So, the homie Michael dropped this genius piece on his personal site, The Cynical Ones, last week. The topic: fame whores, "making it," success and how to achieve it. I don't really have much to say, except that I found myself nodding in approval of essentially every fucking sentence. This guy is a beast with the words. Sure, he'll shock some with his approach, but the message is clear and perfectly worded. Aside from informing me of the existence of catfish nuggets, he, in fact, motivates me to suck less as a writer. Get in.



Will You Marry Me, Rob Kardashian?
So maybe it’s time for me to reevaluate my life goals and the methodology in which I plan to attain them.

It’s becoming increasingly harder not to be at least a teensy bit jaded about celebrity culture’s choke hold on the media. Yesterday, I read that New York Times best-selling author, Snooki, admitted that she has no idea who J.K. Rowling and Maya Angelou are. I still have yet to see a single episode of Jersey Shore (on purpose), but based on what I’ve seen of Snooki in the press that revelation doesn’t surprise me at all. She’s just one of many intellectually challenged personalities turned pretend writers who can claim to be best-selling authors despite needing a ghostwriter to help them finish writing their ABCs.
 ....continue reading.

You may also stalk him via his new Tumblr with the best title ever, Fried Fish & Feelings.

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Since landing in what some friends consider to be a land where we frolick on the beach in loin cloths with spears before heading back to our mud huts to cook over a fire built in the ground (yes, this happened), I can admit to disconnecting from events in the States that would have otherwise captured my attention. I'm quite unaware of what's going on in the upcoming Presidential election, except that Herman Cain, though more of a joke than a candidate, is frontrunner in the race for America's Next Top Crotchety Racial Embarrassment. I haven't kept abreast of every Occupy Wall Street spinoff, don't give have a shit who gets eliminated from X-Factor USA, and am, give or take, three miles outside of the loop, musically.

I can't say this is an unwelcome feeling.

Above all of those areas, least important of all are the happenings in the world of Hip Hop NigNogs. Through Twitter and Facebook, I gather that Lil Wayne skeeted whatever lyrical magic he once possessed down some young man's throat while locked up in the slammer, Drake is still as emotional as an eighth grade girl with braces, and someone named Boosie may or may not be in jail (again). All I know of J Cole is that he could get the entire business. Dr. Dre still hasn't dropped an album. Eminem is still rich, angry, and is now aging in reverse. That's all I got.

Don't. Give. a Fuck.

However, since moonwalking into teaching dance down here in Panama, I've had to search these internets to see what's hot, what has a dope beat, what the kids are rocking to these days, and so on. Yes, mainstream hip hop is still as dumb as I thought it'd be. Even more grating is the endless string of wrist-slitting anthems fist pumping classics churned out by UsherDavidGuettaFloRidaBlackEyedPeasLMFAOPitbull that Panamanians. fucking. love. and. play on the radio. and. choreograph and perform. to. every. motherfucking. day. While selecting music for a show I'm contributing choreography to, I happened across a response to the video for Big Sean's "Dance (A$$)". Couldn't point Mr. Sean out in a police line up, but he's apparently hot right now, or something. I only know the name because of his verse on Kelly Rowland's dated jam "Lay It On Me." The remix features Nicole-Ann Minaj. Sigh.

In searching for the song to see if it moved me at all or inspired some choreography, I saw this headline:
Nevermind that she apparently exchanged hip inches for rhythm. Nevermind that even the youngest Atlanta geigh can out-twerk her and that she moves like she's afraid to break something. Forget the fact that she hasn't quite gained muscular control over all of her assets. Damn all of that.

Nicki Minaj, like every selectively responsible rapper, takes breaks from reminding us of how clean and tasty her 'gina is to remind kiddies to stay in school. That, Melinda Newman, is the extent of her social responsibility. Repping ladies in a positive light? That's Drakeisha's job. Sure she probably has a charity to balance out the goonery. But, laying the weight of carrying the torch of breasted emcees worldwide upon her ample ass is not fair. Besides, it's evident she doesn't care who takes her seriously or sees her as some upstanding, classy broad. Her lacefronts make that abundantly clear.

Sure she's crude. Sure she uses sex and outlandish gear to sell her brand of pop-hop. And of course, her mere existence and wild popularity speaks to the changing face of music. It's hard out here for the rapper with ovaries. Being prolific and/or cute is hardly enough to storm the scene in 2011: it's yet to be seen what old faves like Missy can/will do in a post-Minaj world. Nicole-Ann will likely reach a point where she'll reel in her spread-eagle approach to music. If you're looking for a role model or someone to hold it down with uplifting lyrics that you can pop that coochie to, check out Mary Mary. Let homegirl awkwardly drop it like it's hot and collect her check.

Again, in my life, Minaj is absolutely inconsequential, but it's the high moral hopes for such a nonsensical person that point to signs of stupidity.

If you couldn't look to little Kim or Foxy Brown for some level of class, don't put hat load on Nicole-Ann. Kimberly famously bragged of her ability to conceal Sprite cans in her well-traveled mouth. She, like Nicole-Ann, got as much press for her wardrobe (or lack thereof) as for her lyrics. It's a game. Ms. Minaj is the latest surgically enhanced nonsensical plaything of the moment. She, like Kim was, is a frolicking mascot, a caricature. She's admitted she's channeling her theater days as inspiration for voices and characters. She is a jester, not a woman to whom you look for positive examples. This is not someone whose hypersexuality you occasionally enjoy, but expect to have some limit or boundary of crassness, over which she would not cross. Give it a break. Wrong tree. Lost cause. All of that.

Remy's gone. Foxy's crazy and more concerned with buying up all the big, silky weave in Brooklyn. Until Kimberly Jones quits huffing bleaching cream and/or builds a functioning time machine to bring her formerly colored former self here from 1997, looks like this is all you have to work with, person who expects class from crotch-pumping rap chicks. Well, you also have Kreayshawn, but if rapping albino rats aren't your cup of tea, suspend your search for a bewigged savior and deal with Cirq du Minaj.

 Sorry.

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Sunday made four months here in Panamá. I can officially report that the honeymoon phase has ended. I can no longer coast off of the magnitude of what I've done in relocating here. Now, I must fully commit to building a new life here, to moving forward and actually doing something with my time in Panamá. The month break I took from the blog was absolutely necessary. While I'd love to be able to write here daily, I can't. Life got really real in the last few weeks. Gained some new English students. Lost a few students. Made some great friends. Met someone I find "interesting." Or something. Eating as if I'm pregnant. Still managed to lose a few pounds. Had a phone involuntarily removed from my person. Replaced it. Had the replacement removed from my possession. Shit happens, eh? In the end, I have my health, and am alive to experience the subsequent anger.

hospital bracelets and lost hair.

Last summer I attempted to start an online writing group. Fueled by my desire to improve my writing and duplicate the workshop-style setting of the writing courses I was taking in Los Angeles at the time, I wanted to create a forum for promising writers I knew to share work, receive criticism, and explore the work of others. It was a good concept, I thought. I cast a wide net, contacting people I considered intelligent, who I also thought were down to critique and be critiqued. The issue was execution. Rather than stick to the five or so dedicated writers I originally foresaw, I opened the group up to about 10 or so people. Some wrote casually, some ranted online, some were legit writers, having been published in various formats. Seemed like a good idea to me.

Then, the responses to the prompts I posted slowed. I struggled to nail down a functional format for the collective. Some used it as a rant space. Some would respond to an outpouring with, "I like it." And that was that. And: life happened. It slowly faded to black, still searchable online, never to be used again.

Last week, my awesome parents sent me a care package of books I requested. In this box was also a journal I didn't request. The entries in the composition notebook range from Christmas Eve 2009 until Fourth of July 2010. I am inclined to believe they at least skimmed it. I didn't ask for this book, but I'm glad they sent it. Sure they are probably caught up on my love life and hoe shit escapades in Los Angeles, but the book contains a draft of a writing prompt I posted in the defunct writing group: write a letter to yourself five years ago.

It's dated 6/8/10, which was five years after I was diagnosed to lupus. More specifically, it was exactly five years from the day I emerged from a coma, after being hit with double renal failure, heart failure, and having my brain and lungs attacked by the mysterious autoimmune disease. Peep it.


06.08.10. five years later.
Well, you survived. You made it through to the other side. Congrats. This is the beginning of a long, uphill battle. You must be strong and keep your head up during the next few months. Your appearance will change dramatically. Fear not, it is temporary. All will be okay.