On the last day of the Democratic convention, I strapped on my Ipod, and took a nice trail-run through the wilds of suburban Denver. I was lovely scene, the mountains in the distance, the full blue sky, prairie dogs (I'm not making this up) scampering through the fields. And then crashing through my ear-buds came the following lines:
You know the Pun'll dis you, if you're whole steez is unofficial
I'll come and get you and let the Desert Eaze tongue-kiss you.
With one pistol and two clips, I'll make you're crew do flips
Like acrobatics, my gat is magic.
Hmmm. I normally love those lines--especially when jogging down Malcolm X, or even in Central Park. But, somehow there amongst the natural wonder of Colorado, Big Pun just felt wrong. I thought about that while reading over Conor Friedersdorf nuanced take on white people who play gangsta rap at their weddings. Frankly, I think such a practice is the ultimate in white privilege--any respectable black groom committing such an act would get a beat-down from his grandparents. But, in all seriousness, Conor hits on one of the saddest things about hip-hop and modern R&B--the abandonment of euphemism and subtlety. I have my theories about where Ronald Isley's "Voyage To Atlantis" ends, but I'd rather here him being coy, than hear R. Kelley snickering like a eight-year old with a dirty magazine.
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