thickwitness

Our Survival is Contingent Upon Joy

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 17:59:15 PST

Today's guest-wit is Dalia Yedidia, regular Thick Wit contributor and writer. A Bay Area Native and one-time New Yorker, she is currently living in Chicago. Dalia has worked on a number of civic and political campaigns and was one of the millions who attended the ceremonies in Grant Park. Here she shares an open letter to those of us living in the argument of activism in these United States.
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Companer@s, friends, family, people of the world living and breathing today,

Earlier, I received this email (excerpt pasted below), and my first reaction was an anger I am not familiar with, as I do not feel it often.

[If you don't want any rain on your Obama-parade, do not continue reading; if you are willing to read what you already know, but may have succeeded in quieting its powerful truth into a small dark corner of the brain, especially considering the raucous tears and screams last night from people like my mother, who immigrated to this country from Bogota during the McCarthy era, and the father of my baby cousins, who bought inauguration tickets back when Obama announced his candidacy in 2007 with the feeble hope that he and his daughter (my Mia) could be in DC for the inauguration of the first president that "looks kinda like Papa" (Mia commenting on Barack Obama's resemblance of her own father), then please proceed.]

EXCERPT:

Compas, I think it is important to remember what Obama's role is. This is a man who
a) was running to be the commander and chief of our imperialist, military (thats what the president is).
b) has all the tools from the Bush administration (patriot act, momentum towards un-ending war in the middle east) with none of the criticism from the people that the Bush admin had.
c) is not trying to pull out of the middle east, and has said that he is going to escalate in Afganistan (bombing of civilians and villages), and has said that he is ready to go into Pakistan and Iran (2 more countries in this protracted war for control of whole people groups and countries)
d) has said that 'the law must be upheld' when asked about the Sean Bell shooting (Bell was a young black man shot 50 times by the police on the night before his wedding at his bachelor party, you guys have heard of this). Obama didn't say a word about police repression, the disproportionate number of black people incarcerated, nothing. He said 'the law must be upheld"
e) He blamed Black families and fathers in his 'Fathers Day Speech' for the number of Black youth that are on the streets and in jail, rather than say anything about how the system demands that their be the under and un-employed to further capitalist ends, rather than say anything about the school-to-prison pipeline and privatized prisons gaining from the huge prison population
f) he hasnt said shit about immigrants or the raids waged by the ICE to deport huge amounts of people without documents.
Obama isn't a reason for celebration at all...

Like I said, my first reaction was utter resistance to the words and their meaning, a frustration and seething incoherence that could only be healed by writing this blog entry: Why can't we just celebrate for one day? Why does this have to mean so much of our hope and momentum toward believing in change must be rendered false, inaccurate, or merely a product of a government-controlled media that preys on contrived "historic moments" that in reality signify empty paradigm shifts and the same old system with a new fresh face?

After walking with my initial anger, I began to process it more clearly, and link it to a dissatisfaction, firmly rooted irritation, and subtle fear I have relating to social actors, activists (self-identified), movers, shakers, party people with an eye on radical change, and all those who believe that another world is possible, in my life. This annoyance on a good day, and bottomless sadness on a not-as-good day, spawns from my observations and conversations with so many people around the idea that we, people working toward change in whatever capacity, are hypercritical, soul-sucking individuals who are ultimately unable to be satisfied due to our sharpened involuntary reaction to dissect, and therefore, destroy, any ounce of potential forward-movement. And while we could argue about happiness and joy's worth or actual clout in a world shrouded in white supremacist hetero-patriarchal smog, for me at least, laughter, fun, celebration, and all those other seemingly meaningless and trite words of yesteryear are vital to my survival. Denying that fact is dehumanizing, on an individual and collective scale.

This idea that 'us rads can't never be happy', or we just criticize everything to the point of disintegration, disinterest, or disbelief, is not new. Contrary to being an original thought, it's a topic I've spoken with many of you about many times, though clearly it does not cease to plague my daily judgment with meta-judgment, or to allow my unconscious knee-jerk bickering with the world each morning go unchecked as I routinely switch to bickering with myself about bickering. This fear of our collective ability to extend beyond critique and dissatisfaction, in the end though, truly relates to me (read: PROJECTING) and my worry that I, too, am individually unable to just be happy, be okay, be satisfied, be.

Relating my emotional (and therefore entire) state of being back to Obama--because he seems to be all anyone's talking about today, Wednesday, November 5, 2008, which also happens to be my own brother's 24th birthday, as well as the day that election results confirmed that California, my home state, voted to eliminate the right of same-sex couples to marry (the right was passed almost 6 months ago, in May of this year): As it stands, today it is impossible for me to just feel one thing, and that thing be overwhelming positivity, because of who was elected president of a country I still don't know if I can call my own on November 4, 2008. As much as I would like to blame the email I received (excerpt above) as the source of my internal conflict, that is false. As much as I want to say that the email was written by some cynical anti-capitalist who hates everything and is incapable of feeling happiness due to not having enough love, support, delicious food, good sex or people they admire in their life, I know I cannot because their face, politics, and sentiment are too often reflected in my own. I could have just as easily written that email and included reasons from a-z about why "Obama isn't a reason for celebration at all…"

So why am I, are we, so goddamn critical? What gave me the self-righteous privilege, and time and resources, to never want "to settle"? Could it be because I'm young, and, unlike my parents, I don't and will never know what life was like prior to the Civil Rights Movement? Or is it because I just have that youthful vigor and still have the ability to expend all that energy on demanding higher standards and being willing to say that good enough really is NOT good enough? Or maybe it's a combination of those possibilities (a big maybe) along with the idea that "People are complicated," which is a favorite saying that means absolutely nothing and everything all at once that someone I know happens to use too much. That someone also said that what matters is what we do the other 364 days of the year, because voting takes 5 minutes (or 5 hours, depending on your geographic location) out of your day, and then we got the rest of our lives to act (or not).

I have received so many emails in the last 24 hours from friends and random folks I must be cosmically connected to, that wrote emails, blog entries, poems and little snippets of truth beautiful, eloquent, and incredibly inspiring forms. The words, aside from actually igniting some petty jealousy in my choosy-heart that is always aspiring to become one of those people who says that "writing just comes easily to me," moved and challenged me deeply. Your words have pushed me not just to write this mediocre, unfocused post-Obama bandwagon banter you are currently trudging through, but to keep writing and dialoguing about these issues that are layered in ways I'm only starting to uncover, thanks to your probing eyes. I am grateful to you, who constantly push me, and in turn all of us, to be resilient, open warriors and artists who are forgiving in all the ways I still must learn because you are firm in your ideologies, but more than that you believe in the human capacity to change. Maybe you're saying, "Who is this 'you' Dalia is talking about? Is she about to get all vague and hippy-dippy and pull the s-word (society) out on our asses too?" But I am talking to you, to anyone who found one reason to be grateful today, to be giddy, to thoughtfully offer criticism and worry not without hope and care, to believe in the possibility of our coalescing spirits while remaining rooted in the knowledge we gain, and have gathered since birth, everyday through our lived experiences.

In closing, I will speak directly to my birth-state: Oh, California. Above all, you are the momentous proof of the work to be done that anyone who maintained their semi-melted brain throughout Obamania constantly references. California, you are my strongest witness to another world being possible (The Bay), and to the fact that this process building our many other worlds is neither pure nor linear.

But the joy and the connection I felt last night to others, as I have on countless other unsung days and nights, including with many of you at rallies, marches, in kitchens, backyards, backseats of old Volvos and on the street, was real. It confirms that we will continue as strong people, regardless of charismatic leaders who claim to guide us toward change or fundamentalist propositions that threaten our identities. We have been, and can only continue, to do good work every day of the year. If anything, the first Tuesday in November this year allowed me a space to acknowledge all of the beauty I have been fortunate enough to participate in or hear about through those I love, and I can only hope it offered the same for you.

Lastly, let us not forget that it is not just easy, but crucial towards our acceptance and celebration of our own humanity--of that need to connect to and with others, to believe in our capacity to change, to become a part of an energy, a movement that is larger than the self and the truest testament to our belief and action toward real transformation--it becomes more than a mere need, to rejoice. Our survival is contingent upon our ability and the opportunities there are to express joy.

I pray for more in all of our lives.

love and pieces,
dalia.

Three Videos to Save Your Life.

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Tue, 04 Nov 2008 00:00:11 PST

I've been on hiatus for a while, swamped in work. I realize that if you've been coming here to get my opinions on things election related I have failed you. Failed miserably. You've met and hated Palin without me. You've already voted No on 8 by absentee ballot. So, I'm not going to preach Barack to the converted. That would be a bridge to nowhere.

What you might not know is exactly how some of my compatriots have been organizing in the past weeks to inject their own voices into electoral politics. Errytime I look up, a friend of mine is shining in an issue-related web based video. Through the gMagic of embedding, I can share their brilliance with you.

Take a look see, and I promise promise stick a needle in my eye promise I'll get back on my Thickwit grind this week.

My girl Kelly Tsai's "Black White Whatever"

My people at 247townhall.org present
"If I Were President" Starring Mos Def.

Oakland's Own Lee West with Generation We

the break/s nyc.

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Tue, 23 Sep 2008 11:18:12 PDT

Thickwit Fam--

I know I haven't written anything in a while. That's mostly cause I'm on my hustlin ass grind. I promise to write more if the NYC people come out to see the break/s. My mentor and best friend at his absolute finest. Dance Theater Storytelling. Hip Hop Theater Festival has a special $25 rate, and the show runs Tuesday, Thursday, Friday and Saturday of this week at NYU.

See the Hip Hop Theater Fest site for details.

Evaluating Eracism (brought to you by the Clorox Corporation)

noreply@blogger.com (jose a. vadi) — Sun, 24 Aug 2008 21:03:44 PDT

Two times for your mind: Jose Vadi is the first guest wit to write twice. He's originally from the 909 but has spent time in Washington, DC, and makes his home in the San Francisco Bay Area. This makes him, undoubtedly, an All-American Thick Wit. Like Forrest Gump in The White House. Don't drink the Dr. Pepper, Jose. Here's his second posting. And a new flick of him. Holler Black youngins.
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it was a night for walking and thankfully i was in oakland.

an evening for aimlessness, i found a new pizza spot, walked through some construction sites (why not?), checked out all the graf pieces on Valdez by the basketball courts, even saw my friend's name on one of the backboards...and then i passed by this bus stop on grand and harrison --

however pissed, i knew i had to just get my eracism kit together. it erases racism. literally. not like the slogan on the t-shirt, nor the record label, but like some actual wax-on-wax-off-racism-shite. peep --

there's some sponges and a dry towel in there for cleaning purposes as well. you don't want the city to think you're dirtier than the filth you're trying to erase.

here's the skinny: spray, scrub, clean. three steps, no more n-bombs dropped at your local bus stop. i'm not the biggest advocate of non-gang-related-graffiti removal or incarcerating taggers (or calling them 'taggers'), just as i don't advocate skate stoppers, or any form of city-sponsored public defamation that makes the city only uglier, however more 'safe' in the process. but i am an advocate of taking things upon yourself and doing something, or at least trying, and however general or vague that may sound, it becomes quite specific when encountering something like the subject of this blog: a bus stop.

7.98 counter-clockwise swipes later...

...i quickly and reluctantly realized that my custodial activism did very little to change the world. at least not immediately. i would have had to put out a press release that someone wrote something i didn't like on a random bench in oakland and that i had the gusto to make a change (which is bullshit), which would all probably garner more attention for the unknown author who might play off the whole incident as "just joking around" with a sharpie en tow. maybe i ran back with a bag full of cleaning products for the hypothetical parent who would have to explain to his inquisitive child what the N-word really meant. all in all, yes, it was a selfish act -- i was wiping out an opinion that I deemed racist and appalling (which it is) and just did not want to see that in the neighborhood where i live.

to be honest, even by attempting to make a change, i was still slighting some part of my social conscious. i used a few sprays of Formula 409 and Ashby-Bart-Windex to erase the sharpie scribbles. a quick google search revealed how Clorox, who owns Formula 409, was named as one of the "dangerous dozen" chemical companies, according to the Public Interest Research Group in 2004. so there's my small contribution to the global warming problem, in the name of eracism.

eventually i had to ask myself, If the words were the same but somehow bent toward the absurd and sarcastic, would i have laughed it off as comedy and walked past? If the dialogue was surrounded by a speech bubble and the 'artist' indicated that the white commentators were saying such racist lines, that it was their speech bubble, would i have deemed that opinion okay?

the odd thing is that this scribbling on this bus stop was contextualized to contemporary events, but mixed with old racist ideologies; theologies that have taken generations and bloodshed and entire wars to even attempt to reconcile on paper as law, let alone see the effects resonate in our daily thoughts as Americans. even white supremacists are contextualizing their movement in response to the 2008 election, many believing that Obama's possible victory will be the catalyst for a white uprising.

political or politicized public art has always had an effect on the populace -- look at the controversy Banksy started when he hit up the West Bank. If you know anyone from Cuba or who has visited, they will tell you about the murals decrying capitalism, one of the few places where you will see DEATH TO IMPERIALISM emblazoned and unscathed on a public wall. granted, these types of images are state-sponsored, but nonetheless public visuals that are imbued within the minds of the daily populace. and on a local government level, go to any small suburb from my hometown in southern California, the Inland Empire, and you will see banners in most towns with the names of every kid from that town who is fighting in Iraq or Afghanistan. how can't the images we see everyday outside our doorstep affect our perceptions and opinions?

as i was walking home, a man with a green jacket that i believe used to be once white and new asked me for change and i apologized and walked by. at the end of the day the only thing you're left with for sure is not the effects of your actions, but whether or not you acted in the first place. i walked home realizing i would much rather garner my merit badge for liberalism by applying 409 to AC Transit property than giving a buck to dude by the lake. and really, what did i do instead? what replaced that five second exchange of dollar-bill-to-hand? i took a picture of the lake. and walked away. with a new found sense of confusion/guilt chased with whatever accomplishment i could hear swishing from my man purse with every increasing step i made steadily, towards home.

C+ :: A New Day's Risin'

noreply@blogger.com (Christopher Mueller) — Wed, 30 Jul 2008 11:45:45 PDT

Today's Thickwit is an entrepreneur, political organizer and style genius. He writes today about his burgeoning enterprise and social movement, C+. He likes more old school jams than he cares to admit and hob nobs with first graders and future first ladies alike. Ladies and gentlemen, thank you thank you, you're far too kind. A legend in his own time-- Christopher Mueller.

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I don't know the future. I didn't come here to tell you how this is going to end. I came here to tell you how its going to begin.

The Matrix ::

What is this "matrix" we so often speak of? Ah yes, the system. That perpetual treadmill that is so difficult to step off of. No need to waste time defining it, since we seem to have this intuitive sense of what that system is, though a comprehensive definition is seemingly elusive, since the network that binds the matrix together is so shrouded in darkness. How, then, does the matrix maintain?

Culture ::

Our capitalist system survives by (among many things) the existence of a capitalist, consumer culture. This consumer culture acts as a design to living and is patterned for interpreting the world around you. In other words, it is constructed specifically to serve as a lens through which you come to interpret and understand your reality.

Brands ::

Brands develop pseudo spiritual meaning systems by appropriating human qualities, emotions, characteristics, and ideals, attaching compelling visual and sound elements, and associating their symbols with them. Ultimately, in a consumer society, this mediates our ability to construct authentic identities and communities. We are a nation of Saturn Families, Safeway Club Members, Nike Athletes, Toys R Us Kids and Starbucks Communities. We consume to belong, and as an outer-directed people, we come to reflect and project the images that exist most immediately in our visual landscape.

Imagemakers ::

Our ability to construct an attractive appearance is done with First World advancement, yet our inner world is impoverished like the Fourth, Fifth and Six. We are an outer-directed people, trapped so close to the surface that we have become exiled there. We cultivate a pedagogy of exteriority, but where does that leave us? Commodity rich and spiritually poor.

We Live to Work. We Work to Consume. We Consume until nothing is left. And it all goes back in the box. We are masters of the Monopoly Board, bored out of our minds, mind's eye wide Lasik surgeried shut.

So what is the answer?

(among many)

See Plus.

See More.

See Beyond Context.

Enhance our vision.

What we visualize is what we become.

"Seeing comes before words. The child looks and recognizes before it can speak. But there is also another sense in which seeing comes before words. It is seeing which establishes our place in the surrounding world; we explain that world with words, but words can never undo the fact that we are surrounded by it. The relation between what we see and what we know is never settled." - Jon Berger, Ways of Seeing

The thought process gives rise to actions. If it is behavior we hope to change, we've got to revisualize and reframe the images and ideas that govern that thought process.

Vision as an ancient metaphor for human spiritual insight, has a history so robust, that it doesn't need much explanation. I was blind but now I see. Seeing the light. Where there is no vision the people perish. In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. These are just a few examples of how vision comes to signify transformation and enlightenment.

Even your favorite rappers spit it to you. Jay-Z says, "I wish you insight so you can see for yourself." Nas says, "As I grow yearly, I can see things more clearly, thats why they fear me." The metaphor is everywhere. Think about it. Look for it.

C+ = See Plus. C+ is hidden in the form of a letter and a symbol because we have a tendency to look no further than the surface, proving a mediocre sense of symbol literacy. What did you think C+ meant? Maybe a letter grade? Maybe that computer language?

In retaining the philosophical depth beneath the letter and symbol, C+, we hope to begin a habitual process to question all images and seek the meaning beneath all surfaces. It is our belief that seeing beyond the boundaries of difference, to see the commonality of "us," and the humanity we all share, will begin a process of social and cultural transformation, in a very positive direction.

Are you serious?? ::

We know its an ambitious idea. We also know its a bit contradictory to house such a progressive idea into such a regressive entity, a brand. But you have to experience the game in order to have any idea about how to improve it. If it were up to us, we'd have written a few books, but not enough young people read. We'd have developed a school curriculum but not everyone has the privilege to attend quality schools. And besides, we're so much better at cultivating ignorance.

Everyday we are bombarded with visual messages. Those messages piece together to form our perceptions of the world around us, ultimately governing our behavior. Again, improving the quality of the image, improves the thought process, which improves the actions that arise from that thought process. We thought to slip our ideas into the conversation, since the language of consumption seems to be the most proliferated.

So we began a project, called C+, based on the universal sensory experience of vision. We seek clarity in our sight. We seek a more worldly, humanitarian perspective. We seek to break old paradigms, and uplift new ones. We seek to re-frame our visual dialog. We seek sight beyond context. We seek circumspection. We seek to beautify our visual landscape, and to diminish the overwhelming clutter. We seek to construct new, positive imagery. We choose light over darkness.

We serve you, in hopes that you will seek forward progress with us.

The product is a conduit for an idea, and the enterprise of selling the product sustains our dialog with you. What were once the building blocks of our creative identity and imagination, now in a new context, become a metaphor for visual enhancement. Have a look.

A New Beginning ::

Improvement begins when we question the assumptions that form the foundation of our worldview, to deconstruct the perceptions we have, to challenge the limitations of our vantage point, to see beyond the surface of an image, to seek alternative perspectives beyond our own, to look past the boundaries of ideological divisions...to seek clarity in our vision.

Re-visualize your notion of what is truth, and bear witness to it, in all its neckidness.

I'm going to hang up this phone, and then I'm going to show these people what you don't want them to see. I'm going to show them a world...without you. A world without rules and controls, without borders or boundaries...a world...where anything is possible. Where we go from there is a choice I leave to you.

It all depends on how you see it.

C+

visit C+ Jewelry to participate in the effort to reframe our visual dialog, and for some fresh jewelry.

The night is dark before dawn. And day is coming.

Bear Witness.

C+

Why It's Okay to Write About Deceased Peoples from the 1960s: Jimi & Me

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Thu, 24 Jul 2008 19:42:48 PDT

Dalia Rubiano Yedidia is a mixed(up) kid who likes matching, organizing--not of the Excel spreadsheet variety, and has an unhealthy yet loving relationship with fried foods of all kinds. She has made a habit of (un)inhabiting multiple places that she desperately uses as remedy for her perpetual feeling of lack. Having moved 8 times in the last 2 years, she currently finds herself in Chicago, writing for the first time in a while and loving sticky summer. She is painfully insightful and an uncanny judge of character. Dalia is the epitome of thick wit. Curvy and no holds barred, we're honored to have her featured.
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Some artists control my inspiration thresh-hold, altering every book and movie and song and image I ingest thereafter, like the first time I witnessed the witching hour and watched the sun wash out the stars, or excruciatingly realizing that my mom, like the rest of us, surrenders to pain and mortality sincerely, quietly . After the 7th grade or so, these geniuses, with crippling thoughts that they manage to generously share and poignantly impose, have rarely been musicians. However, using up my one-time only 'free pass' to write about a dead rocker from the 60s, here's my ode to Jimi Hendrix and his supernatural power over me. Go ahead: add it to the list. Diverging from one of our favorite pastimes as writers, which is one of the most common motivators for us to actually get down to business and write for once, I am not trying to 'stroke the ego' combining my nimble fingers and fast internet connection. This is not Dalia trying to subtly scream the "oh-my-god-let-me-tell-you-all-the-reasons-why-I-love-him-more-than-you-
and-am-more-familiar-with-his-discography-than-you-ever-could-be-and-am-
far-superior-to-any-other-fan-because-I-know--that-he-hated-trimming-his-
toenails-and-was-allergic-to-night-shade-vegetables [eggplant, tomato, mandrake, and the like]" type of intellectual masturbation. Nope, my relationship with Jimi, though it does include a number of rotations around the sun since the first time I heard Voodoo Child, has nothing to do with a hardcore authentic pure fanatic blood-spilled-willingly history. I've only owned one album of his my entire life, and, inflaming my already infamous rosy cheeks, it's a compilation.

Yet, something within my tangled hair and archetypical teen desire to belong is wrenched raw with each measure of precariously balanced guitar and drums that clasp their lyrics steadily, soothing my longing and confusion unlike any piece of writing, carton of McDonalds' fries, or execution of my frequent impulse to flee to a new city. My first exposure when I was five years old was not a random and beautifully romantic personal choice that we sometimes stumble across in our childhoods, and now share with pride on first dates or Facebook. Nope, it was actually an involuntary listening to Electric Lady Land via my older brother's tape player. How's that for a big bro watching out for his hermanita?

Since this un-noteworthy (and clearly undeserving of a piece of writing) primary encounter and subsequent purchase of the Jimi Hendrix Experience during my record-buying middle school days, Jimi has entered and exited my life quietly, and yet noticeably, many times. Growing up in San Francisco, my next door neighbor's ex-husband invented the Light Show, the ingenious visual orgy that mixes colors and fluid formations with music and pulsating body movements; an 'art experience' whose soundtrack easily included a Hendrix song or two. Naturally, Hendrix was on frequent rotation next door, in addition to the few tepid hits (comparatively to his full library) like Foxy Lady and Purple Haze on the local old white rocker radio station. And yet, as I non-challantly dismiss his popular anthems, I can't help but allow the little hairs that dot my forearms begin to raise just thinking about the guitar intro to the latter and its impending epic explosion of poetry and riff and mayhem.

He also became a facet of my daily listening and tonal memory to the Freedom Summer of 2007, where a good-friend-turned-more-turned-tragedy put, in my humble (literally, as you now know) opinion, one of his most powerfully written and gorgeously vibrated ditties, Bold as Love, on a mixtape dubbed the soundtrack of that Summer. While this majestic musical magnum opus of a mere 4 minutes is now quite obviously and painfully connected to a loss deep and familiar like July Chicago heat or the wrinkles around my Abuelita's eyeballs, I refuse to believe that this is the only reason Jimi affects me so.

Listening to him is an urgency wound into words too tight and fragile to mention. It is a change in mood, breeze, a captivating hurt that won't let go of the wrists and ankles; it is not easy-listening. Even as I lay here, attempting to write about music -- which we all know is like 'dancing about architecture" -- I cannot play him unassumingly in the background, fading in and out of my Sunday night thoughts that include calculating how long I'll actually have to stay at work tomorrow, or what the "..." really meant in that ambiguous text message from someone whose face I can't quite pull together from my Friday night excursions (?). No, Jimi demands complete attention of my body, my ears, my sensory memory and my willingness to surrender control. Digesting his vibrations is like watching the sunset fracture the Pacific Ocean from Taraval and 48th Avenue with Nano and his dad, a frantic, wired professor who trails off chaotically about how sunsets are one of those rare collection of moments that only get prettier as time stretches forth. He claims that only the older generation, bruised by nostalgia and dripping with the desire to impart knowledge, can truly discern them. The clouds fade into a limitless foam and the sky folds deep into its own routine of detaching and allowing night to cloak us with possibility.

I've recently found myself wishing life into a more linear course, only becoming more beautiful with each inch of time she reluctantly reveals to us. But somehow, while Jimi is just like the sunset and my unsatisfied youth, which currently lies within my unanswered--and typically selfish and implausible--prayer for a manageable life path, he is also the epitome of that capricious pattern of longing, knowing, mourning, melding, falling, and shaping that all of us are too familiar with before we even wake up each day, before we remember we are breathing. He holds me down in a way that is incomplete, vast; each bar is filled with waiting and fragmented disbelief, making it both unsettling and wholly transformative. No one will ever have me quite like he does, but then again, despite my certainty of his now familiar grasp, each chord beckons the nameless, spirals of seconds determined to unfurl. Until that twisted and bitter root called love finds its way into this half-step shuffle to complete that paradox, I'll have to keep giving myself to a rainbow like you.

Brave New Voices International Youth Poetry Slam Festival

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Sun, 13 Jul 2008 16:35:22 PDT

Brave New Voices hits D.C. this Tuesday. Featuring 400+ young poets from all over the planet. They'll be joined by talented folks such Ishle Yi Park, Beau Sia, Rafael Casal, George Watsky, Sonia Sanchez, Idriss Elba, and two Bay Area Slam teams. Buck. Buck. Lickle Shot. Blau. More info.

Mad About You for Cosby Kids

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Tue, 24 Jun 2008 14:36:42 PDT

This is most definitely for girls with hips. If you've got ten minutes, take a peek. Might help with that attitude you've been swinging around that neck of yours. Give your roommate a break. You'll feel better, I swear. Directed in part by my boy, Amari Chris Johnson.

Book Review-- All About the Beat: Why Hip Hop Can't Save Black America

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 10:11:16 PDT

Guest Thickwit Adam Mansbach is the author of "Angry Black White Boy," and most recently, the novel "The End of the Jews." He received a 2008 Future Aesthetics Artist Regrant from the Ford Foundation. Though he is not a girl with hips, he sure does talk shit like he is. Here is his LA times review of the latest book by John McWhorter (no relation).

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Simultaneously smug and beleaguered, "All About the Beat: Why Hip-Hop Can't Save Black America" raises the question: Who, exactly, is claiming it can? No one -- academic, artist or critic -- has made any such argument since roughly 1988. This puts Manhattan Institute senior fellow John McWhorter in the awkward position of playing provocateur to an empty house, and gives his prose the tone of a petulant undergrad being shouted down in a dorm lounge. It also raises serious doubts about his engagement with either hip-hop or the large body of scholarship about it.

"[M]any hold on to the idea that hip-hop is ever on the verge of lifting black America up in a political revolution," McWhorter announces, one that will "lift poor blacks out of ghettos and create a new day." His constant assertions about hip-hop's true nature purport to prove why this cannot happen. It is "about attitude and just that," "in its very essence, angry," "all about that upturned middle finger," "about being oppositional regardless of the outcome," "all about the 'I' doing the rapping" and "about quick thrills and settling scores, rather than reasoning, discovering, and building."

Finally McWhorter asserts that "being art, especially popular art, hip-hop is automatically disqualified from being meaningfully political." If this were true, the specifics of McWhorter's musings would be irrelevant -- even to him. Why write a book detailing the case against a particular form if you believe no art can be political? Why not do something else with your afternoon?

Theory aside, McWhorter's claims that hip-hop is inherently angry and individualistic are profoundly ahistorical. Born in the Bronx in the early 1970s, hip-hop was rooted in the desire to foment a sense of community in the wake of economic deprivation and governmental neglect. It fostered artistic collectivity and friendly competition and changed the face of a city broken into gang fiefdoms, allowing young people to move through the five boroughs with new freedom.

The idea that hip-hop in 2008 is "antiestablishment" and "by definition about protest" is equally perplexing, given that so much of hip-hop has embraced the trappings of materialism in recent years. McWhorter glosses over a complex reality in which rappers are record label CEOs and corporate pitchmen, small-business owners and schoolteachers. Where's the rage and oppositionality in that?

As simple as it is, McWhorter's thesis shifts considerably beneath his feet. How to reconcile hip-hop's political impotence with the Hip-Hop Summit Action Network's success in preventing New York City Mayor Michael Bloomberg from cutting $300 million from the schools budget? McWhorter does it by changing the terms of his argument: "[T]his money . . . is not going to make a significant difference in how well children are educated." So an effective protest is dismissed because McWhorter quibbles with its agenda.

Such sleight of hand is everywhere. McWhorter scoffs at numerous organizations on the theory that if they were effective, he'd know more about them. He divines the motivations of rappers, pronounces them facile and uses this as proof of their music's irrelevance. A complete litany of McWhorter's logical fallacies and unjustified dismissals would rival his book in length.

"All About the Beat" does not draw on a single interview, nor any discernible research beyond a cursory listen to an inscrutably peculiar grab bag of albums, mostly from the early '90s. Although he frequently parses lyrics, McWhorter's strategy is to isolate a line, then explain away its politics: "KRS-One thinks that the 'church and synagogue are all deceivin' us,' " he writes. "What he means is that we should be Muslims like him." Except that KRS-One is not Muslim. Rather, his lyrical critique of organized religion has been ongoing for nearly 20 years.

McWhorter's inept analysis continues. He interprets KRS-One's statement "I am hip-hop" to mean "[i]t's all about him," when the phrase is actually a cornerstone of the rapper's philosophy that hip-hop is embodied by all who love it. McWhorter concludes by noting that he doesn't "see KRS-One writing his own serious tome on hip-hop history." In fact, he has authored two books on the subject. KRS-One also spearheaded the Stop the Violence Movement and produced the all-star benefit song "Self-Destruction," which raised half a million dollars for the Urban League in 1989 -- a difficult act to position as lacking in activist intent.

Ultimately, McWhorter's project is about obscuring structural racism by focusing on individuals and their failure to meet his myopic definition of political engagement. He plays a shell game, belittling lyrics about police brutality as "complaining . . . to a beat" in one chapter, then taking rappers to task for not focusing on "the things that get black men pulled into the criminal justice system" in the next -- as if police and judicial racism were not two of those things.

For McWhorter, hip-hop may be all about the beat, but only because he isn't listening. "We will not overcome by sitting around asking 'why' with attitude," he writes, with typical self-righteousness. But how can we if we don't ask why?

Worthwhile

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Sun, 22 Jun 2008 09:35:11 PDT

Today's thickwit is Ruby Bing Veridiano Ching. She is a writer, poet, performer, and member of touring spoken word crew iLL-Literacy. Offstage, she is a television host, arts educator, and a g-mail addict. She loves fashion, dope sneakers, and listening to M.I.A. Her first book, Miss Universe, is set for release in the fall. She can run a lap around the lake without stopping for air.
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I didn't grow up an artist. I didn't even know I had any ultra-special talents until I got into college and discovered that my love for writing could take me well beyond writing academic papers and killin' it in all my English classes. I was med-school bound, like any good Filipina daughter was expected to be. I even enrolled myself in a four-year program called Health TECH all through high school, At 16, I attended medical terminology competitions geeked out in khakis, Mary Janes, and that uniform navy blue blazer with the caduceus emblem crisply brimming on my lapel, ready to kick ass with my badass definitions, son. Like what! Yep, I'll still say it was bad ass, even though there was nothing nerdier than my lopsided bun and that damned panty-hose they made me wear during competitions. Oh dear. I definitely do NOT miss those days.

I kinda looked like this:

There was only one problem with med school: math made me cry, and I stopped enjoying science after I quite watching Bill Nye. Plus, I get mad queasy at the mere sight of a paper cut. Eeek.

When I discovered spoken word in college, my parents considered it a healthy hobby. You know, I was doing my poetry "thing". When I abandoned my med school pursuits to be involved with my community, write poetry, and raise my fist all day, poetry suddenly became a nonsense activity. Imagine the horror on my mom's face when I came home declaring, "Hey Ma, I don't wanna be a doctor. I'm gonna be a revolutionary instead, become a poet, and work non-profit, kay."

She gave me the biggest "WTF" eyes and asked how I expected to make money for anything that had the words non and profit right next to each other. "What, you gonna work for free??" I calmly replied, "No, Ma, I'm just tryin to help my people get free. Nawmsayin?"

Since then, I've helped to create my spoken word crew, iLL-Literacy, and after some failed attempts working non-profit, decided to become a full time artist and pursue iLL-Lit more aggressively. Three years strong, I'm proud to say we've traveled the world and back, have connected with communities from different parts of the globe, and continue to not only push our artistic development, but to maintain the mission to spark dialogue on race, class, and gender with our peers and supporters. AND I'm making a living out of the very thing I love.

Granted, I'm not ballin' out of control or makin' it rain anywhere (yet). There are those rough patches when I'm struggling with an empty gas tank, crunching numbers to figure out how I'm going to pay the bills for the month, and tearing over the newest Balenciaga spring collection reminded I can't even afford the knock-offs.

From time to time, my parents will nudge at me to ask when I'll get a real job, and the question comes up: "Come on, Bing, is it really worth it?"

And I proudly reply, "YES. IT. IS!!!"

When I receive letters from other young people who tell me how I've helped them see the beauty inside them, I know for sure, that I'm doing what God is asking me to do. More importantly, this art has taught me how to love myself, be happy, and develop a healthy relationship with the world.

I know I didn't end up practicing medicine. But this art taught me to heal. So, YES, it's worth it. It's worth it all. And I'm gonna keep going, dammit. Watch me now.

Rebel Diaz Assaulted and Arrested By NYPD

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Thu, 19 Jun 2008 09:25:55 PDT

Two members of Rebel Diaz, emerging Hip Hop legends and international organizers were arrested after being assaulted yesterday by New York City police officers. Please see the full article for information on how to support them and our family. If you are in the NY area, you're particularly valuable. Our west coast prayers are with both brothers and Tere.

www.rebeldiaz.com

Click Here for the full article.

Pops is anti-bossip.

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 13:33:29 PDT

Thickwit stops at nothing. I was about fifteen feet away from this, in real life: A dad with his lovely girl, in the wee hours of father's day.

N-Word, Please.

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Wed, 18 Jun 2008 13:31:57 PDT

In just under a month, Def Jam will release Nasir Jones' ninth studio album. I'm not quite sure what to call it.

For the most part, I've steered clear of the much anticipated and even more debated effort. Nas' iconography is built as much on hype as it is in his discography itself. If I got caught up in every Nasty Nas debate, I'd scarcely have time to memorize Streets Disciple Disc two. I certainly wouldn't have time to play ultimate frisbee with the QB's Finest LP. Considering the mid-nineties funk with Puff Daddy over Hate Me Now, the long term Jay beef turned marketing scheme, the minor squab with 50, and the pomp and circumstance of his marriage to his bossy wife-- my Nassip-o-meter doesn't really peak like yours do. It makes me very little nevermind until he's on my stereo.

Even the debate over the controversial album title didn't get to me until these last few incarnations. So the album was scheduled to be called Nigger. Yeah? As the wholly patriotic Thickwitness you know me to be, I could barely set down my copy of the First Amendment long enough to phone C. Dolores Tucker. Even when I did dial, the line was busy 'cause she was on Sharpton's call waiting.

Not to worry. I'm fairly certain that Nas, Def Jam, and Virgin Megastore are still protected under the Bill of Rights. Plus, how could I possibly be offended before hearing the album? If we negated Dick Gregory's autobiography before cracking the pages, one may never bear witness to the comedic and ethnographic genius therein. I think. I still ain't read the book. Which is why I can't really pass judgment on it.

I should say that everything in my Pan-Africanist upbringing taught against using the word. I don't think I'd even spoken it aloud until I was well into my teenage years-- not even in class read alouds of Mark Twain. Or Joseph Conrad. Or neighborhood rap alongs to Biggie or Jigga or Stevie Wonder. (Yes, even Stevie Wonder has said it on track) In recent history, I must admit that the N-word has made it's way into my vocabulary. Not my daily lexicon, but certainly my monthly. And every last time I use it, I feel guilty. The remnants of the word live in my chest as a reminder that I'm somehow betraying my grandmothers-- shame on me.

Conversely, I'm disappointed when tired discourse with which we're all familiar surfaces. We're still asking ourselves: Why affirm a word that holds such dismal history for the descendants of enslaved Africans in this county? What happens if white folks start using it? Will there be a series of VH1 celebreality dedicated to finding the truth?

But for me, Nas' album and the surrounding debate spurn a different set of questions:
At which point does an artist gain authority to use a word consistently directed at him? Why are we comfortable hearing the N-word on each of his eight preceding efforts if we can't tolerate it as the title? What if the album, heaven forbid, actually spoke towards The State's niggardly spending on African-American education, health, and general well being? Would it be an acceptable album title then? Is Nas the speaker of his album title, or is it in the voice of say Michael Richards, or that kid on your block? Will there be a Tavis Smiley episode dedicated to paneling the truth?

Both sets of questions, however, fell by the wayside once I heard that he and the label had abandoned his proposed album title. What kind of biyatch move...?

First of all, I'd been looking forward to the release to see if the album could really withstand the enormous responsibility of its moniker. How monumental would it have been if the potential classic began to change the way the hood imagines itself? If it talked about the fact that young black men still feel like niggers -- If the album ignites a much needed discussion in the listenership, and sets down a new framework for evaluating our own complicated self affirmation, n-words just may gain their minds.

But the album isn't going to drop it like that. It's either called Nas or Untitled, depending on who you're asking. And that's what really springs my sprockets. Cause come on, Esco. It's courageous to begin the debate and see it through to the end. It's irresponsible art making if it's just the house that hype built. Which makes me wonder...

Based on my complicated history with the music of Olu Dara's son, I'd have to assume that the album is much more profound than Kelis' beadazzled slur lets on. Using Nas' preceding works as the (cough) blueprint, we can assume that there will be a good deal of autobiography. There will be an indictment or two of the way this country operates. The production will be reflexive of a midnight drive at high speeds down the BQE, and my boy Ramon Cabrera reliving each line as gospel. Nasir is the truth.

I think.

What burns deepest is the possibility that the album title could be swapped out for his own, given name. If the album, years in the making at this point, can easily be renamed-- if each track applies to both Nas and the antecedent title, something's worth inspecting. Is "Nas" a placeholder for "Nigger"? The man who was once God's son? Escobar? Kid Wave? Are we to distill that after nine albums QB isn't far from where it began? What does Nas lose if he becomes the epithet's stand in? What does he stand to gain?

And if the album remains untitled come July 15th, what does it say about our readiness to listen? How does one hear the truth in word, if she is to scared to look at it? Or will a blank spot on the album cover forever point to the word too taboo to say aloud?

Giving Birth To The Papa Lo-Down

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Mon, 26 May 2008 19:46:10 PDT

Today's guest Thick Witness is Paloma Belara, the public relations mastermind behind much of the ill-Literacy success. She's the smiling face over your shoulder at the party, and easily the drop dead gorgeous-est at all times. Paloma's on loan from her own daily blog, and writes about her time asserting herself as a young PR genius girl with hips phenom. Thickwit's proud to have her before she becomes your household name in music industry baller-dom.

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I've really only started working in the music/entertainment industry for about three years now. Ever since I moved back to the Bay from my 2+ year adventure in New York, it has been a period of trial and error and many successes as well. I'm proud of myself. From securing a trademark, building a website, producing an open mic, freelance writing for a magazine, managing, booking, counseling a group during their breakup, securing a clothing sponsorship, co-producing an online remix contest, producing shows, managing distribution and promotions, securing features on prominent publications and media outlets, shiiiiet... I've done a lot!!

So after all that, I burned myself out... go figure! I was warned by those close to me of the workload...but I've always been rebellious or hard headed (depends on the situation), so I had to go through several breakdowns before I dropped everything and decided to take a leave of absence. Re-evaluate, find balance, research, breathe, spend time with all the children in my life (eight nephews and one niece to be exact), and mostly to organize myself so that I could come back into the biz feeling confident about the goals being set.

Six months into my hiatus, and I'm gearing up for my return! There are hella things about to pop off and way too many opportunities sitting there calling my name that I couldn't stand back and let it pass me by. I'm excited, nervous, anxious, confident, insecure. All that, and then some... rolled into one.

I have my days... where I'll hit up one of my confidants seeking moral support. I start the conversation with, "I'm having a moment..." because the fear and insecurity takes over me, it happens... and then I have my good days as well, I'm on top of my game and the drive to make moves is like an adrenaline rush after the end of a roller coaster ride.

So here I am ready to give "birth" to what I hope will become a Bay Area (and beyond), household name within the independent music and entertainment industry, enter - "The Papa Lo-Down"

Right now what you see is a blog of my experiences in the music industry - with the objective to provide tips, advice, and insight for independent artists that are self-managing their careers. I definitely don't think I know everything, but I hope by offering what has or hasn't worked and what I think could work, from my point of view, will in turn benefit someone else's career.

I'll be launching a PR (public relations) service in the fall and expanding the scope of the blog to include more news and information surrounding the Bay Area Hip Hop Industry. And please believe the "contractions" I'm having are going to come much more frequently as my "due date" approaches, so to all my homies - I suggest you block me from your gchat list if you don't want to hear me stress out! :)

The support I get from my family, friends, and community (aka network), is truly a driving force in keeping me on track and focused, giving me confidence that all the heartache, sleepless nights, and half empty gas tanks are not in vain.

Damn, being a "single mother" is not easy, but as the saying goes "it takes a village to raise a child...", and I happen to live in the freshest village on the west coast.

www.papalodown.com

Larger Than...

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Sun, 18 May 2008 13:26:13 PDT

Guest Thickwitness, Sherlynn Hicks, lives in Southern California. She is an actor, writer, and regular contributor to BrooWaha Los Angeles. Sherlynn is a self proclaimed Buffy enthusiast. Hicks is one of two original girls with hips and has the power to oust or ordain all potential thickwits. She's got more backside than you've got wit, and more wit than you've got backside. Sucks to be you. Plus, Sherlynn's way too fine. See?

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Sasha Obama with Secret Service Agent at Iowa Minor League Game

There's a photograph in the newly released Esquire Magazine, the one with Barack Obama on the cover. In the center of the frame is his daughter Sasha, eyes wide, mouth open. Michelle's face is crinkled in a tickled laugh. The camera catches the back quarter of Senator Obama. His hand is reaching past his daughter to someone's hand in the crowd to shake. His face is tilted upwards, surveying the crowd obscured in the black background of the photograph. Sasha's yellow hair ribbon is tied in an askew bow and cute as hell. The caption reads "The day after announcing for president in February 2007, Obama greeted a crowd in Chicago. His daughter Sasha, trying to get her father's attention, shouted, 'I love you, Daddy!'"

I can't stop crying.

This little girl might to lose her daddy to things larger than her existence. The look on her face. That adoring, loving look on her face clamoring for her daddy's attention in a crowd of adoration less personal than her own, is...heartbreaking.

But it is also indicative of my fears for my preferred candidate. I worry that if elected, will he be up to the task? And if up to the task, will he be allowed to excel? And if allowed to excel, will his excellent choices be free of corruption? And if free of corruption, will the path of this country be righteous? And if the path of this country is righteous, will the world's as well?

It's as if I don't want to lose my preferred candidate to the things that are larger than his daughter's existence.

Everything is Broken. And Gorgeous.

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Thu, 15 May 2008 11:58:37 PDT

I haven't much time to write this.

My computer is dying. My phone is dying. My car is dead.

But spring is doing it's thing outside.

It's an unexpected 95 degrees in Oakland.

Allergies at an all time high.

Stop reading this. I have nothing special to say.

The site was broken last week, but my spirit wasn't.

Go outside.

Find the spring you've forgotten.

Listen to Mahalia Jackson. Reacquaint yourself with the Staple Singers.

Love abounds, and is for you, right now.

Watsky vs. Cera Back Story.

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Fri, 09 May 2008 08:41:02 PDT

michael, please have some understanding

Two days ago, on a brisk walk through the east village, I bumped into who I thought was my good friend George Watsky. I will say that I was brazilian sushi bound, judgment thus impaired, plus both of my eyes were swollen from seasonal allergies. I give a huge wave to "George", and was shocked to see my good friend cover his face and attempt to brush past me.

Watsky. What up, kid? It's me, Chinaka. From Poetry and stuff. Love what you're doing with the vocorder and trumpet. We gotta link on this Watsky for President jumpoff...

No response.

What the hell? I mean, I understand you're hot stuff now George-- rocking fur collars at the SF Opera House, bout be junior standing at Emerson and all. But homie, you have to say what up. It's for the love. Bay Area, and all that, fam. Why you trying to son me, yo?

So I stare George down real hard and all, and to my intense embarassment, it's not my literary bosom buddy, but the lesser known, albeit very talented Michael Cera-- who doesn't know me from Adam.

Spaz, Michael, my bad, it's just that you look O.D. like a friend of mine, and I thought you were trying to act like you don't know... And I mean you're a great actor and all, really love what you did in that baby movie, but you know I just got really excited that I was running into THE George Watksy Experience, you know?

And Mikey was real understanding and all, extra Hollywood, peace zen aura scone, mentioned something about getting green tea powder on his pinkberry, and got ghost real soon. So I was a little embarrassed, but figured it was all good. Was going to shout him out at Thickwit, add him to the list of celebrities seen by anti-bossip, but he beat me to the punch.

George calls me out of the blue, because he respects my gangster and knows I've been dealing with threats a bit recently, and wanted my advice. He got this crazy note from someone claiming to be Mike Cera, asking him to leave the nerd niche alone.

So this post is for Michael. I don't know whether or not you wrote a note to George-- and this could be all circumstantial, but if I in any way offended you, I'm sorry. I know you've spent a good deal of money, time and heart trying to claw your way out of the shadow of George V. Watsky. I don't want to downplay your efforts, and I heard Superbad really was a brilliant film. Heard good things about Juno too. I understand that you and G. Watts have similar fan bases, and are often at the same auditions. He's really sorry that he beat you out for lead vocalist in Invisible Inc., and I promise to take a serious look at your manuscript for the next round of First Word books.

Let's get you on, Michael. There's space enough in the dork kingdom for both of you. I hear they're remaking Weird Science. How awesome would a collabo be? That's money. Let's keep this peace. Let's keep agents out of this, and lawsuits. I'd hate to have to find our handwriting specialist and link you to the note on legal pad. Restraining orders make it really hard at call backs.

That's not a threat.

All Love,

Nak.

Do George Watsky and Michael Cera have beef?

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Wed, 07 May 2008 19:07:02 PDT

My friend George Watsky got this in the mail today...
Tell me reader, what should George do?

conspiracy #1.

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Tue, 06 May 2008 19:53:06 PDT

I'm pretty sure that the allergens are in the claritin.

On Violence, Freedom and Urgent Means

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Tue, 06 May 2008 07:09:08 PDT

Today's a day shy of a week after the release of Rising Down, The Roots' tenth effort. In the last six days two things have happened:

I've listened enough to put a scratch in the mp3. Dad's going to kill me.
I've become increasingly aware of the history behind my anger. Oh, and it' so justified.

Now, I'm not saying that I'm going to cut YOU specifically or ANYONE in the abstract, but I am saying that Rising Down provides an excellent road map to my aggression towards all of the people and instances between the specific and the abstraction. If William T. Vollman's seven volumes of Rising Up and Rising Down "attempts to establish a moral calculus to consider the causes, effects, and ethics of violence" and tracks the knowing of these internationally-- then The Roots give the math on why black folks might could be angry right about now. I think.

Maybe it's more focused than that, even. It's almost as if The Roots take us into the intimacies of their own potentials for violence and freedom, and compass how the music has served, for the last decade and a half, as their own urgent means of retaliation. The album begins with a antique for '94 audio-recording of a Roots conference call gone super duper hyphy-- screams peak out, provoked by a conversation about the band's conflicts with the label, and the way frustrations are articulated. Whole lot of, albeit justified, black-man yelling, fuck you, fuck this, i'm trying to be heard, threatening to drop the line. Hello, hello?

And then the album begins. From there we hear Mos on the opening track, bearing witness that the earth is spinning away from itself, and someone really should let God know about it. Then they Get Busy on the required banger with appearances from long time collaborator Dice Raw and some cat named Peedi Peedi, who's my new favorite (his cadence is mangoes). We move back to the history of inverse flight with Tariq at age 15, rhyming harder than you, your moms, and your set, ala Kool G-- which really just serves as an introduction to 75 bars-- a track that's exactly what it sounds like. 75 bars of Thought on red niggas, brown niggas, high yellow niggas, and his place in all of that. The album goes on to scribble between dismal and concerned, frenetic and tactical. But in an extra live way. Like a party just before dawn on a derailed SEPTA train. Rhymes from the talented electric tenth rail. "WEB Dubois meets Heavy D and the Boys..."

If Phrenology tapped into The Roots' mental landscape, and The Tipping Point spoke towards the fulcrum of madness, then this album moves across the vertex of intellect and a broken heart. It's written from beyond the barrel, before the verdict. It's post-Obama hype, pre-President Barack. It answers questions about the cultural differences between those who yell and those who take that shit personally-- and how trust has been built between the two.

Plus it answers my ongoing hate on Tariq-- the critique that he rarely tells a story-- with the exceptions of Water, Silent Treatment and You Got Me-- I been thinking Thought was just flexing his superior skill in rhyme... But the poet in me has always craved narrative. Which I didn't think Black would ever do-- until I realized that the story's been told over 10 albums-- maybe 12 or 13. Oops. He's kind of "the Ernest Hemmingway of b-boy poems, can't take the pen away he's Leroi Jones."

And with that said-- It's also worth noting that The Roots been trying to get my bourgignant behind to read since five albums back. Peep: Things Fall Apart. Phrenology. The Tipping Point. Game Theory. And now some shit named after a 7 volume McSweeney's text. If I cared so much about stories, you'd think I'd get my library card current.

As always, Questlove's musical direction is superior. The album has cameos out the ass- the aforementioned Mos, Kweli in tow, Peedi Peedi, Styles P, Malik B., Common, Chrisette Michelle, Patrick Stump, Saigon, Truck North-- and a couple more heads. Still, somehow, none seem out of place, or additions for crossover purposes. Everyone's rhyming to the same end-- like they revised verses, or something. Or wrote in the same place.

Rising Down is musically light years beyond that The Dream single you've been knocking all week, and the Danity Kane jump I've had on repeat. (Do do you have a first aid kit handy?) I'm pretty sure this album is the alcohol to Bad Boy's hydrogen peroxide. Both from brown containers, but one's a little cleaner, a little more burn in the wound.

And don't your life sting from time to time? Make you want to holler? Soundtrack it with this.

Thickwit approves.

I have nothing constructive to post.

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Sun, 15 Jun 2008 13:31:16 PDT

thickwit is anti-bossip: we stop at nothing.

chinaka and the terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Wed, 30 Apr 2008 23:48:06 PDT

chinaka knew it was going to be a bad day when she woke up falling off of her sofa, crumbs from the night before in her toes. she still felt sick. it was hard to move.

but up she got, and into the shower. wash, wash she went, until she knocked over the special pantene pro-v for women of color. she wondered why they put it in a brown bottle anyway? "no matter" she thought.
out of the shower and on the way to get dressed she noticed the time. "my word," she thought, "i'm going to be late for work. i'd better hustle. it seems like everyday i'm hustling. hustling, hustling. everyday."

chinaka decided to text message her friend lauren. days were always better when lauren rode to work with her. "scop you at nine forty five" she texted. then deleted. then she texted again: "scoop you at 945?". lauren wrote back quickly "i'm in berk. trying to take my final, but it's locked in some woman's desk."

womp. womp. this day was shaping up poorly. thought chinaka. "no matter," she thought. "soon enough I'll be at work, and this day will be ending as soon as it began."

no such luck. there was so much traffic on the freeway that they announced it on the radio. that's bad traffic. the drive to work usually took chinaka fifteen minutes. today it took over an hour. and in chinaka's car, that was very dangerous. chinaka's car needed a new timing belt, and any idle moments let it almost break down. there were a lot of idle moments. chinaka wanted to go home. chinaka should have turned around and gone home.

but she went to work. work wasn't so bad. lunch was good. then chinaka met with very nice people at the museum of african diaspora and guess who was there? chinaka's friend's parents who were always very nice to chinaka. chinaka waved! hi mrs. johnson! hi mr. johnson! this day was looking up. then chinaka noticed a huge crowd. what were all these people doing at the museum in the middle of the day? didn't they have jobs? they were listening to a man speak. who was this man?

chinaka looked closer. it was michael eric dyson. he liked hip hop. chinaka liked hip hop. chinaka liked that michael liked hip hop. he seemed like a smart man. chinaka liked smart men.
but chinaka had to have a meeting and couldn't keep listening to the smart man. that was bad news. goodbye mr. dyson.

after the meeting, chinaka left the museum. she checked her phone. bad news on the voicemail. she found out that she wouldn't be seeing some of her good friends for a very long time. this made chinaka sad. very sad. chinaka needed a hug.

"but wait!," thought chinaka, "i'm close to my mommy. she works nearby." and chinaka went to visit her mommy. it bothered chinaka a little bit that she was almost 24 years old and still needed hugs from her mommy. but she needed a hug, so she went. she hoped her mom was not too busy at work.

guess what? mom was busy, but mom took time. it was nice. mom let chinaka talk about nothing, and shared her cranberry juice with chinaka. chinaka loved cranberry juice, but she loved mom more. yay mom.

but it was time to go back to work.

chinaka decided to take a taxi. taxi cabs were fun. chinaka went to a nearby hotel and waved for a taxi. the cabdriver pulled up and asked chinaka if she was going a long way away. chinaka wondered why cabdrivers always assumed she was going far away from the center of the city. it was almost like just by looking at her they could tell where she lived. incredible.

chinaka said, "tenth and division."

the cabdriver said "hop in."

as soon as chinaka got on her seatbelt, the cabdriver asked her to get out.

"why?" she asked?

"because that guy is going to pay me more," he said.

chinaka got out. chinaka noticed who that guy was. he was very tall, white and had on a tie.

the cabdriver was white. but he was not as tall. and he didn't have on a tie.

chinaka was not white. she was not tall. she did not have on a tie. too bad for chinaka.

the taxi dispatcher told the taxi driver that he was being unfair to chinaka.

the cabdriver was a dick.

fuck that motherfucker. ruined my children's story like day. he was all: but that guy's going to pay me more. actually said that. and then went on to say that he was just trying to eat. never asked where the tall white guy was going. just assumed that i wouldn't be paying as much. and proceeded to say "sorry, but I'm sure you understand. everybody deserves to be able to eat. this is america, after all, you work at the gym down here? you look pretty tough..."

you bet your ass i look tough.

anti-bossip.

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 02:11:31 PDT

okay. so the thing is i have nothing against
two of the men i love most in the world read it on a daily basis. i'm not one to hate on anyone's news outlet. i mean some of y'all watch cnn daily. no bubbles burst when i tell you they're not actually the best political team on television. sometimes there's some really interesting info on bossip. like, for example, apparently remy ma and papoose are engaged to be married. married. which will make for just about the ugliest nuptials ever. also, i got updated on the former mrs. bobby brown, tyra, rev. wright, and most importantly khia. ( if you don't know who khia is-- good for you. suffice it to say she's on a show hosted by mc serch of white rapper show fame)

i take issue with bossip not because it's a stockade of useless information-- that's half my game plan here-- i take issue with bossip because it's a name that supposes you can slide the letter b in front of anything and blacken it. as if gossip isn't already a part of the rich cultural heritage of our diaspora. i thought we at least had gossip on lock and didn't have to qualify it as our own, somehow othered from all of the mainstream gossip.

but i'm not here to hate on black folks. i'm just here to provide a counterweight.
so here's my deal. this blog right here. this shit right here will be the absolute last blog where i write about absolutely nothing. if i don't have something constructive to say, and all the homies are out writing meaningful words else where you'll see this at thickwit: anti-bossip-- the nothing stops here, and i'll link you through to something much better. it'll actually work unlike that link you tried at the top of the page. come on now. why would i link you to the shit i'm hating on?

from coachella, with love (and anxiety)

noreply@blogger.com (jose a. vadi) — Tue, 29 Apr 2008 17:44:08 PDT

Guest thickwitness, Jose Vadi, is originally from the 909.
He is a national collegiate poetry slam champion and music and film freelance journalist. If there were a prize for someone least like a girl with hips, we'd give it to T.I.-- but the runner up would be Jose. Thickwit would like to congratulate Jose on almost winning T.I.'s imaginary trophy. In the event T.I. can't perform his duties- Jose will get his tiara.

****************************************************************************

i really enjoy popping people's Purple Rain cherries.

my old roommate Nate in Washington DC being one of them. for a white man from Milwaukee who demanded to the dj at Saint Ex on 14th and U to play "Ridin Dirty" so he could helicopter his ass across the dance floor before last call (knocking over several drinks and their respective owners in the process),I was surprised this obviously musically inspired chap had never seen Purple Rain in its entirety.

"I've got the album...somewhere"
"I know you do, you're a former dj, that's mandatory. But, you --"
"You mean there really is a Lake Minatonka? It's not just something Chappelle made up?"

that's when i ran upstairs, got the dvd, popped it in, and watched Nate's entire existence crumble. 22 years on this earth, and he had never seen Jerome prop up Morris Day's mirror. and of course, Prince is much more than Purple Rain, but the shit's classic ("Thriller with more fucking" as a friend of mine once described), and people will still line corners for our favorite Jehovah's Witness from Minnesota who saved Coachella from being equated solely with Jack Johnson as this year's headliner.

which leads to the point of this blog: to recount my Coachella experience seeing Prince.

a friend of mine, a music journalist, couldn't make the show, and passed down the gig to yours truly. Free tickets and a Press Pass, plus a stipend, to see Prince? Word. Called Adriel, heard him scream in an excitement for a good ten minutes over the phone, and plans were made for Palm Springs.

should be noted that since 2004, this poster has been on every bedroom wall i've inhabited...

somehow, at 23, my love for Prince has left me sock less, stoned, and stranded on some polo field in over one hundred degree heat, music blaring from all directions, cell phone dead, and surrounded by white people with dread locks. it was as if the desert scenes from "Lawrence of Arabia" fell into the living rooms of a half-baked frat house with Death Cab blaring in the background. it was only mid-afternoon, the second of this three day festival, and i was over it -- fuck Prince, fuck Portishead, fuck all the bros/bras here, fuck any awesome band that I could see right now because I'm about to die of heat stroke and that totally sucks worser, dude.

that's when all the hate seeped in. separated from the pack with very little cell phone juice to meet up with friends, i people watched alone with glaring eyes amidst the stifling Saturday heat. I decided that as a youth I heard Kurt Cobain's shotgun blast as the last bell for a generation's musical potential. I decided that everyone at this festival was a cultural, musical dick rider. I declared that music festivals were designed the be a buffet for the uninformed that are looking solely for a good time, and for music heads who are pissed that all their favorite bands overlap within the weird-band-mid-day-time slot.

i sat up. i noticed that when the bands change, there were so many tens of thousands of people walking from stage to stage that you can literally see the patron's popularity sway in flesh amidst the waves of desert heat rising from the polo field. and i wondered, "what's driving them to their favorite artist? how'd they get into them? are they even into them?" I decided, right then and there, that when these bands die everyone here will play catch-up to the memory of their ashes. I knew that no one here had heard of any of these bands, that this was just some party that Prince was playing to them, and that everyone should really spend the other 362 non-Coachella days of the year following these bands in their natural club environments instead of trying to get the most bang for their buck through all this festival business.

I mean, that's how I got into music -- didn't everyone? Why couldn't they do the same.

finally, i got some water. i took deep breaths. "It's just anxiety and heat" I told myself. i found Adriel. we smoked and waited for Animal Collective to come on. halfway through the song "Fireworks", i saw a girl who looked like every trashy peroxide-blonde beach-bunny from high school i hated singing along to a song that had lifted me out of many a psychological gutter. and i couldn't be mad. a little while later, watching Portishead, i saw a girl in a white blouse and cut off daisy-dukes who I'd seen looking for tickets at the Box Office before the show. she had come alone, ticketless and got in somehow. and she was loving it. every bar of imported British trip hop, she was feeling it, allowing herself to have a good time.

maybe this is truly the state of music -- you go to the desert once a year, drink a lot of water, smoke a lot of weed, drink even more water, and hopefully come out a fan of some new bands and see old favorites. who am i to judge who comes to these things? aren't you freelancing for clear channel? i suppose hindsight got the best of me when really I should have just realized outdoor multi-day festivals in the desert just aren't my thing. i prefer the intimate over the spectacle, but if big time entertainment is what Coachella and its followers long to generate, mission accomplished.

Maybe it's on me to realize we are living in a time when a band's three songs on their MySpace are more powerful than any of their albums; when young acts like Black Lips and M.I.A can already be considered veteran musicians; when a festival is one of the few chances kids from the sticks will have to see all their favorite bands at once, bands they'd never see otherwise. Who knows.

I don't go to shows nearly as much as I used to. If anything I follow the protocol of the punk rock retirement program and just stand in the back and drink beer instead of jumping on some dude's shoulders and propelling myself toward the front. Either way, people are still interested in music. Good music. Like Prince. The man who saved Coachella from the grip of Jack Johnson.

He killed, by the way. Morris and Jerome showed up. SHEILA E CAMEO! It was amazing. I almost cried during the slower version of "Little Red Corvette". He had two encores. He covered Radiohead's "Creep". Radiohead themselves rarely plays this song, and this fool does it first encore!

now all i have to see left on the MUST SEE BEFORE I DIE list are stevie and fugazi...

reporting live from palm desert,
jose vadi
4/27/08

Go Here.

noreply@blogger.com (Chinaka) — Sun, 27 Apr 2008 01:37:25 PDT

close your eyes and make a wish.

Okay. Very short spiel today. Maggiano's Italian restaurant changed my life this evening.
Good service. Better food. Best cheesecake of my life, and believe you me, I've had cheesecake.

I have all sorts of qualms with all sorts of things, particularly any major non-black owned franchise, but Maggiano's is food like it should be. Big portions, amazing textures, attention to detail and fair price. $27.95 will get you full as you want to be, and you can take as much as you want to go. I'm saying. Appetizers, two salads, two pastas, two entrees and two desserts for the cost of your busting ass drive and meal at Olive Garden. Oh. The possibilities. May I suggest the cheese ravioli and the medallions? Also the best shirley temple I've had in a while. They've got stores all over. Check Maggianos.com for the full menu and spots in your area. Plus eating there this week supports the work of Make-a-wish.

right here she's saying she likes italians.

Damn. You selfish. You've read this far and still aren't planning on going. How you going to deny a dying child's last wish cause you don't want to drive to San Jose for family style Italian food? And what you got against Italians? You ain't never seen A Bronx Tale? If Taral Hicks could fall in love with Cologgiero, and then fucks with Nas in Belly, you ain't too hood to have a little antipasti.