Twat you say?!

While I was driving to work recently, the Ice Cube song “Givin Up the Nappy Dugout” came on and it got me thinking about how rappers are adept as hell at making the female nether regions sound as unappealing as possible. Here are just a few examples:

Nappy Dugout
EXAMPLE: “Cuz your daughter’s known for givin up the nappy dugout.” – Ice Cube
My first thought when hearing this term is a bunch of goateed baseball players scratching their nuts and spitting tobacco. Not exactly a stimulating mental image, right? In the same song, Ice Cube also refers to a “little-bitty twat.” While that rids my mind of the boys of summer, I’m afraid nothing good can ever come of having a run in with a “twat.”

Cut Up
EXAMPLE: “Cut up, know we like to get that cut up.” – Cut Up by Ludacris
Really? Cut up??! I’m not a prude, but this is fucking disgusting and all I can think about when I hear it is a stinky, bloody mess. Also, what kind of woman would answer “yes” when asked for her “cut up?”

Guts
EXAMPLE:  “When I’m all in those guts and shit.” – Bury Me a G by 2Pac
This sounds like something Gil Grissom might say around the office on C.S.I. to describe the types of cases he hates to work. It also has a slight necrophilia vibe to it.

Ill Na Na
EXAMPLE: “Sugar walls comin down niggaz can’t stand it, the ill na na.” – Ill Na Na by Foxie Brown
I’m not a germaphobe or anything, but I’d prefer your na na be healthy.

Cha Cha
EXAMPLE: “Call before you come I need to shave my cha cha.” – Work It by Missy Elliott
This one is not gross, per se, but it makes me feel like I may have to dance in order to get lucky and I don’t dance.

Coochie
EXAMPLE: “Pop that coochie baby!” – Pop That Coochie by 2 Live Crew
This word has always given me nightmares about being sexually abused by a wild-eyed, 70-year-old Mexican woman. Luckily I’ve always been able to fend her off by saying “circle, circle, dot, dot, now I’ve got my coochie shot.”

As  I was writing this, I started thinking about what word(s) I use to describe the vagina when talking to a woman. First of all, I certainly don’t go all clinical and say “hey gurr, lemme get some of that vagina.” I don’t often say “pussy” either. Even though it’s the old school standby, it’s rare that it can be used non ironically and not sound ridiculous. Instead, I usually say “that,” as in, “are you going to give me some of that tonight?” and “I sure would like some of that!” Yes, I  realize this doesn’t make me much better than the rappers I criticize, but we all have our issues, right?

An Honest Buddy List

I am, without a doubt, the third guy on this “honest” buddy list from Holytaco.com. For some reason I want all my friends to know what I’m listening to throughout my day. It’s kinda like when I  had a beat up Nissan Sentra with a stereo worth more than the car. I drove that thing all over town, just steady bumpin’.  Why? I was 19 and wanted everyone to hear Too $hort, goddamn it! I wanted them to feeeeel Too $hort and his freaky tales that he told so well. Now my only reasoning is that I’m a narcissist who thinks people should know when I’m rockin’ Tom Jones.

While I’m #3 on the list, I also have quite a few of these other buddy types residing in my own list, but it would probably be better if I didn’t get into all that.

Remembering Kurt Cobain?

(sound of someone knocking at the door)

“Hello, Mr. Cobain, are you in there? This is your electrician.

(more knocking)

Hello?!

(Sound effect of a shotgun blast)

This was the outgoing message on my answering machine 15 years ago yesterday, after Kurt Cobain’s body was discovered by an electrician. I thought it was timely and morbidly humorous.

Many of my friends did not find it funny at all. My friend Greg didn’t talk to me for a while afterward or at least he didn’t want to. For Greg, and many others, Kurt Cobain’s death was a big deal. It was an emotional time. For me, it was an annoying time as I was forced to hear Cobain lionized as the savior of music.

I grew up in a small town, and it pissed me off that the kids who had been making fun of me for years because of my “weird music” were all of a sudden listening to, and telling me about, the same bands I had been trying to tell them about for years. It’s ridiculous to me now, but at 21 this was a big deal. The ironic thing is that Cobain also struggled with this sort of thing as Nirvana audiences grew to include the kind of kids who would have beat him up a few months before “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was released.

I enjoy Nirvana much more now than I allowed myself to when Kurt Cobain was alive, and I regret that my immaturity caused me to miss seeing them in concert. I also understand the reaction to the suicide now, although I don’t think that people were upset about losing Kurt Cobain the person.

Allow me to explain…

Nine years after Cobain’s suicide, I woke up to find Elliott Smith had killed himself. I cried that morning. And I didn’t leave an outgoing voicemail about stabbing oneself either. But, a few hours after the initial shock, I realized that I wasn’t crying because I cared about Elliott Smith the person. I had never met him. Instead, I was crying because I cared about Elliott Smith the artist. Did I ever worry about him because he was an off again on again heroin addict? Did I ever care that he was a sad guy? No. As long as he churned out excellent albums like “Either/Or and “Xo” I didn’t care what hell he had to go through.

I contend that most music lovers, if given the choice, wouldn’t rid an artist of their inner demons if it meant they would no longer have the art created by those “tortured” artists. I know I wouldn’t. In some cases, I may even help the fuckers out. For example, while I think it’s great that the members of Aerosmith kicked all their nasty addictions, if getting back on heroin would make Joe Perry write another riff as kick ass as “Back in the Saddle,” I’d tie him off myself and cook up some China White.

What about you? How would you answer the following  hypothetical question?

The musician who created your favorite album of all time is addicted to heroin. It’s slowly killing him, but you can  save him from his eventual, fatal overdose. If you choose to save him, however, your favorite album of all time ceases to exist. What do you do?

Bobble My Head

My lifelong dream of having my own bobblehead is coming true for my wedding. Here is how it’s looking so far.

Against All Odds: How Phil Collins and French Cuisine Do Not Mix

Tracey and I went to Atmosphere Bistro last night for dinner. I was excited because we had never been, and who doesn’t love going to new restaurants? Unfortunately, the excitement that flourished during our appetizers (Brie Croustillant and Plateau de charcuterie) and our bottle of wine (Joseph Drouhin Vero Pinot Noir) died when we got our entrees.

I’m not a food writer, so I won’t go into details, other than to say my roasted duck leg confit was too salty and Tracey’s pork tenderloin tasted like bland mystery meat served over Rice-A-Roni. Oh, and our waiter took forever to tell us the specials, since he couldn’t remember them. He would struggle for a moment, then open his book and tell us. We still liked him, though, since a French accent can be mighty charming.

Still, it wasn’t the sub-par entrees and odd service that ruined the night for me; it was the Phil Collins. Now, before all you rabid Phil Collins fans start accusing me of thinking I’m “too cool for Phil,” let me state that I’m not against Phil Collins. He’s a badass drummer that has recorded a handful of songs I really like. But, this isn’t about the intrinsic worth of Phil Collins. This is about how Phil Collins is the reason I will never go back to Atmosphere.

Sure, the chances of Tracey and I going back were already slim, but there WAS still a chance. The place is cozy and even romantic, so it wasn’t completely out of the question. We could have gone back and stuck to appetizers and wine. But, Mr. Phil Collins fucked it all up. Or, should I say, the management at Atmosphere fucked it all up with their choice of music.

I was already suspicious of the music selection when, halfway through our entrees, “Against All Odds” started playing. While it was bad enough to go from Sade to a Muzak version of Sade, hearing “Against All Odds” let me know everything I needed to know about Atmosphere Bistro. What it told me was that attention to detail is not a high priority. How else can you explain a cozy French bistro, housed in a mid-50’s cottage, not ensuring the music added to the ambiance? Is it that hard to have some romantic French music playing instead of a Brit belting out a song about divorce?!? I’m surprised they didn’t follow it up with Wham’s “Careless Whisper.”

Oh well. Next week we’ll go out again and hopefully have better results. Of course, we could end up at an Italian restaurant that plays 2 Live Crew because, as everyone knows, nothing makes an evening more romantic than hearing “Pop That Pussy.”