Public Servility

It’s hard to describe how much I hate this PSA. Maybe…I it HATE! it with the unbridled fury of a million suns level hatred.

You don’t start talking about life and survival as public enemy number one to your black boy at teenage years. It should damn near part of the pillow talk that makes them. Subsequently, “the talk” is about strategies and knowing your rights; not about being obsequious. You start off with know your rights the term “Probable Cause” and move to other 4th amendment supposition and further survival strategies. As a Black child, or considered as one by the police, you are going to get fucked with at some point during or post-adolescence. This Summer I was harassed by 3 boys in blue (2 dudes, 1 chick) at of a park full of people watching my son ride his bicycle – The same park he’s been to since being an infant. I told the lead cop, “I’m too old for this shit. If you don’t have better than some lame claim for probable cause, go fuck with someone else. I passed my quota years ago.”

I kept a 36×48″ image of this in my office for 25 years.

So obviously this commercial isn’t for my demographic. It’s for white liberals masquerading as a public service letting people feel like their doing something despite there being more than two Americas since there’s been an America. The other goat on my griddle (whatever the hell that means) is I’m curious how many Black people were involved in the production of that video. I don’t mean talent. I mean crew. As I surveyed 10 working actors this year, not one person remembered seeing a Black person on the crew of any major production they were involved in (studio or large agency) for the entirety of 2014. That’s zero. I repeat, I do not know the ethnic/gender breakdown for this particular spot. Next portfolio I’m going to broach this question to the art producers. So the cops get to screw me, the courts, and the business. And I’m supposed to feign outrage over Donald Sterling’s private ravings while you have an industry a fraction away of exclusivity as some Southern-fried golf club? hashtag talk-the -talk? I got your hashtag swinging.

Now on the flip side, quality people are just that no matter ethnicity nor job title. Despite my instant ire raised by hearing a police helicopter I will say I’ve met some pigs …I mean… cops who have done their jobs with tact and humanity. Some have realized they were having a bad day and checked themselves or have talked other people down from figurative ledges with empathy and no condescension. It’s a hell of a gig with a mixed past enforcing spurious laws and intent. Whereas there are worse PSA (the production is absurdly clean so I can’t fault the technique) this one just strikes me as self-flaggelating Disney-fied circle jerk. But hey, it’s not for me and I probably never have to see it again. I will have to deal with the police again.

Baby Talk 1984.0

I’m not stoking the misty-eyed sentiment of the “The Good Ole’ Days”. There will be no refrains of wishing I was back in the land of cotton… look away Dixieland! I am providing a simple showcase for contrast and smearing my long standing, general disdain of certain pop-related tropes. Hence I dust off the thump-o-meter and arm it with two conversion modules (Niggometronic and Bitchagraphic sensors) to it so that it can switch up with the times. It’s a valuable piece of steamfunk.

As I believe I mentioned in a prior post, I shot an event in July where the college educated hostess managed to buck dance her posterior through an 11 hour gauntlet of nigga-riddled expletives with the absolute nadir being a song whose chorus was comprised of reciting the single term of endearment repeatedly until The Department of Water and Power shut off the power grid so to not be accused of being an L.A. Clipper sponsor. Literally (ok, figuratively) every song was an homage Thomas Jefferson eating corn and boning Sally Hemings while watching the darkies sangum theys work songs to whip cracking rhythm.

Funky Beat, Fugitive, One Love, I’m a Ho

With the recent death of Larry Smith who produced Run-D.M.C., Whodini, and many others, I got to thinking that I didn’t recall a single utterance of Nigglelectics in any of RDMCs 1st three albums nor any of Whodini’s. Upon bringing that up, I was reminded that when there was a shooting in Long Beach Arena at a performance, Run-D.M.C. was called a “gangsta rap group” by the all knowing peckerheads of the local media. Pop music is kids music. I was a teen in 1984 and Whodini’s “Escape” meant a lot to me. D.M.C. barking “I will not stop, I will not quit! Some are at the top but I’m on the tip and that’s as high on the top as you can get. And you best believe Ill be on it” (Run-D.M.C. “Darryl and Joe [Krush-Groove 3] from memory, mind you) helped push me through games where I was fighting yet another injury. Here we are 30 years later with 30 years of technology and 30 years of mainstreaming and fusion and the flood of materials and the dominate verbiage generated for these now kids are “nigga”, “bitch”, “weed”, “money”. All hail the Ni**er God where the one-word chorus is king!

Legend: N is for nigger and all variants. B is for bitches (exclusively). Maybe the sensor will be re-tuned for more diverse data response. W is for marijuana references.

Run-D.M.C.

Rock Box, Sucker M.C.s, It’s Like That

Run-D.M.C. “Run-D.M.C.” (1984) versus Random Popular Mainstream Rap Album* (2014)

Run-D.M.C. > 9 songs = 0 N’s. 0 B’s 0 W’s

Unnamed Top 100 single listened to today > 4 N’s …PER QUATRAIN

*I had intended on counting an entire album but time gets in my way from that level of being thorough. Subsequently, the random rap song that I picked from the Billboard Hot 100 didn’t have an album attached so I rather than waste my time, anyone can do their own research or make suggestions to modern popular rap that might trick the Thump-o-meter of its content vintage.

Coming soon: The 1st Annual Coonies

Coming soon: The 1st Annual Coonies

Hell, you can be common. You can rap about you want to in whatever mundane or base way you want. I don’t have to listen except when you bobble heads play your shit too loud. Get off my lawn! I’m not a kid anymore. Apparently, neither are the kids.