November 24, 2009

I'll stick with the tag "Gay-MA's"

You know, I think its safe to say that I go out of my way for you, my darlings, in order to keep you all up-to-date with the very latest goings-on in the world of "pop culture" . . . and by "pop culture" I naturally mean the tough street life and hip-hop that I listened to secretly under my pillow from ages 7 to 12 I was raised on. I broke the Michael Jackson story for you, brought you all the latest news and developments regarding the Beyonce/Keri Hilson fued, wrote that riveting "This Is It" review, shared my deepest thoughts about Lil' Wayne and a campfire and will henceforth be reveiwing "The Blueprint 3" . . . if I can ever find time to put this glass of cristal/video phone down. Suffice it to say, I pretty much rest well at night knowing that in terms of hard-hitters in the MC world, I'm all over it. I do, more often than I'd like to acknowledge, receive some feedback regarding my total lack of non-hip-hop music coverage. When I stumble across an e-mail such as this (that somehow didn't get deleted immediately), I immediately reply with a short, albeit written with love, answer: Fuck off. Then I might go on to detail that the last uproar in the non-hip-hop world was when Courtney Love killed Kurt Cobain, and then I'd have to go further into how unkempt that whole genre is. I mean, don't get me wrong, I like guy-liner as much as Pete Wentz, but, as far as controversy goes, its all a little "old hat" for my tastes. I mean normally, as far as I'm concerned, unless Alanis Morisette and Dave Coulier do a joint-VH1 reality sitcom, don't bother letting me know. (P.S. Do they even have VH1, or electricity for that matter, in Canada? Anyone have Sarah Palin's digits?)

This all is coming to you as a result of the Gay-MA's from Sunday night. First off, I'll say that, as soon as that hoodrat Taylor Swift won over Michael Jackson, I immediately switched off the television in disgust. Don't worry, I won't even get into that bullshit, perhaps at a later date. So, as I checked my Twitter page, I immediately noticed a shit ton of tweets regarding Adam Lambert. First off . . who? Right, exactly, that ass clown that got kicked off American Idol, or lost, or whatever, I mean really, you all know I stopped watching that shit when Clay Aiken was robbed of the title in Season 3 when I turned 19. Boy, talk about the wrong time to turn off . . . as I began to investigate it turns out I missed quite a show. Normally, I don't mind paying for streaming video of softcore pornography, but when they've got it for free, I mean, fuck, how disappointing. We are in a recession, y'all. Okay, enough of that, I will get too queasy and be unable to finish this post if I continue this ballyhoo over free porn. (lit/lit). So I've watched it once via YouTube. Damn. I don't want to waste our time talking about the nature v. nurture debate but if there were any young adolescents out there wondering how cool it looks to be a gay man whore, they sure got their confirmation. I guess I can't really blame him, I mean would you want to be the one known as the untalented queer that almost won American Idol? Hells no you wouldn't, and plus, Clay has that title on lockdown (even though he recently added "father to a bastard child" to his moniker). So what's left? I mean, homeboy clearly isn't getting anywhere with his musical talents, or his poorly manicured imitation of my own Lo-hands that were all the rage in 2007. No sir. So now, I guess he wins. He gets to be the attention seeking, off-balance pie face that had to choreograph some action into his life. It didn't even look like either would have been good, am I wrong? In all honesty, give me a fucking break. Talk about a step back for the gay movement. Good luck trying to get Proposition 8 passed now, jackass.

So, here's to you Adam Lambert (who sings what? right), yes, you did shock America and really helped to bring up the rear (no pun intended) for one of the worst award shows I've ever almost watched all the way through.

And you wonder why my love for hip-hop thrives? Bitch please. I mean, yeah, on one hand I could have a bisexual threesome on stage, but isnt that what Europe is for? Call me crazy, but I'll take Biggie Smalls or Eminem or any-fucking-one with some street cred calling me a bitch and asking (telling) me to hide their clip in my glovebox any day over over guy liner and bad cuticles. For real.

November 17, 2009

You're turning me into my mother.

. . . that is, if my mother had ever given me a curfew. I've been worried sick over the past fifteen days wondering where in the hell you've been. Call me the non-Communist Ricky Ricardo (he was from Cuba right?) but you've abso got some 'splaining to do.

Okay, back to my native tongue (hold the jokes). Seriously, I have been so unbelievably busy with all kinds of shit. Not literally, but more so (obvi) figuratively. First off, I had to go to the city of brotherly love, Filthadelphia for some family business. No, I didn't get a chance to hoop it up with Will Smith (pre-Jada/non graffiti days) but you can bet that I was cruising the streets looking for him. Disappointing. I did manage to sustain myself solely on soft pretzels for a period of a week. I'll be honest, once you hit the streets of Philadelphia (holler, Bruce Springsteen - and also, call me.) and step over the proverbial outstretched hand of the homeless (HIV infected homeless? yes, Tom Hanks) the entire town is gray. Don't get me wrong, I mean we did almost win the World Series this year and Stewart Bradley just moved in next to my uncle (I'm pretty sure he'll need some assistance as he recovers from his early season injury) but goodness . . . thank heavens that's over with.

After that I took a week off of work and did things I've been meaning to do, but have just been so busy working past 4:30 pm EST at work. There was a new Kinerase deep conditioning masque I wanted to try, which was delightful. Don't you give me any guff. You think this hair looks naturally this fabulous. Okay, well it does, but, alas, I digress.

Furthermore, I wanted to see "This Is It" again, which, I did. Yes, you already know I loved it the third time even more than the first and second. I didn't know emotion like that was possible - perhaps it had something to do with the wine juice boxes one of my favorites brought to the event. I wonder . . .

Anyway, bringing this post full circle, and back to AIDS (speaking of which, World AIDS Day is December 1st, I hope you bitches are preparing to check yo'self before you wreck yo'self, but we will get to that later . . . ) and a really good, get out your razor (and your condom) musical, allow me to sum up.

151,200 minutes . . . 151,200 moments so dear.
151,200 minutes . . . how do you measure, measure 15 days without me?
(keep in mind the melody might be a bit off for these lyrical adaptations)
in daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of coffee jager . . .
in inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife (what's "strife" . . . ?)
151, 200 minutes; how do you measure 15 days in my life . . ?

. . . and the horrible song goes on and on. I just sampled a verse here for my own intents and purposes. Listen, back off, Andrew Lloyd Webber I am not, nor am I Jewish, I don't have a knack for this shit. Mark that down, it might be the only thing.

Welcome back, and don't let that long go without me hearing from you again.