A Rap Enthusiast's Top 10

1. Biggie Smalls. He was born with the gift of gab. Just a big, fat, motherfucker who was blessed with the voice of a generation. Not much needs to be said: The GOAT.

2. Nas. Nas is a more cerebral Biggie Smalls. If you listen to enough of his music you will come around to the acceptance of my theory that he is brilliant and probably has the highest IQ of all rappers. (apologies to OutKast fanboi's because, while Andre3Stacks is the most creative and artistic of any rapper- he's a craft artist, if you will- Nas is intellectual horsepower.)

3. Tupac. Tupac, while not being the most technically sound and talented rapper, had pure, unadulterated passion. In fact, I would argue that NOBODY ever rapped with more integrity. This motherfucker made the conscious decision to truly and wholly embody his music and, I would argue, traded his life for a higher calling- that of his art. He created and threw himself into "Thug Life" and truly lived like there was no tomorrow. With Tupac I'm reminded of the old ham and egg breakfast idiom:

"When it comes to a bacon and egg breakfast, the Chicken is involved, but the Pig is committed" and 'Pac was committed! He was an artist's artist and while I don't think most of his music aged well, he gets my highest respect and honor.

4. Ghostface Killah. This is a controversial pick for some, but I feel he has a true talent and is the closest to "Rapper/Warrior Poet". His unique brand of "stream-of-consciousness" is fascinating and stretches the listener (a lot of that is his unique delivery and slang as well, but not to be discounted).

Beyond all that, I don't think there is a rapper, save maybe 50 cent for about 6 months, who has ever commanded more tacit fear and I think it's largely because his music his full of testosterone and adrenaline, like raw meat.

5. Jay-Z- While it is my opinion that someone of his tenure and visibility (and discography) should have way more tier 1 songs, he is one of the best technical rappers. It makes sense after all, he followed and was close to Biggie. He is lyrically very strong and while he may not be a lot of people's favorites not mentioning him in the top 10 I think is fallacy.

6. Eminem- Eminem is an example, to me, of what happens when hard work and practice meets a unique perspective, story and style. Eminem could have sold out and been a bitch, but he made the decision early in his career to keep his music on the cutting edge (stylistically- not so much shock lyrics) and it worked. His unique style- not rhyming ABAB or AABB, but multi-syllabification within verses (eg. "Whatever 'happened to 'catching a good ol 'fashioned 'asswhoopin and getting your shoes,coat and hat took'en) is ground-breaking.

7. Controversial pick - Fabulous. I know his first exposure (and last to most music fans) was that pussy ass holla back song, but Fab is hands down the best punch line rapper ever. Cannibus, Cassidy, Ludacris- eat your hearts out. Lyrically, he does the most twists and turns and is clever enough to extend metaphors for multiple bars. If the rappers above are great literary titans, Fab is like the intellectual satirist.

8. T.I. - I generally fancy music that glorifies violence, misogamy, drugs, and glory and while there are grimier and more raw rappers that embody those ideals, T.I.P. birthed them in the South. I think what makes T.I. great is that his best music all has the message, by way of subtext and underlying themes, of hope. He reminds me a lot of Tupac and I think, if he doesn't quite elicit the same emotion and following with his fan/populace/constituents, when it comes to actual rapping, he is better.

9. Juvenile- I contend that 400 Degreez might be the greatest debut album ever. Juvenile, like carcinogenic cellular mutations in the human body and Mother Nature, just doesn't give a fuck and won't be denied. I feel like all men are born with a purpose. Most men use resistance and excuses to wallow in mediocrity and deny themselves the passion in their heart until it doesn't exist. Juvenile was a born rapper and nothing- not the death of his kids, bankruptcy, fraud- will deny him. Without rap Juvenile would cease to exist on this earth and I feel that manifests through his music. I think in 20-30 years we will all understand his genius and celebrate his entire catalog.

10. Lil Wayne- I think Wayne in TC1-TC3 (and all his mix-tapes) deserves to be in the top 10. His experimentation and exploitation of that time was remarkable in that he truly mastered his craft and could invoke his message, his journey, his being, in each and every song from 2004-2008. It has become chic to forget those days but I think eventually time will do him justice. In fact, I think Lil Wayne will be one of those who commits suicide because as the drugs, fame and fortune wear off, he will wake up in a stupor to realize that he sold out his art and is an empty man who spawned fagets like Drake and Niki Menage

Urban Spelunking in Search of Rooftop Tennis/Basketball Courts

For the last 4 months (since I moved into my current office building) I've asked around to everyone how to access this rooftop tennis and basketball courts and nobody I've talked to seems to know the answer. Here is a crude picture I took from my office. #humblebrag

My office overlooks a structure, I want to say it's a parking garage, that seems to be connected to the Plaza of Americas. When I look out of my window I can see a rooftop tennis court and full basketball court.

I have never seen anyone on it, ever.

My CEO has said that if I can figure out what it is and how to get on it, I'll be allowed to dick around and play tennis and basketball. The last two weeks I've been fervently asking around- building management, workers, The Marriot (which I thought was the proprietor as it seems to be right around that conference area they have)- and nobody seems to know anything about it.

**Update**

I got this note from Marriot:

Thank you for contacting Marriott. We appreciate the opportunity to provide you with information.

We contacted the Dallas Marriott City Center directly on your behalf and spoke with one of our colleagues. They are not aware of a full size tennis court, or a basketball court on a roof, in the area.

More information regarding this hotel's facilities and services may be found at the webpage below:

www.marriott.com/DALDT

You may wish to contact an associate at the hotel for further details. The contact information for this location is included below:

Dallas Marriott City Center
Phone: 1-214-979-9000
Fax: 1-214-953-1931 

***Update II***

Full disclosure, I am so terrible at things that involve spatial reasoning, things that include all of the following: driving, directions, parking, physics, geometry and exclusively abstract theories. That being said, I went on an orienteering mission to find a Tennis Court and ended up more confused than I began. I took a few pictures:

So I took the advice and went over to the parking garage. I took the elevator to the 11th floor (the highest allowed) and then had to take the stairs to 12, the top. Once I reached the apex, I found a door that was locked:

So I go back down stairs to the 11th floor and start snooping around some hallways above the Marriot. There is a testing company and I asked some employees but they were of no help. I went down the only hallway outside of that business and at the end of the hall there was a left and a right. To the left was a large, lit 'Exit' door that was locked and had a badge sensor next to a locked door that sounded like it had a server in it.

Down the other side of the hall was one door. I didn't take a photo of it because it was, for some reason, unlit and dark. I opened the door and I found myself circled back to the 12th floor door:

At this point I'm feeling like a first person shooter trying to learn a new map/world like Golden Eye or Silent Hill.

I resign myself to go home and get in the elevator when I notice the 12th floor has a star next to it. I took that exit and found a dark/closed/unmanned Dallas Regional Conference area.

**** Update III ****

It has since come to light why there was nobody in the Dallas Chamber and why everything was wide open, dark and seemingly empty.

Posted in April of 2012:

"The Dallas Regional Chamber announced Tuesday that it will move its headquarters within downtown Dallas from Plaza of the Americas to Lincoln Plaza.

The chamber, which employs 45 people, has leased the entire 26th floor at Lincoln Plaza, which covers 25,436 feet. The move is scheduled for the fall."

So, they are moving/have moved and there is nobody there. So either I get to figure this out and play tennis and basketball for free for a while or nobody that knows anything about it or how to open the door.

The whole place is empty but its open so I resume sniffing around. There are lots of empty conference rooms, break rooms, printer/office rooms and I think I hear someone rustling around in a supply closet so I call out and nobody is there that I can see/hear. Admittedly, I'm a little spooked. I continue snooping on tip-toe.

All the doors by the exits are closed except one to the very far left. It's sufficiently away from where I thought I heard someone but I couldn't be sure, so I'm weary about opening this door and letting it close behind me and me being stuck on a roof.

I venture out and I see a fence and I think "YES" this is where the tennis courts are, I've made it:

Then it hit me, "well heck, how does one get through that fence and no door?" So I venture further and see this. Really weird.

So, I turn around and take a picture of my office (the right side, 4th row from the bottom) from my vantage:

I'm done for the day, don't want to get stuck on a roof or get in trouble for trespassing.

****** Update IV ******

I go home and do some google/bing maps research. I see that I was outdoors on the opposite side, ostensibly separated by Dallas Regional Chamber:

So the next morning I'm resolved to figure this out.

******* Update V *******

So, I was advised it might be a good idea to call the Dallas Regional Chamber but I don't want The DRC to know anything about my attempts, or alert anyone really, because I don't want to risk my potential honeypot.

I went back up there this morning and the first thing I noticed was, again, The DRC was wide open, dark and empty. The place, I have surmised, is abandoned or maybe under the absent eye the Plaza of America's management group keeps it open for some reason, but its empty and everyone who worked there or had business there is obviously moved out and on to Lincoln Plaza (per the article I copied and pasted).

So knowing that I had a bit more confidence about roaming around and not getting in trouble for trespassing. I walk to where I was last at yesterday and figure I need to go on the opposite side. I find this hallway that looks to be the path. The tricky thing about this hallway is that I have to leave my bag as a door stop or else be at risk to be stuck in the hallway (the door says no re-entry on the backside), so now I'm bag-less. Notice the floors are torn up:

Upon reaching the end door, there happens to be a small, orange cone which works to my fortune because it too is an exit only/no re-entry door. Either management uses this trick or there is another rat like myself trying to figure out this maze. I prop the door open with the orange cone but am not too confident about it's holding power. And then, there it is. The promise land. I called my CEO. "Hey, you in the office? Go to my office, look out the window and take a picture. you'll know what I'm talking about."

 So, I figure this honeypot will be open to me at least through the holidays as traffic getting in to downtown is already light and people take vacations and all around half ass it. 

Anyone in Downtown Dallas up for a game of rooftop tennis or basketball?

Meridian, Bloody Meridian.

On Blood Meridian or The Evening Redness in the West:

Much is made of this novel and with good reason. At only 335 pages BM is a sweeping epic that, much like its iconic Judge Holden, identifies and catalogs many discreet human phenomena, with the most extended and fascinating being that of the mythology surrounding the Western idea of the “Devil”. This investigation and subsequent characterization alone is enough to enlighten and inspire the intellectually curious among us, but ultimately what embronzes this book into the hallowed halls of classical art is the masterful writing of Cormac McCarthy. It is my opinion that McCarthy is author to the bravest and, because of that reeking and lewd courage, greatest American literary achievement.

I fancy myself a man of above average intellect with a happy talent for both composition and reading comprehension and yet I found myself drowning in the deep and hazardous waters of the first few chapters’, as if I was reading Chaucer or Beowulf. I knew that what I was reading was English, thine eyes recognized and put meaning to the characters, words and sentences on the page, but I might as well have been trying to translate some dirty relic of Anglo-Saxon antiquity unearthed and then set to the American Southwest. Dense doesn’t being to describe this Red Dwarf and, I think, a lot of the early struggle was in trying to get in rhythm in the choppy and unfamiliar waters of a novel that is unique in that it is written with with supremacy of confidence. McCarthy clears a path by allowing his prose to burn forward, raging with the oxygen of risk in his ability and it’s my stance and appreciation that it takes a true artist to be able to cast off the comfortable shackles of preassembled speech patterns and description and create something original, to “utter a new word”.

Further, BM is methodically and expertly researched (from historical accounts to relevant, archaic words and dialogue) which serves to validate the work, from the investigation of ‘The Devil” to lending the extreme and often graphical violence a legitimate voice. It is to this end that I cannot understand those who say things read in BM count as some of the most disturbing things they’ve read because to be disturbed is to be uncomfortable due to an incongruity and inappropriateness. Severe violence, like in War and Religion (pardon the redundancy, Your Honor) in BM not only has a responsibility to exist but is exhibited in such harmony that McCarthy shows himself to be more poet than warrior.

Once having gained my sea legs, I found myself in awe that McCarthy was able to create dynamic combustion with the seemingly static and sterile ingredients of 19th century jargon and esoteric descriptors. For my experience, reading BM was like taking a hard, psychoactive drug; you’ve heard these wondrous and ecstatic things and are anxious to feel them yourself. You flip the first page, swallow hard and off you go on this cerebral journey. The aforementioned struggle to inhale the first thirty pages, over-thinking and staunchly garrisoned in your own brain, leaves you with the creeping doubt that “Maybe I got a bad copy" and questioning "Is this book ever going to get me high?” Eventually, however, your brain adapts to the new normal and equilibrium that McCarthy so deftly creates and before long you aren’t just reading the story, you are experiencing the journey and it is taxing, it is physical, it is work. You are dancing. Perhaps you too will never sleep; perhaps you too will never die.

And like most hard drugs, if BM were submitted as a manuscript today, I fear it would not be street legal. BM might still have found a demand in the boutique and niche publishing houses or broken up into shorts in some cavalier magazine, but, I fear, in today’s era of cheap and easy conflict and “tension on every page” we have devolved into a culture more interested in the easy digestion and quick, frequent highs than of the long, slow burn that a great writer can stir. We’d rather smoke the equivalent of literary crack over and over, in a volume play, than involve ourselves, engaging as an audience to commit to art, getting our hands dirty with rubber tubing and hypodermic needles.
Ultimately, however, the story moves me because I was once young, violent and drunken -a modern marauder- in a past recent enough that, late at night when the kids are safe and soundly sleeping my thoughts wander to the wanton days of fatalistic and wild adventures. I can still recollect the highs and lows of a vandal life and BM, at its core, is an epic journey- a frontier Odyssey combined with a more brutal Paradise Lost and, as a native of Texas whose unique history is one, not of peaceful and political annexation, but of conquest and revolution, the premise resonates wholly within me.

Lastly, McCarthy paints a clear picture that Judge Holden is in fact “The Devil”. But that’s a conversation for another day.

Happy Juneteenth 2012!

So, I decide to go to Joppa (pronounced Joppy) and pick up a friend to go experience this whole Juneteenth thing at the deepest root we have available.

So for those who aren't familiar, a little background. Joppa is a little settlement on 45(S) past the trinity river bottom and flanked by a huge railyard depot and buttressed by wilderness to the South. There is no local law presence (DPD has to be about 20 minutes away from call to contact) and, if you've ever seen Training Day it is exactly like that; there is one way in, across the tracks and over a bridge, and one way out. Joppa is one of the oldest left freedmen settlements from the old policy "40 acres and a mule" days.

Generally speaking, these tracts of land given as a sort of "reparation" have long since evolved into thriving communities, assimiliated and later incorporated into normal cities of today. Well, for whatever reason (my theory is geography) Joppa is the last, isolated settlement that is almost 100% African-American and has remained largely insulated to the point that residents dont have basic necessities like A/C and the government subsidizes almost everything there. At any rate, me and a friend decide it would be fun and fitting to drive over there, walk around and maybe crash a yard party or drink a 32oz. beer out of a paper bag, see if there is a place to eat lunch, general tomfoolery.

We get there and I don't leave my car.

Prostitutes, crazy vagrants and drunks roaming the street, evil glares. I've had a gun pulled on a group of us at 5am on Canal St. in New Orleans and this rivals that incident on my psychological state of fear and safety. The best way to describe it is there is a general sense of doom once you enter, like being in a haunted house. Anyways, some pics attached, which include a prostitute with a cane, a horse in a house and a shotgun house that, ostensibly burned down, but the charred embers still remain. I didnt take pics of some of the more flagrant things because I was fearful of what would happen if they saw me taking pics. It amazes me that a place like this still exists, in Dallas at that, and that 98% of my peer group has never heard of it.

Also in this link a professional European photag did there is a picture of a guy with the words 'Dog Life' tattooed on his face, that alone should have told me not to go.

http://www.panos.co.uk/stories/2-13-...What-is-Joppa/

So, after that whole rigamarole I go to Sweet Georgia Brown in Oak Cliff- much safer way to celebrate my black heritage.

In Defense of Lil' Boosie (Bad Azz)

I think it is pretty obvious that I am a Lil Boosie so take what I have to say with that in mind. This is going to sound blasphemous, but bear with me:

Tupac really wasn't a great rapper. I said it.

But, when I say that I mean, he wasn't a great rapper from a place of raw, innate talent or from a technical standpoint, as you can name ten better rappers that meet that criteria. But I argue that for 'Pac you can't just look at his music in a vaccuum (if one did, one would find a vast majority of his catalog of music doesn't really age well and he had a bunch of corny songs) but instead you must look at the bigger picture.

When it came to 'Pac, as Derka stated above, nobody had more heart. I would further expound on that (as I have on threads before) and exert that nobody had more integrity, as a rapper, than 'Pac because what he lacked in craftsmanship, he more than made up for in pure, unadulterated passion. Further, at some point in his career he made the conscentious effort to literally trade his life for his music which because of his 100% buy-in to his creation- his philosophy of "Thug Life"- became bigger than himself and something that rap fans could never deny as his glory. The man was the definition of real and, in my opinion is heralded as one of the greats because he gave up his life for a higher calling, that of his music. Rapper Jesus, if you will.

"Great analysis, Monster,Man, that is very true and profound, but how does Lil Boosie's retarded, high pitched ass even fit into the conversation?"

Great question, let me give you my position and opinion on the matter. Lil Boosie is the modern day Tupac. Lil Boosie, again not the best rapper of his times (or even his peer group), is one of the most (again, my opinion) honest rappers of the last 5 years. He, like Tupac, raps about the things that a large group of real people- people who feel left behind or forgotten about in our society- can relate to, agree with, and which ultimately serves to validate their existence. Boosie, to me, is like 'Pac in that they both used their music as a bully pulpit and rap for "their people", as 'Pac did in his day, consquences be damned, and I find that to be a noble undertaking and one in which I can identify and support.

I ]think you will find that if you do a quick mental inventory of your poorest, thuggiest, most ignorant, most aggressive with the least amount of opportunity friends, to a man they will be a Lil Boosie fan because he is giving them a voice (poetically enough, through mixtapes made in prison) and true artistic representation, and I for one think that should be celebrated.

Lastly, I think at the end of the day, an individual who doesn't like boosie (or any rapper for that matter) should probably just understand that perhaps that particular musician isn't making music for that individual's consumption and that is okay. Music, like Literature, or Art is not meant to be a one size fits all experience but a personal journey or story borne from unique perspectives and experiences.

That is a lot of words to say that you can say Lil Boosie is a shitty rapper, but to lump him with fabricated and shallow rap movements and to deny him his importance and respect in the game is misguided.     

Resolution

It is my position we are simply too immature, young, and intellectually disabled, as an organism, to know and that is one of my personal great regrets; I will never know, witness or comprehend the wondrous and fascinating truths about humans and our universe as we are still centuries, epochs, milleniums of evolution away. So, to that end, my resolution:

Resolved, Kill yourself because the world holds no knowable meaning.
Resolved, if you don't kill yourself, accept there is no inherent meaning and create and personalize meaning for your unique individual.
Resolved, CutTheCrackJack's meaning is to procreate, doing his part to furthering the human experiment.
Resolved, CutTheCrackJack's meaning is to investigate life with an eye for observation, in an effort to advance human understanding, through business.
Resolved, CutTheCrackJack's meaning is to to participate and add (hopefully, meaningfully) to the human conversation with original creations of art, music, literature, or otherwise.

The Apology of a Litterer

A man told me the other day a story of how he yelled at a guy and almost got in a fight because the stranger threw a cigarette butt out of his car onto the earth.

Firstly, I think it is weird that someone would want to beat someone up for littering, but I guess it happens. Do you want to beat people up for speeding and cheating on their taxes too?

Secondly, I am reminded of why when I litter, as I am wont to do, I look around and try to engage people in eye contact while I do it. I've noticed that you pussies who bark the loudest rarely return the gaze of a wild animal throwing Dr. Pepper cans and loose papers/receipts out of a moving or stationary vehicle.

Further, I look at it like this: Yes. It is against the law. If I get caught by a policeman I will quietly and quickly take my lumps and my ticket. Otherwise, like any other law, if a citizen wants to step in, they have to learn that a) they have no authority (leave your moral authority bullshit in your Good News Bible study group) and b) they should be prepared, if they are going to escalate matters, for whatever may happen when fucking with someone who obviously doesn't give a shit about social mores and environmental sensitivities.

Lastly, I am a little man. Like Wolfe's protagonist in Bonfire of the Vanities, I fancy I am the master of my universe and am delusional and of small intellect. These faults render me disabled to the point where I am always in a hurry to get somewhere for some obligation or purpose. I inappropriately value my time and resources (in my world, they are scarce) and I try to give to myself and my immediate family the most of what I have and what I am. In doing all these things, I sacrifice your "greater good" and utilitarianism by sometimes littering, most of the time texting/emailing/talking while driving, and all the time speeding.

Because I am a little man, it is the burden of you men of ideals and ability (at least, to hear you tell it) that you should pity, not hate, us litterers.

Tea Party in Absurd Sharp.

I spent a listless afternoon in Downtown Dallas the other weekend. After a few hours of roaming the streets I happened upon a charmingly dilapidated Greyhound station and seeked out the cleanest, dirty bench which happened to sit next to a wall of metal lockers, not much unlike those nostalgic fortifications one thinks of when recalling Grand Central Station. As I sat, quiet and lost in myself, a man approached me and whispered in my ear,

"Why do you hate the Tea Party?"

"Why, I don't like them for the same reason I don't like roaches and rats and spiders. The Tea Party is full of dirty, poor and not very intelligent people and, while I am singularly bigger than any one of them, in large numbers (and with a modicum of power) they scare the shit out of me because left alone in their environment I would be eaten alive."

To which a black man interjected, as he ran across the room to entreat with scorn, "And that's very liberal of you, isn't it?"

"But", I replied, "I meant that in the metaphorical sense. You see, I have nothing against grimy people from the gutter, as I can and have had to wear that hat, but I find only the ignorant masses banding together in numbers scary."

A hooker took a long draw from a bent up Black & Mild, blew the sour smoke out of two crusty nostrils and said, incredulously, "I cannot believe you are serious."

"Of course, harlot. I mean, the question is why I, specifically, hate the Tea Party. While I concede it to be an emotional answer, it remains one that is personal and unique to me and what drives me to "hate" them."

The black men, stymied by my answer pulled up on his gait, reared back his head and, in an effort to save face, brayed, "So you just hate poor people, no matter the political background? I can respect that."

"I don't hate poor people, I hate ignorant people. Unfortunately for them, however, being poor and middle class usually begets ignorance and mediocrity, which I absolutely despise. So yes, I have contempt for the general poor. Although note," and at this, I turned my attentions to the man who first approached me and spoke ever so lightly into my ear, "Exempted are those self-aware and deliberate fools who live a "poor" life due to a personal philosophy, like the rejection of materialism or the rejection of wealth and wealth generating activities, borne after a thorough and healthy inventory of what they value- to be poor is the only condigned, and desired, result."

The black man thought about this for a second. He tilted his curly, gray mane and said with a big grin, "I'm just messin with you Jack! But now that you mention it," and at this he tried to hide his earnest, "so since so many minorities are poor or middle class, you calling them ignorant and mediocre?"

"I think you are kidding, but to be frank, the majority of non-Asian, non-athlete minorities are ignorant and mediocre. That is why they are disproportionally represented in categories like Household income, jobs, employment, schooling, higher Ed, crime, etc., and, as I recall, that is why we have things like affirmative action."

He winced and stood staring at me. Drool crept to the corner of his mouth. Suddenly, his old, ashy ears pricked up at the mention of "John Wiley Price" and he trotted off in that general direction.

I watched him go in admiration. "That honest son of a bitch." I laughed.


"Hey asshole."

The lady, thin from a deficiency of vitamins or food or penis, looked me straight in the eye and her yellow orbs, framed by the smeared oils usually found on a baseball diamond, held my gaze and with it, my attention. She spoke with the weight of self-assumed shame, "I am sorry you hate me without knowing me. I hate no one unless they have specifically wronged me. You are very tolerant. I assume you lean left on a lot of issues. I find it hypocritical the very left wing who prides themselves on being tolerant and accepting of others often are in practice the least tolerant people."

"There are exceptions to every rule, my sexy friend. I once knew a guy who had a pet spider that he kept in a cage and I've even heard of people that like snakes crawling all over them!

But, please don't paint me as tolerant or liberal; I'm neither. Rather, I'm supercilious and ugly. I resent the averageness that I possess and, in addition to my resistance and fear of being Great, I really, really hate the beautiful idiots who are the Tea Party because it is they who hold a mirror to my person and mock me.

But, what do I know? Nobody ever said I was a great thinker of my day and my best friend has been sitting on the bench on the other side of this station and he won't even look over in our direction, much less talk to me."

The man who tickled my ear left.