raging bull

You could probably say that, for the myriad reasons I’m leaving Portland—its deadening easiness; its isle-like monoculture; the clouds and fucking rain, man—mixtapes are one of them. Across the board, the street-tape trade in Portland ranks slightly under transgendered/fat-rights fanzine sales* as viable economic and cultural force. YEsss, I know I can order that shit from the internet, but that’s missing half the point. I want experience wrapped up in my street-joint copping, peoples. It’s not the same when my mailperson dumps a mixtape off on my porch, along with electricity shut-off FINAL NOTICES and Home Depot sale ads. Mixtapes rubber-banded with subscription offers from Simple Living—it just takes some of that magic away, you know?
[* I do not take this for granted]
But after Mrs. Unicorn caught me in weep mode over Jada’s new full-lengthy offishall yesterday—bonding heavily with its cynic’s idealism and music-box anguish, and the part where the ass stinks up the room—I’m happy to see Mr. Blaze emitting such sweet hot flames on the topic.
Now that you know I’m on the Ruff Ryders’ home court, though, I would like to now introduce my big “FUCK YOU NUMBER ONE” foam finger, and wave it in Jada’s press-box direct, just for this verse (in what would otherwise be in the top three best tracks on Kiss of Death):
“why Kobe have to hit that raw/ why he kiss that whore”
Reading the above-linked article, you may surmise the judge-and-jury headlines are in part due to Kobe’s lawyers’ intricate relationships with tabloids, Bill Clinton, and unspoken networking/justice loopholes in the continental US. But let us not discount the sole winner in this situation—the accuser/alleged victim-as-pariah, and the disturbing assumption that genius of any kind automatically negates the bearer of guilt or wrongdoing. (R. Kelly! Neil Goldschmidt! What! Is! Up!)
Do I even need to repeat this shit? How about this one: SHE IS 19 YEARS OLD. And whether Kobe’s innocent or guilty, her life is ruined for a long, long time. So Jadakiss, stick to your lathe-shaped brags, your social screeds, your love and courtship ponderances, and most of all, the really touching Gemini self-reflection—because when you do that, you’re phenomenally good. But can we all just grant the woman the benefit of the doubt, now, please.
Thanks.