Word: hoppings
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...spring of 2004, I quit hip-hop. It wasn't the first time. Our relationship was stormy from the start. Hip-hop was my first literature, and it was Rakim, not Fitzgerald, who first made me consider writing. Still, all that macho blathering was a weird match for me, a kid with the self-esteem of an earthworm. So every few years, I'd bemoan the state of the music, rip my Public Enemy posters from the wall, unspool all my mix tapes and swear, "Never again!" That was mostly posturing--all it took was something arch and underground...
...then that spring when I walked into a bar with 50 Cent and Fabolous pumping at maximum volume, it felt like an audio beat down--everything I ever hated about hip-hop blaring at me in all its nihilistic glory. I left with an equally black and dismayed friend. This was absurd--two black men in their late 20s acting like two white women in their early 70s. We could not close the night on that depressing thought, so we headed to another party, where the DJ deftly mixed the White Stripes and Eurythmics. We sat down. We ordered from...
...hop enters 50’s life early on. When his aunts and uncles threw parties at 50’s grandmother’s house, he would watch from his window and marvel at how the beat took control of his relatives as they danced. He recalls how listening to the Notorious B.I.G.’s classic album “Ready to Die” while pushing crack had a calming effect: “When I was hustling, I would listen to that tape and it would be like Big was sitting right next...
...Real hip hop heads will enjoy reading about 50’s growth as an artist under the tutelage of the late, great Jam Master Jay of Run-DMC and how the beef got started between 50 and Ja Rule (it involves fists and knives). But important details about 50’s rap career are missing from the book. For example, he briefly mentions Tony Yayo, Lloyd Banks, and Young Buck—members of his G-Unit crew (two of whom were arrested earlier this week on gun charges)—but he does not discuss...
...spend my days trapped, sometimes for eight or 14 hours at a stretch. My captors twist. They squeeze. My skin blisters under pitiless, chafing leather straps. I’m talking, of course, about high heels and the utter agony of dealing with them all day as I hop, skip, trip, and fall my way though a summer internship at a large financial institution smack in the middle of Corporate America. Middle of Corporate America though it may be, it’s still five blocks away from my subway station...