Bum Rusher Plus

My New York State driver’s license just came in the mail. I look hard, bearded and stern. More workman, less contestant for the late night man-boy love circuit as alluded to by my previous Cali pic. The dmv was my first stop after returning home and even when you’re first one in line in a town of only several thousand; that place still sucks dick. But it’s nice having my NY identity back on paper, like proof I belong.

My old friend Danny hooked me up with work. What we started together 12 years ago as a jerk off summer landscaping/painting gig; he’s turned into a full-fledged year round business. He has 4 trucks and lots of machines I don’t know how to use. He has 3 beautiful children and a wife. They built a big house on a hill. He talks to me about retirement. I talk about my travels. It’s funny and ironic but all love.

I get to drive one of the trucks. It suits my bearded steez. When I pull into the local gas station just after 7am to get coffee with Chatham’s finest I sort of blend in. But I wear glasses and blast rap music. They probably call me a faggot under their breath. It’s wild coming home as a slightly different person. I used to hate it here because everyone knew everything about everybody. But I guess as you get older community isn’t so wack, anonymity becomes less comforting. Nothing here in Upstate NY is anonymous, especially death. Rest In Peace, Matt Witherall. When something bad happens the town recognizes and grieves together. Some semi-familiar kid keeps making eye contact with me at the gas station. “Hey, are you Jeff Artist?” It’s Matt’s little brother.

This past wknd was the Columbia County Fair. I grew up there, shaking quarter machines for loose change, grabbing titties in the fun house and grubbing on fried dough. All the neighborhood adults would warn us about the carnies. After Freddy Krueger, they were pretty much my paradigm for boogiemen. The beer tent is flooded with my past and it’s a fucking blast. We laugh, catching up on the present and rehashing the retardation that was high school. I decide to keep it going in the true spirit of things by going back with some old friends for an after party despite having to work in a few hours. I awake late in the night, standing in the middle of a strange living room, realizing suddenly; “Holy shit, I’m pissing all over somebody’s couch!” Luckily that somebody was my best friend’s older brother who ended up laughing about it and forwarding on my apologetic voice mail to a bunch of our friends who had no problem giving me a gang on shit the next night at the beer tent. Another fabulous evening, culminating in the thievery of 2 large pumpkins that would later get smashed.

And if my pissing exploits weren’t enough to nudge me out of the miniscule ass-getting pool (along with the fact I’m living with my mom and “my room” looks like a Victorian Era African Safari), I have poison ivy all over my cock and balls. How does this happen you ask? Last week we were clearing some woods. Chain sawing and hauling about 60 pine trees, some real manly shit. Well, I’m guessing some of the trees were dragged thru poison ivy and when I picked them up to throw them on the brush pile, the oils got on my hands. My hands got on my dick when I went to piss and the rest is history. At the moment, the captain looks more like a pink cauliflower patch than half a hot dog. But celibacy is fine for now. I’ve got football, 90210 and a new Metallica album produced by Rick Rubin. I brush off the stupid small town comments like “nigger rich” and “jew him down” and concentrate on the basics.

Know what’s the best? When you’re riding home from a show, drunk and happy, and you pull up to a stop light then someone runs up out of nowhere and punches your friend in the face repeatedly threw the driver side window. That’s the shit right there! And in Denver of all fucking places. Who would have thought that such random acts of violence could go down in a city where even opposing sports fans are friendly to each other (pussies). The thing about situations like this is by the time you realize what the fuck just happened it’s always too late. Whap whap whap… what the?!? I jumped from the passenger side and started sprinting but homeboy was ghost. But I kept running and screaming at the top of my lungs, may have even taken my shirt off, that’s when you know it’s on. See, I’ve been meaning to beat someone’s ass for a while now, just to know what it feels like to get into a fight. But I don’t wanna start some shit simply for the sake of assuaging my dark curiosity. This would have been the perfect opportunity. But honestly, we’re both lucky he got away. I would have done some irreversible damage and ended up in jail on some beating a faggot’s ass charges. I’ve avoided any and all violence for my entire life but that’s not to say it doesn’t have its time and place, like stomping out genocide or Road House. Now that I’m separated from the situation and sober I can level out on some I’m glad I didn’t sink to their level ‘ish but I’ve never seen red like I did the other night, at least while not involving a bitch-whore ex-girlfriend. And I could have finally proven to the women of the world that I’m not some giant pussy they can just cuddle with and mooch music from. God, I wanna fight.

Someone pass the Klonopin.

This is dedicated to all the Lil’ Wayne fans out thurr… I defy you morons to pit anyone on this list in a rhyme bout’ with Weezy and back up an argument that he would win. And just to establish a level playing field, I kept it to major label artists. Had I tapped the Independent market this list could have been 50 emcees deep. So yeah, get the bozack… but you wouldn’t know what that means would you, rookie?

15) Ludacris – Gotta love Luda. Dude’s got charisma in spades and he’s hilarious. It’s rare he drops anything weak and he’s totally capable of staying street on top 40 radio. His chops are proven and his flow is hard. He’s got a Grammy and his philanthropy is beyond what most “stars” would ever consider. He can act too.

14) Game – What can I say? The guy makes great albums. It was easy to write off his debut as another prodigous Dre baby but Dr.’s Advocate proved he could stand on his own, a la Ghost on his sophomore lp. I’m sure LAX won’t disappoint and big up to Game for his assembling of heads on the 20 verse, 10 minute “One Blood” mega mix. Hip-hop needs gangster shit and it’s cool that his actually pushes things in the right direction.

13) Redman – Funk Doc invented the on beat / off beat flow. His first 4 albums are great and Red Gone Wild (despite a terrible title and cover art) was pretty damn good too. I really admire Redman for never compromising his style. Dude reps jerz to the fullest, always keeping it budget and dirty. Maximum respect.

12) Method Man – It would be hard for me not to put Meth in my personal top 5 of all time. He has the best rap voice ever, that’s my statement and I stick to it like dollar bills on a stripper. He’s also got a huge personality and destroys every cameo he ever puts to wax. Yeah, Ghost has a more consistent track record but Mista Mef is a star for real!

11) Snoop – From “Deep Cover” to Fatherhood, Snoop’s become the elder statesman of rap. But amidst all that he really hasn’t lost his fire in the booth. The Blue Carpet Treatment and Ego Trippin’ are both really solid and it’s safe to say he’s one of the greatest of all time. Gangster rap never sounded so smooth.

10) Busta Rhymes – Woo-ha! My man’s still got it. You heard the Collie Buddz’ “Come Around” Remix? Sick. Busta kills the patois reggae flave, further cementing his status as best rapper to ever forge that gap. Besides that, the man born Trevor Smith Jr., was one of the first to really wild out on record and maintain commercial as well as street level respect. Most idiots these days have probably never heard of Leaders Of The New School, but ever since their 1991 debut A Future Without A Past, we all new this man would be huge.

8 & 9) Malice & Pusha T b/k/a “Clipse” - The best cocaine rap since Cuban Linx and like Eminem, it’s not a gimmick, it’s all about talent. Malice and Pusha are biological brothers and it shows in their seamless flow transitions. Nobody’s made better mixtapes than the We Got It For Cheap Series and Hell Hath No Fury was the best record of 2006. It’s not what they’re saying, it’s how they’re saying it. Git familiar.

7) Eminem - Shady’s been dormant for a minute now. Line for line, he’s been as good as anyone out there but it’s time for Slim to step out of executive producer / father role and reclaim some dominance. I know he’s in the studio with Dre and I’d be willing to say his upcoming album will catapult him back to the top of the list. It’s never been cuz he’s white, it’s always been about talent. Rakim and Nas both list him as their favorite current rapper and that’s gotta count for something, right?

6) Jay Z - I thought American Gangster was fantastic, but Nas did drop harder on “Success.” Jay’s the best at making it look easy and probably the most charismatic rapper of all time. Maybe his aptitude has slipped a little bit but dude’s so likable and his track record, from Reasonable Doubt to Blueprint to The Black, is Roc solid. I know I still get amped when a cameo drops and he’s ALWAYS relevant to the game. After all; he’s not a business man, he’s a business, man!

5) Nas - In a neck in neck heat with Rakim; I’d say Nas is my co-favorite lyricist of all time. In college my writing professors used to ask me who I would read and garner my inspiration from. I would respond by asking if they had ever heard Illmatic. I still consider it fucking tragic that possibly the best lyricist in the game has the absolute worst taste in beats. I understand that he wanted to grow beyond his original ‘94 roster of Premo, Pete Rock and Extra P but after his sophomore release (the awesomely consistent and criminally underrated It Was Written) dude just shit the bed with his decisions. Even the most ridiculous lyrics got washed over by electric drums, poppy choruses and the most god-awful inclusion to hip-hop of all, chimes. I fucking hate chimes! But all this shit talking aside, Nas still has his chops and on his new “untitled” album, his pen skills are sharper than they have been in years. See “Sly Fox,” “Queens Get The Money” and “Hero.” For this list, he had to battle Jigga for the 5 spot. Plain and simple, I still think Nas is the superior lyricist despite Jay’s range, charisma and success.

4) Common - Dude put Chicago on the map. I still have my autographed “Soul By The Pound” 12″ and since ‘92 I haven’t looked back on my fandom. The tandem of Com’s nasally wayward flow and his consistent taste in soulful beats by the moment’s who’s who (No I.D. and Dug Infinite, Soulquarians, Kanye, now Pharrell…) keeps him accessible but truly unique. No one could ever say Com bit someone else’s style and he’s just as capable of killing a love jawn like “The Light” as he is of ripping a rapper’s ass as he did to Ice Cube on “The Bitch In You.” I don’t think anyone else besides maybe Andre or Jay has this kind of balance and aptitude for covering all of hip-hop’s bases. His albums stay different and progressive but they’re always dope. Resurrection is top 20 and relax on Electric Circus, “Soul Power” was the fucking jam and at least give it to the man for being creative.

3) Ghostface - No one has ever enunciated rhymes with such passion, detail and strain. Ghost presently reigns as the Wu-Tang torch-bearer. Who woulda thought? Meth always had the star persona, GZA was the lyrical genius, ODB had spiraling front page rocker written all over him and Raekwan was the chef. Ironman was excellent, but it was a Wu album through and through and it was tough to have a stand out amongst that first round of solo releases. Tical, Liquid Swords, Return To The 36 Chambers and Cuban Linx are all certified classics. Big up to RZA for structuring a revolutionary business deal with Loud where each clansman was able to record solo albums on the side with other labels. Anyway, Supreme Clientele clinched it for me. Honestly, I think it was the first true Wu-Tang “solo” album and still stands up as one of the best. Ghost showed he could shed the cameos and RZA production and rock shit just as hard. Over the past decade he’s been by far the most prolific and consistent, releasing 7 solid solo albums (Fishscale is the shit) and some side projects. Whatever happened to that Doom/Strarks collabo?

2) Andre 3000 - Line for line, there have ever been few better. You know when 3 stacks pops up shit will be special. Go back and listen to Southernplayalistic… Dre was gangster as a youngin! You know he and Big Boi had to get their parents to sign release forms for their first album cuz they were only 17? Check the evolution. The first 5 Outkast records redefined (rap) music by the bar. I don’t care who you are; their shit ranks up there with Nation Of Millions as far as wall smashing. Throw in some Prince / I’m a better actor than Blair Underwood / I actually take singing lessons / I still find time to pop up 5 times a year and castrate-every-other-rapper action to the mix and well… I wear the crown, I’m king / Respect is mandatory, end of the story, go fly a kite / Category, ain’t got none, you know I’m right. Plus he’s Badu’s baby daddy and that alone makes me want to be this man.

1) Black Thought - 10 “albums” deep (8 really, live and compilation shit aside, no discredit) and dude just gets more poignant, like a world gone wrong is his sharpening stone. What was once prone to jazzy posse jams has evolved into a far more complex revolutionary agenda. Thought’s just raw. And no one’s ever done what he’s done. He’s the Jerry Garcia of hip-hop. Dude fronts a rap band. That alone is dap factor extreme. Couple that with the fact that Reeq Geez has never made a bad song or half assed it on the mic in his life and we’re entering g.o.a.t. territory. And for those that know me; this is no show of “journalistic” loyalty. To quote the man himself; “the okayplayer fans get on my fucking nerves.” If consistency, redefinition, raw talent, longevity and live show rocking enter into the equation then very few in the history of hip-hop are on the level of Black Thought.

Fellas, you’ve all done it. Ladies, maybe not so much. Y’all take too long and battery powered devices are loud. But all my dudes out there have inevitably pulled this off, or pulled it out, as it were. You’ll be sitting at your desk, doing nothing as usual, and something, someone, will pop into your head. Maybe a memory of last night’s boss head, a cute co-worker passing by or a flirtatious text message. Shit, sometimes it just happens for no apparent reason. The pants tent erects. You hope no one approaches or asks you to stand. You gently drop your hands to your lap, sit up, suck in your gut and tuck your dong under your belt. Damn that felt good. But you can’t keep tucking. Then you’re the dude who gets busted masturbating at his desk, sent to HR and subjected to mandatory workplace appropriateness classes. Good luck getting some ass at the x-mas party after that shit.

Get up from your desk. Carry some papers in front of your midsection or grab the bottom of your untucked shirt and start flapping it like you’re really hot. Either of these techniques will serve as ample camouflage on the short walk to the men’s room. Pick an end stall, obviously. I’ve always gone for the handicapped one assuming, in the absence of an actual retard, its function is more of a “big and tall” type spot. Drop them drawers. Have at it. Time is of the essence. If someone else comes in to drop a deuce, you could be there for the duration of their movement, lest you leave prematurely with blue balls. Plus, this is utilitarian; you’re not making love to yourself. Just get it out so you can go back to doing nothing in peace. Keep it simple. Go to something reliable in your arsenal, something recent and real. There’s no time for intricate fantasies that will never happen. I love Rosario Dawson as much as the next man but it’s doubtful she’ll 69 me while Jessica Biel licks on my nuts, the 2 of them fighting over my bone like playful puppies. Picture the last girl you fucked and rub Forrest rub! Just make sure you cover up your shirt with ample toilet paper. Yesterday I blasted on a nice black polo and had to feign like I’d spilled a glass of water on myself to avoid the dry chalky stain. Godspeed, men.

Don’t knock masturbation, it’s sex with someone I love.  -Woody Allen

The other night, I got a little drunk off of cheap wine. Mindless channel surfing ensued until I came upon “Purple Rain.” Oh snap! I said, mentally bringing it back to the 80’s. I’d never seen this cult classic and once I started watching I couldn’t stop. Prince was one hot bitch of a man in 1984. He still is but back in the day he stood out cuz everyone else who attempted the gender-bender angle just came off looking like transtesticles, like that Arquette freak. But Prince fucking rocked it. He committed to androgynous sexuality and as a result got more pussy than my boy Vinny Chase. Mirrored aviator shades, purple velvet collars, a motorcycle… See, Prince was still manly with it and chicks love that combo, just ask Appolonia or a tasty young Carmen Electra. True, he did get punked by Morris Day and bitch slapped by his Dad but in the end, Prince overcame and defined the original she-male style that chumps like Ratt and Cinderella could never get with. Beyond that, the “Purple Rain” soundtrack is a stellar fucking album. It’s only 9 songs, a la “Illmatic,” and aside from the chart topping title track, “Let’s Go Crazy” and “When Doves Cry;” “Darling Nikki” shines like a plate metal dildo in the dreary Minnesota sky. Who else could pass off a poppy slow jam with an opening line like; “Knew a girl named Nikki, guess you could say she was a sex fiend, I met her in a hotel lobby masturbating with a magazine?” Prince, that’s who bitch.

So naw, they don’t make ‘em like they used to. Gender-bending has been supplanted by genre-transcending and we end up with butt ass categories like fucking “rap rock” that make we wanna drop cyanide into my morning laxative shake. If Limp Bizkit makes another album I’m moving to Croatia to study the lute… So ironically, in 1986, in the midst of all this disgusting hair crimping, eye shadow rocking nonsense by jerks dick-riding Prince but missing the mark, one of the most committed metal masterpieces of all time was bestowed upon us. To quote the inimitable Brian Getz; “Master Of Puppets is the Illmatic of metal.” My boy Carson from SF made me a deal that if he could bump Biggie and Wu, then I should find it within my hater soul to open up to this, if no other, rock album. And thank God I did. To say this record is the shit isn’t even close. 8 tracks, all thoroughly dope, dark brooding soul crescendos and grinding build ups. Every song is epic and full circle. And it’s not just testosterone. Of course I grind my teeth to it and add an extra plate when benching at the gym to puff my chest and scare the weak people but Burton’s and Hetfield’s song writing is extraordinary; it had to be to complete the musical masterpiece, “Sanitarium” and “Disposable Heroes” in particular. Follow those with the head bang of “Leper Messiah” (also one of the greater song titles) and it’s curtains. Rest in peace to Cliff Burton; this would be his final contribution.

One thing’s for certain; you should be a fucking man when making a record. Whether rap, pop or rock; wishy-washy doesn’t play, never has, never will. So fuck most of the 80’s. They sucked then and they’re worse now. Not that lines never got blurred. Prince was pretty but he committed with style and never apologized. He kept it real. And as for Metallica; “Puppets” kicks the shit out of anything that’s happened since. Now go fuck or fight in celebration of some real ass dudes who pulled music from its knees at a time it had turned skeezy diseased crack whore.