Is the Musicscape for Hip-Hop About to Change?

When I was growing up, music and television were pretty much all that I had.  I grew up on these influences as not only a means of entertainment and a resonance of spiritual feeling and understanding, but also as lessons in life that would shape, at the core, the person that I would become. 

In the 1990’s, I never thought much of music being anything other than what it was at face value at the time.  In those days, hip-hop was a new art form still, taking shape in new form on almost a daily basis.  I was living near the east coast, in Toronto at the time, and the influence there was heavily from New York.  My bff at the time was a New Yorker, so that just resulted in me diving deeper into the good shit and just becoming completely immersed in hip-hop.  Toronto, too, was not too shabby of a place for hip-hop in its own right.  On the weekends, some of the illest shit was coming out of the university radio station.  Illest?  Damn, I have used that word in a long time...

The music though, was what was most important.  Whether coming out from the university air waves, or from the latest Kid Capri mixed tape from the New York underground, the music spoke to us the same.  Back then, the lyrics were gritty and real.  The music was about the streets, and hustling for paper.  They were about accumulating street cred and making sure the haters were kept in check.  There were some like Busta Rhymes, Jeru the Damaja, and Tribe Called Quest that made you think with poetic analogies and smart lyrics. 

I think most people that know hip-hop would agree that the music coming out of New York in the early 90’s was the best of the best.  In an earlier post, I listed out some of my faves from that era, and you can find it here: http://a-lo-books.blogspot.com/2011/12/favorite-music.html

That wasn’t all though.  The west coast gave birth to gangsta rap, which was an entirely different animal.  It was ballsy and raw, and it reeked of danger.  You had to listen to it because it was too much force to ignore.  The gangsta rap was good too, and it was as much from the streets as was the east coast hip-hop.  The west coast street culture was (is?) heavily influenced by gangs, so the music connected with the streets and gave that culture a voice.  I suppose I have a unique perspective on both sides, because when I moved back to the west coast in the mid 90’s, tha DoggPound, Snoop Dog, and Dr. Dre were just getting started.

It was a great time for music.  The east coast versus west coast battle was poppin’ off.  Biggie Smalls was the illest.  Tupac came out here and transformed his soul, immersing himself into the gang culture, and in doing so, he made some of the best hip-hop/gangsta rap ever to hit the streets.

Something sad and unfortunate happened though, and I don’t mean the sad and tragic deaths of Biggie or Tupac.  The music changed.  The 1990’s ended, and with it, the great music.  As if the music of the dirty south was not bad enough, the lyrics became as fake and plastic as our economy at that time.  Drinking 40’s gave way to champagne.  Street cred and dope rhymes gave way to a fake ass life of luxury and lessons in pushing the envelope of ebonics.  Every song was about drinking Crystal, driving Maybachs, sporting bling, and flying G6 jets.  What a bunch of bullshit.

Oh sure, we all know that rappers just breaking into the biz are already loaded with enough cheddar to own Gulfstream jets.  Of course it’s bullshit, and that’s my point.  The music was bullshit.  It was not real.  The lyrics were fake, as in pretend, as in total fiction.  It was the glamorization of a life many people in our culture wish they could afford but know they can’t. 

There’s nothing really wrong with that, except when people begin to take to heart.  In reality, it’s fun to sing along with some bullshit songs about the glamorous life.  It’s even fun to dream about such a life.  A lot of great movies and books are about such lives, and while we are experiencing them, it is not only a fun experience, but a harmless escapade for our imaginations.  There is a point that we crossed though, where the musicscape became over saturated with this message of bling, and I think that’s where we are today.

When I look around my city, I don’t see the bling.  I never did.  In reality, only 2% of people in our country are considered rich by the government.  That is only a small number of people.  The music of bling isn’t representing us.  It isn’t representing the streets.  It isn’t representing my neighbors.  It isn’t representing anybody I know.  That’s when you know something is wrong.  In these tough economic times, it is actually depressing to hear lyrics of bling. 

There is hope though.  I was listening to the radio the other day when I heard this song come on, “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore; you can find it here: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QK8mJJJvaes  I thought that the song was thoroughly entertaining, and kind of a joke, but mostly, I was happy that I was witnessing a change in attitude in our mainstream.  The song is not only about being broke, but it also celebrates being a broke ass.  That song spoke directly to me, and I was digging it.  I’m still not sure that this song isn’t a joke or a spoof, but Macklemore is not a joke.  I didn’t know who he was, but I listened to a few of his songs on youtube, and he raps about deep issues.  That’s cool, and refreshing.

I hope that this is the start of a new wave of music for this decade, and if it is, I will be happy.  Maybe we can get back to listening to ill music again.  Maybe we can start using the word “ill” again?  I’m probably pressing my luck with that one.  Either way, here’s to being broke and happy!

Kanpai!

PS. This is a cool site/resource for keeping in touch with hip-hop -both of yesterday and today: http://www.undergroundhiphop.com/index.asp?

Why LA Ninja?

The ninja is one of history’s most elusive and mysterious entities.  Their existence in the ancient, feudal time of the Samurai in Japan is sometimes mind blowing to me.  To be fair, I acknowledge that in general, I picture an uber glamorized ninja, much like Sho Kosugi of 1980s ninja movie fame ( imdb entry here: http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0467563/ ).  Of course I know that this image is ridiculous and purely fictional, but it’s fun and harmless, so long as I know that it is bs.  At least that's what I tell myself.  Still, the allure of this ancient being is strong for me, as I have always had such a respectful interest in the Japanese people, history, and culture.  I mean, let’s be honest; they invented the friggin’ ninja!  Cool points for Japan = one million, right there alone. That doesn't even include the Samurai.  (I will get to them later.)

In my mind, there are a million different reasons that one would want to gen up a story about ninjas.  In the end though, my reason turned out to be pretty stupid and simplistic.  There we were on day, driving over to the drive-ins of all places –to watch what, I can’t remember.  At that time, I had already written One-Eighty, so I knew I could pull a novel together.  Then I thought, out loud, “wouldn’t it be cool as shit if there was a story about a kid from LA; he’s an orphan; he gets adopted by a Japanese family; the dad is secretly a ninja; he teaches the kid to be a ninja; the kid grows up and some crazy stuff happens, and he ends up fighting LA street gangs.”

My wife, who was in the car with me, laughed, and then said, “yes, actually, that would be cool!”  That was how easily the idea came to be.  Of course, anyone that has read LA Ninja knows that that isn’t at all how the story turned out.  Not even close.  I found that while I was developing the plot, it seemed too barbaric.  It was too much muscle and not enough brain; too much lack of concern and not enough passion; too much rage and not enough love; too much Charles Bronson and not enough Jerry Maguire.  You get the point.  I’m kidding, kind of, because I hadn’t written anything down except a summary plot of what I thought I wanted the book to be about.  But it was going in that direction, and I knew that I wanted the story to have the depth, love, and spirit. 

It didn’t matter what I thought, as it turned out, because when I got to writing it, Gabe pretty much took me wherever he was going, and not vice versa.  That’s the beauty, as most writers know, of writing stories and characters.  You, as the writer, may think you’re in charge, but you’re really not.  A true character will always do what they are going to do, whether you’re on board with it or not.  At least that’s what I have found out.  It’s a very exciting thing, as I have blogged about previously.

The outcome was more than I ever dreamed.  Gabe is both a simple and very complex character.   He is both very real and very surreal.  We traveled together on a journey through heaven, hell, and everywhere in between.  He inspired me with his ambition, discipline, strength, and capacity for love and goodness. He frustrated me with the mess of his life and the misfortune of his decisions. 

Why I wrote LA Ninja, I’m still not exactly sure of.  I guess I have never seen or read an all around Ninja story.  You know the one.  The story that follows a strong character but isn’t just about some crazy Japanese ninja running through the 1980’s trying to kill the good guys a la Sho Kosugi.  Not that there’s anything wrong with those stories.  I love those stories.  Call me a dreamer.  Call me a sap, even, but I wanted a story that had love.  I wanted a story that was at least semi-believable. 

I couldn’t be more proud of that piece of work.  I wrote most of it in the span of about three weeks, while my lady was in China.  I wrote it with Phoebe on my lap or next to me, pretty much the entire way through.  I wish I could go back and dedicate it to her, but I can’t, unless I am somehow able to republish it.  I already have the plots ready for the sequels, and I can’t wait to get to work on them.  I have to admit though, the story that I’m almost done with, about a lady named Alexis, has been an even more exciting story for me.  I don’t know how I will feel when it’s all said and done, but I know this: I never knew I had it in me.  Tell me how you really feel.

Feminist State of Mind

Feminism is a state of mind.  It is about freedom, power, and independence.  It doesn’t mean you can’t be girlie, or be cute, or pink, or wear lipstick or heels.  It doesn’t mean you can’t cook, or clean, or iron your husband’s clothes or be a stay at home mom.  It means that you can be what ever you want, so long as you realize that you are in charge of yourself.  Nobody tells you what to do.  No stereotypes.  No orders.  Only free will.  That is feminism, to me.

I embarked on a journey when I decided to write about Alexis Cruz, a fictional character in my upcoming book, not yet titled. This journey, although not yet complete, has gotten me to think a lot about equality and the struggle that women in particular have in our “modern” society.  I find myself now admitting that I most definitely did not have the level of understanding on the topic that I like to think I had.

I have always considered myself a modern guy that looks to reason, science, and philosophy to understand the world around me.  I blame the Aquarius in me for that, as I tend to over analyze things as well.  Still, the relationships that people have, men and women, are both complex and simple.  I have spent a great deal of time studying the character of an individual, and over time, one comes to realize that each person’s individual motivations move them to act and think the way they do.  

It’s such a simple concept, yet we have been over-complicating it and screwing it all up forever.  Sometimes it’s as simple as feeling hungry or tired; or wanting to do the right thing like telling the truth or helping a stranger in need.  Other times it begins with something basic, like viewing another person as an equal, because you know the right thing is not to assume someone is inferior because they are physically weaker, smaller, or of different skin color, or of a different sex.  The instinct for someone to make that initial assumption and then assume mental power over the other is the basis for inequality and the perpetuation of the deepest of character flaws that some of us have.

I mention it because these simple motivations are at the core of the problems -and the solutions- that I see in today’s feminist fight.  When Alexis came to be, my first idea was to model her mind and actions after my own wife’s, who to me, is the most forward thinking and powerful woman that I have ever known.  She was a perfect foundation for me; but as I delved deeper into Alexis’ character and what motivated her, I found myself becoming more and more confused about her and what decisions she would make.  I thought for a time, that I was not enough of a feminist to write such a powerful character.  She in fact, was becoming more than I could handle. 

I laugh now, because the idea seems ridiculous.  She was not overwhelming me, per se, but she had become so complex that the clear lines of definitive feminism didn’t work for me.  Feminism was not a clear definition, I came to realize.  It was not what the media would have me believe. It was not just a strong woman working in a man’s corporate world.  It was not a woman unafraid to speak her mind.  It was not an uber-liberal progressive that went to college and executed cutting-edge journalism to an audience of millions.  I should say, it was not just that.  It was those things and more.  Feminism was also mothers, teachers, stay at home moms, students, farmers, artists, singers and dancers and much, much more.

It was when I realized this that I also realized that feminism is deep at the core of our character and beliefs.  Feminism is equality, at its core.  It doesn’t even matter if I am a man or a woman, because if at my core I believe that women are equal, then equality has been achieved and the ideal of feminism no longer needs to exist.  Since our core belief system is what motivates us to act and think, in terms of equality, how can value and morality have a gender? A man can be weak, as can a woman.  A man can be shrewd, aggressive, and arrogant, as can a woman.  None of these traits have anything to do with the position a man holds in life, whether it be a farmer, lawyer, politician, or laid-off construction worker.  Same goes for a woman, regardless of her working role in society. 

This is all most definitely a change from how I viewed the topic many moons ago.  I see it as an issue still for women.  There are a lot of women out there trying to get out of this game of cutting each other down. At the core of the weaker person’s character is jealousy, shallowness, materialism and image.  The competition of it all makes people want to continuously outdo each other in order to “win” something that doesn’t exist.  The typical outcome is that women cut each other down.  It is sad to see, because it is often times over a man, which is the ultimate slap in the face to the feminists. There is no power in the weakness of lying and backstabbing because it will always come back to you.  Victims will never forget.  And it is weak because it means that you don’t have the courage to admit that you are ruthless or that you have made a mistake.  It’s a negative and ugly game, and if the energy spent on it were instead focused on making yourself a better person, you’d get real power.

It is power over self that defines feminism.  A strong man that works a career and focuses on making himself a better person has a lot of power.  So does a woman. Be independent.  Be free to follow your dreams and do something great, whether that is to run a marathon, climb a mountain, lose weight, raise great kids, earn a degree, or rise to the top of a fortune 500 company.  All of those things represent feminism, or masculinism (like that one?), if they are for you and by you.  Do it all for yourself, not for any one else.  Do it all with dignity and without cheating, and you will find power and independence. That is feminism.  That is masculinism.  Now get out there and kick some ass!

Phoebe Zephyr

I wrote about Phoebe’s Meadow, as a dedication and promise to my dog, Phoebe Zephyr, who has now passed on. The abrupt and tragic passing was due to the suddenly rapid deterioration of her liver, which had a shunt. Her passing is the single most devastating thing to happen to me in my life.

She woke up very sick on a Wednesday morning before work. My wife called me, frantic, and I rushed to meet them at the vet. The news was bad. The doctors at the vet that we’d been taking her to for her whole life said that Phoebe wanted to die, and that her liver was the problem. They suggested putting her down right on the spot, but we refused. There was no way that we could accept that outcome at that moment.

Phoebe was beyond just a special dog to us. My wife and I married young, at twenty two years old. She never wanted children, and even though I did, I loved her so much that I agreed that if it was our destiny to never have children, then I would be ok with it, and I promised to never resent her for it. We got Phoebe a few years later, as a six week old puppy.

We probably didn’t realize it at the time, but because we agreed not to have kids, Phoebe became that kid. She brought us closer and gave us something to pour our hearts into. As more time passed, we treated Phoebe more like a kid, taking her everywhere with us. We pioneered driving in the car with her hanging out of the driver’s side window.  She was always on my lap. We took her to kids parties, we bought her clothes every week, and we went to places just because they were dog friendly. We even stopped going to movie theatres and instead opted for the drive-ins because we could all be together. We lived like that for almost ten years. We called her our dogter.

People often say that they love their dogs, and I’m sure they do. Few though, are truly dog people. Phoebe was literally the center of our universe. When we fought, we talked about visitation rights, and who would get full custody. When we fought, Phoebe would get sad and sulk in the corner.  Our feelings were very real, and she, Phoebe, knew it. This was why we could not accept what the vet told us.

We went to another vet, visiting a person that we knew personally. There are many reasons that we had not taken her there in the first place, but the main reason was because she was not a vet when we started off with Phoebe and her numerous health issues. We thought that we trusted her original vet. We turned out to have made a deadly mistake.

The new vet, our friend, told us that we should have been treating the liver shunt with medication the entire time. It was what ultimately killed her. The toxins were too much and they attacked her brain. We were too sad to be livid, but as more time goes by, that truth, that our first vet did not prescribe something that was explained to us as “routine”, absolutely kills me. It means that Phoebe did not have to die yet.

I don’t know what I can do yet. Nothing will bring my Phoebe back. She died in my arms from a lethal injection one day after her 11th birthday. It was devastating. I am still devastated by it. We gave her almost eleven years of love as the center of our lives. Sadly, during the past few months of her life, she fell from that special place, as the birth of our daughter changed our entire dynamic.

Our daughter demanded our full attention. I wish though, that I knew what was happening with Phoebe. I feel so much guilt and regret that she did not spend her last few months and weeks with more attention from me. It shreds my heart knowing that I was ignoring her and unable to yet find balance in my life with her place set. My life has been out of balance. I could not balanced the new baby, working out, writing, working, eating, taking care of my Phoebe, or anything else.

Maybe it’s foolish of me to think that I could have saved her, but I think that too. Maybe I would have acted faster, or actually noticed something wrong. I don’t know. It’s too late now. She is gone forever, and her last days were the worst. We tried to save her with liver shunt medication and other medications. We went through a week of hope and despair. Our emotions shot up with happiness, thinking that each thing we tried might work, and then they fell hard when she did not improve. It was unbearable. I went through bouts of heavy crying during her last week with us. I knew a few days before she left that she was already gone. I cried hard then. Her mind was gone.

She came back only once, many days before she died, to give my wife and I “family kissies”, which was when we all three put our faces together and kissed. She licked our faces like crazy. I am so thankful for that.  I hope it is the last thing that she remembered.  She was gone for good after that. She wouldn’t eat. We force fed her with feeding tube, but she wouldn’t eat on her own. On the night before we put her down, she locked herself in a corner and cried. I could not take it. The next day she died in my arms -her favorite place to be. Her passing was peaceful and painless.

Rest in peace my baby dogter. Wait for us in the meadow. We will be with you soon. We will all be together again. Until then, we carry you with us always. You will always be our first baby. I love you.

Phoebe Zephyr Huerta, Aug 19, 2001 – Aug 18, 2012

Back from the Sadness

Back from the sadness. I’m back from a hiatus of sorts. Life happens to us all, and this past year, life, and death, has been in full force. My best friend, Phoebe, left us and passed into the next realm. She was my dog. Our dog. I have a lot to say about her, so I will be writing about her soon.

 On top of that, my baby daughter was born. She’s my first child. Our first child. I’ve written about her a lot already. Through it all, I have found myself both lost and found; both depleted and filled; both dragged through the bottom of the deepest of the dark sea floor, and at times, finding myself floating blissfully high in the clouds closest to heaven. I am both full of love, and full of emptiness.

 I find myself here though. I have finally published my fiction novel, L.A. Ninja. This work was actually done almost two years ago, but because of the publishing process (self-publishing) and how real life actually works, it has taken me this long to get it out. This marks a significant milestone for me, as this piece of work got more of my soul than any other at that time. Not to discredit or downplay One-Eighty, which was an important piece to me for certain reasons, but L.A. Ninja has like a hundred times the passion from me. My subsequent work, currently untitled, has also gotten a lot more passion from me, and it has taken me in a wildly new direction. More to come about that one too.

 Anyhow, the few initial reviews for L.A. Ninja have been awesome so far, so I hope it continues. It's available on Amazon.com (link here: LA Ninja ) and on Smashwords.com. The approval for Apple devices, Sony E-readers, and Barnes and Noble should be coming any day. It’s feels good to be back to writing here on the blog too. More to come soon.

Lactation Freaks

The prospect of my wife being pregnant had been an exciting and beautiful notion, with periods of frightening moments of fatherhood scattered in between the entire pregnancy, of course.  We had waited a long time, and even though we knew we could handle it, it still seemed scary.  Our logic was, “hey, sixteen year old girls have babies all the time; if they can handle it then so can we.”  That makes sense, doesn’t it?

Well, we tried to do everything right, from the start.  We ate organic, ate a wide variety of foods, and kept the sugars to a minimum.  Wifey was like a beast with the workouts too, yoga, P90X, jogging, and even dance sessions on the Wii so long that I had to beg her to stop.  We also read books, like Brain Food for Baby (highly recommend by the way), and we scoured the internet for trusted information.  And I have already blogged about the baby classes, and much of the comical musings that were brought on with it.  By the end of the pregnancy, we had our plan in place, and we felt ready.

You know what happened though?  The plan didn’t work.  We were confused by the contractions, surprised by the level of pain, and of course, baby was coming early.  We never really panicked though, constantly repeating to ourselves that if fifteen year olds could do it, so could we.  We went to the hospital, and after hours of pushing, we realized that we were going to have to do a Cesarean birth.  That is when the shit hit the fan for me, and the first thought of real fear entered my mind.  C-sections, while routine and common, are still surgeries under the knife.  I am normally the calm one of us two, but I freaked out, for reasons outside of the scope of this puff piece.

Anyways, everything went ok, and later that night the real game of propaganda began.  We met our first lactation consultant.  Oh yes, this is a real person, and a real position of the hospital corps.  Of course we had planned to breastfeed.  Of course it hurt my wife’s already uber-sensitive body to do so.  Sometimes, we learned, babies latch on to the breast and it hurts like hell.  Of course we kept trying anyways.  Of course it was killing me to watch her in pain.  Of course we wanted a healthy, happy baby.  Do you think we are monsters?

The lactation consultant came on like a highly specialized Storm Trooper spreading Darth Vader’s message of conformity and critical necessity.  For a moment, her eyes seemed to signal that things would be getting physical at any second and that a slew of backup storm troopers would be entering at any moment to quell any resistance.  I was ready to defend my family.  It was a time of uncertainty and frustration, the likes of which none of the baby classes had prepared us for.

I highly sensationalize the actual events, naturally, but there really were some tense moments.  When I had seen my wife cry enough, around night three, I had to ask the nurses to take it easy.  It was only then that they had us begin using the breast pump and feeding the baby with tiny tubes.  Through all this time, our experience had been pretty terrible.  Time that we should have spent bonding with our baby and finding ways to feed her that were sustainable, was made sour by tension filled hours of trying to force the baby to latch on to my wife’s distraught and pain-filled breasts.

I had never before seen anyone make my wife feel like such a failure.  She is a strong person, and the strongest woman that I know.  There were no words that I could say or statistics I could give that would have changed how she felt, though.  As if seeing our birth plan go out the window had not been enough, they had to suggest that she was inadequate or abnormal, thus implying that she was not a good mother.  She was giving milk.  What would have been so wrong with going straight to the pump when things were not working out?  We were all about trying, but when is enough, enough?  

The truth is that every mother is different.  We would go on to later learn that many of our friends had similar, and even much worse experiences.  In truth, only about 11% or so of mothers are able to exclusively breast feed beyond six months, or something close to that.  I think I read that around 25% can do it exclusively beyond three months.  I would never try to dispute the many benefits of breast feeding.  The information is pretty overwhelming on its benefits to the baby’s overall health when compared to formula only.  Pass down your immunity to me, mom?  Yes, please!

Talking about the benefits is the easy part.  The CDC and the American Academy of Pediatrics can do the research and make recommendations to their heart’s content.  The action of it is quite another.  It is not only personal, but the experience can be a source of tension, and if left unchecked, real resentment could set in.  Post partum depression anyone?  No, thanks.  I’ll pass.

The most important part of the experience is passing on mother’s free, delicious, healthy, nutritious milk for baby to drink up and be healthier than not.  If it works out, and you can breastfeed and bond through it without resentment, then you are one of the lucky ones, and congratulations.  If you can, at least add breast milk by means of pumping, to the formula.  If not, then straight formula is ok.  Baby will be fine with your love and a life full of nutritious choices.  That is the bottom line.  Only, I think that the lactation nazis can’t see the forest from the trees.  By the way, when did everyone stop thinking for themselves? 

First Baby

I write this, knowing that so many more pieces will come. Even so, I stare at my little daughter, sleeping, and I feel this tremendous feeling of love and duty. She is only six weeks old, and she, of course, has no idea how she is affecting me, but she is, tremendously, and in a good way. She gives me hope. She makes me love, as though I hadn’t before. She amazes me, even at her age, with her mannerisms, gestures, squeaks, and grunts. She stretches her arms, smiles, frowns, cries, and clenches her fists. Most of this is normal, but that matters not, because this little girl is as free as can be. I am looking at her now while I write this, and she has no clue of the powerful feelings that she has invoked in me, and with all that, and all that is in my soul and mind, I will project it unto her, and propel her to be the best that she can be, no matter what that is. She is free to choose. I love that. She is my baby. She is my love. She is my life. I lover her, and look forward to her next movement and thought. Life is amazing, and she has touched me deeper than anyone ever has before. That counts for a lot. I love you, baby.