Big Doe Rehab

After listening to the Big Doe Rehab a dozen times now, I have to conclude that Ghostface takes rap too seriously.  I adore good ‘ol “Face” (interesting how, the rapper who started without a face is now known as Face: absence implies presence, doesn’t it ghost!?) and I’ve loved Face for a good long time, but he’s gotten so good I’m starting not to.   

Most of the other rappers of his generation have long since cashed it in.  Smart.  They got kids now, and relatively practical automobiles, and try to get on reality shows where they can flaunt their parenting techniques – sure they show up at a recording studio from time to time, on the strength of their bling-like laurels, they do a guest verse where they stereotype themselves at their 23 year old best, shit, maybe they do a whole crap-shit album, but Ghostface keeps changing his flow up, and keeps getting better.   

He’s gotten so good, and why? so some white guy who’s 30 years old can blog about it?  Dumb dumb dumb.  He’s the one who needs a big doe rehab I’ll tell you what.     His flow’s been working to this long line (sometimes upward of a minute long) and he’s like rap’s walt whitman – except definitely definitely not gay: not even the furthest reaches and forgotten corners of his chromosones are tinged with even a single homosexual amino acid – the building blocks of homosexual life.   

But in the end Ghostface looks silly having become perhaps the greatest rapper ever: as silly as a few hundred balding heads bobbing to his percussive voice, and raising their white hairy arms in the air even though they should be getting a good night’s sleep.

(Btw, I really pulled a Royal Tannenbomb when I first listened to this one — didn’t dig it a bit — ah, the manic-depressive critic. . . .)  

Oh, and even though Ghost makes a minstrely fool of himself by rapping large-cap, no uncappable capital -the best line belongs to U-God. Something like “And such and such, Ghost plugged me with a slut/ Don’t hug me, or bug me – I’m ugly when I fuck.”  

So knowing him, next go, ghost’ll probably come back with a line that clinches expression: facier than all the putting the ace in face and the AC inside of that, keeping cool in the summer of money something.

Mon Sept 14 2006 4:35am

 Pulmonary vision is supplanted by the resolution that though it’s hard to party,

Who would you rather kill, JFK or Laura Palmer?

Even Agent Cooper wants the Torah, that November day in Dallas, impossible to solve, easy to understand.  It’s easy for the police because they look at the newspaper longer.   Coincidences conspire toward the infinite.  The author’s name: the letter D is used four times: the reader.  After hundreds of metaphors  try to become stairs and mirrors, readers from other nations build in the temple of the article.  They add their own centuries, the temple of every possible mathematical operation, bullet wounds in the body. 

 Three!, says a coroner with the confidence of a first grader whose grandmother (who thinks the child’s a genius) holds up three fingers.  No one can even agree on the temperature at the time.  He is the president, facts accrue until they fall into mysticism.  Nobody knows who killed JFK, implicating millions.    

 So that’s the nature of the impossibility of reality, that woman of regal proportions in fur, bejeweled by a grand stair and a chandelier, made up to look thirty-two, but near, is fifty-some, the fox in the light, fake.  Wait - the fox, dead, is real.

Rules of the game

Ideas are like any life-form, a cascade of code.  Cascade, mutate, cross-pollinate: pick up a fish here, lose a shark there (autotomy?): the usual prom.  The fittest filled-out sequences, when put through the machine, ilume not always large jaws and sharp teeth, but also cuddling and cooperating: like the old Quaker game, Population. 

Stories are alive statistics: winged things: some persist, some perish; the swarm’s the thing. So authors change a verb here, they reverse the birthdays of two characters there.  The beaurocrat, the mardarin; masonic, surgical.  A cataclysm can mutate a form into transcendence; two middle-class septeganarians, a chance meeting at a bar between two divorcees: then, a baby is born.  No, the baby is found in the woods.

Resolved:

 Be a famous farmer.

  

Debut as your true self in your old neighborhood.

Let a sudden wave of realness wash over you there, so the streets run with little rivulets from sewer grill to sewer grill. 

Brave the bath.

I understand how scared you are, and how you mutter prayer-like excuses like nonsense in your sleep.  Incessant whisper of the sold-out night.

Reality can mean a whole new body.  A whole new shining vehicle of self!

Don’t misunderestimate the malfunctions they call feelings.  They are dangerous because they are NOT FEELINGS.  They are your next door neighbors’ feelings, rationed out to you like their vision of seeing you in your bedroom; they haunt you when admiring your sprinkler’s virginal diligence so you do not do it in the full shining way.  They are small and minor when compared to the real feelings you’ve never experienced.

Show yourself everything you have.  Don’t be afraid of seeing yourself as you really are, and small.  Even the smallest you could ever be is so much larger, solider, more shining than any monstrous delusion of yourself you hold now.  It’ll be like a mirror made out of a technology from thousands of years in the future. 

Back into the light, sidle up in the shadow.  Don’t let them smash up your rear. 

True Story

In this city, it’s women everywhere.  Heaven, right?  Ha.  Hell, if you’re a short schlubby guy like me.   Not only am I short and schlubby and look like I have no money, but I got meat on my bones.  I don’t even mean fat, I mean muscle: I have what I thought was a nice body, but girls here want some string-bean hipster thing.  They want a vintage coat, itty-bitty jeans, scarf, and scruff on a string, marionetted down the street.  The skinnier the better: they’d dispense with the guy inside all together - to get closer to the platonic outfit.  They don’t want a real man.  Then the mayor cracks down on prostitution?  Does he want me to die a virgin?  No luck, that’s my lot.  But then, ok, FINALLY, I’m walking down the street and up ahead I see this girl and you know what? She’s SMILING at me.  AT LAST!  I can’t believe it, but two steps later it turns out she’s just got down’s syndrome.  Fuck.  True story.