Twat you say?!

nappybread2While 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?”

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.

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 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?

kurt_cobain1(sound of someone knocking at the door)

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

(more knocking)


(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?

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

philduckTracey 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.”

Do Not Play That Song at My Wedding

van morrisonMy wedding is less than 100 days away, which means it’s time for me to take care of the few things left on my to-do list. One of the most important of those items is my “Do not play” list for the wedding band. While many couples probably tell wedding bands all the songs they really have to hear, I’m taking the opposite approach. There are no songs I HAVE to hear performed by a wedding band, but there are songs that I don’t want to hear under any circumstances.

I thought I’d share with you the list I’m sending to the band, along with a note informing them that these songs are NOT to be played, even if the father of the bride makes the request.

(Some of these quickly came to mind, while others I found while going through the band’s song list.)

Brown-Eyed Girl – Van Morrison
This song is the reason I started the list in the first place. My reasons for hating this song have less to do with Van Morrison and more to do with the people who love the song. Every time I hear it I think of both young and aging frat boys and sorority girls singing it at the top of their annoying fucking lungs while at a kegger.

Hotel California – The Eagles
I think Jeff Lebowski sums up my feelings better than I possibly could; “I hate the fucking Eagles, man.”

Margaritaville – Jimmy Buffett
There is not enough tequila in the world to make me like this song or ever want to hear it again.

Play That Funky Music – Wild Cherry
I’m just not sure I’m ready to see a room full of white, predominantly Jewish people attempting to “lay down the boogie.”

Love Shack – B-52’s
There are plenty of good B-52’s songs, but this has never been one of them. If the band chooses to play it, they can head back down the Atlanta Highway in their big-as-a-whale Chrysler. But they won’t have all their jukebox money.

I Will Survive – Gloria Gaynor
As long as I know how to love, I know I will stay alive, but I’ll start considering suicide if I ever have to hear this song again.

Mustang Sally – Wilson Pickett
See Brown-Eyed Girl (minus the young people)

Rambling Man – Allman Brothers
I grew up near Macon, GA, home of the Allman Brothers, where it was assumed you wanted to hear them played two to three times an hour on the radio. I never wanted to hear them at all, and I sure as hell don’t want to hear them at my wedding.

Here are some more songs that made my Do Not Play list that are not even worth commenting on:

My Heart Will Go On – Celine Dion
Only Wanna Be With You – Hootie & The Blowfish
Sweet Home Alabama – Lynyrd Skynyrd
All I Wanna Do – Sheryl Crow
I Believe I Can Fly – R Kelly
Far Away, I’m Alive – Nickelback
Give Me One Reason – Tracy Chapman
Smooth – Santana
Old Time Rock & Roll – Bob Seger
We Belong Together – Mariah Carey

Just Can’t Fight this Feeling Anymore

I’m listening to REO Speedwagon this morning. That’s not unusual as I am a big fan of the Hi Infidelity album. But, I’m not writing this to praise the arena rock songwriting skills of Kevin Cronin. Instead, it’s to share a moment from my childhood that relates to REO Speedwagon.

First, I guess I should figure out how old I was. Hold on… OK, since Hi Infidelity was released in 1980, I’ll say I was either eight or nine-years-old. Anyway, the memory is this:

I am walking down the street, on my way to the store. I’m probably going to pick up a pack of candy cigarettes, but how in the hell am I supposed to remember that?

As I’m walking, I see that Doug Dixon and his henchman, whose name I did not know, are hanging around by a tree close to the store, smoking real cigarettes. I’m not too happy about this, as Doug Dixon is a high school kid that was the town bad guy,. A “hood,” if you will.  I wasn’t looking forward to any kind of interaction. So, I keep walking, head down.

“Hey you,” says the henchman who, with his dirty blond hair, looked a lot like a Pretty in Pink era James Spader. Except, instead of wearing a linen suit, he is wearing jeans with holes in the knees and a white concert jersey with black sleeves.

Shit. Just what I need.


“Come over here,” says the henchman.

Although I’m not happy about it I walk over, not knowing what’s about to happen. Are they going to beat me up? Get me high? Cut holes in my jeans? I have no idea.

“Where are you going?

“To the store.”

“Oh yeah? Do you know who you’re fucking with?”

“What do you mean,” I ask, part of me confused as to what he’s talking about while the other part is hoping I’m not about to get pummeled.

“Do you know who I am?”

“I’ve seen you around,” I say, thinking he wants to feel like a local legend.

“No, you don’t know me,” the henchman sneers. “And you don’t want to mess with me. You know why?”

I just stand there, not knowing what to say.

“Do you know who this,” he says, as he points to his rock jersey that clearly says REO Speedwagon.

“Yeah, it’s a band.”

“No, it’s a fucking gang. I’m in a fucking gang.”

With that, the henchman turns around and starts talking to Doug Dixon and I walk away. To this day, I have no idea what in the world he was talking about. It’s not like his shirt said Motorhead. Had it said that, I could at least get behind the idea that he was in a gang of really mean Motorhead fans. But REO Speedwagon? As much as I enjoy their cheese-encrusted arena ballads, I can’t imagine a group of teenagers sitting around getting pumped up while listening to “Keep on Loving You.” “Man, I’m gonna kick your ass foreverrrrrrrrrr.”

I don’t know what ever happened to the henchman. Doug Dixon ended up, big surprise, dropping out of high school, knocking up the town slut and eventually became a mechanic. At least that’s what I heard from a friend who, heard it from a friend who, heard it from a another…

I’ve Been Rickrolled


I’ve already professed my love for Internet Memes. So, it should be no surprise that I HATE when I find out about one late in the game. Such is the case with “Rickrolling,” which I was just exposed to. Just in case you were like me and missed the phenomenon, here is a description from the Wikipedia entry for the song ‘Never Gonna Give You Up’ by Rick Astley:

“Rickroll” Internet meme
In May 2007 the song’s campy music video became the basis of an Internet meme known as “rickrolling”. It took its name from a 4chan meme known as “duckrolling”, a prank in which someone would post a blind quote to a post allegedly relevant to a discussion that upon viewing would prove to be a non sequitur – specifically, an image of a duck on wheels. Similarly, in a rickroll a poster provides a link they claim is relevant to the topic at hand which actually takes any one who clicks it to the Rick Astley video.

Here are a couple great examples of LIVE Rickrolling: