer.

He waited. And waited. The bar did not move. He looked at the machine that gave him the ticket, expecting some noise or lights to go off.

Nothing. He waited. He rolled down his window and pressed the button again.

Nothing happened.

He waited some more.

Still nothing.

"Goddamit."

He sat for a moment, then slammed both hands on the horn, sending a loud, long honk into the night.

"Goddamit!"

He put the car in park and opened his door. He stepped out onto his undamaged foot. Holding on to his car for balance, he hopped over to the gate.

The yellow bar looked normal; it didn't seem broken and there was no chain holding it down.

He tried to lift it with one hand while holding onto the fence-post with his other hand. It didn't budge. He positioned himself so he could lift with both hands. It required him to put more weight on his bad foot, and the pain caused a wave of nausea to pass over him.

He took a deep breath and lifted. No movement.

He smacked the button again, to no avail.

Maybe this was an elaborate prank. He looked around for hidden cameras, then remembered the single camera overlooking the parking lot. Could it be...

The pain must have been messing with his head. Tammy from HR told him she asked to see video from that camera last year after her car window was smashed, and the security guy told her the camera didn't actually work. It was just there for show. At the time, Steve didn't know what bothered him more: the fact that it didn't work, or the fact that the guard was so quick to point it out.

Steve took out his cell phone to call a cab. He needed to get out of here and down a few drinks.

As he dialed, he thought about what the next few hours would entail if he got a cab. It was a 45 minute drive home, so it wasn't going to be cheap. Then he would have to take another cab tomorrow to get back here for his car. And he figured he should probably go to the hospital at some point to have his toe checked out. And his head.

This was not one of his favorite days.

He stopped dialing and thought about any of his friends who might be able to help. He knew somebody would, but he hated putting his friends out like that. Plus, the closest person lived 30 minutes away (if he was home) and that was 30 minutes of waiting Steve just couldn't handle.

He hopped back towards his car. He slammed the button on the machine again, hoping he could solve the problem by banging on it. The bar didn't move, so he slid back into his car and shifted into drive.

If you asked him later, he wouldn't be able to give you a satisfying answer as to why he did what he did. It's not that he was hiding something; he truly couldn't explain what made him do it. He knew the bar wasn't easily moved because he just tried with his own hands, so what made him think his Toyota would do much better is anybody's guess.

Steve's first attempt to get through the gate involved driving slowly to the bar, inching forward until it touched the hood about halfway up. He thought he would lift the bar as he slowly wedged the car underneath it. He gently pushed on the gas pedal, causing a piercing, shrieking sound of metal on metal.

The bar crawled up the car's hood, leaving a line of yellow scratches.

This wasn't going to work.

He backed up. He stopped, then quickly backed up as far as he could, about 40 feet. He had seen enough movies to know what he had to do.

Soon after he built up the courage to put the car in drive, he lost his courage and only got the car up to 20 miles an hour before slamming on his brakes just as he hit the bar.

It barely moved. And now there was a dent in the hood. The bar was at least taking some damage. The underside was now completely gray, so that was something.

He backed up again. He needed to plow through the thing. Pedal to the medal. All or nothing. Need for speed. Days of Thunder. Dukes of Hazzard. The show not the movie.

He put the car in drive, cranked up the radio (playing Daft Punk "Get Lucky" because it's on literally any radio station in the summer of 2013) and sped towards the gate.

One good thing about the whiplash was that it took his mind off his toe for a little while. Plus, he could get it looked at tomorrow since he was already going to the hospital, so it was a two for one deal!

The car crashed through the bar, bending it and snapping it off the post it was connected to. It shot forward, sparks flying as it skidded completely across to the other side of the street, stopping when it hit the curb.

Steve lurched forward as the car hit the bar, but somehow the airbags were not set off and the car kept going forward. That was probably a good sign for Steve's car, but not a good thing for his neck. The hood was crumpled and pushed back towards the windshield, less of a good sign for his car.

He rolled forward, nearly running over an old couple and their dog.

Steve slammed on the brakes as the old man jumped back, pulling the dog with him. He seemed more concerned about the dog than his wife, but she was able to avoid the car as well.

They stared at him. The small pekingese yapped. Steve looked at the couple, then the dog. They looked at his car, then back at the gate. Then they looked at the yellow bar lying in the street.

Steve stomped on the gas pedal before they turned their gaze back to him. The car screeched off.

Steve headed home.

-end pt. 5


I Love You All... Class Dismissed.

Life Lessons with Louie

In the last few days, I've been holding a personal Louie marathon on Netflix. I just reached season three's two-part episode, "Daddy's Girlfriend," where we meet Louie's version of the manic pixie dream girl. In one scene, they walk past a homeless man. She stops and talks to the man as Louie begs her to just keep walking. After hearing the man's story, they take him to a pharmacy to get his medication and then set him up in a hotel. It was a great episode of an off-kilter, sweet, bizarre, and sometimes mind-blowing series.

A few weeks ago, I went to New York City for dinner and a show with my lady. Soon after arriving in the city, we parked and walked towards a restaurant. We weren't in a rush, but we had to be aware of the time to make the show. As we walked down the busy street, an apparently homeless woman was standing in the middle of the sidewalk, in front of a large skyscraper in one of the richest cities in the world, begging desperately for help.

She looked at us as we passed by and said, "Help me, please."

I briefly looked at her, then looked past her and kept walking. Just like everyone else.

To anyone who frequents New York City, or any big city in America, this is not an unusual scene. Unfortunately, homelessness and poverty are all too common in our excessively wealthy country. It's embarrassing, really. But this isn't a post about the failures of our government, which would be extensive, it's a post about how we treat each other as individuals. How have we evolved to the point where it is socially acceptable, indeed socially expected and proper, to ignore pleas of help from another human being? How has our natural inclination to assist those in need completely disappeared in some situations?

I've seen countless homeless people in various states of coherence and sobriety and desperation. I sometimes give spare change when I have it, and at the very least I try to be respectful. Mostly, though, I try to ignore them. It's too depressing to look at them and think about their situations. I'm trying to enjoy my night out on the town and escape my own problems for a while, I don't want to face someone else's problems, too.

What a shitty way to think. But it's what gets us through. It's still shitty. Helping each and every homeless person you encounter in NYC would be impossible, though, and honestly, it wouldn't be so bad if we just did a little more overall: push for legislation that addresses poverty and mental illness, give more of your money to charities, volunteer some of your time to others instead of spending every night entertaining yourself. Solve the problem as a whole instead of treating the symptoms, or even worse, ignoring it.

As I said, I've seen countless homeless people. This woman struck a nerve, though. Her plea was so urgent and insistent. She didn't look physically hurt, so it didn't seem like a physical emergency. In that case, I (probably...hopefully) would have helped, at the very least I would have called for help, but this seemed to be a case of a mental breakdown, and that's just too scary to deal with (to be clear, it's not the people themselves that scare me, it's mental illness/disease/deterioration itself that terrifies me). In the brief instant I acknowledged this poor woman's existence, I envisioned what helping her (truly helping her) would entail, and I knew I wasn't capable. She needed more than a few spare dollars.

The scene from Louie flashed through my mind as I walked past her (it was a very quick mental association I made; I didn't even consciously remember that what I had envisioned was from the show until I viewed it again recently) and I knew I wasn't capable of providing that kind of assistance. But Louie is a show. An absurd (yet awesome) show, and that episode in particular is absurd and most likely an extended dream/fantasy sequence. The woman Louie is dating is too good to be true. Nobody goes out of their way to help others like that, that is why she was so special. But in actuality, we don't have to go to those lengths to help people in need. There are some people that need professional, sustained assistance, and we should do our best to provide that, but I'm talking about things we can do every day.

Maybe the homeless woman would have benefited from a friendly conversation, a kind gesture from a fellow human. Or maybe she was waiting to scam the first sucker to stop and offer her help (I've encountered enough con artists to instill in me a hearty sense of distrust). Or, more than likely, she suffered from some type of mental illness and needed psychiatric and pharmaceutical help. And that's not something you can offer when you're just visiting for dinner and a show.

But we shouldn't get caught up in the things we can't do for others, we should focus on the things we can. People appreciate the smallest things. Minor gestures have major impact. I've mentioned before how many people Kevin Briggs has saved simply by talking with them and genuinely listening to them. DMC of the legendary Run DMC decided to not kill himself after hearing the Sarah MacLachlan song on the radio (you know the one) and turned his life around after meeting her. There is an endless amount of stories about people doing small, generous things for others all the time (click those links, it will make your day!) and those small, unsolicited gestures bring the greatest pleasure to everybody involved. Enough people doing enough small things leads to big things. It's cliched, it's simple almost to the point of naivete, but I'll be damned if it ain't true.

As a prophet once said, "Be excellent to each other." It makes all the difference in the world.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Best Most Awesome Round-Up of Things that Occurred in the Year 2013

Hey! Here are a few things that happened in 2013:

I published another book!

I wrote a few stories, like this one about Black Santa, this one about a crow-killing cat, this one about selecting a new pope, this take on the legend of Sisyphus, and this one about a guy and his desire to get home to his beverage. I also wrote this poem about Spring and death and this musing about death and dying (it was a positive year, I swear).  I wrote this piece theorizing about the origin of the Itsy Bitsy Spider, this one about the meaning of "A Christmas Story", and this startling in-depth hypothesis about Maggie Simpson's vital role on The Simpsons.

Stoned Willy Poonhound made his triumphant return to the public's consciousness with this guide to building a snow mansion, this advice on navigating your way through Valentine's Day, and these columns showing you how to become the best poonhound you can be.

I sprained my ankle on the second day of the year.

I hit a deer and wrecked my car.

Vine!

Rapper Vince Staples became a favorite, with his show-stealing verse on Earl Sweatshirt's "Hive"...

...and his own album Stolen Youth.

Probably my favorite album of the year was Run the Jewels (rap tag team duo El-P and Killer Mike), and their video for "A Christmas Fucking Miracle" is nothing short of amazing:

Those two guys really held it down as a group in 2013, after having 2 of the best albums of 2012 individually. And their concert in NY at Webster Hall was one of my favorite experiences of the year.

Matter of fact, I went to a few great concerts this year. Action Bronson at The Met in Rhode Island:

Souls of Mischief at the same place:

Nas at CitiField, after a Mets loss, on the hottest day of the summer:

Curren$y at BB King's in NYC:

I saw Danny Brown in Mass.; Ghostface Killah and Adrian Younge (they put out one of my favorite releases this year, Twelve Reasons to Die) with his entire band at Toad's Place in New Haven; and The Beast Coastal Tour (The Underachievers, Flatbush Zombies, and Joey Badass with Pro.Era) at Toad's Place. I didn't have Vine yet for these :-(

And probably the best shows of all: Bonobo at Paradise Rock Club in Boston (the weekend of the Boston Marathon bombing) and more recently at Terminal 5 in NYC...

Detroit rapper/producer Black Milk's album, No Poison No Paradise, was an unexpected favorite of mine. I always liked his work, but he really outdid himself with this.

Detroit rapper Danny Brown's Old was another favorite. Danny remains one of the most entertaining people in the world.

Another one of the most entertaining people in the world had a good year. Well, good in the sense of providing me with entertainment. The gay fish genius put out an almost unlistenable, but still fascinating, piece of "modern art" in music form; he had a kid with the tabloid Goddess and named the kid "North"; he got eviscerated by South Park again; and lastly, most importantly, he had a string of rants that ranked with the best celebrity freak outs in history. All in all, it was a good year to laugh at (or with) Kanye West.

Anchorman 2 came out and actually didn't suck. That was nice.

Treme ended. Didn't even realize it was ending (with a five part 4th season? What is that?). It was a great series, especially if you like food, music, and New Orleans. It ended on a sad note, with the Chief (I always refer to him as Freamon) succumbing to cancer, but it handled the death respectfully, gracefully, and overall in an entertaining way, unlike some other series. And sorry, Family Guy, bringing Brian back doesn't change anything. The fact that resurrecting him was your plan all along makes it an even more deliberate and obvious cash grab.

Breaking Bad ended. Unbelievably good series, with an awesome, over the top, crowd pleasing final season.

Eastbound and Down ended. It had its ups and downs over the course of its run, but they ended on a definite high note with this season. Baleedat.

I discovered a very weird artist, Spark Master Tape, who I became somewhat addicted to...

He has many awesome videos and two free mixtapes. (We're still using the term "mixtape" in 2013, by the way, even though they are almost exclusively online.) To be honest, I didn't discover the bizarre Spark Master on my own, I found him through Blockhead, one of my favorite music producers/bloggers. Blockhead also put me on to Danny Brown a couple years ago, and this year, he showed me something else I will be forever grateful for: the unrated version of "Blurred Lines."

I also saw Blockhead in concert and got some rare cds/vinyl from him. Thanks Block!

12 Years a Slave was a great movie from this year. The scene where he is hanging from the tree, surviving by extending his toes, was one of the most powerful, uncomfortable scenes in movie history.

I didn't go to Africa this year. That sucked.

Nelson Mandela died. That really sucked. He was a folk hero, except he was real, and living at the same time as me.

A guy did fake sign language at Mandela's funeral. What the hell?

A few actors died, including Dennis Farina. He was great in Snatch and Get Shorty.

We bombed Syria and Libya and remained in Afghanistan. And now that we are out of Iraq, it will probably return to Civil War.

Even more sad and depressing than all that, Drake made a song that I like. It took me a while to admit it. It's still hard to do. If someone else made the song I would have enjoyed it much more, much earlier; in fact, I consider it a Majid Jordan song so I can fully enjoy it. It's very much a "pop" song and not a rap song, which is why I like it. Drake rapping is just impossible to take seriously. Over the course of the past year or so I have had more exposure to pop music than I normally do, thanks to driving a group of teenagers home every other day at work, and there's one thing I've learned: most pop music is hot garbage. Well, I knew that already, but now I realize that when you listen enough, a few golden pieces of corn shine through the fecal matter. Normally I would just lump all pop music together and ignore it, but being forced to listen to it has made me yearn desperately for anything pleasing to the ears, and I've come to enjoy many songs I never would have years ago. Plus, as I've gotten older, I'm a lot less uptight about music and can enjoy mindless tunes every once in a while.

This video, on the other hand, represents everything wrong with Drake: he's the type of guy to make a 

Miami Vice themed "gangster" video for a tender love song.

So that was my guilty pleasure for the year. Pop songs like Daft Punk's "Get Lucky" (which spawned the amazing dance-off with Stephen Colbert and Walter White), "Blurred Lines", and Bruno Mars' "Treasure" aren't really guilty pleasures, they are just catchy songs. It's not their fault they get played to death. Another not-guilty pleasure is the Queen herself:

Beyonce dropped a surprise album and the internet simultaneously shit itself, so much so that I was tempted to buy a Beyonce album. I didn't, but the thought crossed my mind for a moment. The song above is one of the few I've heard from her "visual album" (nobody can just put out a regular ole "album" album any more). It's pretty much a perfect pop song for the year 2013. Good beat with some change-ups, simple lyrics, catchy hook, female rap-singing using current rap slang, a guest feature from Jay-Z with one of his strongest verses in ages, and a powerful singing voice on the chorus. My favorite musical moment of the year is when she says "in looooove" and hits the high note, followed by when she says, "can't keep your eyes off my fatty, daddy", "oh bwaby", and "surfboard...surfboard *giggles*".

Ok, to balance out the softness of that last paragraph, here is another one of my favorite songs this year:

That's "Eastside Moonwalker" by Freddie Gibbs, representing Gary, Indiana. He put out a great album, ESGN, that when downloaded actually carjacks you then beats any Drake songs off of your ipod. There isn't much subject variety on a Gibbs' album, but he knows his lane and has perfected it. He also did this:

..so I'll always be a fan of Gangsta Gibbs.

More than anything, things remained largely the same for me this year, with some slight improvements: same awesome job(s), with a raise and more competent bosses in a better building...same great family, and same two beautiful nieces...

...now with one more beautiful niece, Zoe, who arrived on 12-30-13!

And at the end of it all, there were the same great friends, hanging out at the same places...

...and in no way is that depressing.

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

"A Christmas Story": Ralphie vs. The Nanny State

What you see above is a representation of America: a white, blonde-haired, blue-eyed mid-Western boy dressed as a cowboy holding a shotgun.

You might recognize him from America's 2nd favorite ignored-and-forgotten-then-resurrected-as-necessary-yearly-viewing Christmas classic, A Christmas Story.

But underneath its simple, heart-felt, charming mid-Western veneer lies a scathing social commentary on America's obsession with guns.

Here's looking at you, America.

Thanks to TBS' crippling holiday season addiction to the movie, everybody knows the plot: it's Christmas time and young Ralphie is devising a way to get his dream gift, an Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle.

Ahh the good ole days of ultra-realistic toy guns in the hands of 8 uear olds.

It only became obvious to me this year, however, that the movie is in fact a biting critique of America's gun culture.

Let's start from the beginning. The opening scene involves the innocent boy longingly staring through a department store window at the toy gun. Within the first five minutes, the rifle is referred to as the "Holy Grail of gifts." Gifts have taken the place of religion on this supposedly holiest of all holidays, a common underlying critique contained in holiday movies. Here, a gun is the main object of desire, and the connection between guns and God is established early on.

Soon after, when his mom first asks what he wants for Christmas, Ralphie mistakenly blurts out that he wants the gun. He knows what she will say before she says it, the refrain which has become synonymous with the movie: "You'll shoot your eye out." Ralphie takes the rejection, telling her it's ok, "even though Flick is getting one." His first argument for having a gun is that someone else has one, so he needs one, too; a statement often heard in defense of gun ownership. This is also the first time we see the representation of the anti-gun lobby and the so-called "Nanny State": Ralphie's mom. 

Other people also represent the Nanny State (specifically, everybody who tells Ralphie he will shoot his eye out: his mother, his teacher, Santa) but the mother is the most obvious and foreboding. She is also the most competent family member. The father is in a never-ending, losing battle to the furnace and the neighbor's dogs. She knows the answers to the crossword when he struggles (in fact, her knowledge is the reason that he receives the controversial leg-lamp). She is simply more aware and competent as a parent all around, instilling the proper punishment when Ralphie swears, getting the boys ready for school, preparing all the meals, and everything else a mother (or nanny) is "expected" to do in the "golden era" of America. In the end, she is the most understanding and forgiving: after the fight with Farkus, she takes Ralphie home and tends to his wounds. She doesn't tell his father much about the fight because she doesn't want him to overreact ("Daddy's gonna kill Ralphie!"). Ralphie seems to finally appreciate the mother's wisdom and her concern for his well-being. And the audience realizes she was right all along: the gun is dangerous and Ralphie hurts himself.

On the other side, representing pro-gun people, such as the NRA, is the bumbling, lamp-ogling, almost-absentee father. He even looks and sounds a little bit like Charlton Heston. Despite the mother's protests (and the protests of the majority of characters in the movie) the father still gets his son the gun. He argues that it's tradition, claiming "I had one when I was 8 yrs old." Again, upon closer viewing (aka 24 hours in a row for the past eight Christmases) it is obvious that this movie is a thinly-veiled allegory for America's failure to regulate guns despite the overwhelming majority of Americans who want reasonable, logical gun regulations. 

Self-defense is often used in defense (ha!) of gun ownership, and the movie memorably presents a constant danger that terrorizes Ralphie and his friends. 

This asshole.

Scott fuckin Farkus. This hideous creature is the bully of the block and a sincere threat to the boys' safety. 

And Ralphie takes him out with his bare hands. When he finally stands up to the bigger, seemingly stronger kid, he is able to defeat the bully on his own. And everybody lives another day.

Ralphie conquers the real villain, and his fear, without a gun; of course, as a "red-blooded American," he still wants a gun to defeat his imaginary enemy: Black Bart. 

Black Bart. The imaginary dark criminal of white America's nightmares. 

The dream sequence where Ralphie takes out Bart's crew even has the movie's two lone black characters, thugs that Ralphie shoots dead with no remorse to the sound of his family cheering. This is the fantasy of the average American.

Merry Christmas, America!

When Ralphie finally gets his gun, in reality, the first thing he does is shoot himself in the face. The second thing he does is lie to his mom about it. His mom believes him, as most Americans believe gun myths, and she takes him in.

Not surprisingly, Ralphie still loves his gun, despite not really needing it for self defense and almost blinding himself. So in the end, maybe his mother wasn't exactly right. He didn't shoot his eye out (she may have exaggerated a little to get her point across out of concern for her child) but her foresight was pretty damn accurate. That doesn't matter to Ralphie, though. Even shooting himself in the face and breaking his glasses won't dampen his love for his gun. 

Indeed, no matter how many times you tell Americans they are more likely to get hurt by a gun when they own a gun, they just don't listen. The last scene of the movie shows Ralphie sleeping soundly in his bed, with a smile on his face and his gun in his arms, completely oblivious to the fact that he's more likely to blow his own head off then ever save his family.

In fact, they made A Christmas Story 2, and the plot follows Ralphie to middle school where he shoots himself in the balls and asks Santa for a new testicle.

As always with sequels, the guns are bigger and more people get shot in the scrotum.

Maybe. I never saw it, and I'm sure you never did, either, so let's just say that's what happens. 

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.

Stand Yuletide Ground aka The War on Santa

The boy lay on his bed watching the snow falling outside his window.

It was perfect. Christmas Eve. Snow. A belly full of turkey, mashed potatoes, and pie. He could stay like this, wide awake, all night. But he knew sleep would bring Christmas morning and all those glorious presents to him sooner. He closed his eyes and drifted off, dreaming about the video games he would be playing tomorrow.

He woke up from a deep sleep a few hours later. As his eyes fluttered open, he heard a thud from downstairs. Could it be?

He tossed the covers aside and sprinted to his door as quietly as possible. He cracked the door open enough to stick his head out and look down the hallway towards his parents bedrom. Their door was closed. He opened his door and crept to the stairs. There was definitely noise coming from the first floor, and it sounded like it was in the living room, where the tree was set up.

Out of excitement, he almost screeched the Old Man's name, but somehow held back. This was a once in a lifetime opportunity, and he didn't want to blow it.

He crawled downstairs on his belly, suppressing the gas bubble that was attempting to force its way out.

The noise was getting louder. He crawled through the main hallway and towards the living room.

He slowly stuck his head around the corner and saw...

"Santa," he whispered. This was the moment he had been waiting for his whole life, and now he didn't know what to do.

But there he was: Old Saint Nick. Red hat, red coat with white trim. Big black boots. And there was his bag! Santa was taking items out and placing them under the tree.

Kyle had to talk to him. He didn't think it was right to sneak up on Santa, so he got to his feet and entered the room, gathering up the courage to say:

"Hi Santa!"

Santa jumped, then laughed his trademark ho ho ho.

"Oh you scared me there Kyle! Merry Christmas!" he said, turning to face the boy.

"Merry Christmas...Santa?" Kyle said. As the words came out, so too did the gas that had been building up inside him.

"Good one! Ho ho ho! " Santa chuckled.

Something was off. The outfit was all there: hat, jacket, boots. The white hair and beard were there. The red bag of gifts was there. His height seemed right. His weight seemed right. His jolly personality was certainly evident. But something was off.

Santa was...black?

"Merry Christmas Kyle! I'm sorry to wake you. There were just so many gifts here for you and your family that it's taking me a little longer than usual."

"That...that's ok...Ssa...Santa."

"What's the matter, Kyle?" Santa asked. "You look concerned. Are you worried that I forgot one of your gifts?"

"No, it's not that. It's just..."

"Are you worried I forgot a gift for one of your siblings?" Santa asked.

"No. No, we always get what we want. It's just..."

"Are you worried that you didn't leave enough cookies and milk for me?" Santa asked with a wink. "Ho ho ho! I assure you I get plenty of cookies throughout the night, and Misses Claus says I need to cut back!"

"No..."

"Do you want to know about the reindeer?" Santa asked. "Everybody asks about the reindeer."

"No, it's just..."

"How do I get across the whole planet in one night?"

"No, Santa. It's just...well...you're black."

Santa looked at the boy for a few seconds, then burst out laughing.

"Ho ho ho! Ohhhhh ho ho ho!"

He continued until he saw the boy's face grow sullen.

"Oh, child, you are adorable." Santa asked.

"I just thought..."

"It's ok. I get this all the time." Santa walked to the chair in the corner of the room and sat down. He took one of the three cookies from the small table next to the armrest.

"Talk to me, Kyle," Santa asked in between bites. "What's going through that head of yours?"

"Well, no offense..."

"None taken," Santa said, sipping on the warm milk.

"...but I pictured Santa as white."

"There's nothing wrong with that," Santa replied, wiping the milk residue from his thick white mustache. "People can envision me anyway they like."

"But now you're here, in front of me..."

"Yes," Santa said, reaching for another cookie.

"And you're black. It's just...it's weird."

"That's ok," Santa said. "Some people need a little time to get used to..."

Kyle cut him off: "I mean, there was turkey and mashed potatoes and key lime pie and apple pie, and it was snowing, and then Santa is in my house, and everything was just so perfect. And now," he wiped a tear from his eye, "now Christmas is ruined."

"Ok, I'm gonna stop you there kid," Santa said, standing up from the chair and putting the remaining piece of cookie on the table.

"Listen," Santa said, then took a swig of milk. "I understand you're a little surprised, maybe even disappointed, but does it really ruin your Christmas to know that I have darker skin than you imagined?"

"Well..."

"Take a second to think before you answer, Kyle," Santa said.

Kyle looked closely at Santa, inspecting the man from head to toe. Finally, Kyle's eyes came to rest on the dark skin underneath the white beard.

He thought for another moment, then spoke.

"I just had a different image in my head, and I feel like I've been lied to my whole life."

Santa looked at the boy and truly felt bad for him.

"Poor boy," Santa said. "I understand how you're feeling. And you're right, you have been lied to, and I'm sorry for that. It's shameful how adults lie to children out of the misguided notion that it's for the children's own good."

Santa walked to Kyle and knelt down in front of him, facing him eye to eye.

"It's not your fault that you are feeling this way, Kyle, and I forgive you."

"Oh...." Kyle stammered.

"Society is to blame here," Santa continued, "and you are just a victim."

"K...." Kyle muttered.

"Now, are we good?" Santa asked.

"Well..."

"What is it?" Santa asked.

"Do you think...would it be possible..."

"What?" Santa asked, losing patience.

"Could you be white, just for tonight? Just for me?"

Santa put a white-gloved hand to his temple and shook his head slowly.

"It's just that I've pictured you as white my whole life," Kyle said.

"Listen, son," Santa said, placing a hand upon the boy's shoulder. "I can't change my skin at will."

"But you said people can see you however they want."

"Yeah, I meant in your head. If people want to think of me as white, if that makes them feel better for some reason, that's fine by me. But in reality, in real life, in flesh and blood, I'm black. And that's just the way it is."

Kyle looked down at his shoes, a look of deep sadness washing over his face. Another tear rolled down his cheek.

Santa sighed.

"Listen, Kyle. I'm sorry to disappoint you, but try putting yourself in someone else's shoes. Think of all the little dark skin boys and girls out there who celebrate Christmas. Every year they write letters and worship some old white man. And all of the other heroes, from movies to the stories they teach in school, all of the people we look up to, they are all white. Think about it, can you name any black heroes?"

Kyle thought for a moment, then said, "Mart..."

"Besides Martin Luther King?" Santa said, before the boy could finish.

Kyle looked around the room, as if an answer would appear on the walls. He tried thinking of any black people he looked up to. He thought about the President, but then he remembered how his dad called the President a "friggen Moo-slum" and decided that was probably not a good thing.

"Can't do it, can you?" Santa asked. "That's okay. Again, it's not your fault. But think about how that makes all the little black boys and girls feel."

"What do you mean?"

"There are no well-known black heroes for all the little black boys and girls to look up to," Santa said.

Kyle looked down at his slippers for a minute, then said, "I never really thought of it that way."

"Most people don't" Santa replied.

"That's kind of messed up," Kyle said.

"Exactly," Santa said, patting the boy on the shoulder.

There was a sound in the hallway, then a voice called out:

"Kyle, Kyle is that you?"

Kyle's father stepped into the room.

"Kyle, are you okay? Who is that?"

Kyle looked at his father, then looked back at Black Santa.

With a giant smile on his face, he said, "Daddy, it's Sa..."

A sound like thunder tore through the room, knocking the boy to his feet. The sound reverberated off the walls, then there was complete silence. Kyle's ears began to ring loudly in his head. He tried to get to his feet, and noticed something large and soft next to his left slipper. He looked down and saw a red, lumpy mass. Underneath the lump, a pool of dark red liquid was forming and getting bigger by the second.

It took a moment for Kyle to realize the red lump was Santa, and the red liquid was blood, oozing out of the hole in the once-jolly old man's back.

Kyle's father walked over to his bewildered son and picked him up.

"You're all right, son. He won't hurt you anymore." He held the boy tight to his chest. The cold metal of his shotgun barrel pressed against Kyle's neck, giving the boy chills.

As he was carried out of the room, Kyle looked over his father's shoulder at Santa, bleeding profusely on the living room floor, red blood spilling onto the green felt skirt under the Christmas tree.

Kyle tried to speak, but could only stare.

Santa watched the father and son leave the room. He took off his hat and placed it over the wound on his chest. He closed his eyes and with his last breath, mumbled...

"I knew I should have skipped Florida this year."

...then passed away.

-

Merry Christmas!

I Love You All...Class Dismissed.