Cutting my Dreadlocs: The Pros and Cons

I know the title is misleading, probably causing many of you to think that I have either cut my tangled mane or I'm on the fast track to doing so, that's not actually the case. See each year, as my hair gets longer and I have to adjust more of it so I can wipe my ass without any "follicle interruptions", I go through a phase where I tell myself that I'm going to cut my hair. Each year I go through the same thing, like I'm stuck in a ghetto version of "Groundhog Day" or some shit, stressing myself out at the specif task at hand so much that I make a "Pros" and "Cons" list just so I can understand the reality of chopping off a piece of me that has been around for the past 12 years. So, kind people who read my brand of bullshit on a daily basis, here is a look at a list that I pretty much make ever year, welcome to the neurosis of Humanity F. Critic.

PROS.

No more flipping my hair like a girl: Even though I do "man things" like frequenting strip clubs, taking shots of liquor out of the navel of intoxicated women pre-coitus, and playing a weekly game of football with the fellas where I usually average a fight a week, there are a few things that threaten my hetero street cred. Besides me being a Independent movie lover, and a fan of "One Life to Live" to the point that a couple of days ago I screamed out like a 10 year old girl "They Can't Kill Todd!!", there is one thing that sticks out most of all. That thing, Ladies and Gents, is the way I rotate my neck and flip my hair out of my face like I was Farrah fucking Facet on an episode of "Charlies Angels". I don't even realize that I'm doing it until I see the "that was so gay" look on the faces of my friends, and the "I'm certainly not fucking you now" face that women who I was trying to know "biblically" flash me. Cutting my hair would definitely solve this problem, because if it didin't then I have more fucking problems than I thought I had.

It opens up fight possibilities: Listen, I know that I am 32 year old and the only things I need to be fighting is High Blood pressure and my deviant pornography addiction, but cutting my hair does open up a whole new world in the art of old fashion fisticuffs. Let me explain: Even though I have been in more scuffles than I care to mention, and have had no problem dispatching some ass-hat even with my hair blowing in the wind, there has been a few times I have had second thoughts about getting into it with someone because of the fear of having my hair pulled if the guy in question subscribes to the fighting tactic of 14 year old girls. Because of my fear of having my hair pulled, I have had to result in the quickest and most efficient forms of punishment, that is where the throat-chop came from. If not the throat-chop, I would break a bottle of beer over someones head to lessen the chance of having my mane yanked out of it's socket. If I cut my hair I'm not saying I'm going to fight, but the fucking possibilities are endless.

People will stop asking me for weed: I like weed like the next guy, smoked some out of a Mcguyver-like Pepsi-can once that a friend turned into a make-shift bong, got so high with a high school classmate and her mother once that the mom let me feel her tits for the sake of "believability" because of a recent boob job she had gotten, when it comes to the topic of Cannabis I usually have no proboem whatsoever. OK, that's a lie, when people assume that I have weed on me because the texture of my hair, that can be infuriating to say the least. The fucked up part is that even after I nicely say "No, I don't have any weed.", they think that I'm lying and for the next few minutes they assure me that they are "not cops" and how much do I charge for an "ounce". Trust me, if I had a dollar for everytime someone thought I was the local weed supplier, well, I guess I would just spend that money on weed and whores I guess.


No more silly fucking questions or statements: Some people, bless their little hearts, just don't know anything about dreadlocks, so if I am in a decent enough mood I will answer their questions, no problems. But after eleven years of answering the same questions year end and year out, I understand how an actor feels who is promoting a movie and is forced to go to one of those movie junkets where they go through like 100 interviews a day. Common questions include, "How long have you been growing your hair?" and "How often do you get it done?", not the worst questions in the world. Silly statements include, "Your hair smells nice, wow!" and "Your hair looks good to be dreadlocks!!", which I usually accompany with a frustrated sigh or a quick retort explaining their ignorance. Then you have the utter bullshit questions like, "Is that a weave??", "Do you wash your hair?", or "Can I have a lock of your hair?", what the fuck?

No more sitting under a dryer: Ladies, I feel your pain. OK, I can't give birth, I don't have a monthly cycle, and never had to be penetrated anally by guys like me as I inappropriately scream out my prison number while I ejaculate. But, by me having this chick that I know twist my locks once a month, I know how it feels to sit under a fucking dryer for far too long. That thing is horrible, sweating my balls off as I try to read issues of "O" Magazine, trying not to think about the pounds that are falling off my body because of the massive heat scorching my scalp. Right when I think that my hair is dry enough, after being under that hair care product of death to the point that the fluid surrounding my brain is boiling, she comes by and when I think she is going to release me from this indoor version of hell she says, "You need to be under there for another half hour!!" Fuck!! I can't tell you how many times I have walked out of there with a damp head, like a pouting 5 year old saying, "Fuck that, I'll take my chances."

CONS:

Positive Attention: Despite all the negative attention that I received, having my hair pulled and the arsenal of silly as fuck questions that are thrown my way, there is positive attention that I would miss if I were to cut my hair. For example, and ladies I'm sorry because I'm going to sound like a pig, but do you know the amounts of miscellaneous ass I've received based on a woman coming up to me and saying, "Oh, I really love your hair!!" Especially coffee-shop chicks, who's favorite pastime includes watching "Love Jones" on a eternal loop, burning incense, and living their life like it is a full time India. Arie music video, when they talk about wanting to wash my hair and play in my dreadlocks I know that I have found another future victim of the Humanity F Critic "pre-ejaculate and say it's her fault" mannuever. But yeah, I feel I'm an average looking guy, but my hair has sparked the interest of older possible sugar mama's, younger "I'll forgive you for not knowing who Afrika Bambaataa is as long as I can drunkenly penetrate you a few more times" women, and bitter ass broads my age of the "yeah, you confirmed that men ain't shit so now I'm going to be a lesbian" variety.

The weed possibilities: Even though I waxed poetic about how it was unfortunate, due to the style of my hair, that people assumed me for a Cannabis salesman. That being said, because of my hair I am alerted of every dealer within a 10 miles radius of my residence. In bars, having conversations with strangers, people will try to bond with me in a "you have dreadlocks so you must smoke weed, here is the number to my dealer" kind of way. It's definitely a perk, but I always think that if I was a Narc I would be like cop of the year and shit, based on how many drug busts a motherfucker could make.

Yes, I know the Pros outweigh the Cons, but I'm still not going to cut my hair. Why you ask? Because I'm a whore for compliments and discount marijuana, that's why. Duh!!

The Dixie Chicks: "Taking the Long Way" review

Listen, if you grew up like I did, the son of a man who grew up in the deep south and recounted the most horrific episodes of racism imaginable that would make "Mississippi Burning" resemble a county fair, reviewing a group with the word "Dixie" in it should be the last thing on my agenda. Not only that but I'm what I consider a 89er, no that's not a sexual position, it is a term I coined for anyone who prefers the hip Hop in and around the year 1989, so suffice it to say I'm not the biggest country music fan in the world. It's not that I dislike country music, I find most of the "white man's blues" variety quite good, but based on the arrival of an untalented fuck named "Cowboy Troy", me being forced to listen to a bowel movement in country music form named "Big and Rich" during an NBA All-Star game a couple of years back, and the ignorantly jingoistic stylings of Mr. "I'll put a boot in your ass, who cares about the Iraqi women and children" Toby Keith, like an old woman who sees me and thinks that all black men are criminals, I've made it my business to be on the opposite side of the road when Country music comes my way.

But that being said, I knew that I would give these three ladies from Texas a fair review because I am, truly, a lifelong Hip Hop fan. Let me explain: Based on the countless lazy criticisms of Hip Hop over the years, the passive aggressive racism that is disguised as objectivity by detractors of Hip Hop, and the "downfall of black culture" that uncle tom black conservatives like to lay at the feet of the genre that I love, Hip Hop has taught me to judge genres of music fairly with a open mind. That being said, I took the CD I borrowed from my neighbor, popped it in my computer, and decided to free my mind without horticulture aids or any other mind altering hallucinogenics.

When I looked over the CD cover for a few moments I not only noticed that Linda Perry and Cheryl Crow wrote a few songs on the CD, Chad Smith of the Red Hot Chili Peppers did some drumming, but the man that I consider to be the "White Yoda", the man that co-founded Def Jam and and stopped my nonsensical hating on Jay-Z, Rick Rubin himself was producing this album. My interest was now at an all time high, a dude who has waived his magic wand and produced the likes of Johnny Cash, the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Neil Diamond, the Beastie Boys, System of a Down, and LL Cool J, was behind this record so I was definitely interested in what I was about to hear.

To be honest, after giving the album a few good listens, I was pleasantly surprised on how good it was considering that Country music is the furthest thing from my musical sensibilities. Besides a well produced album that flows effortlessly, I was also delighted with the way they address several topics on their newest release. The song "Bitter End" is sort of an ode to lost friends, the song "Silent House" is a free flowing track about the effects of alzheimer's on a loved one, "Lullaby" is a touching tune addressing the love they have for their children, "Voice Inside my head" is a haunting, insightful melody about guilt and regret concerning a abortion, but two tracks really stick out in my mind. One of those tracks is "Lubbock or Leave it" which is a country dish served with a side order of blues, truly the song that turned me from the "objective Hip Hop guy" to a person that couldn't stop nodding my head. The other song, truly a middle finger to country radio, and those inbred motherfuckers who stopped being fans of theirs because they never had a father figure and still support this incompetent president, is called "Not ready to make Nice yet", with telling lyrics referencing some of the shit they had to go through after "the comment:" And how in the world/ Can the words that I said/ Send somebody so over the edge/ That they'd write me a letter/ Saying that I better shut up and sing/ Or my life will be over".

When people hate on Kanye West ad nauseum, I understand because the guy is a fucking tool, but I don't partake in spewing my venom his direction simply because there are bigger fish to fry concerning artists who are ruining Hip Hop. As much as I hate Bush, feel that he is a functioning illiterate, and feel that any one who still supports him has serious mental issues that need to be addressed immediately, I can't give Kanye props for his live rant against the president damn near a year ago. Not because I feel that it wasn't "the right place or time", that's bullshit, but it wasn't particularly brave and he stated something that every black person who doesn't put on black-face and calls themselves a conservative already knows. The Dixie Chicks on the other hand, even though they were abroad, criticised the president even though their fan base at the time probably masturbated to FOX news, had a "I'll put a boot in your ass" doormat, and probably still listened to the presidents speeches via radio, huddled around it like it was 1955 or some shit. What they did took balls, and with this album they did the right thing by not pandering to country radio and coming with a album that is more rock and blues influenced, and they are lyrically unapologetic when it comes to the statements that they made about a man who will probably be remembered as the worst president ever. When asked about not being played on Country radio, Natalie Maines said "I don't even know what's played on country radio, but when they tell me some titles, it cracks me up." She continued, "Besides, where would we fit on the play-list between `Honky Tonk Badonkadonk' and `Tequila Makes Her Clothes Fall Off,' as the rest of the Chicks -- sisters Martie Maguire and Emily Robison -- join in her laughter. Maybe being shunned from the country music is a good thing content wise, as I feel that this is a good album, and that's saying a lot coming from someone who prays to the alter of Hip Hop and the only Country music experience that I had was getting a lap-dance to the Billy Ray Cyrus song "Akey Breaky Heart" once. Oh yeah, Fuck George W. Bush.

Video of the Day: Hans Soul: "Imagination"

Ladies and Gentlemen, similar to being backed up from eating cheese all day I'm not shitting you, this video here is my version of evidence that their was indeed a shooter in the grassy knoll or Jimmy Hoffa's body, let me explain. This song has been on my mind since the early nineties when it came out, not because it is the best song in the world or anything, but because whenever I would mention this song to fellow Hip Hop aficionado's over the past decade and change, they would look at me like I just defecated a puppy or some shit. It got to the point, and I'm being serious, that I began to think this song was a fucking figment of my imagination based on the respectable Hip Hop minds that claimed that they never heard of Hans Soul. But thanks to Youtube, it just proves that a decrepit old 32 year old chronic masturbator isn't losing his mind after all. The song, a concept that wouldn't fly today, is about a love that isn't based on materialism. Ahh, those were the days, imagine a person telling a woman "I'm a poor man" like Hans Soul does in that song and still expecting her to drop her Lane Bryant's.. Who remembers's this one??

*Sidenote* Charles Barkley is dancing somewhere in this video.

Artist of the week that a old head told me to check out: Bill Withers

This weeks edition of "Artist of the week that a old head told me to check out", I'm sorry to say, is a rather disappointing one. I informed my alcoholic jazz legend friend that I had a decent amount of knowledge when it comes to music so when I ask him for an obscure group or act, I fucking mean obscure. So because I had this silly rule that I would profile the first person that he brought up, regardless if I was familiar with their work or not, today's artist is Bill Withers.. a dude I'm familiar with. As I handed saxophone Willy his bottle of booze as payment he could see my disgusted look, but he went on to put me through a half hour rant on Bill Withers that I already knew. Because I respect my elders I thanked Willy for his time, but was forced to say as I left "Obscure.. Oooob-Scuuuure!!"

Bill Withers is a great soul force that recorded from the 60's to the 80's, with memorable tunes that you and your mother bob your collective heads to. Born is West Virginia, he joined the Navy at seventeen and stayed in for 9 years before moving to L.A in 1967. He has blessed the world with classics like "Ain't no Sunshine"(a song I played continuously when I was kicked out an apartment I shared with my then girlfriend because she wanted to be with a bum instead of me. But come to think of it, I was the one that was forced to leave, so it was more like "Ain't no sunshine when I'M gone.), "Lean on Me", "Use Me", "Lovely Day", and "Just the Two of Us". His songs have been covered by the likes of Club Nouveau, British glam rock band Mud, Grace Jones, Fiona Apple, Me'Shell NdegeOcello, and Anthony Hamilton. If you don't know about this guy already you should learn, or sit in front of a gun shop and ponder your existence for a while. You can check out the classic Bill Withers song "Ain't No Sunshine"(You know, the one I mentioned earlier, the song I was playing when I was feeling sorry for myself that on my girlfriend left me for a fucking peasant? Yeah, that one) on my myspace page.

The HumanityCritic Logo

Thanks to my Neighbor Jason for hooking me up, damn I need a fucking haircut.

An episode of "The Sopranos" if directed by Spike Lee

(The title sequence with Tony driving past many New Jersey landmarks familiar to garden staters is still there, but the music is replaced with a Terrance Blanchard jazz version of "Woke up the Morning")

Opening scene: Tony and Paulie are watching television at the "Bada Bing"


Televison announcer: Men, do you have trouble during those intimate moments with the woman you love? Find it difficult for your personal soldier to stand at attention for a respectable amount of time? Has your penis been doing it's best impersonation of a wet noodle? No fear, Pelezna is here! With this product you can please your woman, even a few of her friends, because after a few pills of Pelezna you will literally be able to pound nails into wood with your wood.(side effects may include runny nose, hallucinations, bleeding out of the anus, headaches, heart palpitations, fever, memory loss, shakes, athletes foot, dry mouth, bleeding out of the ears, stomach ache, and a plethora of other shit)

Tony: Jesus fucking Christ, you are liable to kill yourself for a piece of patch! I guess there is an upside though, if your dumb ass dies in the middle of sex, the girl you are with can lay your ass down and play a marathon game of horseshoes with your 20 hour erection. Fuck that, I'll stick to red bull and cocaine, it's safer.

Paulie: I hear you Tone, but Tommy Perreti swore by it though.

Tony:(looking at Paulie like he lost his mind) Tommy "the one I had to kill because he was going to rat us out to the feds" Perreti?? Fuck him!! I never understood a rat, if the cops had me not only wouldn't I say shit, but they would have to gag me in the courtroom like I was Bobby Seale and shit.

Paulie: Bobby Seale?? The guy who was in the black panda party??

Tony: The Black Panther Party you dumb fuck!!! Shit Paulie, you think we have it bad, the panthers had it 40 times worse with that F.B.I COINTELPRO program.

Paulie: Why in the fuck do you know so much about the fucking black panthers??

Tony: I mistakenly picked up A.J's Public Enemy CD by mistake when I thought it was my Frank Sinatra mix CD. I actually learned something from Chuck, they don't make Hip Hop like that any more.

Paulie: True. True.

(Next Scene: Tony is sitting in Dr. Melfi's office during one of his sessions. Jazz music is playing a bit too loudly in the background)

Dr. Melfi:(sitting there silently observing Tony for a few minutes) Tony, you look visibly upset. What's troubling you?

Tony: This whole world and every miserable thing in it!!

Dr. Melfi: OK, can you be more specific?

Tony: Fine, the current state of Hip Hop and black culture as a whole. I'm tired of the bullshit, fuck them all!!

Dr. Melfi: "Fuck" who exactly?

Tony: Fuck those "bling-bling, let me show you my platinum teeth" rappers, with their pedestrian ass lyrics and their minstrel show antics, setting black folks back so severely that you can literally hear the time clock being rewound manually. Fuck the old school record executives like Russel Simmons who should fucking know better, but want to tell me with a straight face that the current state of Hip Hop is wonderful. Damn Russ, I liked you better when you had a drug habit and played Russian Roulette with your cock. Fuck the overrated underground MC's, only getting attention because the current state of Hip Hop is in shambles. You ain't the second coming motherfucker!!! Fuck Bill Cosby, yeah he has valid points, but it is so surprising that a comedian who once used language so artfully in his act comes off as a crotchety old man who hasn't taken a solid shit in a decade. Fuck Black Conservatives who want you to believe that their critique of black culture is because they actually are concerned and love black people. No you don't, we can see through your bullshit, so go take your shoe shine kit and polish Karl Rove's shoes with a huge shit eating grin on your face, fucking House Negro. Fuck young Hip Hop fans, looking at me like I just gave birth to a chimpanzee whenever I bring up legends like Rakim or Kool G Rap. You can't tackle trigonometry if you skipped simple addition you dumb fuck!!! Fuck any rapper who ever said "I'm doing this one for the ladies!". Fuck any rapper who said "I'm doing this song for the clubs!!" Fuck B.E.T, worst channel imaginable, where you can see idiocy like Three6Mafia ad nauseum, and the mere fact that I caught my self doing "The Snap" dance at a club recently had me wanting to find Robert Johnson and shoot him in both kneecaps. Lastly, Fuck negligent white parents!!!

Dr. Melfi: Why negligent white parents??

Tony: Well it is my theory that most of this horrible Hip Hop with it's misogyny, violence, and platinum teeth wouldn't be around if there wasn't a demand for it. Right?

Dr. Melfi: Yeah, where are you going with this?

Tony: Many Reports say that the leading consumer of Hip Hop are young white males.

Dr. Melfi: OK

Tony: Listen, what would make a white kid want to be exposed to such nonsense if their parents were doing a good job raising an independent thinking, responsible child?? So, I blame the demise of Hip Hop on negligent white parenting!!

Dr. Melfi: OK Tony, your time is up..

(Tony is now gliding to his car(the famous Spike Lee dolly shot) with Marvin Gaye's "Trouble Man" playing in the background.)

Stay Tuned for more episodes..

Weekly Hip Hop Anology: Barry Bonds, Hip Hop, Racism

Last week when I started this segment, I never thought that I would say as many eye-rolling things about Hip Hop over a seven day period. Like I said before, even though I am sincere about my feelings about the genre that I love the most, some times I get tired of hearing myself talk. It's to the point that if somebody belted me in the mouth mid sentence, as I damn near lectured them on my Hip Hop analogies, I would understand their sudden violent outburst. Granted, in retaliation I would try to put their miserable ass through a fucking wall, but I would still understand why they did what they did. Anyway, here is me talking to a stripper while she is grinding on me, explaining the similarities between Barry Bond's critics and Hip Hop critics.

HumanityCritic: "Yeah baby, that's how I like it. I have one massive "chubby". But anyway, like I was saying, the criticism of Barry Bonds and Hip Hop has a familiar theme because certain people use it to mask their racism. For example, there are people out there who don't have a racist bone in their body who have legitimate reasons to dislike Barry, the Balco stuff, the books about him, I respect that. But sadly there is a racist element who just hate Barry for who he is, and they use some of the respectable critiques to mask their racism. Same thing with Hip Hop, people who are totally objective might have legitimate points about the misogyny, the violence, and other respectable points concerning Hip Hop. Problem is, racists like Bill O'Reilly, a guy who is a hat fitting away from being a Klan member, use the same arguments from the objective crowd to mask his overall hatred of black folks. That being said, can you put those titty's in my face."

Video of the Day: Royce Da 5'9" - Politics feat. Cee-Lo Green

Rumor has it that DJ Premier will be doing Royce da 5'9's entire next album. That should be interesting..

Some advice for the Birthday girl..

Sometimes, unfortunately, a little tough love is needed to get your point across to those you love. When a friend of mine wanted to know why a certain guy she was dating "had sex with her and stopped calling", I had to drop the niceties and decorum and simply tell her "Because dudes know you are easier than Sunday morning, having a reputation of spreading your legs faster than Gymnast porn stars and shit.." Of course my honesty wasn't embraced immediately, but she got my point eventually. When a woman I was dating wondered why I wouldn't reciprocate oral and discouraged her from even taking her pants off that's when I had to be honest and, I think I possibly mentioned something about her private area smelling like roadkill and to "get that shit checked out". Of course that was the last time she gave me "below the waist CPR", but at least her new boyfriend is benefiting from a crotch that isn't vomit inducing.

So today, on the 31st birthday of Lauryn Hill, I thought I would give her some advice that I think she needs to hear. First off, the whole "I'm nuttier than squirell shit" routine is getting tiring. Having to openly say "Wht in the fuck was she thinking about??" a fgew times a year isn't cute any more, fuck man it was never cute to begin with. Listen, in an age where a large number of the female rappers out there feel like they have to wax poetic about jewelry, how cute they are, how many dudes they are fucking, and your garden variety limiting topics, this would be the ideal time for her to switch the game up for women desperate for change. Also, when I have seen her perform lately she seems like a shell of her old self who half asses performances with off key singing, and just random weirdness. I equate Lauryn Hill to a pitcher with an arsenal of pitches, a 100 mile fast ball, a killer curve, sinkers, you name it, who is currently pitching horribly because of a mental slump due to a few batters taking his pitches 400 plus feet for his past few starts. I guess that pitcher might see a sports psychologist, maybe Lauryn might need one so she can once again use her god given abilities to put mow down her competition like that pitcher who got his confidence back.

But you know what, it is her life and she can do whatever with it, it's just that I am a fan who would hate to see the talents who I believe could be the best female rapper ever to go to waste. That being said, Happy Birthday Lauryn.

Humanity F Critic and the elements of Hip Hop

Many people, friends, family, fuckers who would love to see me dead, say constantly that I take things way too seriously. When somebody said during a bar conversation that "Dominique Wilkins was better than Kobe Bryant" it took me a half hour to calm down and not punch that son of a bitch on GP.(general principle) When this dude who was 6'6 decided to give me a few, what he called "Inadvertent" elbows during pick-up basketball, I waited the whole game, leaving the lane wide open so when he did finally attempt to dunk I tackled his ass mid air like that Terry the office linebacker dude. When me and some friends went bowling a few months back and the new boyfriend of my home-girl Jill had the audacity to talk about the music I was playing, saying "What are you playing, Rakim? Yuck!!" I almost lost it. Even though I angrily told him that if he ever said that in my car again that I'd make him pace back and forth in front of the local gay bar with the sign, "Pick a hole, Come on!!" around his neck, it still took me every ounce of HumanityCritic restraint not to choke-slam that mental midget.

Even though some of my actions are regretful, I don't regret anything that I have done concerning Hip Hop because when it comes to the subject people think that they are scholars when actually they are talking out of their uninformed ass. Look, I don't claim to be an authority on Hip Hop, but that is one of the great things about the art-form to be totally honest. Like Karate, Hip Hop has a feel to it like you can always learn on some "Cane from Kung-Fu walking the planet, can you snatch this pebble from my hand?"shit. Also, like a martial art, Hip Hop has elements that you must abide by.(MCing, DJing, graffiti, B-Boying, and knowledge.) The following is my particular experiences, good and bad, with a few of the elements that I named.

MCing: (holding a Hip Hop Anonymous Candle) Yes, I'm HumanityCritic and I used to be a MC! OK, that's a lie, since I still have the delusion in my mind that I can get back on the Mic after a long layoff and kill any MC in front of me, as if I'm the rapping version of Kareem Abdul Jabar who comes out of retirement to manhandle Shaq in the low post. A guy can dream can't he?? Granted, if you enjoy the lyrical stylings of those Laffy Taffy fucks, or you co-sign with Young Jeezy and Jah Rule as they dismisses the importance of battling, then this element isn't for you Scooter. My fondest memory of MCing isn't a pretty one, but it is the one that sticks out in my mind the most.

At the height of my rapping days, when I thought that I was the second coming to Rakim and was sure that my bowel movements didn't have a questionable odor to it, I was invited to freestyle with my friend Mark at an underground Hip Hop station more than a decade ago. I was amped to show my stuff, since I felt at the time that no one living within a 200 mile radius of me could lyrically fuck with the man you would eventually come to know as Humanity F Critic. So, as about 10 of us MC's huddled together in a very hot vocal booth preparing to recite our hottest bars, I decide to kick it traditional and freestyle. So I got my turn, did my thing, and figured that I had shined and that my rhyming duties were over, but I was wrong. That is when out of nowhere, this young 15 year old who I didn't even think was going to rap started dissing the fuck out of me like I had given him a "swirly" or a very aggressive "wedgie" or something. Of course he was wack, but because of his age and his audacity to diss someone older, the other dudes gave him love. So in an act that I regret, based on my anger and some inside info, I went on a "agenda of hate" freestyle on the young man that included his family being on welfare, the hand-me-down clothes that he had on, how he smelled like a potent mixture of piss and cologne, his small teeth that were also crooked so I said that he had "Tic-tac's of death in his mouth", even called his mother who was waiting for him in the adjoining room who indeed looked "crackish" a "crack-whore". I think the kid started crying, and the older MC's there called me an asshole and thought that I had went too far. Yeah, its not one of my finest moment, but there is no crying in Hip Hop!!

DJing: If I was to sit here and say that I am well versed in the art of DJing, that I could master the wheels of steel the same way a ship's captin controls his ship during a bad storm, or the same way Mary J. Blige's make-up artist works wonders with a mascara brush without throwing up, I would be a motherfucking liar. I can't do any fancy tricks, no behind the back scratching, nothing that would win me any sort of DJ competition or anything. BUT, I can scratch a little and I do have the ability to mix. So, because of my basic knowledge of DJing a friend of mine had asked me to DJ a barbecue that he was throwing, with him supplying the DJ equipment and his vast record collection.

It started off flawless at first, with people dancing their intoxicated asses off as I used vinyl to not only take people down memory lane but hopefully get a wonderful piece of "after barbecue" patch later. Things turned bad quick, as events that would lead to about a hundred people nicknaming me "Fuck you, Scram!!" I got that wonderful moniker by my response when some douche-bag would ask me to play Young Buck, 50 Cent, Young Jeezy, or any garden variety rapper who is so wack that they should go through a public caning, my response would simply be "Fuck you, Scram!!!" People were pissed, openly complaining about my musical selections, and even threatened to remove me physically from my DJing duties but thought against it when out of spite I played "Live at the Barbecue" 10 times in a row to show them that I don't do well with threats.

Graffitti: Because my artistic ability hardly surpasses being able to draw stick figures, being a respected Graph writer was definitely out of the question. I had some friends who were graph artists in college and I would go out with them when they tagged up a wall or something, but I would always feel like a 5th wheel as the only thing I could contribute was my then personal logo consisting of a stick man with a phallus so big that he had to throw it over his shoulder. But the one memorable time that I had concerning graffiti is when I was the designated look out, posted on a roof top so I could alert my graffiti artist friends if the police came anywhere close to where we were at. When I got on the roof, after climbing a very shitty ladder that we brought, I realized that I was afraid of heights and my knees got weak and I collapsed in the fetal position. Even though I was only out a few minutes, when I awoke I was still scared shitless to the point that I had trouble standing. Suffice it to say my friends left me after hours of trying to get my black ass down, but it was a memory that I will never forget.(Probably because the next morning I ran for my life after I finally found the courage to get back down to solid ground, since a shopkeeper thought that I was a criminal and started calling the cops.)

B-Boying: Besides having a few popping moves that would make any Hip Hop aficionado applaud and a backspin to make the women out there drop their collective panties, sadly those two moves are the only weapons that I have in my B-Boying repertoire. Of course currently I don't have any moves, I found that out when I saw my boy Iselfra B-Boying at the Roots after party, doing his thing, I couldn't help but to feel inadequate and old as I felt a single grey hair emerge from my testicles. But my best memory that I have of B-Boying is when I was a kid living in Naval Housing, break-dancing with my friends at local competitions. Looking back, I didn't have many dance moves, but I did have a gimmick though!! That gimmick was my popping, bringing it down, and because I could roll my stomach I would lift my shirt so it would look like my midsection was indeed part of my dance routine. But people were quickly tired of the only move I could pull off successfully, and they were also tired of the Camouflage break-dance outfit I wore every fucking time that I went B-Boying. I knew it looked bad to always wear the same outfit, but calling yourself the "Camouflage Kid" doesn't really leave you with many fashion options.

Artist of the week that a old head told me to check out: "Cymande"

Unlike my ejaculatory rituals, when it comes to discovering dope music it seems like it takes me the longest time to catch on. You don't know how embarrassing it is, for someone who fancies themselves as the ultimate "music snob" to have your excitement about a new music discovery thwarted by a simple, "Oh, I started liking them 5 years ago!!" It's fucking sad man, so it is about time I went to a man who I consider to be my "Music Yoda" to keep me up to speed, a man named Saxophone Willy. Who is Saxophone Willy you ask? Willy is a local jazz man about 70 years old who loves to go into detail about the Jazz greats he has played with, along with pictures of him and said greats he carries around with him. Even though I feel dirty like a "John" because he charges me for his music knowledge, I feel less of a whore when I realize that the only price that I am paying is whiskey shots to an old man. So, each week I will feature a group that Saxophone Willy suggests that I check out, and this week the group goes by the name of "Cymande".

When he suggested "Cymande" and said that they were a "Reggae" group, immediately visions of Sean fucking Paul and those Reggaeton "I'm just doing this because I can't make it as a real rapper" danced through my head. But when I picked up some of their material I found out that they are more than a Reggae band, they incorporate Calypso rhythms, Jazz, Funk and Soul, and a kick ass sound funkier than James Brown's sweat-socks. These musicians hailing from Guyana and Jamaica with their crisp early 70's sound will definitely be a part of my heavy rotation from now on. To hear some of their music, go to my myspace page where their music will come on as soon as you get there.(*Props to the first person who can tell me who sampled the Cymande song on my myspace page*)

A Cymande Myspace Page

A Lyric that made me chuckle recently..

Saigon on the song "Contraband 2"

The forth question is a question that's going to shine/
This shit here is nasty as pork rinds/
I know yall say "he's the greatest" and all, fine/
But what was the worst Biggie line of all time?/
A. "Money and blood don't mix like 2 dicks"?/
B. "You look so good I'd suck on your daddy dick"?//
C. "I'd fuck RuPaul before a wack xscape bitch"?/
D All of that gay shit!!/

Quote of the Day.. Kevin Smith

Kevin Smith when asked about him "selling out":

"Somebody calls me a sell out I say "Horshit! That'll be 5 dollars please."

I'm just the worst at....

Growing up being a chubby kid with a stutter who happened to have a verbally abusive father, for a long time it was increasingly difficult for me to take compliments well. I mean, on the outside I took them wonderfully by simply saying "thank you", but on the inside I always felt that the person in question giving me the praise was either full of shit or had some sort of hidden agenda that I hadn't figured out yet. But for some reason, maybe it is the weight loss, or possibly the therapy had some sort of weird affect, but I have been feeling myself lately and that is out of character for your resident pre-ejaculator.

Being an asshole to fellow assholes is one thing, it evens itself out, but arrogance sprinkled on top of my asshole flavored gumbo sort of loses it's appeal. If a woman said I was "sexy" a few months ago, I'd probably blush like a school girl, look down, and thank her for her kind words. Last week, when a woman said, "You are an attractive man!!" instead of taking the humble route, I acted like Hans Solo in the "Empire Strikes Back" after Leia says that she loves him, by simply looking at the woman in question and saying "I know!" Wait, it gets worse.

The other day when I was playing basketball at my local YMCA, the team that I was on won three straight games. Even though I had the majority of my teams points, that was no reason for me to say what I did to my teammate who complimented me on my play: "If you fuckers would step the fuck up I wouldn't have to carry you miserable sons-a-bitches on my god-damned back. I'm playing my ass off while you douche-bags watch me like rubberneckers at a fucking accident!!" Besides the fact that the person I was berating was an old man, but I was also wearing a Kobe Bryant jersey while doing so.

OK, since I see my arrogant ways of the past few weeks it's time to knock myself down a few pegs. So, like a midget porn star, it's about time I came clean about my shortcomings. Here are a few things that I'm the absolute worst at.

Shopping (A): To say that I didn't have any patience would be as severe an understatement as saying that Courtney Love has a "little" drug problem. I have gotten better with it, I no longer tell bank tellers, people manning the drive-thru, and other garden variety cashiers to "HURRY THE FUCK UP!" any more, so that's definitely a positive. But I am still short in the patience department, as I found out when I continuously sighed deeply, damn near pouted, and said "Come on, let's go!!" like I was 4 years old and shit as I was waiting for a woman I was dating to buy a fucking dress. Maybe it's a guy thing, or my brand of impatience is all my own, but when I buy clothes it's planned out to specific fucking detail like I had drawn up plans for an elaborate kidnapping. A. Park as close to the store as possible. B. Once inside avoid looking at anything else but the desired target. C. Snatch said target and rush to the cash register D. If the freak at the register flirts, flash her a smile, mention your long tongue, and give her your blog address. E. Leave store immediately, the entire operation should take less than 5 minutes.

Shopping(B): If I get married, god bless the miserable soul who takes on that thankless task, my wife will do all of the grocery shopping. Not because I'm a chauvinist pig, who believes that women should be barefoot and pregnant, slaving in a kitchen while I inappropriately show my penis to women with glitter all over their bodies named "Lexus" and "Peaches". I'd want her to do the grocery shopping because I must be the worst shopper in the world, if you don't believe me I have the title belt to prove it. If there is one thing that I inherited from my old man it is my inability to find a bargain, even if that bargain had a siren going off around it with a few scantily dressed porn stars pointing at it, screaming "Bargain!! Bargain!" I remember my father coming home from the grocery store and my mother checking the receipt, and scoping the landscape of shit he bought flashing a "this is all you got for 300 bucks??" look. I was told, by that same woman by the way(my mother), that I am the same way. To prove her point she thought it would be interesting to see what she could purchase with 200 dollars and what I could purchase. After I finished shopping I was proud, I had a grocery cart full of shit, feeling that I would prove her wrong and show her that I was the ultimate shopper. She bitch-slapped me, not literally, but with her shopping prowess because later she came back with what would be the equivalent of three cart fulls of quality shit.

Small talk: Similar to a midget with a speech impediment, I'm not very good with small talk. I have no problem getting in front of thousands of people and making an ass of myself, I also have no problem having brief conversations with people that I consider to be my friends, that's fine. But it is those people you hardly know, that bimbo that your homeboy dated briefly, that jackass who goes to your bar, that chick who was in your gym class in the 12th grade, people who you know well enough that if you didn't speak you would be considered a "dick", that's the small talk that I hate. If I see one of these people in a store somewhere or some other form of public dwelling, I do my best to avoid them at all costs, even ducking under a rack of clothes to make a speedy get away. It's childish, but I feel the same way about small talk as I feel about Wilmer Valderramas career, what is the fucking point? But when I do get caught and I'm forced to talk to a person that I possibly wouldn't piss on if they were on fire, I say the most outlandish shit to get away. Stuff like, "I would talk longer but I have to take a monster shit!", "I gotta go, I left my car running and my 2 year old is in there.", "I'm late for my penis enlargement. I'm satisfied with my current length, but I always had the fantasy of me grabbing my penis in front of my lover and screaming "Move over bacon, now there's something meatier!!", dumb shit like that.

Giving Directions: I'm so bad with directions I feel blessed that I'm able to find my dick without using a compass, or some fucking form of Global Positioning System. Besides that lost feeling that I always tend to get, rivaling that one time I was unable to "touch the sides" of a 6' 5 WNBA player I once got to know biblically, I am even worse at giving directions. Sometimes I give it the old "college try" and take my time and sincerely help the person who requested my navigational skills, but more times than not I'm an asshole about. When asked, my responses range from a defiant "I don't fucking know!!", me pointing in a random direction and saying "Go a mile that way and take a left at the abortion clinic.", and if I feel like being really mean I will give them surprisingly intricate direction to the nearest ghetto two towns away.

Letting go of grudges: Remember in that Eric B and Rakim song where Ra says, 'I hold the microphone like a grudge!"? Well, if I held a microphone as tightly as I held grudges, I'd have to have a lifetime supply based on how many I'd go through. In certain instances I have done well, let bygones be bygones and even become cool with the person that I had beef with. But those handful of people, the ones that I wasn't able to exercise my brand of street justice on because of some bullshit that I let them get away with, I have grudges that have lasted almost 20 years. Don't believe me?? I'm embarrassed to say this, but the following is something that I uttered to my best friend Danny a couple of weeks ago: "That looks like this guy Gilbert who used to bully me in Junior High and take my fucking fruit cup. I should go over there and clothesline that bullying fuck!"

Rakim: "When I be on the Mic"

This song, by far isn't Rakim's greatest lyrical feat on wax and isn't DJ Premier's most intricate beat that he ever made, but this song to me is like two forces coming together to form the perfect union. You can't lose when you have the best MC ever to grab a mic on a track produced by what I think is the greatest Hip Hop producer ever. Have a great weekend..

By the way, I found this blog dedicated to the works of DJ Premier. Give the kid some love.

It's official, I want to get drunk with Kiefer Sutherland

Besides being a jovial drunk, also one that contemplates getting intimate with women that I hardly know when I've had a few too many but don't because of my germaphobia, I'm also proud of one of my other inebriated idiosyncrasies. Fessing up to idiotic drunken behavior and not hiding behind the old "I don't remember" defense. When I punched my friend Steven's cousin in the mouth because he was talking shit, even though I was told early on to ignore him because he was schizophrenic, the next day I apologized for decking a guy who should have been in a padded room. When I was hanging out with one of the only ex-girlfriends who I am friends with and her new boyfriend, I drunkenly found myself attempting to inappropriately compare sex stories in a "does she still do that thing with her tongue" kind of way, I apologized the next day for my obvious indiscretion. When my friend made the mistake of having me watch his house while he was on vacation, one drunken evening I got the idea to empty his pool and skate the fuck out of it all night. Even though it was fun, there was a significant amount of damage so I apologized and payed a monetary sum.

That is why the footage of Kiefer Sutherland tackling a Christmas Tree in the documentary "I Trust You to Kill Me" is so refreshing. Not because it is evident that even Hollywood celebrities can act like drunken assholes, but because Sutherland doesn't hide from it, he even laughs about it and doesn't try to cover it up like most celebs. I have to admit though, being the huge fan of "24" that I am, I can just imagine Jack Bauer saying, "Santa, your ass is going down!!" pre-Christmas Tree tackle.

My Accidental racism and all around idiocy.

Despite being an asshole who is ashamed to say that I have poured beer on women, cursed out members of the clergy, and because I thought it was funny I threw money on a woman's dresser post coitus after she sobbingly told me about her horrific past when she was an escort, for the most part I feel that I have been sensitive to people's plight and have had a pretty open mind. When my sister started dating what would eventually be her husband, a white man, I remember being the only one who embraced my sister's happiness with open arms.(But really, how could I give her shit about dating a white guy when my hobbies at that time were masturbating to Sheena Easton posters and skateboarding. IN THAT ORDER) When my cousin came out of the closet and informed the family that he was gay a few years ago, I didn't shun him, I let him know that it didn't matter what his sexual preference was.(Granted, him coming out of the closet wasn't a shocker. As a kid he jumped double dutch, wore my aunt's dresses, and had the most feminine throwing motion while tossing a football ever.)

So despite my history of progressive thought and open mindedness, there are a few people, based on innocent mistakes made by yours truly, who currently think that I am the biggest piece of racist, insensitive shit known to man. It's one thing to be characterized as a pre-ejaculating asshole with an anger problem because lets face it, I'm a pre-ejaculating asshole with anger problems. But to be thought of as racist, racially insensitive, or being insensitive to people who are handicapable is too much for me to let go undefended. Here is my story and I am sticking to it.

Randy:(Handicapable) Randy is a dude who I have known since college, a great guy who would do anything for a friend. What sticks out in my mind is how when I first met him he seemed like he was a pamphlet and a good lecture away from being a klansman, but a steady dose of Rakim and De La Soul had him lusting after black asses like a poor man's Robert DeNiro. Like most friendships post college, we lost touch but I never forgot about Randy and the great times that we had hanging out together. Then out of nowhere I got a message on my machine from Randy, telling me to meet him at a bar where we used to chase college ass at. When I got there, plans of reminiscing about chicks that we "ran through" and drunken vomit sessions were stopped dead in their tracks when I saw Randy, sitting in a wheel chair. It's weird, even though I'm sure Randy would have found it appropriate for me to ask him what happened immediately, I carried on a conversation for 15 minutes before he broke up the tension and said, "If you were wondering asshole, I got into a car accident where it paralyzed me from the waist down!!" I said, "Oh, that thing? I hardly.." That's when he punched me in the arm and said, "If you say that you 'hardly noticed' I'm going to tip myself over and say that the "violent black guy" pushed me over!!"

As the weeks passed and Randy got settled in the town that I call home, I learned that handicapable people don't want your pity or your help. When I asked him if he wanted me to help him in his car he said, "How do you think I get in my car normally you motherfucker??" My offers for assistance on several things were thwarted, but I understood though, he wanted to be treated like everyone else. The problem with that, because I live in a world of extremes where "nuance" isn't a word that I know too well, I stopped helping him with everything. Not because I was trying to be a dick, but because I figured he could do it himself. When we went somewhere with about a dozen stairs that wasn't handicap accessible, I walked in the building like it wasn't shit, realizing a few minutes later that he was still waiting outside. I took common courtesy for granted and mistakenly let doors hit his wheelchair after I passed through said doorways, I didn't even think about helping him as he struggled to push himself up a very steep hill at a park we were at. I wasn't trying to be mean, I just thought he wanted to do certain things on his own.

Apparently I was wrong, because he read me the riot act on the phone recently, telling me that he "didn't need two functioning limbs" to kick my ass. I know I should have told him that I didn't know what the thin line between "sympathy" and "help" was, I could have told him that I didn't mean any harm. But I did what I always do when I'm threatened, regardless who it is, I said some dumb shit that I regret. I said, "You can't beat my ass, not because you are in a wheelchair, but because my house isn't wheel chair accessible motherfucker!" *Click*

Ashley:(Asian American Woman) I have known this artsy-fartsy chick named Ashley for years, ever since I used to get high with her and her burn-out brother as we discussed authors that we like and our perception of their writings, some real elitist shit. Her burn-out brother that I mentioned, Mike, had to be the Asian embodiment of what a real life Shaggy(from Scooby-doo) would be like, constantly getting high and forever snacking. Fast Forward ten years, with me and Ashley losing contact and me assuming that her brother's final fate was that he was found in some alley somewhere, I saw Ashley at a friends art exhibit in town. We reminisced as I tried not to drool over the weight that she has gained, weight that had suited her well because now she has an ass and chest that she never had before. A few drinks and a couple of "lets fuck and make ourselves the next Tiger Woods" later, she tells me that her brother Mike has become a veterinarian. She went on and on about her brother changing his life, and joking that her parents can now be proud because he is a "respectable Asian". So me, innocently thinking about the times that Mike and I got so high that we contemplated drinking the bong water said, "Damn, Mike, an Asian Veterinarian!!! An Asian Veterinarian!! Wow!", because of how far he had become. But unfortunately, this is what Ashely heard from Humanity F. Critic: "Wow!! Mike an Asian "That's weird because don't Asian people eat dogs?" Veterinarian!! That's some funny shit!!" So in the middle of a room of people who were trying to discuss art in very subdued tones, she belted out "You are a fucking asshole!!"

Maritza:(Latin Woman) I used to have a good friend named Raul who was one of those cooks at a Japanese Steak house, you know the dudes who flip their knives around while they cook like they are a culinary version of Tom Cruise's character in "Cocktail". Besides my Latin friend being a master with the cooking utensils, he was also a master at making fake tickets, passes, whatever would get you successfully in a concert, he could duplicate anything. Not based on stereotypes but based on how he would always duplicate a green laminated pass that we needed to get into one of our favorite spots, people started calling him "green card".

That being said, I was taking this beautiful woman named Maritza out on a night on the town, going to an album release party that my friend was throwing, with the night hopefully ending up with me clumsily humping on top of her later. Anyway, during the listening party I catch up with my old friend Raul as he is having a playful argument with a guy that we are both cool with. I greet my old friend in the middle of their spirited back and forth, and as Raul excuses himself to go to the bathroom, I pulled the stereotype double whammy based on Maritza not knowing our history of inside jokes. I told my other friend, "You better watch out, Green card is likely to go and stab your ass!!" Innocent enough based on what I told you previously, but to Maritza it not only sounded like I stereotypically questioned my friend's citizenship, but perpetuated the whole "Latin's with knives" myth. Despite my explaining, lets just say that I didn't get to know Maritza "biblically" that night.

The Robert Johnson "Selling My Soul to the Devil" Award: John McCain

Robert Johnson was a blues-man that many characterized as being one of the most influential musicians ever, many stand behind calling him the Grandfather of Rock and Roll. Despite his legendary status as a musician, most people know him by the myth that he rose to musical prominence based on him selling his sole to the devil. Of course these claims can't be proven, for all I know this tale could be placed alongside that tale about someone blowing up from eating Pop rocks and drinking soda at the same time, but many people at the time believed it to be true based on how Robert Johnson's musical skill increased seemingly overnight. As the story goes, if someone would go to the crossroads(crossroads of U.S. Highway 61 and U.S. Highway 49 in Clarksdale, Mississippi) a few minutes before midnight and start to play the guitar, a large black man would come up to the aspiring guitarist, retune his guitar for him and then hand it back. At this point (according to the legend) the guitarist had sold his soul to become a virtuoso.

I must admit, when hearing tales of people selling their souls in search of obtaining a goal it quickly brings John McCain to mind. I have never been in lockstep with McCain's ideologies, but out of all the republicans out there who never speak from the heart and just recite the daily talking points that Karl Rove puts out there, I at least respected Mr. McCain for at least having an original thought and speaking from his heart. But like a girl who gives you mouth-hugs without you having to reciprocate, all good things come to an end eventually. It seemed that McCain tuned his political guitar at the crossroads when he campaigned with George W, Bush during Dubya's re-election campaign, giving handshakes and embracing a man who a few years earlier had a campaign that not only claimed that his wife had a drug problem, but that his adopted Bangladeshi daughter was an illegitimate child from an affair that he had with a black woman.

It seemed like this time a large white man posing as the religious right, showed up at the crossroads and tuned Mr. McCain's political guitar this time, making the selling of his soul complete by what I witnessed this passed weekend. Remember years ago when John McCain once said this? :


"I am a pro-life, pro-family fiscal conservative, an advocate of a strong defense, and yet Pat Robertson, Jerry Falwell and a few Washington leaders of the pro-life movement call me an unacceptable presidential candidate. They distort my pro- life positions and smear the reputations of my supporters. Why? Because I don't pander to them, because I don't ascribe to their failed philosophy that money is our message.
Neither party should be defined by pandering to the outer reaches of American politics and the agents of intolerance, whether they be Louis Farrakhan or Al Sharpton on the left, or Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell on the right."

Well, this past weekend he gave a commencement speech at Liberty University, alongside a man who's very existence he despised, Jerry Falwell, just to appeal to the religious right and his future candidacy for President. Seeing someone be such a fucking hypocrite is sad, but at least he gets to listen to a legendary blues man while he is paying off his debt to the devil.

Weekly Hip Hop analogy

This might sound weird but I have to be honest, sometimes I get tired of hearing myself talk. I realized that I can be preachy, repetitive, and when I am lecturing someone on what I consider to be "real Hip Hop", a voice in my head bluntly says, "Will you shut the fuck up already!!" That being said, I realized that my favorite pastime, besides throat-chopping black republicans and penetrating women with questionable pasts, is constantly coming up with what I feel to be fitting analogies on the current state of Hip hop. Here is my latest diatribe on the state of Hip Hop, which I stand by, but I have so many of these silly analogies I'm getting sick and fucking tired of myself. Here is my most recent one, when talking to this coffee-shop chick at a book store about Hip Hop. Try not to role your eyes too aggressively:

HumaniyCritic: "Listen Sugar tits, Hip Hop to me is like having a thirty something year old son who is now in a coma. Based on his incapacitated state, nothing productive is coming from him at this time, so I'm forced to rely on joyous memories and other evidence of happier times until he wakes up from the state that he is currently in."

My Mother and I discuss a few songs on my IPOD

There is one unmistakable fact about this blog when you get past the germaphobia, my penchant for pouring beer on women who are unruly, and my insecurity about my penis that shatters any myth about black men, and that is my undying love for my mother. In honor of mother's day I planned to wax poetic about all the great qualities that my mother possesses, how she has been the only person in my life that felt that I'd turn out to be worth a shit, and how she is the only person on the planet earth that I would gladly sacrifice my life for. Yeah I could have went there, especially since I know that whenever I speak from the heart my chances of me getting a ripe piece of Internet booty increases greatly. But instead I wanted to involve my mother with this post, a way to introduce the world to a woman with an intelligent mind and a razor sharp with. So, similar to the way Bobbito Garcia plays a few tunes for certain individuals and discusses them in Vibe Magazine, I decided to do the same with my dear mother. So yesterday I sat with my mother while my Ipod played songs on "random", and we discussed the particular songs in detail as they played. Here is how it went.

Kool G Rap: "Talk like sex"

HumanityCritic: Oh Hell no, I can't play this song for my mother!(Attempting to change it to the next selection)

Mom: Sit your ass down, it's OK, I'm grown. Where do you think you learned the birds and bees from in the first place.

HumanityCritic: Pre-teen girls and dad's pornography collection?

Mom: Oh.. Did he just say, "leaving floods of blood on your mattress""?

HumanityCritic:(shaking head) Yes Mom, he did.

Mom: How romantic! I know this guy is one of your favorite rappers and I understand his attempt to be macho, but this song sounds like a 4 minute sexual assault. What does this guy look like anyways?

HumanityCritic(showing her an album cover with Kool G Raps picture on my IPOD) Here he is.

Mom:(making a vomit sound) What woman in their right mind would let that man's genitalia come within the same zip code of theirs?

HumanityCritic: That chick superhead dated him.

Mom: I definitely feel that any woman comfortable being called "Superhead" is the furthest thing from a critical thinker.



Culture Club: "Do you really want to hurt me"

Mom:(Giggles)

HumanityCritic: What?

Mom: Is this the part of your blog post where you come out of the closet??

HumanityCritic: Hey, I like this song, and doing so doesn't threaten my hetero street cred one bit.

Mom:(In a sarcastic tone) Of course it doesn't.(wink-wink) But this song is alright, isn't it about his love for his drummer or some shit?

HumanityCritic: I think so.

Mom:..and knowing that doesn't in the least way make you feel uneasy as you bob your head to it.(realizing that the same head motion she used concerning bobbing your head to music could also be construed as bobbing your head to a phallus. Then she laughs uncontrollably)Hahahahaha..

HumanityCritic: OK, next song.



James Brown: "The Big Payback"

Mom: Now this is what I'm talking about!!

HumanityCritic: I love this song too.

Mom: They don't make music like this anymore.

HumanityCritic: I agree. I always thought that this song would be playing if I ever decided to go on a revenge inspired killing spree, systematically blowing people away one by one who had wronged me in the past. This song would definitely be in heavy rotation as I dispatched those evil sons of bitches from the face of the earth.

Mom:(Stops nodding her head.) I love you, but you really should consider going back to therapy.



Eric B and Rakim: "Mahogany"

Mom: I like the beat, who is this?

HumanityCritic: I think you can guess it, wait a few moments..

Mom:(Listening) Is that Rakim?

HumanityCritic: That's why you rock mom!!(standing up, speaking in a He-man "by the powers of greyskull" tone) You are, by far, the best mother in the entire universe!!

Mom: Boy sit down, I only know who it is by the many hours you played his music. Matter of fact, I'm sure I can recite part of that verse on that "thinking of a master plan" song.

HumanityCritic: Oh shit!!! Could you please try, come on, my blog readers would love it.

Mom: No!! Fuck them and you.. By the way, stop cursing so much motherfucker!

HumanityCritic: OK.



The White Stripes: "Seven Nation Army"

Mom: This sounds alright, who is this?

HumanityCritic: The White Stripes

Mom: You can tell that whoever this is was inspired by Blues, no?

HumanityCritic: Not bad.(showing her what they look like)

Mom: I remember them, I think they played on Conan one night. Two things I thought when I saw them. 1.They need more than 2 people in that band. and 2.Whoever that bitch is playing drums needs drumming lessons something fierce.

HumanityCritic: I agree on the last part.

Mom: Look how pale they are, see what happens when people decide to go Vegan.

HumanityCritic:(shaking head)



Lauryn Hill: "To Zion"

Mom: Hey, this is Lauryn Hill, she's great.

HumanityCritic: Yep

Mom: Didn't she go crazy or something?

HumanityCritic: Nuttier than squirrel shit near Mariah Carey's house. Actually, I wish she would get some therapy, stop saying outlandish things that makes me want to punch her in the throat, and drop a quality album already.

Mom: You know why she went crazy right?

HumanityCritic: No, why?

Mom: Fucking with those damn Banana Boat boys! They will turn your ass out and have you talking to yourself in a corner somewhere.

HumanityCritic: Mom!! That's not very PC of you, all of the Caribbean people who read my blog might find offense to that.

Mom: Hey, you can do this with the Dali Lama next week, you have me now.

HumanityCritic: True.



Jay-Z: "99 Problems"

HumanityCritic: Mom, do you know who this is??

Mom: I have no idea, who is it?

HumanityCritic: Jay-Z

Mom: Oh, Beyonce's boyfriend!!

HumanityCritic: Ha-Ha, Yeah. This is the song that brought me out of my perpetually unexplained hatred for the man. I now realize that he is a good lyricist so I took the hater cap off.

Mom: Didn't I read somewhere that this guy named Cam'ron disrespected him? What's his deal?

HumanityCritic: Cam'ron is just a wack rapper who wants attention, and the fact that Jay-Z doesn't think that he is worth a response makes Cam'ron look like a huge pair of tits in my humble opinion. Besides him having some homeless looking guy named Jim Jones on his team, Cam'ron has the most irritating rhyme scheme imaginable. (Imitating Cam'ron) :"Fo-fana. Ro-rana To-tana, lo-lana, Sh-wana-ho-kana"

Mom:(laughing) Who did the music for this song?

HumanityCritic: Rick Rubin, the same guy who produced The Red Hot Chili Pepper's new album "Stadium Arcadium".

Mom: Plugging that fucking blog again..

HumanityCritic: Of Course. I love you mom.

Mom: I love you too, we're done right?

HumanityCritic: Yes.

Ice Cube: "Jackin' for Beats"

You know, I feel that I might have given the MC with the birth name of O'Shea Jackson some undeserved shit over the years. I mean, even though I have been monumentally disappointed with every musical product that he has released since "Lethal Injection", seeing him as falling off, it's a possibility that I might have been a bit hasty with my hair trigger critiques. I stand by my feelings of not digging his recent recordings, but not everybody can stay in one place, why should I dis the fuck out of a guy just because he wants to grow as an artist? Kevin Smith can't do "Clerks" movies forever, and when he wants to do more sophisticated films his fan base better be prepared for that. So I guess Cube couldn't be the proverbial shit starter, political commentator forever, and I should have dealt with the fact that a change was inevitable. If he reads this, which I'm sure he won't, he is still one of the greatest MC's ever based on his work with NWA, "Amerikka's Most Wanted", and "Death Certicate" alone. That being said, here is one of Cube's classic joints, "Jackin' for beats".

P.S West Side Connection was unadulterated bullshit!!! OK, I'm done.

Red Hot Chili Peppers: "Stadium Arcadium" Review

It's no secret that the Red Hot Chili Peppers happen to be one of my favorite rock bands, but don't get it twisted though. Even though I might be a fan of a specific artist, I won't apologize for them if they come out with a wack product, I will even bitch and moan about the piss poor quality of an effort even louder than lifelong detractors of said group. For example: I'm a Common fan, but when he dropped "Electric Circus" it was clear to me immediately that that CD would be used only for me to put drinks on, or throw at somebody like a Chinese throwing star. I liked DMX but had to admit his second release was wack, was a big eminem fan but had to admit that he drops sub-par albums, and as a big Nas supporter I had to yell the word WACK from the highest mountaintop when Nas dropped that "Oochie Wally" bullshit. That being said, I was quite prepared to give the most honest review of an album possible, even if it is a band that I adore.

When I got "Stadium Arcadium" and noticed that it was a double disk deal going on, I got the same nervous feeling I get when I climax way too fast and await the tone of disgust from the woman who was on the business end of my unimpressive phallus. I guess it has to do with the overall disappointing feelings I've had from double-disks in the past, from the unimpressive Notorious B.I.G release "Life after Death"(an album that would have better if they just had one disk of the best songs), to Jay-Z's subpar outing entitled "The Blueprint", I suddenly hoped that this wouldn't be a sure sign of disaster to come.

What I found, as I listened to the album while I downloaded pornography of a bubbled-butt Goddess that goes by the name of "Cherokee", was a Red Hot Chili album that is their best work since "Blood Sugar Sex Magik". The two disks are titled "Jupiter" and "Mars", and with each CD they have set a tone that would please any die hard Chili Peppers fan. "Mars" just proves that these Californians can rock with the best of them, with John Frusciante slicing any would-be critics to shred with his guitar licks of precision. "Jupiter", with a more calmer feel to it, is as funky as James Brown's tube-socks, as they make you believe that they went to some University somewhere, studied under George Clinton, and came out with a Masters degree in funk.

This album has everything, from their opening song entitled "Dani California" that makes your head nod uncontrollably, a retro vibe on the song "Make you feel better", they summon the Funk gods on the song "Storm in a Tea Cup", in true Chili Pepper fashion they plainly prove that they are better than you on the song "Readymade", the ever infectious "Snow ((Hey Oh))", and they tear the fucking roof off with songs like "Warlocks" and "Hump de Bump"

One of the main complaints about this album is that it is too long, a feeling that I feel comes from individuals with attention spans of crackheads with concussions. Sure it is a lot to take in, over 28 songs, but I don't look at a shitload of quality songs the same way someone would look at an extremely long movie that they were forced to wast 2 hours of their life on. I look at 28 songs worth of quality Rock and fucking Roll the same way one would look at being given a year supply of great clothes, you can't rock every outfit at once, but you will get around to it at the most opportune moment.

Flea, bassist for the band said recently, "If you don't like this record, you don't like the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Period." I tend to agree with him. This record is for the masses but especially for the fans, not an example of most rappers and their bullshit "lets do this one for the ladies, lets do this song for the clubs" mentality, and it sure isn't blandly targeting a specific audience in a milquetoast, Mary J. Blige, "let me capitalize on all the downtrodden chicks of the world" sort of way. Granted, I've heard some bloggers express some hatred for the Chili Peppers, but the bands they like suck cock anyway and those pussies are not to be trusted. The Red Hot Chili Peppers, in a word, Rock.

Please Interpret these Dreams for me

Just like the countless internet singles profiles that I have just to fool women into thinking that I'm marriage material when I just want to label them a S.A.D.A.B(Suck A D*ck And Bounce), I need the help of the online community for this post. I have had a few recurring dreams over the past few years, and like Hitler with a difficult crossword puzzle, I'm having a hell of a time figuring it out. So I'm going to need all of you who are nice enough to read this daily drivel and are enabling my bullshit, to put on the shrink cap and give me what you think are the meanings to the recurring dreams that I have at least twice a week. I have to warn you, it might not be as easy as you think. Let me explain: I know I should have reported her to whoever you report these things to, but when I ended my therapy sessions with the psychiatrist that I was seeing once a week, she said in a very angry voice, "Good, because you are beyond help you crazy fuck!!"(That has to break some sort of therapy code) Anyway, here are a few on my recurring dreams.

The Hit man Dream: This dream always starts off with me wearing a very sharp suit, waiting to get patted down by two huge Samoan gentlemen in front of some fancy ass club. After they feel secure that I'm not carrying any artillery, one of them is leading me through a very dim hallway where I can see many Ecstasy affected club goers convulsing, I mean dancing. The guy escorting me to my destination makes a remark about how thick my glasses are, and even breaks out the old mama joke about the lenses being so thick that I'm able to see people waiving on a map. I laugh, but in my head I say to myself, "Just for that crack, I'm going to make sure you are one of the people I kill!!" This is the part of the dream that I realize that I am a hit man posing as a drug dealer, because in my dream I always look down at the briefcase I am holding, somehow realizing the drugs in there are as fake as Mary J Blige's "whoah is me" routine.

After stepping through a metal detector, another pat down, and being scanned again by a metal detecting Wan, I finally meet the crime kingpin that needed more security than George W. Bush at the B.E.T awards. We chat for a few minutes, his henchman takes the drugs to be tested, and we have a very polite conversation about things ranging from politic to the circumference of Jennifer Lopez' ass. That is when they find out that the drugs that I have are fake and threaten my life, asking me if I have any last words. That's when I start to ramble about something, slowly take off my glasses, and somehow, this is crazy I know, begin to treat the glasses like a transformer and turn it into a deadly fire arm. At this point, like my mind had sampled Ice Cube on his "Amerikkas Most Wanted" album, I say "Yeah, I have some last words. Fuck all y'all" and begin to shoot the crime kingpin and all of his henchmen like they were tin cans during target practice.

I guess the weird thing about the whole thing is that I walk through the club and kill civilians as well. I see one young lady and I shoot, POW, and say, "That was because you know that those shoes don't go with that dress girlfriend." I see a dude dancing and I shoot him, POW, "That was because that is the improper way to execute a proper 'cabbage patch'." That is when I shoot the DJ for playing "Laffy Taffy" or some horseshit of that ilk, emptying my clip in him. Besides the fact that I have just gone a public killing spree, the people are grooving to me as I DJ the rest of the party. Weird, just weird.


The High School Dream: This dream I find myself in High School again, which shouldn't be that shocking because I'm getting as much booty as I was getting then, none. Anyway, my mother is banging on my door like she had done so many times in attempting to wake my black ass up for school, cracking jokes like "The mailman, I mean, you father said don't make him come up here and drag you out of bed!!" I get up, wondering if the profession of my father is really that as a letter carrier, and rush to get ready so I won't miss my bus. I leave the house as quickly as I can, but when I go outside I notice the bus is leaving and won't stop even though I chased it for a block, yelling and screaming like fallen white chicks in horror movies.

After walking an hour I finally get to school where I learned that I have missed what was the most important test of my entire lifetime. A few classes later I get publicly pummeled and pounded by this bully named Paul.(Alliteration anyone?) Then in lunch a kid trips me as I made my way to sit down, chicken patties and chocolate milk go everywhere. When I gather myself and get off the ground after sobbing for a few moments, I get up and I am butt ass naked, which would be cool if I was hung like a horse, but in actuality my girth represents that of a toddler. As women point at the shriveled object that I blindly call my "monster penis", and my own teachers are calling me "stubby" and giving me the universal hand sign for short penises everywhere, I pass out due to the enormity of the situation.

The Dad dream: This is the scariest dream because it involves my dad, and in it I openly acknowledge that it is indeed a dream. Here I find myself alongside my father in a fishing boat, fishing late at night, in the middle of the deadliest thunderstorm imaginable. At first the dream is soothing, my father says very kind things to me, things that make a guy who had a turbulent relationship with his father feel pretty damn good. As soon as I question why the fuck are we fishing in this weather and say, "I thought you were dead, how are we talking??", the weather gets extremely more violent, the boat starts rocking, and my father's demeanor becomes all too familiar. He says, "You could fuck up a free lunch you know that?? Pathetic motherfucker, I never loved you anyway, your brother was the real apple of my eye!!" This is where I say, "You know what, even beyond the grave you fuck with me in my dreams! I can't wait to wake the fuck up and get my black ass off your flimsy ass boat!!" Then suddenly the weather calms down and me and my father sit there for minutes just staring each other, just silently shedding tears the entire time. The funny thing is, when I wake up my face is completely drenched with tears.(At least that is what I hope it is, I don't recall meeting any women with weird fetishes lately)