allllll you sucka MCs ain't got nothin' on me....

I think I'm wise. The fact that I think this probably negates the thought in the first place, but whatevs. I practically radiate wisdom. But, I'm not so egotistical to think that I was born this way. Many things and people have contributed to my special brand of ingeniousness, though there is one thing that has impacted me above all else.

Rap music.

You may be sitting there, scratching your head, saying to yourself, "Bitch be crazy." But you're wrong. I'm not crazy, at least in the conventional sense. Rather, I am so open-minded that I can gather smarts from even the strangest of sources. Don't let my Wonder Bread upbringing fool you. Rap is my life.

I rap in my car, in the shower, and anywhere else people can't hear me. Rhymes flow through my head all the time, and the 21st most played song on my iPod is, in fact, rap. The song's by a white guy, though, so I'm not really sure it counts. And the other rap in my top 25 is by Koreans... Oh boy...

But anyway, I'm as urban as they come. I am entirely thuggish. Once I even walked into an Urban Outfitters, ready and willing to get my groove on. I think I must have ended up in the wrong place though, because when I got there it was just a lot of plaid and folksy-looking shit, with a ton of fake Ray Bans strewn about... I didn't see one single pair of Timberlands.

My years spent as an adolescent were difficult, but, I made it through those tough times because of my love and understanding of hip-hop. Above all else, I remember the 5 rules-to-live-by that hip hop has instilled into the core of my being.

These rules are as follows:


#1 - Learned from the classic ballad, BITCHES AIN'T SHIT, by Dr. Dre.

When I was in junior high, I walked to school everyday. And by 'everyday' I mean any day that I couldn't convince my parents or someone else's parents to take pity on me and drive me the half mile to Desert Hills.

On one such jaunt, while cutting through some random ass park on my way to campus, I saw something glittering in the grass. Inspecting further, I came to find a CD. A compact disc! Yahoo! I thought, flipping it over to see what great music I stumbled upon. Britney Spears, perhaps? Maybe it was the new N*SYNC album... or even a throwback like Hanson or Spice Girls.

My face fell. Alas, it was not Britney, Christina or Jessica-, and it was most certainly not made by a band of boys...

I looked at it, wondering what kind of music could be on a cd that had a big green leaf emblazoned on the front? I'd seen the leaf before, scribbled on the binders and forearms of bad kids. Putting the disc in my backpack, I marched on, stutter-stepping for 10 yards. Was having this disc on my person, illegal? Could I get into trouble? Would I be expelled for bringing marijuana contraband to school?!? I ran back to the yellow and blue garbage can that sat near the slide everyone peed on, and shoved Dr. Dre's masterpiece in the trash. I was all set to forget about Dre.

If only I'd kept the CD, and listened to it secretly in my room, quietly enough so that my parents couldn't hear the dull roar of FUCK-FUCK-FUCK-RACIAL SLUR-BITCH-HOE-FUCK.

I would have learned earlier, the golden rule: bitches ain't shit.

The good doctor puts it a bit more delicately than I, but, let me break it down for you. Friends are gonna turn on you. Tricks and hoes aren't the greatest of people. They're going to lie, cheat and steal-- and you might be the victim. But that's okay, because they ain't shit. Don't worry about it. Turn the other cheek, walk away, and be a better person for it. Through out the album, Dre, Snoop and the gang repeatedly mention poppin' caps in asses and passin' glocks... but I'm pretty sure they're painting a picture of violence as a deterrent- they don't want you to actually commit heinous acts of murder. They're saying, "Hey, yeah, you're gonna be pissed, that's for sure... but don't shoot anyone, even if they deserve it. Because jail is not a good time. You won't like it. Listen to the words that we tell ya..."

I did listen to the words that they told me. And I'm better for it. Up next-

#2 - Learned from the motivational magnum opus, JUICY by Biggie Smalls, or whatever his name is...

The life of an unpublished, unrespected, unknown writer is not as glamorous as one might assume. There are many a day when I don't hear a single line I've written escape a fan's mouth. I never get recognized in the mall... and I've yet to receive a residual check. Or any checks, really.

According to the Notorious BIG, the life I live is a bit of a negative, but not for long. If I reach for the stars, and don't let anyone hold me down... it will soon be all good, baby, baby.

While my struggles aren't necessarily the same as his... I have no daughters and have yet to hustle below their bedroom window for Hamburger Helper funds, I find myself identifying with every bit of the song. Well, every bit except for the parts after the intro that chronicle his rich, fabulous, Super-Nintendo-Sega-Genesis filled life... I've yet to hit the big time and splurge for any gaming systems, let alone two obsolete ones.

But Biggie inspires me, and all those who listen to him when he talks of 'Welch's grape' and of all the other fun things he can do now that he's successful... like turn on the heat. Who doesn't want that!?


I can not WAIT until the day that I'm sipping champagne when I'm thirsty. This water I've been downing is bland and for poor people. Speaking of poor people...


#3 - A seminar in upward mobility called, BRENDA'S GOT A BABY by Tupac/2pac.

I would think the life lessons from this song are entirely obvious, but, sometimes people are dense about poetry, and thus, I will explain.

The picture Tupac paints is grim, and rightly so. Some say this song is about urban poverty, ghetto life, and children's belief that they can't rise above the struggle to prosperity because of the terms and conditions they've been handed by their parents and most of all, society.

This is all well and good, but, rather far-reaching. You don't have to look so hard into Brenda to see the big picture. In my opinion, Tupac is simply saying that incest is bad, and so is being poor.

Just like in the song, if you're poor, you'll be forced to marry your cousin. I think this is maybe because then your collective family only has to pay for one wedding. Once you marry your cousin, you'll get pregnant by him and you'll have your three-armed baby in a bathroom, because poor people like giving birth in Wendy's restrooms. It's where they feel at home. Your baby will be quite gross, so naturally you'll want to get rid of it, and where's a better place than a dumpster for baby-tossing?

Being the totally decent/misunderstood young chippy that you are, you'll take pity on the poor, misshapen creature and bring it home. You'll start selling drugs for Kindercare funds, but you'll get robbed of your crack. Soooo typical. This usually happens because crack-heads are not so polite to their dealers, especially when their dealers are poor girls who had a baby by their cousin... Even crackheads judge incest... After the crack's gone, you'll turn tricks to pay for special shirts for the little three-armed nugget, and you'll end up getting killed. This is because hookers get killed like, all the time. Hazard of the job, I guess.

So, your life will pretty much suck, because of the aforementioned suckery, and also, because you're under the age of 50 with a name like Brenda.

Now that I think about it, Tupac's lesson is three-fold. Don't be poor, don't be incestuous, and don't be a matronly-named hooker.

You can curb at least one of these inevitabilities (the being poor one) by heeding the following advice:

# 4 - Economics 101 with Ludacris and his 2001 hit, AREA CODES.

This song, in its core, is about diversification. And who doesn't need a lesson in that?!

In 'Area Codes', Ludacris, in his catchy, smoothly rhymed way, tells us of a number of different conquests. In his mind, though, it isn't enough to be a whore. You must be a well-traveled one. If you're going to have 38 girlfriends, you best put them in as many area codes. You don't want them running in to each other, causing a ruckus and setting fire to your car.

This wisdom can carry over into many things. Would you buy 38 houses in the same zipcode? No, not so long as your name isn't Warren Jeffs. Normal non-polygamists would post those houses all over the globe, so they had a place to stay regardless of their location. If you had 38 million dollars, would you invest all of it in one place? I don't know. Maybe? I've never been good with money.

Luda's scripture, at the core, echoes with the same sentiment as a well-known proverb of yore: "Don't put all of your eggs in one basket." Or all your booty calls in one town. What if that town was struck by a natural disaster?! Where would you be then!?!? Sex-less, alone, and probably dodging calls from the Red Cross about donations for disaster relief, which is the worst place to be.

Finally, we've reached the most important lesson:

#5 Thoughts on... something, I guess, as taught by a whole mess of people in the song, GHETTO COWBOY.

The lesson in this song, I'll admit, is somewhat meandering. It's a historical epic, set in the old West, where evidently black people were running the town, robbing banks and chasing 'damn indians'. And we whites always get blamed for that... how unfair.

Krayzie 'Big Bad Ass' Bone, who is wanted up North for all the gold that he stole, meets a few friends during his quest to Tucson, Arizona. He's headed there because there's like, a couple banks in town that ain't been held up, yet... or something. They're rustlin' up cattle, robbing banks, and being rootin' tootin' shootin' damn fools... AKA, by definition, ghetto cowboys. Now, where is the lesson in this?

I'm glad you asked. The lesson hides in the chorus, with the oft sung line, "You better count yo' money." Aha! Brilliant! On so many levels!

Counting your money not only lets you know how much you have, but also keeps your math skills in check. At least, useful math skills, like addition. All that other shit they said we'd use, like Trigonometry and other -ometrys?? Worthless. Especially when you're on the run from the law, a la Krayzie Bone.

Knowing how wealthy you are also helps in determining whether or not you're going to end up like Brenda, in rule number 3, or like Biggie, in rule number 2. Will you die a sad hooker death because of the lack of money you counted, or spend days at a time playing Super Mario because of the abundance you've accumulated? The possibilities are endless.

Rap is, in my eyes, a catchy way of imparting knowledge to the minds of our idiotic youth. Sure, they can't remember their times tables and have no idea who the 16th president was, but they all know the words to Eminem's latest album, and if Lil Wayne rapped the Gettysburg Address, you bet your sweet ass they'd be singing along in their sleep.

Who needs parents when you have rap?

And... I know I said I only had five rap rules to live by... but I think I lied.

#6  A lesson in womanly empowerment, as told in I DON'T NEED U, by Trina.

Rap, like all areas of life other than childbirth and incessant nagging, is dominated by men. Think of the great rappers: Snoop, Easy E, Q-Tip, Jay-Z, and Vanilla Ice. What do they have in common? Almost all of them can rap.

As an impressionable young girl who had Britney Spears and other young ingenues constantly thrust upon her, it was distressing to turn to rap for a role model and come up empty handed. That is, until I heard Trina's shrill voice come over the radio. Or, actually, not the radio, as her songs are so completely innappropriate that no broadcasting station would dare play them... I think I probably downloaded them illegally on Kazaa.

I Don't Need U is just that... an anthem telling girls that they don't need anyone! The song is derogatory, discriminating and disgusting, among other things. I clearly remember driving down the road with my friends, yelling the horrifying lyrics at the top of my lungs, uncaring of the passersby that I was offending- which would have been anyone with ears.

Trina had a number of hits, all filled with advice for young girls like don't rely on men, make sure people respect you and always remember to charge for your services. Her prose, along with all the other poets mentioned, molded me into the self-sufficient, albeit warped person that I am today.

Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go pour bleach in my ears.

the one and only

I was born an only child. My brother would disagree with this, but, for all intents and purposes... let's just go with it. 

'Only children' have a certain stigma surrounding them. We're bossy, obnoxious, perfectionists, thoroughly disagreeable when things aren't going our way, selfish... the list goes on and on. They've done studies on this 'only child' syndrome. Supposedly we have trouble in social situations and have a tendency to mature faster... Awkward and precocious? Me? Never.

While growing up I was entirely aware that I was all by myself. My dad had two brothers, my mom had a sister and two brothers... even my brother had two brothers! I had two dogs, and they would always steal my hats.

Once I was old enough to be in school and have actual human companions, I quickly noticed all my friends had siblings... which was something I'd never really experienced. Dinner time at their houses was practically like a party! There were so many people gathered around the table! And all of them had to sit, and eat, silently, while they listened to me prater on incessantly... about myself.

When friends would come to my house, I'd always come up with some 'fun' little game for us to play. Usually we'd pretend to be the Spice Girls, or duct tape nickels to railroad tracks. One time we hurled ourselves face first down a sandy hill near the freeway, and for weeks afterward my dad called me Scarface. *Yes, I played near railroad tracks and freeways, unattended. My parents were busy raising their other children... oh, wait...

We did anything, pretty much... anything that I wanted to do, that is. I was the boss. They came to my crib, they played by my rules. I visited their humble abode, they also played by my rules, because uh, hello?... I was the guest.

It wasn't until middle school that I started to clue into the fact that being 'bossy' was not a good thing. I figured out that my friends and relatives did not like being told what to do, especially by me. All of a sudden I didn't want to be the one in charge anymore. I didn't want to be the one freaking out every time someone decided to not conform to my will- I wanted to be calm, cool and collected... three things that I've never been and even to my best efforts will probably never, ever be...

Mostly I didn't want to be an only child anymore, and when my parents wouldn't help me out in that area, I decided to take matters into my own hands. After a few years practice, my calm, cool, collected projections turned me into a different, indifferent person. I allowed people to borrow things, and pretended that I didn't care when they gave them back or in what condition they returned in- "You want to borrow some DVD's? Sure, here, go ahead. Take them. Take them all. Here, why don't you have my left arm, too. And my heart. TAKE IT, YOU SAVAGE."

When asked where I wanted to go to dinner, I'd usually shrug and say, "Oh I don't care, wherever." But I did care. "Liz, you want to go to Maggie Moos with us?" Sure, I'd say, silently screaming. I hated that fucking place, and I'm glad it's out of business... All those creepy cow drawings and bright colors... And the ice cream tasted like butter. Ugh.

Anyway. I tried to be an always-agreeable person. I'd go wherever, do whatever (within reason...) and I'd shrug it off. One time, at a RHS/KaHS soccer game, I clearly remember getting laid out on the field by a certain friend of mine. There I was, with an astronomically blue comforter wrapped around me, toddling toward the exit, when someone (DAN) tackled me. To the ground. I saw stars... but that could have been because of my blanket. Bossy Elizabeth would have popped back up, screaming at anyone who was within hearing distance. The new Elizabeth, the cool, non-only child one, laughed it off. To be honest it probably was kind of funny.

It wasn't long before my supposed coolness turned into actual apathy and laziness. By the time college rolled around, I honestly didn't care about most things. Sure, there were a few instances that sent me into a flying rage, like when Jevon and Jurass broke my couch... bitches. Or when I put myself in charge of directing, editing and writing an Office-like version of Shakespeare's Twelfth Night. Turning a hodge-podge crew of English major awkwardos into veritable thespians? Not an easy task, my friends. But I did it. And I only made them re-shoot their scenes like 7 times.

Directing and property damage aside, I was noncommittal and uncaring about all aspects of life. If my friends wanted to hang out, they could call me. If I didn't return their voicemails and texts, they should probably come over. If I didn't answer the door, they could try knocking on the window. Or just give up because obviously I didn't like them enough to acknowledge their existence...

If my professors wanted me in class, they needed to explicitly say so... as in, "Elizabeth, you need to be in class on Wednesday." Then they would need to point at me, so I knew I was the Elizabeth they were referring to. And sending an email never hurt anybody...

It was about a year ago when I started to notice that nonchalant-ness was becoming a problem. Really it was the culmination of a lot of little things, but, there was one issue that was a bit more pressing than others. I was allowing people to call me by a name other than my own.

And no, I'm not talking about Booze, the-nickname-that-won't-die.

It all started as, "Hey, Grace, how are you today?" Grace is not my name. Not even close. I smiled and answered that I was doing well, thanks, how are you?... but inside I was trying to figure out how to clue him in that my name was, in fact, Liz.

This happens to me more than I'd like to admit, but usually it's over the phone and probably stems from my apparent speech impediment that occurs when I'm stating my given name. It's always, "Oh, hi Lynn." or "Hey, Lisa." or my favorite, "Lid? L-I-D?" I've briefly flirted with the idea of returning to Elizabeth... but it's just so cumbersome... and common.

This 'Grace' mishap was different. It was not a mispronunciation. He, a frequent customer at my place of employment, thought Grace was really my name. There are numerous instances that could have planted this Grace seed in his head, but every time I was confronted with it, I was unable to correct him.

My apathy had morphed into something I can only assume was a shy, cloying meekness that was to such a point that I was letting people's mistakes stay unnoticed and uncorrected. 

They'd use improper grammar, ("They was just looking at me, like I was stupefied.") and I'd bite my tongue and look the other way. They'd make obscure incorrect pop-culture references, ("You know, Tom Cruise, from Forrest Gump?!") and I'd nod along as if they were right... which they were so not. My neurotic, real-self was dying on the inside... but I would not allow my casual facade to show the cracks of know-it-all-ness. I was unflappable. Unfazed. I could let people be stupid... even if it killed me.

They'd make assumptions about me, and I'd just nod, instead of steering them into a truthful direction. Like one time before P.E. when a boy looked at me and said, "Who'd you borrow that sweatshirt from?" and I looked down at my sweatshirt, and said, "Huh?" He then pulled at the sleeve, which was hiding my hands because it was too long, and said, "It's too big, whose is it?"

I shrugged, thinking it was an utterly strange question. Then I answered with something that I'm still trying to wrap my head around. I opened my mouth, falsities tumbling out: "Oh, yeah, it was my older brother's."

It was not. I lied, to further perpetuate my normalcy and the notion that maybe in some alternate universe I could have a brother that I stole Kamiakin sweatshirts from...

My best friends might laugh at this, as I never fail to correct them... but this is for their own good. It's how I show my love for them. It's not like I can let them go around, speaking erroneously and sounding idiotic. What would that make me, their peer... their equal... if they- for example, asked, "What, exactly, is a teriyaki? No, I know it's a sauce, but, is it a bird? Kind of like a chicken?"  There are some things that even I, a really calm, blasé person, can't let slide.
 

"Grace! How are you?"... Oh, I'm fine, I said, not returning the question. It got to the point where I was kind of rude because I didn't want to give him another opportunity to call me by the wrong name. After this particular exchange my boss looked at me strangely, "Does Larry think your name is Grace?"

"Yes," I said.

"Why don't you correct him?"

I shrugged. "It's been going on like, three months. I feel I'm past the point where I can go, 'Oh, no, actually my name is Liz.'... Grace isn't a bad name. I could be named Grace. And it's not like he's calling me Gladys." I shrugged again, which is my favorite thing to do. "I thought about wearing a name tag... but, we don't wear those, so it would be weird."

The next day Larry called me Liz, and I can only imagine why.

For the most part I've returned to my unsavory, only-child ways, but that doesn't mean my years pretending to be laid-back were all in vain. When I first started at the winery, one of my coworkers asked me about my brothers and sisters. "I don't have any," I shrugged (see? I love shrugging). She looked at me, shocked. "You don't seem like an only child," she said, "my daughter's one, too. I hope she ends up like that."

I smiled, and nodded. VINDICATED!

PS- That teriyaki thing totally happened.