[get ready for another link-inspired post]

So i was reading this article and frankly, I’m confused. Go ahead, give it a quick read, then come back.

OK, now that we’re on the same page, let me express how I’m just confused. I mean, the premise of this article touches me, because I am sensitive to the global branding phenomenon. I do buy clothes based on their lack of visible logos (unless they’re my own) and refuse to give business to corporations that have a stranglehold on culture in some way or another. But this invididual’s point is perplexing to me.

I mean, I’m not a “hate-Ikea” type of guy (in fact cheap furniture is cool at this point in my life…my couch is a third-gen hand-me-down ikea) but I certainly don’t side with this person. Their main argument is that mass-franchising (Starbucks) and brand loyalty are good things. They claim, with a certain fervor, that those of us that have any disdain for corporate boheamouth’s like Starbucks or Ikea are idiotic and downright antiquated. I have a few issues left unresolved:

What about the ma-and-pa stores that go out of business because they can’t compete with the giants? What happened to the American dream of being able to open up a shop in a competitive market? It’s hard to be competitive with a multi-billion dollar company.

And what about the pasteurization of American culture? Sure, the idea of mass-produced goods has always lent itself to the possibility of extreme brand loyalty. That’s the point—get the most number of people to buy your product. But there is something to say for individuality, for choice. I’m not saying that Gap and Nike take away my ability to choose, explicitly. But in a sense, they do. If startup (i still shudder from the past overuse of that word) companies can’t enter the market to compete, to get their clothes on your back, you *will* be wearing the same thing as a million other people in the world.

Again, this isn’t a life-or-death issue, but it certainly changes the American landscape. And in my humble opinion, I’m wary of it. I don’t like the idea of a bunch of rich select dictating what millions of people wear and eat. The Master Pupeteer theory scares me, but I have to accept it. We have no choice, really.

So passively I guess I say that I disagree with this article. While convenience and my wallet may argue *for* global branding and corporate conglomerates, i’d like the average joe to be able to open up a deli and succeed, all while wearing a sweatshirt that doesn’t cost $40.

I dunno if I rambled here…my writing has been less than stellar as of late. Mea culpa.

T sent me a link to a post claiming that hip hop is dead. I felt compelled to respond.

Yea, yea. I know. Suburban-bred white boy from the midwest…how much *less* street can you get, right? Well, to me that’s like saying that someone that didn’t live in France during the reign of the Sun King can’t *possibly* know anything about The Rennaisance. So, point made, let’s move on.

The article is not all that unfamiliar in tone and content to many sentiments held among the baby-boomer era hip hop heads. Constantly you hear about how mainstream ain’t sh*t and so and so selling-out. Many people gripe about commercial rap destroying the once pure art forms (all elements of hip hop) that comprised hip hop in years gone by. Even moreso, the author of this article (which sadly is not cited) goes as far as to claim that hip hop is outright dead. I beg to differ.

Perhaps I’m offbase on this because i’m too young and not from “that culture.” But from my (modestly extensive) study of hip hop culture (all forms), there’s one important thing to note: hip hop was meant to be enjoyed by all, and to entertain. Hip hop was not some idealistic, based-in-theory movement about “keeping it real” and “representing the streets.” It was street because it came from the streets, from the people, or to be French Renaissance: the proletariat class. Hip hop wasn’t devised in some basement somewhere, intended to only be enjoyed by people that lived between Queensbridge and the Bronx (as people claim it is). It wasn’t developed to be an accurate reflection of what was going on in the poor urban areas of our country. Hell, it wasn’t “made” at all. It was expression, just like all other art forms. And just like most art forms, it gets exploited when it gets popular. Do you think that Raffaello Sanzio knew that his paintings would be mass produced and sold at Target to hang in your half-bath? Would he be partially upset if he knew? Sure. But any artist (read: ANY) artist does their craft knowing that it will be enjoyed by other people and they want it to be enjoyed. Expression (like love) is wasted and futile if not shared. So therefore the only expressed element of hip hop culture is visability. Read writings of many of the early graffiti artists in NYC or pioneer DJs of the era to hear them say, in their own words, they just wanted to “come up,” “get money,” and do what they love.

I too shudder with nausea when i see true, talented MCs make a teacher’s salary (that’s another issue) while BS rappers write their millionth song about their pretty necklace and come out with more ugly-ass shoes to sell. It pains me when any artist is doing what they love and not getting respect, while struggling with the notion of abandoning it for sake of prosperity. Just because all the MCs on TV and radio and charts are “posers,” does this mean that hip hop is dead?

No. Later in the article, the author even self-admits that there are still plenty of groups out there, talented cats that are producing true, raw material. Stuff that’s “more street” that what’s on the radio (because clearly, Clear Channel cares about real talent). So how can hip hop be dead? If hip hop really is from the people, from the street, then it can never die. Sure, what’s on MTV and Sprite commercials might pretend to be hip-hop, but we know it’s not. Hell, Thomas Kinkade paintings are supposed to be great art, but we know it’s not. We can’t change what the omnipresent Media chooses to exploit. But we can make sure that we don’t give up on those that are out there still doing their art, making their works and staying true to the movement that got them doin’ their thing in the first place. Hell, everyone in NYC hated most of the graf writers of the late 70s and 80s…but that didnt’ stop them did it? No, because there were always some people that loved the art. People belived.

So instead of letting bitter feelings of negativity get the better of you, don’t be so quick to proclaim that a cultural movement is dead. Just because the rules aren’t the same as they were when hip hop was in its infancy, doesn’t mean it’s less of an art form. Things evolve, and we should change with it. If we claim that it’s dead and all give up on it, we abandon those out there that are still trying to make it.

Don’t believe the hype. Support artists that deserve support. And if a Ludacris song makes you bob your head, damnit don’t feel guilty for enjoying music. Because after all, it *is* just music.

***EDIT: Don’t get it mixed up though, i *do* really dislike the horrible, phony, fake rap out there today…i’m just tryin’ to stay positive. Also, I enjoy reading this site a lot.***

I hate painting. No, I’m serious. I hate painting. So i had this bright idea to paint my bedroom. Actually the bug hit me about a year or so ago but I never got up the gumption to do it. Well, i suppose that the fever of the new year filled my lungs and put me into action. Dear Lord, I wish it hadn’t.

See, I love fixing things up. It’s not that I’m bad at painting either. In fact I was dead on with what I thought my bedroom would look like with the color I had picked out in my head. The problem is that painting sucks. A lot.

My woes first started when i decided to paint my room red. 1) Everyone says bedrooms shouldn’t be red because it’s too intense, that I’d never sleep well. 2) Bubba Handyman at Home Depot warned me that painting deep red over white is a nightmare…that i’d need a primer first or else suffer the torture of having to do 5-6 coats to get it right. Well of course I decide to sidestep these pearls of wisdom, chalking the advice up to the fact that Mr. Man just wanted more of my american dollars. Well, I’m here to preach the gospel of Paint Advice. Listen to them peoples at Home Depot. They’re not kidding.

At about wall 1.5, I realized that this was assinine. I felt like every stroke I made only made things worse. After 3 coats on the first 1.5 walls, I hit the bottom of the gallon that I had bought. Doh. “More than one gallon? Surely not,” spoke my ego as I been shopping the previous weekend. Again, mea culpa.

So, back to the friendly orange store to admit defeat. $60 more and 3 cans later (2 paint, 1 primer in pepto pink) I swallowed my pride and began painting my walls pink. Although I contemplated leaving them such a trendy color, I figured my landlord wouldn’t be so hip to the idea, so I started on the red.

Three days, 4 gallons of paint and 6 coats and I finally finished. While I love how it looks now, I don’t think I’d do it again seeing as I don’t know how much longer I’ll be living here. Combine that with the fact that I never told my landlord that I was painting in the first place (please, like he can’t smell the fumes…i’ve been sleeping in my room for the duration of the project and have maintained a pretty substantial buzz for the 8 days that it took.)

But now that I look at it, the dining room could use a little touching up. Maybe a nice bungalow tan…

So I just received a spam email from someone named Penelope Hooper. Besides from being rather authoritative in her message, commanding me to “read this word for word,” because it may be “information that I may not receive again” so I should “take it seriously,” I was struck by how humerous the name was. I give the spammer credit for coming up with a name that gave me a chuckle.

I must be weird, for I find names of things really funny. I like to name inanimate objects by funny names…names that are typically of an older generation, which makes them sound funny in a cute grandparent-y type of way. Names like Walter or Edgar, Bessie or Ethel. Naming a stuffed cow Walter is really humerous to me. Calling a balding overweight man Bessie is funny. I know, I need help.

I think it’s just the striking disconnect of expecting a “normal” name and not hearing one. For instance, a guy I work with has this little game that we play with each other, in which each time we IM one another, we address the other with an outdated woman’s name like, “Mertel, would you please…” or “Nancy, would you mind…” For some reason, this *never* gets old for me. I always think its funny.

Perhaps I’m too easily amused. Perhaps I need medication for my desire to call appliances by proper nouns like Fridge or Toaster (“Toaster, don’t you give me any crap this morning!” “Fridge, now behave and stop making noises”). Or perhaps i just need to grow up.

But Penelope Hooper. Now that’s funny.

It’s amazing. As I’m home from work today, feeling useless because I have the flu and can’t go to work, I exist soley on little projects. One of today’s little projects is to restore my cd collection to its jewel-case state.

While for some people this may seem like a trite way to pass time, and a completely unmonumental task worth mentioning, it is quite a trip down memory lane. For me, someone that shys away from the camera lens (prefering to be behind one, instead) and has his whole life, I have very little documentation of my youth. Thank goodness for outgrowing a cd case.

As many of you know, I’ve been carrying my cd’s around in a steel dj box for 2 years or so now. The only downside to this solution is that now that I’ve grown out of the box, as well as the little plastic sleeves, I have to find a new solution. So today, with some hot tea by my side, I began converting back to an at-home-take-only-what-you-need solution, which requires me to go through all the cd’s i own, including all the ones that are shoved in every corner of my room.

As I sit here, flipping and shuffling, the memories come pouring back. It’s as if i’m sitting and looking through a scrapbook of my youth, only better. See, photobooks are great, because they document visually those great times of your life that you want to remember, right? Well for my backwards-ass, cd’s document random slices of my life…the day and time and situation that I buy each cd. And it’s amazing just how I remember the story around almost every single cd I’ve ever bought (save ones people have given me, or if i purchased more than 5 at a time). For example:

Guster’s Lost and Gone Forever album - My friend Tyler burned this cd for me, giving it to me under the notion of “my sister listens to these guys, they’re pretty awesome.” It was June of 1999 and he was about to leave to work in Boston for the summer. I was sitting at the intersection of Central Ave and McCord Rd when I first popped it in and remembered thinking “this is exactly what i’m looking for right now. perfect.”

Nas’ Stillmatic album - It was Dec. of my senior year in college and I had been reading (while supposed to be working on my thesis) about the beef between Nas and Jay-Z and quickly downloaded Nas’ Ether. Being in such a frenzy to hear what the rest of his comeback album would be like, I scribbled the rest of my art history exam essay and ran out the door to go to Media Play. As I drove up to Dana’s to meet my art history professor for a beer, I sank into the first several tracks.

Fun Lovin’ Criminals Come Find Yourself album - Junior year in high school. We were in Columbus for a regatta. Jason and Pete and I were wandering around High Street and went into Used Kids to poke around. I felt so incredibly grown up…Used Kids was the coolest, most indie record shop i’d ever been to (nothing in toledo could ever be this cool, just ‘cuz it’s toledo). I remember finding Faithless’ Reverence album used for $8, consequently making Jason hot under the collar for finding it before him (pouting ensued). I also picked up the FLC album on a whim, after hearing “Scooby Snacks” somewhere over that summer. I didn’t listen to it for a week (until the Head of the Ohio Regatta in pittsburg), because Faithless didn’t leave my cd player.

…and on and on and on. Each disc has it’s own story, etched into my mind. I remember where I was driving when I hear certain songs for the first time, what I was wearing, who I was with, etc. If there’s one stupid, seemingly pointless blessing that I’ve been given, it’s to retain knowledge like this. I pray that I never loose that. Each time I pick up Dookie, it’s like I’m 14 all over again…and I love that.

As I was savouring a fresh cup of green tea and doing my morning routine of purusing blogs and news sites (is this the nouveau morning coffee and paper bit?) I was reading backlogged issues of a friend’s blog. As I made one final pass through the current issue on my way out the virtual door, I came across an entry about wanting to drop of out of the “race,” and it got me thinking.

How true is it that as youth we’re told that we have to get on this big cosmic treadmill and try and keep up, for falling off would certainly mean that we’d end up homeless or jobless or poor. Perhaps this is the curse of those fancy college-prep high schools (the type that I went to) that drill into you the frantic need to “keep up.” I guess I’ve never really thought about this before, to the extent of speaking what was always unspoken.

Since my freshman year in high school, I feel like i’ve been running this never-ending race for prosperity…and even now I feel the pressure. In fact even more now that I’m out of the academic world. It’s as if I *have* to get married, get a salaried job, have a retirement fund, own your car, buy a house by a certain age. And since this “Hurry! Hurry!” mentality is so engrained in me by now, i’m not sure that the nagging, hurried voice in my head is not my own. I think that even as my friends take other, equally mature and valid routes in life, my inner voice is still screaming “Dear God! You need to buy a house! What’s wrong with you!?! You’re 23 and don’t own a house yet?”

Now, don’t get me wrong here, there’s a valid and true part of myself that would love to have my own house, for renting to me is a complete pain in the rear (or front-butt if you have one). But there’s this extra octane, extra boost behind this urge that sends it all into an almost panicked tizzy. Why? Mainly because I feel like most people do things a bit too late in life and regret them later (worrying about cholesterol, fiber intake, retirement funds, etc) and don’t want to get bitten as well. I guess it’s the eternal boyscout in me that drives me bananas: I have to be prepared all the time for anything.

But as of late, i’ve caught glimpses of this insanity. I’ll catch myself obsessing over the fact that i’m only putting away 25% of my monthly salary and not 30%. I’ll realize that exercising 5 days a week is not the end of the world, and that my cholesterol will not skyrocket through the roof into oblivion if i miss the sixth day. These split seconds of seeing who’s behind the curtain, cutting through the paranoia, are unnerving. They’re unsettling because they show me a more relaxed life that I should be living, a healthier approach towards life. I get scared to jump off this Treadmill for fear that it’d be the worse decision of my life and I’d always regret trying to cut back, even just a little, in my delusional chase of adult responsibility.

Days like today, I wish I’d done what my friend Tyler did and take a year off after undergrad to follow a dream. I could be just rolling in from DJing at a club from the night before, or just pulling up to my warehouse studio space to begin my day of printmaking. But, instead…oh crap. it’s already 8:34, and although I get to work an hour and a half early and don’t usually take a lunch, I’m still somehow late to start work that I don’t even know that I have yet! Hurry! Hurry!

Forgive me for I have sinned. As you can tell from the list of item purchased tonight from my local grocer, I have reached full yuppiehood:

(2) Red Bell Peppers
(2) Orange Bell Peppers
(2) Yellow Bell Peppers
(2) Green Bell Peppers
(1) Sweet White Onion
(1) Bag of Permixed Salad
(1) Loaf Whole Wheat Bread
(1) Package Fat-Free Sharp Cheddar Cheese
(1) Gallon Fat-Free Lactose-Free Milk (in lavendar container)
(1) Box Green Tea

…and then I retreated from the snow into my gas-guzzling SUV, heading south towards my apartment in a neighborhood with H2’s and Jaguars.

Please find it in your heart to forgive me. I’m now administering a severe lashing with cables from my high-end audio equipment.

Sometimes I’m so ashamed of myself.

C’mon! Join the bandwagon! I’m gonna be like everyone else and do a “Best of 2003” list (but hey, mine is 5 days into the new year…how punk rock is that?) So here goes:

Best Website that I found: homestarrunner.com
Best Movie I saw: LOTR: Return of the King (yea, clichéd I know)
Best Book I read: We Need to Talk About Kevin
Best Album I legitimately bought: Let Go, Nada Surf
Best Gift Received: Glennfiddich 12yr
Best Non-Music-Related Purchase: Olympus C5050
Best “Becoming-an-Adult” Moment: Sucessfully sending out 55 Christmas cards
Best New Food Item I Tried: Sushi (Rainbow Roll)
Best Thing I Made Myself Do/Learn/Like: Eat salad without gagging
Best “I’ll Get Over It” Moment: Having my car broken into

Ok that’s all i can Col. Mustard up. It is, after all, my first day back at work after 16 days off. Ugh.

OK. After a prolonged absence, I figured that I’d get the New Year rolling with a touchy topic: religion.

Last night I was reading a series of transcribed interviews with Malachi Martin, a secularized priest/ex-Jesuit/well publicized author. Now, what I read was not exactly new to me, since I’ve read plenty of Martin’s works in the past. But what I did pull away from this reading last night was this insurmountable sense of incredible importance of choice. Let me explain a bit more.

I personally believe (read: no need to flame me) that the Roman Catholic Church, of which I am a member, is in a time of extreme duress. Scandals and headlines aside, the interior makeup, the *man-made* portion of the Church (not the spiritual portion) is crumbling. Without recapping the entire 63 pages of notes by Martin, suffice it to say that I personally agree that my Church is facing tough times. And for one of the first times in my life, I’ve really come to see just how much of a gamble religion is. Bear with me here.

Now, everyone knows the basic setup of “belief,” which is “believe in God and hope for justification when you die or don’t believe and assume you’re missing nothing in the process of living.” But last night it hit me just how big of a choice my religion is. Sure I’ve personally stripped away all taught beliefs only to reaffirm them myself in my search for religion…but I guess I typically overlook the “view from 10,000 feet,” if you will. I have a tendency to forget that I will spend my entire life worshiping my God and abiding by what modern culture sees as relatively strict moral codes because of something that I believe in my heart. Wow. This is a serious gamble. Now that’s not to say that the gravity of this realization somehow makes me doubt my choice, for it doesn’t. But nonetheless, I’ve caught a glimpse of the incredible weight that my decision has rendered.

Is it this weight that scares off people? Could that be one reason why some people refuse to believe in a God? I wonder. I’m still in amazement of just how awesome of a choice religion is.

It’s a funny thing too, because I couldn’t be further from the “gambler” type, and am quite the piece of poultry when it comes to making decisions. But somehow, everyday, I choose to make the greatest cosmic gamble possible.

Here’s to betting all my chips.