Moving sucks. The cleaning, the packing, the money, familiarizing yourself with your new block, all that. And worst of all, it’s learning to deal with new things that can have you in debt in the blink of an eye. So as I began contemplating how much I’ll grow to likely loathe my landlord, it made me think of other shit I don’t trust. Ever. But maybe I just have trust issues. Peep game:
I fucking hate doctors. With a passion. I hate their poking and prodding, I hate their prying questions, I hate their prescriptions because they never give me the good ones (ha), I hate their love affair with insurance companies and pharmaceuticals, I hate their penchant for slicing and dicing, I just hate them. Hate, hate, hate. But hate does not equal distrust necessarily, so let me stress that I also don’t trust these types for shit. Let’s analyze, shall we?
A doctor’s office is a business. In no way different than, say, a salon. You go in, you probably have an appointment, you check in, some type of service is performed, you pay for that service (or deal with insurance co-pays), and then you leave. There is a price tag on everything that they do. Ask any business man what their priority is? I’ll bet 99.9% of the time it is to expand their customer base and increase profit. How do you expand your customer base if you’re a doctor? Perfect scheme – lead people to believe they’re sicker than they really are, increasing their need to come in your office for visits, and pumping them full of medications that are chock full of adverse side effects (which not only keeps them coming back for follow ups in your office, but satisfies your pharmaceutical mistress).
Perfect example: years ago I had something I’ll call the most brolic flu EVER. I’m talking like a week of not being able to eat or anything. Puking and miserable. I definitely dropped like 10 pounds. My mother insisted I go see a doctor because it was getting out of hand. So I went. And they gave me some shot that was supposedly going to make me stop puking. I paid some stupid ass co-payment just to get stuck in the arm with a substance not naturally occurring in my body, only to go home and continue puking and feeling even more miserable. When really I should have just continued to wait it out. The doctors won that round. Financially, not in the sense they actually cured me.
In the medical game it’s like the pharmaceuticals, the pharma-industrial complex shall we say, is the Colombian drug lord. The HNIC’s of the shit. Their reps are the pushermen. The Don is untouchable so he has his soldiers. The middlemen.Then the doctors are the weed carriers. Yep they’re the ones peddling the shit and holding onto it for the fiends. They just happen to be extremely rich weed carriers. Something like that doctor that is allegedly responsible for killing Michael Jackson. I’m pretty sure he was making it rain. And let’s remember that a lot of these drugs are horrendously bad for the human body. But I’m far from a healthy lifestyle fanatic so I’ll stray from that topic. It’s really just a legalized version of an organized crime drug trade.
And, furthermore, doctors are human. They aren’t encyclopedias, they don’t have cyborg brains and photographic memories, and lord only knows how many classes they skipped in med school because they were too hungover. And they wanna cut me open? Oh HELL no. Board certification? Seriously, anyone can pass a test with a phone that has an internet browser on it these days. And how much material that you learned in college do you really remember now? Exactly. Are YOU smarter than a fifth grader? Your doctor might not be! Someone close to me is in med school and I’m not about to say any names but they are one of the most spaced out, out-of-touch, ditzy individuals that is a phone number in my address book. I don’t care if they’re my peoples, I sure as hell wouldn’t count on them to save my life. And I only say that because I know them. Your doctor could be the same way but you don’t know them well enough to be able to see it. Humans make mistakes. A lot. It’s extra creepy to think about.
Hell, I trusted my former boss with a needle more than I trust any doctor I go see. And he’s a Hasidic Jew business owner who loves Israel and I’m a Palestinian. What does that tell you?
Just another friendly rant sponsored by management here at Untitled Type. Next up I’ll address my distrust toward cops, people who wear sunglasses indoors, banks, and of course landlords.
I have very random conversations throughout my day. I surround myself with creative types and, well, the resulting banter is usually hilarious. Today’s random rambling was a discussion about melanin, most likely influenced by the fact that I could really use a bit of nature’s favorite pigment.
That’s right, I’m white. Extra white. Like a freshly bleached white tee. Well, ok, not quite. I’m more like an almond with a hint of olive oil because I’m a mideast mutt like that.”Off-white,” we will call it. Luckily I tan easily, but when was the last time I took a vacation? Seriously. I have no time to tan. So white as shit I remain. Tanning booths are supposedly cancerous and most self-tanning lotions smell really gross and I look bad in orange, so what’s left for me? Besides good ol’ sunshine (come next summer I will be tanning on my Bushwick rooftop). Then it hit me.
If they can pack THC into pill form, why not melanin?
Holy shit. I spazzed out to the recipient of the conversation, thinking I had the next pharmaceutical revolution on my hands.
And then I googled it. And got sad because melanin pills already exist.
It’s incredible to me how vain society is that there is such a market for pharmaceuticals of a cosmetic nature. Botox, skin bleaching pills, melanin pills, diet pills, you name it. In my head the idea was genius – if you pigment yourself from the inside out you effectively avoid UV rays, tan lines, and shitty orange tones that come with tans, and spray tans. And you do all this with something that occurs in the body naturally anyway. Apparently the internet says the actual outcome isn’t quite so amazing.
Obviously the underlying problem here is society’s perception of what beauty is, but is that argument really necessary anymore? Not much to be said about that, that hasn’t been said before. See lovely Anne Hathaway up there? Proof that pale ass YT’s like myself can still be perfectly desirable. I think she’s my dermatological idol. Her counterpart in the picture? Well, he needs help.
The best part about this conversation was stumbling upon this messageboard thread. Humans need help. Quotables, shall we?
“After circumnavigating the globe and purposefully attempting to destroy the livelihoods, heritages, living cultures and physical bodies of every tribe of man they came ever in contact with, the Pale Human, the Euro-Peon, has finally received his just deserts and is now able to see the looming end of his woe-begotten days coming into view. He cannot reproduce at a level which will ensure his own survival. It won’t be long before he becomes nothing more than a paragraph in a Word History text-book. Period.”
Euro-Peon. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that sooner. I seriously had to stifle my laughter. I’m definitely stealing that.
“melanin is what give black people rhythm and soul, and has other benefits as well! ive heard that melanin is extracted from dead black people and injected into whites also they make these melanin pills with it. allegedly”
…OK, actually I’m not. But I’m just going to sum this up by saying that Googling your random conversations is one hell of a way to pass the time. Would you pop a tanning pill? Are pale pasty chicks fascinatingly hot? Hmmm…
Seems like the new trend with listening sessions in NYC is to snatch people’s electronic goods upon entry, thus making for quite the difficult blogging experience. Twice in one week my trusty iPhone has been labeled off-limits and placed in a ziploc baggy or slipped into my boot on covert status. You know, “put a little in the baggy, put a little in the purse” steez. Which leaves a person like me, with absolutely horrendous short term memory, with a problem. How the hell do I recap these events if I can’t take pictures or video, can’t record sound, and can’t type in my phone?
Well, old is gold, so I flipped shit old school and have been running around New York City and Brooklyn with a pen, some post-it notes, and copious amounts of caffeinated beverages. This is what I like to call guerrilla journalism at its finest. I can’t believe I don’t see more people doing this, but I guess writing utensils just aren’t in style these days. Whatever. I’m from the D.C. area, ain’t shit fashionable about where I’m from so I could care less.
You know how the Kanye event went down, but I’ve been busy since then as well. The most notable happenings were the 1982 release party at SOB’s, the Def Jam Cipher Sessions event also at SOB’s, and last night’s Kid Cudi Man on the Moon II listening session at Don Hills.
At the 1982 event we were allowed to have phones, but all pictures I took were with a legit camera and I’m too tired to upload them. The event was dope but what the fuck was wrong with the crowd? Way skimpier than I thought it’d be. I have a feeling everyone was exhausted from CMJ. A one hour open bar from pool vodka didn’t even help. But then again that shit tastes like juice, I have yet to get nice off of it. A bunch of special guests came through, including Reks, Strong Arm Steady, and Lil Fame from M.O.P. Termanology’s set with Lil Fame, backed by Statik Selektah on the turntables, was probably the highlight of the night, as it should have been. I’m definitely looking forward to Term and Fame’s collaborative album, Fizzyology. Although when I say (type?) that out loud it almost sounds like a joke. Fame is just an interesting character and I’m fascinated how he can 1) age as much as he has and yet still sound exactly the same, 2) barely move a muscle or look like he’s trying at all and sound as wild as he does, and 3) how he ever ended up with a voice as crazy and distinctive as he happens to have. I mean really. I speak, and sound like a wimp. He speaks, and sounds like he injected his vocal cords with steroids.
The Def Jam Cipher Sessions can kiss my ass. Not only was I confirmed on two lists with a +1, but I’m a chick who can usually talk her way into a venue. I’m nice with the words and all that. Plus I actually threw on the dress for this one, since it was so nice out. Drove the whole way from BK to Manhattan, and not from Williamsburg to Manhattan or anything simple, I’m talkin DEEP in BK, only to arrive and never make it in the door. The place was so packed that the guest lists were snatched from the bouncers and the doors were just closed. No press, no VIP, no pre-ordered ticket holders, NOTHING, only re-entries. Pretty nuts. But that meant there was a whole other party on the street crashed by the pork patrol. Shout out to all the people locked out just like I was…DJ Victorious, A King, etc. Even saw surprise guest Sha Stimuli out there after he apparently rocked the stage. Which I can’t tell you anything about because I didn’t make it inside. I heard it was crazy though. Fill me in if you were there! The above picture is Big Sean rocking the stage, jacked from MTV.com.
Then came last night’s Kid Cudi shit. You probably saw me here and walked right by without noticing, because I was on some serious loner hermit shit for this one. An open bar courtesy of Grey Goose and Heineken fueled the night’s festivities, accompanied by free popcorn (is that the new snack of choice this Fall?) and slushies. I promptly downed two Grey Goose cocktails and sat my ass down with my pen and pad and knocked out most of an album review and an artist bio while waiting for the joint to pop off. That’s right, I work at bars with music blaring, traveling down the road to intoxication. That’s just how I do. Quit yer judgin’. The place was packed with the finest of hipsters, which provided me with lovely overheard conversations kind of like this one:
“Hey, do you think Cudi will be here?”
“Yeah, I mean it is his listening party.”
“You think he’s gonna be coked up? I mean…”
“Yeah dude of course he is!”
Oh what faith his fans seem to have in him. Anyway, Cudi really did show up, and although I can’t testify to what drugs he may or may not have ingested, I can say that I’d probably need drugs to thoroughly enjoy his album. But that being said I’m just not the biggest fan of the guy in general. “Day N Nite” was cool (way back in ’07 or so before it blew up) but beyond that he slipped off my radar. I had my contraband phone tucked inside my boot and a sound recorder on, but the sound system was not in my favor so I’m sure it sounds like shit. Hey, at least I tried. Sometimes I wonder if they do that on purpose. Open bar before you hear something new so that your objectivity gets a little looser, bad sound system so you can’t get any good footage…or maybe I’m just overthinking things, as usual. Point is I enjoyed the DJ set more than the album. The guy spinning played an interesting mix of stuff that was just what I needed to get the creative juices flowing for the pieces I was working on.
And of course last night was Wednesday, so I hope you tuned in to “The B Side Show” on A-List Radio to catch DJ Quiz, DP One, DJ Abel, and myself (although intoxicatingly late) to play some dope music and talk some shit on air. The show still isn’t back in full effect but it will be very soon.
I’ll be laying low for the next day or two, busy moving into my humble shooting range abode on Bushwick’s Upper East Side, but if you need a break as much as I do, consider heading to Stay lounge on E. Houston St. Friday night for the (2)dope edition of Illbanger Fridaze. Free entry all night, and an open bar early on for a minimal fee. Meka Soul on the turntables. Ig’nant club antics will surely occur. Enjoy.
Time to start a new series here at UntitledType. I’m going to call this, for lack of a better title, “The iPod Five” and I hope to do this often. I’m sometimes surprised by the random shit I find on the iPods of people close to me who work in this industry. And I think what a person listens to in their spare time can be very indicative of their personality. Who knows what they have hiding on there! So, I’m going to start asking random people I encounter what’s on their iPod…and as a bonus I might throw some dl links or old, classic music videos your way just to spice things up a little. So let’s get familiar with some people, shall we?
I wanted to kick this series off right and show some love to a rare breed of person – the female Hip Hop head. So allow me to introduce you to the lovely Yaya Martinez, by way of Phoenix and a DJ on Power 98.3 FM, and her just-as-lovely iPod:
Looks like we have quite the Hip Hop purist on our hands. No wonder her radio show is so damn good! You can follow Yaya on twitter: @yayamartinez and catch her live on “The Pulse” via Power 98.3 every Saturday 1-4am.
And yet another night at SOB’s happens this evening, as DJ Enuff and DJ Quiz hold shit down for the Def Jam Cipher Sessions. Should be another pretty good one, and if I can stay awake long enough or find some naptime I’ll be in the building for this one tonight, too. Featuring Big Sean, Emilio Rojas, The Kid Daytona, and more. Even post-CMJ, NYC is staying lively this week.
Tomorrow I’m staying away from SOB’s. For real. No more. But for now get up off your ass and enjoy the good weather!
Want to extend your weekend into the work week for a bit? Tonight at SOB’s (204 Varick St., NYC) Statik Selektah and Termanology will be hosting their release party for the collaborative 1982 album. Not only is Statik killing it with the production these days, but when he and Term put projects together they usually come out hot. Expect special guests at this one, I’m sure. Doors at 7:30 with a 1 hour open bar sponsored by Pool Vodka. Pool stays giving out the free vodka in NYC these days. The fact that it’s blue scares me a little but, but hey, free is good. Hope to see you there!
My latest review for Harlem emcee Vado’s latest “street album” entitled Slime Flu. Really not a bad musical offering at all if you’re into that sort of thing. At the very least it’ll have you wanting to yell “SLIME!!!!!!!!” at least twice an hour.
Another two hot but probably not-too-well-known tracks from the inbox.
First up? A guy I’ve never heard of before, John Public, an emcee from Jersey City who spits some bars over a 6th Sense beat. The track is called “Jack and Ginger” and seems to be giving me the urge to crack open this bottle of Absolut Brooklyn that is sitting right next to me. Hm. Anyway, it was a surprisingly good track from a name I’ve never heard of. Let’s see if you feel the same. If you like it, stay tuned to DJBooth.net as he will be releasing a free album (Re-Gifted: Thrift Shop Experience) on December 7th, featuring the talented Maya Azucena and production from 6th Sense, M-Phazes, and more.
Second is an offering from Beatnick and K-Salaam as they musically mesh K’Naan and The Paper Tongues. This is heat in alternative Hip Hop form. I’ll let them explain best…
“Greetings. So, I recently got a call from the good folks at A&M / Octone Records, in which they asked us to create a musical composition that contains elements of various songs from K’naan, & Paper Tongues; all meshed into one song. I am hesitant to call this a “mash-up,” simply because this would imply that we took an acapella and placed it over a pre-existing musical piece. This was not the case. Rather, this particular musical composition contains various acapellas (from the aforementioned artists) that have been intricately placed over pre-existing musical pieces, combined with a great deal of additional production.”
…because that’s what I spent three hours doing last night. And all for this:
That would also be the only picture I took the whole night, from outside the theater, since they not only had a strict rule about no cameras, but they also had a no phone rule as well. And I had all intention of sneaking my phone inside in my bra, you know, because I’m classy like that, but they actually busted out the metal detectors. So into a little ziploc bag with my ID went my iPhone as I went into technological withdrawal for the rest of the evening.
I don’t know what the hell went wrong but somehow I, along with most members of the press (which is a bad look) ended up waiting in line for about three hours to see a screening while all the “VIP” folks (think model broads and popular DJ’s) partook in an open bar and cushioned seats and a Q&A with Mr. West. What genius thought it would be a good idea to exclude the press from the initial Q&A? Yeah, real smart move. And sorry, but all the free popcorn, sprite, and beer that you can muster up can’t spare me the backache I have today or make up for the time I spent in that line watching all the industry bullshit while I could have been working on my phone. Not even an apology from Yeezy himself, which to his credit he did provide.
So while I kept instinctively reaching for my phone to tweet, only realizing it wasn’t there and furthermore realizing that most shit that people tweet or text is mad negative, I decided to stick this out. After all, I had paid a subway fare and changed clothes just to come out. So I waited. And waited. And finally discovered free beer (although some selfish bastards who were already a few cups deep decided to crush the red wine while I was, yet, again, standing in line for my first glass. “Let’s have a toast to the scumbags…”).
One plus about sticking it out is that a lot of people didn’t, so by the time I got in the theater, the crowd was real skimp. Which meant for the brief time ‘Ye was in there, it was a lil more intimate and cozy. You know, I could get a closeup view of his insane amounts of ice and shit. He seriously must have been wearing two pounds of jewelery. Anyway, it also meant I got the satisfaction of him looking me square in the eye as my sore back and fatigue caused me to instinctively mean mug the shit out of him. My bad Kanyeezy, I know it wasn’t your fault.
Honestly though, I was glad I sat through that film. It was just as bugged out as I expected it would be but with a dash of consciousness that I didn’t expect. It may end up in college Philosophy and Film classes in a couple decades, no lie. He used all sorts of classic film techniques (emphasizing certain colors to explore themes, that slowed down fire-burning thing that looks so dope, etc.) and challenged social norms in abstract ways, somewhat similar to what “District 9″ did, but I thought in a more effective and perplexing manner.
SPOILER ALERT!! The Idiot’s Guide to “Runaway”: Some bitch with wings crashes into the woods. ‘Ye finds her and takes her to his crib and tries to teach her some proper etiquette. He falls for the chick, so at this point Kanye’s girlfriend is a bird, quite literally. She enjoys shaking her tail feathers to his music, but that’s not too important. After he tries to take the bird out the streets and teach the broad some class, he decides she’s ready to meet the fam, or in this case a random squad of people with YT’s as waitstaff. All the fancy people think the bird is nuts. One of Kanye’s boys tells him his bird ass girlfriend is gorgeous but, you know, she’s a bird. To which Kanye responds by calling out ballerinas and singing on top of a piano. OK. But all that shit don’t matter cuz homegirl flips out when they bring out the turkey on the platter for dinner. Kind of like that scene from “Men In Black” when the big cockroach monster cringes when Will Smith is stepping on all the little roaches, cuz that’s his blood. So now homegirl has lost her mind thanks to all of these cruel carnivores and does what any bird would do. Bang Kanye, leave him, and fly the fuck away in a ball of flames as quickly as she can, back to where she came from. Deuces!
Nah, but for real though: The story is based around a Phoenix, the mythological firebird, that finds itself befriending Kanye, and just so happens to be sexy as shit. He uses this mythological creature to illustrate the extent that societal norms influence our being. It’s pretty real. From snide comments about how the news is bullshit, to teaching the firebirdwoman how to do simple things like drink out of a teacup, it really puts into perspective how youthful minds are shaped by what they see around them. “Runaway” touched on a LOT of themes, some of the most prevalent being love, racism, and acceptance. The scene that struck me the most was the dinner party scene. An all-black dinner party dressed in all white (well, cream-ish color), being served by an all-white staff as they looked on with screwfaces at the lightskinned bird broad Kanye brought with him. It was poignant, and done in a tasteful manner yet the points were clear. The fear of the unknown was evident, the segregation, the disdain for differences and unwillingness to accept. And when she understandably went nuts, they ran away rather than trying to understand and change to accommodate sensitivity. Then of course there were the ballerinas, which I’m still kind of trying to figure out, because it was essentially a music video of, well, a bunch of ballet dancing, and yet even after sitting through it I wasn’t bored of it. It was surprisingly captivating. Or maybe that’s what I was trying to convince myself it was after waiting in line for so long, just to justify my evening.
Kanye did a little speech about how he approached this like a 5-year-old in the sense that he just made something and didn’t think about it much, just whatever came to his mind, in the same way a young child who isn’t tainted by heavy societal influences would do as they draw pictures in preschool (or something like that). But really, I think he thought about this more than he cares to admit. There was definitely a level of intelligence beyond a child’s train of thought going on, or you could argue that this really is something kids see and perceive, but just don’t know how to vocalize yet, and Kanye’s attempts to dumb down cinematography may have channeled his inner-child genius. Who knows. But I’d watch “Runaway” again. The message I took away from it was good: people suck. And this constant pressure and struggle to fit in, fit a certain mold, look and act a certain way? It’s all bullshit. In the end you are who you are, whether anyone likes it or not. People are different, and it’s the differences that make each so uniquely beautiful.
So thank you, Kanye, not only for the popcorn and a backache, but some food for introspective thought.