Mmm Whatcha Say

Alright, so maybe I’m a bit out of touch with the current rap world, but I have never heard of this rapper Lil B. Have you? Correction, I hadn’t heard of him until yesterday. I read an article that discussed his decision to name his album “I’m Gay” and the onslaught of publicity (and death threats) he received because of it. 

(Is this a new trend in the gay community that I'm unaware of?)

“Great”, I thought, “a ‘cool’ black male representing the gay community, what courage.”. As far as gay black men go, there aren’t very many of them who are out and vocal enough to support each other and the few that I know find it very hard to assimilate their culture with their sexuality. Not that I have any idea about the plight of a gay black man, but I can imagine that in a world that champions hip hop and rap with heros such as Kanye West and Jay-Z, it’s probably a little hard to come out to your friends. Don’t get me wrong, I love these musicians, but they sweat testosterone. 

Anyway, I was totally wrong. This kid is pulling a complete and total publicity stunt. I think it’s rude and (bottom lining it) ignorant. Lil B (original name, btw) claims that he is not coming out, but simply using the word “gay” for its original meaning: “happy”. He’s just a real happy guy and apparently only strict definitions of words matter to him, connotations are for losers. As he put it so eloquently, “Some people worried about [...] the definition of words and shit. First of all, gay means happy.” Thanks, Webster.  Wonder how good his raps are. 

What Lil B did do, completely by accident, is draw attention to how our nation still reacts to the gay community, and how words (definitions and connotations) carry a lot of weight. Which brings up an intriguing question...to what extent is it our responsibility to choose our words based not on what we intend by them, but how they are perceived and understood? 

First off, it’s ridiculous but unsurprising that Lil B received death threats for his “I’m gay” claim. Granted, the forum for his unintentional “coming out” is similar to Sarah Palin sporting an “I love Kucinich” sticker at a Tea Party rally, but the fact remains that there is still a whole lot of hate in our country. In my opinion, we encourage and allow this behavior by not allowing equality in marriage and by letting it slide that political leaders like Michele Bachman (click that link, it's hilarious) and Newt Gingrich support groups like The Family Leader. 

(side note: The Family Leader is a group that has stated it is proud to be a “hate group” and considers Matthew Shepard’s death a necessary victory for their cause). 

It is our responsibility as individuals and as a community to speak out against hate. All kinds of hate towards are fellow citizens, or better yet, our fellow human beings. We live in a time where hate should be unacceptable. I am not talking about taking away freedom of speech and disallowing people to voice their concerns, but speaking out as an individual against violence and hate can go a long way. 

(can't we all just get along?)

Moving on, I’ve been thinking a lot recently about words and their meanings (nerd). There are plenty of words that have developed in their meaning from a banal definition to an incendiary and hurtful connotation. Faggot, retard, nigger (are you offended yet?) even the word gay went through a period of negative connotation. However their level of offense is certainly different. For example, it took me awhile to decide if I would even type the word n***er or whether I would star it out, as I did here. The word is so inflammatory, and so hurtful and offensive that I personally am not comfortable saying it in any scenario. The many times I find myself quoting Chappelle Show, I tiptoe around the word, avoiding it at all costs. I know in the black community there is a lot of debate as to whether the word should be used at all. The fact remains that the word, while still maintaining it’s power in most settings, has developed another connotation meaning “friend”. 

I also find the word faggot extremely offensive, I personally chose not to say it and would prefer not to hold company with those that do. I do not however, find it has quite the same effect as the “n” word. 

While still offensive but not quite as incendiary is the word “retard”. Tim Shriver’s recent campaign to end the use of this word has brought a lot of attention to this one. Now I can’t pinpoint why exactly this word packs less of a punch than the others. Is it because the connotation and denotation are essentially the same? Shouldn’t that, in theory, make it more offensive? Is it because the group that is being offended is not the target of vehement hate? 

Whatever the case my be I believe that we are responsible for our actions and we are well aware of the connotation of these word. If we use them, we use them with the intention to hurt, we use them with hate behind them. At the extreme end of this spectrum we have complete responsibility for our words, but as things get more unclear, our level of responsibility becomes questionable. For example, I remember in college signing a line to a rap song that consisted of referring to someone as “boy”. I was immediately informed by my friend that I shouldn’t use that word because it contained connotations of slavery. Who knew? Well not me in my sheltered little world, anyway. So without the knowledge and intention behind the word, how can it possibly contain the same amount of offense?

Let’s bottom line it. Unfortunately we are not judged by our intentions, but by our actions. Whether Lil B was trying to draw attention to the plight of the gay community is ultimately irrelevant because his actions implied that he’s just trying to garner publicity. All we can do as individuals is choose not to use language that promotes hate. Where language gets hazy and connotations blend into each other, it comes down to your decision as an individual how you would like to be perceived. 

"You've Got to Admire Them All for Their Courage"

I don’t know if it’s stupid or beautiful, but so many people in this crazy city have yet to give up hope. They audition, draw, write, dance, sing, day after day and yet, even when there is no response, even when no one is around to see or feel their work, they press on. These people, they choose a life of uncertainty. They decide at some point “I will devote a certain amount of my life (sometimes a year, sometimes 12, sometimes a lifetime) to pursuing this dream that digs at my soul.” They choose, most often knowingly, to lose the closeness of loved ones, to risk having to give up everything, to chance the “other side” of life being lost to them. The “other side” being the husband/wife, picket fence, happy dog and steady paycheck. All of this is secondary to the “dream”. For some the dream is fame, for some the dream is insane fortune. These are the people that fade out. The people that give up for something more “realistic”. For most of us, however, the dream is producing something that we recognize as art. The dream is being able to skillfully take the ideals that we believe in so fiercely and turn them into a story, a picture, a play. To “smash the mirror” as Pinter would say, as show society what it really looks like. The desire is to communicate these things to both an intrigued and knowledgable audience as well as an unconcerned and unknowing public. To open eyes. To teach each other. To be energized and invigorated by our work because we are changing the world. Even if it’s our own little microcosm. And we are, or should I say we will, change the world.  

Here’s a beautiful poem by Bukowski, that explains these sentiments much better than I ever could:

A Sickness? Charles Bukowski

yes, I'm a Romantic, overly sentimental,

something of a hero worshipper,

and I do

not apologize for this.

instead, I revere Hemingway,

at the end of his endurance,

sticking the

barrel of the gun into his trembling

mouth;

and I think

of Van Gogh slicing off part of his ear

for a whore

and then blasting himself away in the

cornfield;

then there was Chatterton drinking rat

poison (an extremely painful way to die

even if you are a 

plagiarist);

and Ezra Pound dragged through

the dusty streets of Italy in a cage

and later confined to a 

madhouse;

Celine robbed, hooted at, tormented by

the French;

Fitzergald who finally quit drinking only to drop dead

soon thereafter;

Mozart in a pauper's grave;

Beethoven deaf;

Bierce vanishing into the wastelands of Mexico;

Hart Crane leaping over the ship's rail and

into the propeller;

Tolstoy accepting Christ and giving all his

possessions to the

poor;

T. Lautree

with his short, deformed

body

and perfectly developed

spirit,

drawing everything he

saw

and more;

D.H. Lawrence

dying of TB

and preparing his own Ship of Death

while writing his

last 

great poems;

Li Po

setting his poems

on fire

and sailing them down the

river;

Sherwood Anderson dying

of peritonitis

after swallowing a

toothpick

(he was at a party

drinking

martinis

when

the olive went in,

toothpick and

all);

Wilfred Owens killed

in the first Great War

while

saving the world for

Democracy;

Socrates drinking

hemlock with a

smile;

Nietzsche gone mad;

De Quincey addicted to opium;

Dostoevsky standing blindfolded before a 

firing squad;

Hamsun eating his own

flesh;

Harry Crosby commiting

suicide hand in hand with his

whore;

Tchaikovsky trying to

evade his homosexuality

by marrying a female

opera star;

Henry Miller, in his old

age, obsessed with

young Oriental

girls;

John Dos Passos going

from fervent left-winger

to ultraconservative

Republican;

Aldous Huxley taking

visionary

drugs and

reaping imaginary

riches;

Brahms in his youth,

working on ways

to build a powerful

body

because he felt that

the mind

was not

enough;

Villon barred from Paris,

not for his ideas

but rather because he was a 

thief;

Thomas Wolfe who felt he couldn't

go home again

until

he was

famous;

and Faulkner:

when he got his morning mail.

he'd hold the envelope up

to the light

and if he couldn't see

a check in there

he'd throw it

away;

William Borroughs who shot and

killed his

wife

(he missed the apple

perched

on her

head);

Norman Mailer knifing his

wife; no apple

involved;

Salinger not believing

the world was worth writing

for;

Jean Julius Christian Sibelius,

a proud and beautiful man

composer of powerful music

who after his 40th year

went into hiding and was seldom

seen

again;

nobody is sure who 

Shakespeare

was;

nightlife killed Truman

Capote;

Allen Ginsberg becoming a 

college

professor;

William Saroyan marrying the

same woman twice

(but

by then

he wasn't going anywhere

anyhow);

John Fante being sliced away

bit by bit

by the surgeon's knife

before my very

eyes;

Robinson Jeffers

(the proudest poet of them all)

writing

beggin letters to those in power.

of course, there's more

to tell

and I could go

on and on

but even I

(the Romantic)

begin to

tire.

still, these men and women

--past and present--

have created and are creating

new worlds for

the rest of us,

despite the fire and despite the ice,

despite the

hostility of governments,

despite the ingrown distrust of the masses,

only to die

single 

and usually

alone

.

you've got to admire them all

for the courage,

for the effort,

for their best and their

worst.

some gang!

they are a source of light!

they are a source of joy!

all of them

heroes you can be

grateful for

and admire from afar

as you wake up

from your ordinary dreams

each morning.

Avenue A Inspiration

Avenue A Inspiration

I find you most beautiful at night.

You still reek of life while the rest of the world

wastes their time with sleep.

You have no patience for such frivolity.

Whiskey dreams maybe,

but only wide awake.

You have hearts to feed and 

minds to rattle.

Wiping tears with neon lights

you drag people through their darkness,

hit them with such life

they can barely catch their breath.
At 2am you’re stunning. 

Still looking like daytime

yet somehow austere.

With clamoring silence 

I can walk through your streets

heartened that there’s a subway handy

or a coffee within reach. 

Despite my deepest demons 

you welcome me with open arms. 

A selfish lover

You take all and leave so little left.

Perhaps you’ll be the death of me

but i’m sure it will be lovely.