A/ There’s A

The 5 train at Atlantic-Pacific departs in a slow whine of two notes. They are the exact tones that begin “Somewhere” from West Side Story, the verse that is.
A. Juelz Santana is the same height as Riff Raff A2. My Juelz Santana promo whistle is the second most literal promotional item I’ve ever received. The first most literal was a packet of incense, promoting Talib Kweli & Hi-Tek’s REflection Eternal. A3. Juelz did “Oh Boy,” “Hey Ma,” (two verses, two minutes) “There it Go” et “Mr. Postman”–my position in relation to the PA made it sound like he was rapping through a kleenex–I do remember thinking on the first few bars (bars? phrases? morsels?) of “Oh Boy” that his syllables, many of them mono, were dropping with mealy thud, like cap’n crunch right after it hits the soy milk if you know what i’m saying. this coulda been a side effect of the kleenex. I was also paying a modicum of attention to subA1. The genius “NOV. 22” shirt, subA2. his soft, dewy complexion. Juelz Santana will definitely ride the charisma train thru his 20s, but he knows that moisturizing now will keep him looking young well into his golden years.
subA3. Perhaps my affinity for a well-moisturized fellow is the reason my friend The Birthday Man (HAPPY BIRTHDAY, BIRTHDAY MAN) believes I am, quote, “The only person on earth who likes ‘Fuck Bitches.'” ITEM: QB DUN PRODIGY, FKA “GULLY,” SPOTTED AT KIEHL’S WITH LINDSAY LOHAN “LOHANATING”; “ERYKAH BADU” COULD NOT BE REACHED FOR COMMENT
Is 50 Cent is the “Erykah Badu” (as opposed to the actual Erykah Badu) of Mobb Deep?
And aesthetically, yeah, “Fuck Bitches”, it’s no wrenching epic tale of the gangsta-mayoral campaign/dealin’ on the youfs/wrecking, but it’s like 45 seconds long; it’s not like Prodigy wrote a magnum opus about his transition from chucking bricks to knitting needles. (New Prodigy-hosted Whoo Kid tape, The Apprentice: From Gangsta Party to Baby Shower, coming soon to a bodega near you.) It is moving, the line when dude’s like, “I want a million-dollar bitch that’s still hood/if I can’t have that I’ll take a regular bitch that look good”, (para), sad tinge characteristic of the PRodigy growl, he’ll take what he can get. Sure, it’s not as good as “Hey Love” (which is basically understood, by both critics and “the streets,” to be Mobb Deep’s best song!!!), it’s not as eloquent as that, but it’s got certain fawnlike qualities; I appreciate the unfamiliarity, the awkwardness of it, the honest longing couched behind its blunt language/ blunt desire.
“Fuck Bitches” and he doesn’t mean it; I mean, shit. The tragedy. (Not the thug matrix.)
The ghost/seance photo exhibit at the Met is how you say “fascinating” and “whimsical,” watching people at photography’s birth create and conjure explanation for that which they cannot explain. If you want to make fake seance/ghost photos, email at right (though i wish it were left).