Word: hipping
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Dates: during 1990-1999
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...After his closing remarks, I rise with the rest of the crowd to applaud. The next panel on social responsibility is less inspiring--when asked if there exists a unifying philosophy behind hip-hop, one record company executive states that "the one thing that I think every artist can agree on is the desire for artists to own their own masters." Rather than ruin my newfound zeal for hip-hop, I tune out and sift through the ideas in KRS-1's keynote address...
...hip-hop, I think. More so than the outspoken man in the front with the one pant leg rolled up, more so than the white kid in camouflage pants and sideways cap. These people are trying to be like hip-hop, I say to myself. I simply am. If KRS-1 claims that one can "be hip-hop, standing in line at the supermarket," why can't I be hip-hop while concentrating in C.S.? Don't I listen to Cypress Hill's "Hits From the Bong" in the Science Center terminal room? Don't I fight for my right...
...formal anytime this weekend, why don't you grab some style? While most Harvard women have a plethora of choices from gowns to shoes to jewelry to shades of lipstick, men just don't have much choice in what they wear. Sure, some men bust out their granddad's hip blue suede tux from the attic for that extra-special occasion, but for the most part, they're encompassed in a sea of black on black. What to do for some variation? Truly nothing says "I'm hip, I'm with it, I'm tres chic" like a cane. Decorative...
...hip-hop amateur. A poser, a posturer, a suburbanite whose closest interaction with the underground music industry consists of accidentally downloading an MP3 from a non-mainstream artist. So when called on to "check out the hip-hop conference that's happening this weekend," I'm intimidated not just a little bit. Approaching Emerson Hall, licking the remnants of fried dough from my fingers, my worst fears are confirmed. Blocking the front door is a group of dreadlocked combatants--they are speaking in elevated tones and circling each other warily...
...tell me that that's not real?" The question freezes me at the foot of the staircase. Remembering the side entrance, I hurry past, staring intently at my toes the whole way. As I approach the thankfully unoccupied door, I try to dredge up what little knowledge of hip-hop culture I have. It's Nothing but a G-Thang. G-Funk--step to this, I dare you. Wu-Tang Clan ain't nuthin to fuck wit'. Inter- galacticplanetary-intergalactic... How does the rest go? I tuck my Abercrombie T-shirt into my Gap denim shorts and walk through...