Dear Socially Inept Thirsty Dudes Trying to Holla at the Club,

I’ve composed a list of things that might respond better to “psssssss psssssss”. They are as follows:

A tire going flat, Piss, Something cooking in a skillet, Your deflated ego when I tell you to letta loose my damn arm and get the hell outta my face…

I hope that helps.

Regards

The “stuck up bitch”

Gil Scott-Heron

(Source: godfatherofsol, via afro-art-chick)

Umi Says- Mos Def

Good memories for me…

1.
Early –mid nineties

back when artists included an instrumental and an acapella version of singles on the album. My cousin and me, we were mixmasters supreme with his dual cassette deck. Once we mixed Crucial Conflict’s “Hey” over a Busta Rhyme’s beat. Flirtation with the art of freestyle. Reciting Biggie lyrics like oaths. My cousin, and the music, haven’t been the same since.

2.
Middle school

Silk Tha Shocka was my “boyfriend” and he never rhymed on beat. Every verse was always scattered like a bag of marbles purged on a hardwood floor. Awkward like a sloppy lover groping and molesting the melody over the clothes. But we were young, fresh and green with abandon, until my mother got in the way. She threw all my No Limit “love letters” away.

3.
Brown Sugar (2002)

(“When did you first fall in love with hip hop?)

4.
College: Atlanta 2007: MJQ

This is it (What?!)
Luchini pourin’ from the sky
Lets get rich (What?!)
The cheeky vines
The sugar dimes
Cant quit (What?!)
Now pop the cork and steam the vega
And get lit (What?! What?! What?!)

From Luchini-Camp Lo

Adjacent to my apartment on Ponce was the iconic MJQ, an underground (literally) hip hop haven for eclectic wallflowers, drunken hipsters, and agile b-boys and girls alike. Walk down the sloping mouth of the pulsating bunker and enter one of two worlds: To the left, the main floor, a quaint stage, and a purgatory drinking hole where those not smart enough to pre-game pay their penance with a communion of badly diluted spirits. To the right, the threshing floor, where beat takes possession of man, heads spasmodically bob, hands raise to the firmament of smoke overhead. Exit the place with grace, back home, to the comfort of a small room with a red accent wall, and the patient cursor blink at the end of unfinished paper, waiting…

borninflames:

Saul Williams, from the zine “Excuse Me, Can You Please Pass the Privilege?” — click the link to download, the whole thing is a fucking great read. And thanks to garconniere’s reblog which pointed me thataway!

(via luaunomi-deactivated20121108)

tabbythegreat:

After seeing countless pictures from this video shoot…the actual video!!!

harriettumbles:

Dead Prez celebrates the natural hair girls. [via Clutch Mag]

(Source: harriettumbles, via ekuaadisa)

blackfashion:

This video is amazing. Everyone needs to watch this and ask themselves the questions asked. I’m still stuck on the last question.

(Source: nicoleington, via blackfashion)

night music
Dudley Perkins- Come Here My Dear feat. M.E.D

ekuaadisa:

Meet Brittny Ray. My big sis. I met her at Spelman College when I was a pup and budding and marveling at discovering my power. It was a mythical time in the world of Black College life in which the young black artists were experiencing a new renaissance in Atlanta that suckled on the spirit of Harlem. We studied Fire!! reading the words of Zora and savoring them like the sweetest honey. Like Langston and others had done in Harlem, my new family of writers, thinkers, painters, and muckrakers took me in under their wings.

Brittny re-introduced me to myself in ways that thrust me into a spiritual life that I had but a hazy memory of prior. When she wrote, her words were effortlessly fervent. I began to focus on painting emotional pictures with my own words. She is one of the best poets I’ve ever met or read. And I love her so much. What can I say; Google her.

 9th Wonder- Everybody Loves the Sunshine Remix