I Still Don’t Understand Facebook

Facebook fascinates me, for so many reasons. The confidence, the openness, the craving people have to raise the number on their friend list. Treat the following as my thought process, or just a straight rant. I’m going to refer to facebook as the ubiquitous and complex social interaction site that it is. At the core, what I am curious about is how this site is affecting the fundamental way that we interact with each other–because right now my head is constantly tiled to the side when I thoroughly explore Facebook. First up to bat is the friend list.

It’s extremely hard to believe that you consider 400 people friends. I understand this if you use Facebook for business, or to promote yourself, talent, or whatever. But most people don’t, there is just nobody with 100+ plus real friends. Would you bail me out of jail? Would you even accept the collect call? Would you help me move, or honestly critique my work? No? Not a friend than. I have come to realize that people use Facebook to meet other people, and not just in that creepy internet predator sort of way. I don’t get that. To meet people you care about require lots of real interaction. I have found that the best of friends I have I didn’t like when we first met. Context can be lost so easily in text, especially because humans are such physically expressive beings. Building a friendship is hard to do via internet. Not to say it hasn’t been done, but on a mass  scale? Are we losing a balance? I’m not sure. Now for those of you out there who might be thinking, “oh, she is just making arguements over the word ‘friend’” can rest knowing I’m wondering what will happen to the kinds of bonds we make with people–and how we make them–if any, if sites like Facebook because the standard of social communication. At this point I don’t even have theories.

I guess this has always been important to people–how many other people think like them. How many people are willing to call them a friend. Only for guest lists did we count the amount of friends we had, until Facebook. Sure, there was Myspace, but Myspace didn’t have the friendliness that facebook has. Myspace was spammed from the beginning. With Facebook, we had the ease of communication, the tight layout and fancy software that didn’t allow all that glittery bullshit. Facebook became more personal, and so did that stupid friend list. I used to never accept requests from people I don’t know, but now that I have started to be referred to clients through Facebook, I’ve started accepting a few, (resulting in less information being put up on Facebook…) I get at least three requests a day, from people who I have met one time. That’s most people’s standard, one encounter. One two-minute conversation and you’ve made the literal list, under the literal title as friend. I assume, in life, these people have higher standards of friendship.  (Phone rule, we’ll get to that later.)  That friend number, I think, somehow became associated with how important people felt. Yeah, hate on me talking about popularity, because when it boils down to it that is what I’m getting at. But not in your idioic high school way–everybody, everybody wants to feel important, we all want to feel loved, liked; however you want to put it. But do we really want Facebook to define that?

The fearlessness people seem to have is not just the kind that comes with the protection of a computer. It’s easy to talk shit to somebody you don’t know–if you are what they are calling a “digital native,”  than you have undoubtedly engaged in a comment war. Maybe on YouTube, maybe on somebody’s blog or on an online newpaper; where ever it was, it’s happened. Somebody has pissed you off to the point that you check that stream of comments 5-6 times a day.  Carefully editing your writing–more than you ever would for a school paper, shaping your thoughts into mental bullets. Not to mention, you have time and the infinite resources of the internet as your ammunition–something unheard of in a face to face argument. Now, we are engaging in the same types of defensive and intimidating conversations with people we see daily and we are able to act like it never happened. Four months ago I was in an extreme political argument–the one that inspired me to write this post on health care–with an acquaintance. He was arguing death panels; literally. Next time we saw each other in person, it wasn’t brought up. We acted like it never happened, which is a sign of maturity, sure; but if we were to have the same conversation face to face, it wouldn’t have had such a mature ending. (I wish I had a manuscript of that conversation, it would be a real nice supplement to this.) He now hits on me, all the time, and it’s gross. I’m talking text messages at 8:00 A.M. asking my schedule for the day. Lame. Point being, Facebook inspires this confidence that’s overwhelming and confusing. The same confidence has random people sending me friend requests– people who would never say hi to me, give me a ride home, or even open a door for me.

The openness is dumbfounded. If you haven’t witnessed any yourself, (and I’m fucking sure you have,) than you need look no further than www.LameBook.com. The shit people post. When did it become okay to talk about your sexual en devours, when your at the dinner table with your mom? You might as well be doing that if your gonna post intimate stuff for your family to see. How are you going to post that because you got bent over last night you can’t shit right? On a side note: in life folks, especially in the day in age we live in, and  especially if you are in my generation: there is a 85% chance that what you are saying could be interpreted as a sexual joke in one way or another. Likewise, there is a 65% chance that what you are saying could be followed by “that’s what she said”; however there is only a 18% chance that that will be funny–so be mindful how you word your thoughts. Statistics aside, there is nothing wrong with keeping your sex life too yourself. Why are we so inclined to share on Facebook things we wouldn’t share face to face with somebody? The worst is the way couples act. There is a couple, who shall remain nameless and as descriptionless as I possibly can, but oh man should they not be on Facebook. The boyfriend will freak at every comment made by a boy, and will literally stalk his own girlfriend via Facebook. It’s a power/control/dominance/fucking mommy issue thing. Either way, they will drag other people into their bullshit via Facebook. It really is astounding. Nobody would argue that much in public, at the movies or at a party. But Facebook is like this open ground for anything. People treat it like their diary…

What fascinates me most, and you’ll have to bear with me while I try to unravel this thought of mine, is the way people associate real life with their Facebook account. Does that makes sense? For instance, a guy I worked with on a photo shoot will converse with me via Facebook chat, but will ignore me in the hallways of school when I say hi. Either he ignores me or he is a shy kid (which I didn’t not get the vibe when he was taking his clothes off in front of my camera so his friend could draw superhero costumes on them.) This leads me to think that he separates his “lives”, meaning people he befriends on Facebook he would not necessarily befriend in life. Than you have people who I have never met, only passed in the hallways of school, who send request. It’s the strangest fucking thing. I will bring this up again because it is so weird to me–people will talk to me on Facebook, but not face to face. Just straight talk; a regular conversation–hey how’s your day–won’t happen beyond the computer with these people. Why? Why are you willing to let me into this openess if you won’t fucking talk to me?! I don’t how people view Facebook, I think, is what writing this had made me realize. The tool they see it as, must certainly be different than how I view it. I stick to my phone rule: If I wouldn’t put your number in my phone, no need for you to scope my Facebook.

(The flip side to this, is that Facebook and Myspace and all these social networking sites could be a great step for people with social anxiety problems, or just plane weirdo kids who have problems communicating. It could be the first step toward friendship and an understand of social interaction. They are exponentially useful to anybody trying to start a business, or an artist trying to promote him/herself. We all know the benefits, which is why I felt it unnecessary to put them in here.)

Eric Cartman is a Socio-Psychopath.

A sociopath, as defined by the dictionary is “a person with a personality disorder manifesting itself in extreme antisocial attitudes and behavior; and a lack of conscience.” Pay special attention to the “lack of conscience” part. Just for good measure, let’s define “conscious”. Of course there are many definitions, but the one that matters is “inwardly sensible of wrongdoing.”

A psychopath, as defined by the dictionary, is “a person with an antisocial personality disorder, manifested in aggressive, perverted, criminal, or amoral behavior without empathy or remorse.” Empathy, of course, is the ability step outside of oneself, and consider the emotional experience of somebody else. Throughout this paper, I plan to explore, define, and ultimately “out” Eric Cartman, from the T.V. show South Park, as a sociopath and a psychopath. First, let’s discuss the parent condition of these two disorders—personality disorders—is.

Rathus, author of Psych, says; “Personality disorders, like personality traits, are characterized by enduring patterns of behavior. Personality disorders, however, are inflexible and maladaptive.” In other words, somebody with a personality disorder exhibits traits of that disorder in ways that other people would demonstrate traits like personability, warmth, etc. However, unlike the common personality traits, the characteristic traits of a personality disorder are “inflexible and maladaptive”; meaning they don’t react well to new stimuli provided by situations that break their brains pattern of life. For a moment, let’s talk about the brain.

The brain—the most complex organism in the universe—loves to find and adapt to patterns*. Take for example, music. Our brains respond so well to music because our brain loves predicting harmonic patterns. Subconsciously, we are predicting the next notes, chords, and resolutions. When we predict a pattern that actually occurs in music, we release dopamine, and we feel happy and accomplished that we have correctly processed the previous information, and properly predicted the harmonic outcome. When our brain predicts a pattern—or note—and the outcome is not our prediction, we slow the secretion of dopamine in our brain, which causes feelings of uncertainty, confusion, regret, remorse and so on. However, recent studies have shown that it when the patterns are broken in music, that we actually may enjoy it even more.** When a pattern our brain is broken, not just in melodic prediction, but in all aspects of life, we are able to add that mistaken prediction to the literal memory bank, and learn from it. That is when we learn, by breaking patterns; and when we overcome those low-periods of dopamine: we feel—again—a sense of accomplishment, only this time it’s a greater feeling than if we had correctly predicted the outcome. Now, for somebody with a personality disorder, the breaking of the pattern that his or her brain has predicted could be catastrophic.

Sociopaths are most popularly associated with psychopaths, murderers, and more specifically, serial killers. The main characteristic is defined as a “lack of empathy”. Other description include: artificial charm, gross self-righteousness, pathological lying; incapability of real emotion—or love—and the Freudian “Social Me.” Erratic behavior, uncontrollable desires, impulsive actions, all signs as well. We could go into how this could very well be a frontal cortex problem (the part of the brain believed to be, in large part, a contributing part to the rest of the brain’s functions, and responsible for our ability to think rationally, and enjoy the benefits of metcognition), but that is not for this paper.

Sociopathic behavior is often confused with psychopathic behavior, but the two are not interchangeable, though so would you cannot have a psychopath with out a sociopath. Much like how a square is always a rectangle, but a rectangle isn’t always a square. Sociopaths are marked by “anti-social behavior”.  A sociopath is the first thing the average person would define a serial killer as; psychopath is similarly defined, but with the addition of violent acts, amoral behavior, and no remorse, regret, or empathy. In other words, predictably, the majority of people are mistaken.

When somebody crosses you, and you think bad thoughts about him or her, maybe even go so far as to fantasize a situation that resulted unfavorably for them; something stops you from acting. Something even makes you feel bad about your thoughts (hopefully.) If not—if you can imagine, and carry out heinous acts of inhumanity, however small or large, with no guilt, even if you force that guilt upon yourself, you may have a problem—and no, an episode of South Park won’t help you.

Psychopaths have flooded the news for years.  Gein, Bundy, Dahmer, Gacy—all psychopaths. The most famous movie to dive into the mind of a serial killer was of course, American Psycho. The motivations for Patrick Batemen’s (main character) crimes are unfathomable to the average person. A scene in which Bateman becomes jealous of the superiority of a co-workers business card is followed by the dismemberment of said co-worker. The business card posed a threat to Bateman, and, in his psychopathic head, symbolized domination by his co-worker. The only solution, (and by solution, I mean gratification) for Bateman is in the death of the dominator. The irrational fear put forward by the business card, and the actions that followed, are textbook.

I feel I need only use two examples to out Eric Cartman. I realize that two examples is hardly room for scientific study; but we’re talking cartoon characters, so their behavior pattern is far more predictable than that of a human. (Following the assumption that most television shows write from a formula they have created for their show.) For those of you who are avid South Park fans—such as myself—will find these next paragraphs redundant. Those of you who, for whatever depraved reason, have not seen South Park—be warned; and know that I made none of this up. Treat these next words as, a lame case study.

In an episode entitled “Scott Tenorman Must Die”, an older boy, Scott Tenorman, tells Cartman that boys don’t grow pubic hair–they purchase it. Scott than sold Cartman some of his pubic hair for, oh I don’t know, ten dollars. When Cartman approached his friends—Stan, Kyle and Kenny—they informed Cartman that you, in fact, do not purchase pubic hair; you grow it. Cartman than tries many different ways to get his money back, all of them devious. By the end of the episode, Cartman invites Scott Tenorman to a chili cook-off. After a long, intricate plan, Cartman and Scott sit down to eat. Cartman than informs Scott that he knew Scott was going to bring tainted chili; but what Scott didn’t know was that the chili he was eating—the chili made by Cartman—was made with the meat of his parents. Cartman plotted a way for a crazy redneck to shoot Scott’s parents, so that Cartman could cook them in a chili, and feed it to him. If that is not in Ol’ Al Fish’s playbook…

In another episode, called “Casa Bonita”, Kyle’s mom is taking him to a popular themed restaurant called Casa Bonita. The restaurant has performers, a small cave for children to walk through, and a décor designed to make one feel they are south of the border. Cartman immediately becomes excited, and expressed how he can’t wait to go see the mini-cliff divers. Alas, his dreams are crushed when Kyle tells him that because Cartman is “a dick to him” and does nothing but crack Jewish jokes to Kyle, Cartman was not invited. Instead, Kyle was going to take Butters. Cartman, heartbroken, decides to try to be nice to Kyle, to see if he can sway him into allowing Cartman to go with them. (Note, Cartman is not nice to Kyle because he realizes his past actions, and wants to genuinely make amends. Cartman is nice to Kyle to further his own agenda. Cartman is nice so Cartman can get what he wants.) So, Cartman puts on a sweater, and rings Kyle’s doorbell. Kyle informs him that a sweater does not mean you are a nice person. After deciding that being kind was too much of a hurdle, Cartman decides that his best option is to somehow make Butters disappear, just until after Kyle’s birthday. Cartman convinces Butters that there is a meteor heading for earth, and Butters should hide in a safe bunker, allowing Cartman to find Butter’s parents and others to come into the bunker. Cartman convinces Butters that he wants to keep Butters safe. Cartman leaves Butters in a local neighbor’s bomb shelter.

When the town realizes that Butters is missing, they turn to a panic, and Kyle’s mom postpones the trip to Casa Bonita. Because the town is searching for Butters, Cartman moves his location to a junk yard, and tells Butters that humanity is gone, and he should stay inside a old refrigerator for as long as possible, because mutants are taking over the cities.

Cartman did not give one iota of empathy to Butters. As a matter of fact, he left Butters in the refrigerator. Butters was found, just as Cartmas was arriving at Casa Bonita with Kyle for Kyle’s birthday. Cartman quickly rushes through all the fun things there are to partake in at Casa Bonita, being chased by police the entire time. Cartman gets his picture taken, runs through the cave, and even jumps off the mini-cliff himself. After being caught, Cartman showed no signs of remorse. He had accomplished everything he wanted too, and even though he put the entire town in a panic—not to mention he could have easily let Butters starve—he felt accomplished because he completed his goal. He went to Casa Bonita. He did not care what happened to Butters—not if he lived or died.

These are extreme examples of Cartman’s behavior. But if you turn the shock value knob down just 2-3 places, that is how Cartman behaves on a daily basis. All decision, thoughts, reactions and actions serve a one purpose and one purpose only. To give pleasure to Eric Cartman. He does things for himself, and only for himself, giving no thought to other people. Cartman does not fully respond to immoral behavior and thoughts in the same way that the average person would. In all actuality,  Eric Cartman is an amoral, vile creature who can be described no other way than socio-psychopathic.

And this, is why we love him.

*All information regarding the brain has been gathered during independent research. Text include the American Journal of Science, APA.org, The Frontal Cortex, and other novels. I am not a scientist; in fact, I am nothing more than a 20-year old who is interested in how my own brain functions. Exploring this information through South Park was merely an enjoyable way of going about it. DO NOT consider any of this to be fact, true, or in any way researched beyond second-hand reading / insight. Please—don’t use this as citation for a psychology paper. That would just be stupid.

**Further information on this subject can be found in “Proust was a Neuroscientist” by Jonah Lehrer, and of course the studies Lehrer references.

How Rap Killed Hip Hop – a rhyming op-ed

When somebody says hip hop, most people automatically associate it with skinny, attractive women shaking their asses on stage in front of oversized oafs screaming obscenities into a microphone in such an ear-bleeding manner, you can barely understand what they’re saying. This is a common misperception of what hip hop really is: much more than just a genre of music. Hip hop is a style, it’s an image and most importantly, it’s a culture. In hip hop, the word “rap” was originally used as a verb, to describe the action of somebody quickly saying—not singing—verse. I say “verse,” and not lyrics, because we all know that rap consistently rhymes throughout a song. That’s a signature that makes hip hop unique. Otherwise this genre, a true integration of all types and styles of music, would be lost amongst its parent sounds. Today, rap is what old people tell you to turn down, or better yet, off. Rap is the music that you don’t shake, you drop your ass too. Rap has become synonymous with Cadillacs, diamonds, elaborate houses, and of course private jets, extremely large breasted women (who, lets remember, were once referred to by rap artists as “chickenheads”), as well as the all-around illusion of luxurious superiority.

The earliest form of hip hop was mixing and scratching vinyl records on two turntables. Dj Kool Herc wanted to figure out a way to harness a single breakbeat, and loop it to create a dance break that would last twice the time of an average song. With that he created an essential element of hip hop: beats. The breakbeats that Kool Herc established in his South Bronx apartment helped inspire the b-boy revolution. Stories say that Herc would drive around with five-foot speakers resting in the back of his Chevelle, and kids would come out and gather in the streets to see who had the quickest feet on the block. Soon, B-boys started to form into crews whose logos you could see tagged on subway trains. The graffiti artists were sneaking around the city late at night painting masterpieces on trains for all the city to know which crew was the tightest. (Type “hip hop” into Google, watch Wild Style, or read Jeff Chang. In my personal journey through hip-hop I have searched for the birth, and was led numerous times down two paths. One to DJ Kool Herc,  and one to Afrika Bambaataa. Above is what I believe to be the true origin.)

It wasn’t until breakdancers and writers and deejays came together that the emcee came to be. Kids deciding to battle with lyrical wordplay and wit instead of guns and violence only further captivated the hip hop audience. Freestyling is an underrated talent–saying words that come off the top of your head and somehow fitting them into a rhythmic pattern that still makes sense—deserves more respect than it is given.

With the four elements of hip hop working together, the entity was ready to contribute to the world of mass entertainment. But in hip hop’s transition from the streets to TV, something was lost in translation.
A culture rooted in non-violent, mind-stimulating activities somewhere took a sharp turn into mindless chatter and sexual exploitation—rap. “In my white tee?” “She made us drinks, to drink, we drunk ‘em, got drunk??” “My job is gnarly from getting slobbed on Harleys???” That is beyond lazy lyricism; and pushes back a culture that has fought for so much, especially for intellectual equality.  No more is freestyling or even b-boying commonly associated with hip hop, because hip hop has been infected by rap, so much so that in the public eye, there is no difference between rap and hip hop: the words are interchangeable. Rap has stained hip hop’s reputation, while disgracing everything  hip hop was created around. This truly breaks my heart. Rap is not based on raw talent, or a serious passion for the style, but on who can make the most money and successfully show it off through a ridiculously excessive display of jewelry, material items, and women who starve themselves for five-minutes of fame.

None of this is to say that hip hop is not hardcore. Hip hop’s roots are in competition, the universal barbaric shoulder and head sway—one arm up, back and forth—that gives a literal appearance of grunting noises. If the emcee tells us to jump, we jump. Hip hop is appealing because of its freedom of wordplay and non-censorship. Hip hop uses this freedom to express emotion, or to evoke change. Take Public Enemy, NWA, or Paris. Hip hop used to make sense! The lyrics said something, told stories, or explained life, often with the aid of simple declarations like fuck the po-lice.

Yes, it is a fine line between hip hop and rap. There is a spectrum, to the far left is the underground, to the far right is the mainstream; but the colors don’t just fade in the middle. There is a solid line, hard as it is to see at times. Some will argue that the line is very distinct, and in fact huge, but these people are in our world, and a part of hip hop in some way or another.

The pop-culture version of hiphop is rap. But don’t we want the pop-culture version of hip hop to be hip hop? Why did hip hop have to spend the time and kick and scream and grow, only to have rap piggyback its way into the limelight that should have been ours? It’s important to somehow make the differences known, so hip hop can claim its rightful place in the public eye.

A Wicked Case of the Mondays-Mixtape Review

DJ Krush: Danger of Love
Seu Jorge: Rebel Rebel
Macklemore: American
Regina Spektor: On the Radio
P.O.S.: Purexed
A Night In The Box: Tom Sawyers and Lawyers
Macklemore: And We Danced
Everlast: White Trash Beautiful
University of Wisconsin MadHatters: The Lion King
Mirah: Words Cannot Describe
Safri Duo: Fallin’ High
Subtle: Spring Sponsor
Arrested Development: Mr. Wendal
Cunnin’ Lynguist: Old School
Rage Against The Machine: Vietnow

Mornings are rough for most people; if you are a morning person, go away: this mix is not for you. We’re the people who need to ease into the daylight in the car; we don’t wake up in time to lounge around our kitchen, making eggs Benedict and merrily sipping tea like some freak. For us normal folk, it’s a race to the shower, some grainy-ass coffee, and we’re lucky if we miss morning traffic. This list is devised to distract you long enough not kill somebody, especially yourself.

“Danger of Love” is the preface to a mellow day or the end of a sultry night. It will place you in the light or in the dark, on the cliffs of Greece or in a softcore porno (but in a good, STD-free way.) Ah, but your master is cruel, and will yank you out of that paradise and place you right onto an indie Portuguese fishing boat with Seu Jorge. Dare thy master say he does Rebel Rebel better than Bowie? Aye. Take out every instrument in Bowie’s version, and replace with one Brazilian and a beat-up acoustic guitar, and you have O rebelde celestial.

Again, your dark lord immediately flicks your “mood” switch: mornings need a little bit of exaggerated comedy–one of Macklemore’s many talents. This red-neck inspired song is written from the perspective of “Aberdeen Washington / a proud American / and a terrorist fighter.” Mr. Washington is proud of his country and says that “I got a picture of Reagan above my fire, right next to the deer I shot with my rifle/ NRA/ hell yea I support them/…Mexicans?/ Send them back over the border/ Right on home to Samoa,/ Wherever they come from / They’re taking our jobs / And eating our hamburgers / And taking our jobs.” After inevitably skipping the ending of “American,” we need something to make us forget that our coffee is getting cold. Thank you Regina, for providing the right bubbly, secret-garden atmosphere for us and our minions to explore our morning thoughts in.

Time to get to the brass knuckles of the morning jam-out. Cue “Purexed”’s little-drummer-boy-on-crack rampage. P.O.S. reassures us that it’s okay if we didn’t shave today, and if we probably wont tomorrow, “Let them try to find the beauty in your face.” The perfect combination of wet lyrics, encouragement for budding beardos, and hard-core music.

Now worms, we digress, to bluegrass. Get ready to clap your feet and stomp your hands–but don’t lose track of the danger you pose to other, because Tom Sawyer and Lawyers will make you want to paint a white fence whiter, or at least create a new dance by that name. Now, take that danger to a higher level when the second Macklemore songs starts; don’t let the introductory piano riffs fool you, this song will rock your fucking face off–that is, if you’re not too pretentious to admit that parody songs can be amazing, well composed, and altogether infectious dance jams. Yes, Macklemore sounds like he’s impersonating a German house DJ. Yes, you hear a synthesized organ that conjures images of a nightclub behind the pearly gates; but take some of Mack’s advice: “I am not/ I am not / going to stand on the wall / I will dance / I will Dance / I will break that a** off / … / I will not / I will not / Give a damn of who watches me / I will live / I will live / liberate the fox in me.”

After that, it’s time for a cigarette, and a cool down session with Everlast. There is no better background music to coffee and a cigarette than “White Trash Beautiful.” Not only is Everlast the only person to successfully–and tastefully–cross over between hip-hop and alt-rock, but he bridged a bigger gap with this song. He demonstrated the one thing that unites us: hardships and shitty lives.

Given my aforementioned omnipotence, I command you to enjoy an a cappella medley of songs from Lion King, performed by no cheesier an entity than the University of Wisconsin’s MadHatters. Go ahead: act like you aren’t going to sing-along to “Cirlcle of Life.” If you absolutely can’t stand “Hakuna Matata,” then cruise out of Pride Rock to “Words Cannot Describe,” and try to figure out how Mirah can simulate a 1920’s USO singer with such perfection and Betty Boop-esque voice.

Coffee’s gone, you’re stuck in traffic, and you took the last pull of your cigarette, but life is okay, because Safri Duo has come to bring back the vibe of the Macarena, and be the one song on the mix you listen to in true shame. Whether it’s the grossly over-Latinized drums, the Gay 90’s rhythm drop, or the horns that come out of nowhere, something is done right here; combine that with a morning caffeine buzz, and you’re freaking Gloria Estefan. No lyrics to distract you from the glory that is Latin-techno fusion.

What happens when Doseone wants to take a break from hip-hop? SUBTLE: a group that is un-genrefie-able. “Spring Sponsor” sounds like the underwater level from Super Mario Brothers, inside “The Science of Sleep”. Calm guitar, celestial ambient overtones, flawless.

Now that you have indulged, it’s time to be thankful that you are driving you car and not riding the bus. Which brings us too Mr. Wendal, because life is in the little things, and nobody can teach you this like early 90’s rappers; apparently? The classic boom-clack behind the vocals that may have introduced us to auto-tune is nostalgic, and the lyrics, for the song being circa 1992, are a nice break from the cliché gangster rap mentality that so many rappers became so cozy with.

Time for the mental sit-ups: Cunnin’ Lynguists will provide the routine for this morning. Try catching lines like “I’m so old school I was at the first supper serving soulfood / And Arroz con Pollo’, but I bet you had no clue / That pilgrims were the first to name women after produce / And that was the first Road Rules without toll booths / Even when Adam and Eve sat by the weed tree / I told Eve, ‘Please don’t tell him touch my weed leaves.’ / But after I showed him Cypress Hill, he loved fire / Then Eve left and became the first lady of Ruff Riders.” Rewind much?

Last, the song to push you the last few miles to hell: “Vietnow.” RATM will have you ready to face anything. Seriously, bump this right before you go into battle, but be careful, because water-pumps have been known to break during transportation when Down Rodeo is the theme song for your day. Try not to speed up as soon as the rusty pump guitar oozes and sloshes out of your speakers.

Same-Sex Marriage

For as much as I oppose the continual lack of “we the people” in our government, I love and am proud of my country for many things. All these reason involve the people of America uniting with each other for something. Granted, we have never united as one, and it would be ignorant to think that is possible in the world that we live in, but those small groups that we have formed in opposition of ourselves, are what has given us the ability to overcome some of the most horrendous violations of civil and human rights. That’s right, us fighting each other lead to something amazing, more than once. The first big hurdle was in the Civil War, which many people forget was about more than slavery; it was also about succession, the ultimate divider of citizens. What came of a four-year war was the beginning of freedom for black men and women in the United State. More hurdles were climbed in the 1920′s when women first got the right to vote. There was no war, no blood shed, but people were divided, and they argued, and they protested. I proudly voted in the presidential election for my first time last year, at age 19, because it was my right too. More blood was spilled in the 1960′s during the Civil Rights Movement. People were hung, and shot, children were banned from schools, and the country was again divided. For 12 years we fought against each other, desperately trying to convince the opposing sides that our team was right.

After the smoke settled, America looked down to see where we used to stand and said “Ew, fuck that.” Younger generations, (myself included) are embarrassed at the racial slurs our grandparents blurt out–as if it’s socially acceptable for them to have an underpaid Czech women cook for them, clean their house’s, and watch their three dogs. We are so sensitive to the subject of race because of our past that we have changed the politically correct term for a black man five times. That’s how caring America is to human rights, right?

So, will somebody please explain to me why gay people STILL cannot get married? No bullshit arguments allowed. I will not tolerate excuses like “well, it’s really about the children” because it’s fucking not. The American Psychological Association takes the standpoint that homosexual couples might actually be better parents than heterosexual couples, because not only do they exhibit a happier overall relationship with eachother, they also have a more “favorable pattern of child/parent interaction” (it’s right here bitches). Some people claim they are against it because marriage is sacred, and stated as a sacred bond between two people. Pshhh, please. We threw sacred out the window after we drove threw the 24-hour chapel where a guy named Eddie in a satin, crotch-hugging Elvis costume pronounced us enemy and enemy.  You can have a sacred, wonderful wedding–how is RuPaul ruining your big day? The stupidest fear is that children who grow up in the home of a lesbian or gay couple will grow up to be just that. I would like to point out, that there is NO evidence to support that. None what so ever. If you happen to find some, I’d be interested in looking at it, and investigating it’s legitimacy.

Screw statistics, screw studies, this is simple logic here people. It doesn’t matter if it weirds you out seeing two girls kissing, it doesn’t matter if your uncomfortable with the thought of two guys holding hands. Shut up about it, just like you shut up about how it worries you the baggage handler at the airport was Pakistani, (not that you could tell the difference, asshole.) You don’t have to like it, but you have to suck it up and understand that essentially, what you are saying is: “No, I’m sorry, you picked the wrong person to fall in love with.” Yep, that’s right, all you gay people out there, whow. I mean you messed up big time, right? To think that all of this time you could have just flipped that “love” switch and boom, love be gone.

Do you remember the first time you were dumped? Or maybe you weren’t dumped, maybe you were the heart breaker (see, I knew you were an asshole.) How many hours did you spend drawn in your own thoughts, just remembering? Remembering what it was like to be next to them, remember how you could them tell her anything, I mean stuff you wouldn’t tell you best friend. Remembering how he used to do that one thing, that one look, and it would calm you down completely. What a glorious world we would live in if we all could just flip that switch when the break up came. Especially after those 2+ year relationships. Fuck, it hurts. Alas, all this sappy reminiscing is evidence that there is no choice. Hell, there is no reason when it comes to love. There just is. That’s what makes love such a magical thing, so how can we set laws on things we don’t understand. How can we set laws against love? In American! The land of the free! Our entire country is based on life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. Unless your gay I guess.

What a Joke.

To me, this seems like the last big civil hurdle that America has to climb over. Now, I’m not saying that if we fully legalize gay marriage, all of our other economic and social problems will go away. I am saying that there is NO moral standing on the subject of gay marriage. That’s right, I just said fuck the Bible. You know why? Because the God Book is filled with hateful misogyny and ridiculous views on human rights that, while it was culturally relevant and socially accurate for the period it was written (the earliest writings have been placed back 3500 years), it in very little ways resembles the ethical map we follow today. Sure, Jesus was a cool guy. Be nice to your neighbor, and your enemy. Don’t trade in your soul for material possessions. All that good stuff. But what about the misogyny I was talking about earlier? “And the daughter of any priest, if she profane herself by playing the whore, she profaneth her father: she shall be burnt with fire” (Leviticus 21:9). Oh, and I shouldn’t be writing any of this, because women are supposed to be “in silence”: “Let the women learn in silence with all subjection. But I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence. For Adam was first formed, then Eve. And Adam was not deceived, but the woman being deceived was in the transgression” (I Timothy 2:11-14).

What is the Bible’s stand point on slavery, on owning another human being? “Servants, be obedient to them that are your masters according to the flesh, with fear and trembling, in singleness of your heart, as unto Christ; not with eyeservice, as menpleasers; but as the servants of Christ, doing the will of God from the heart;” (Ephesians 6:5-6).

Now that I have thoroughly ripped on the Bible, have I made my point? There is no other arguement against homosexual couples and parents accept that it makes you feel weird! Well you know what? I get wigged out when I see anybody kissing on the street. Especially heterosexual couples. Especially when it’s just you and the couple, and they are making out, and you have to keep watching the re-run episode of Cops that is on the TV, and pretend you don’t notice them sucking face. But I’m not going to say “Excuse me, can you not do that please? It’s making me uncomfortable. And could you never do that again? As a matter of fact, this bug’s me, could you two just break up? It’s all wrong.”  Because I don’t have the right too, it’s not my place , or yours, to tell people who they can and cannot love, like, or even just want to fuck for a night.

America, I beg you, let’s choose sides, fight and argue over this. I’ll tell you that you’re a fascist, greedy, control-loving bastard who does nothing more that use this topic as a red herring for your political interest, and you can tell me that I am a pinko-commie-nut-job, a tree-hugging, angry 20-year old feminist. Bring it on, I’m all for it, because it will only push us in a direction, and it’s up to us to push harder  so that we can collectively get over the last steaming pile of shit.

Lets do this.

Health Care

I was just woken up in a rage thinking of the argument I was having with an acquaintance of mine over the purposed Health Care Bill. This dispute happened over Facebook, making it drag out for 2 days, and be even more harsh as the two of us had plenty of time to research our responses and make sure they were 100% accurate, and filled with as much zing as possible. I should also mention, that this person is not exactly my friend, per se, but is in fact somebody that I used to smoke doja with to pass the time. I never did viewed him as somebody of intellect–after stumbling into managing a friend of his (out of necessity), he came to me when he was presented a record contract and asked me to look over it, see if it was “kosher”.  The same kid, subsequently, ask me for cocaine. (Which for the record, I do not do. I’m a downers kind of girl…) I saw on Facebook that he had mentioned something about Obama being a dictator, who was going to eliminate old people. This is ridiculous. Appalling. I never thought that America, as a whole, could dumb it self down any further. Although I suppose that this is the same country that invented Celebrity Boxing.

Do people really think that Obama is sitting in the oval office, planning out ways to make the elderly obsolete? I keep wondering: why they are so scared of Obama? By they, (by the way), I mean not only republicans, but anybody that has tried to convince me that Obama wants to kill me via my health care plan. Do they REALLY believe that Obama has plotted, for his entire life, to get into the White House for the sole purpose of taking down America, or that he is weeding people out to create his own elite army of people? If that is true, Obama is certainly conspiring with our old friend Dick.

I would be down with all of this controversial thought questioning the Presidents actions, if it were helpful or lead to intelligent, progressive discussion. But it doesn’t. Mainly because every argument these gun-toting, Obama hating, “THIS IS AMERICA!” screaming citizens have thrown up, have been proved completely farce. Fake birth certificates, rumors of “Death Panels” (my personal favorite); and lets all try to remember, that screaming out “liar” does not make it true. Not only does this not spark thoughtful dialogue, it does the wost thing. It provokes fear into the hearts of already edgy, over-paranoid and protected, I’ll say it, old people. The people who are my age that believe in these odious lies are products of the scared, misinformed people. For god sake the person I was arguing with over Facebook was talking about how our government is fucked up and needs to be overhauled as a result of what W left us. Are you serious? That’s exactly what’s attempting to be done. Not only by Obama, but all of us. More and more people have become politically aware, and more and more have becoming involved. This last presidential election had the second highest amount of youth voters, with 54.5%, in history.  (Second only to the elections of 1972, when 18 year olds were allowed to vote for the first time. We all care, and nobody is going to passively walk into the fire. As the gun-totters say, “this is America”, and if it’s not withholding internet porn that will make us rise up in rebellion, threatening our freedoms, the foundations of this country, will. Nobody is going to sit by while our country is torn to pieces, it’s just that most of us would like some evidence, some kind of proof beyond ludicrous rumors. From here, our point of view is that we’re chillin’.

Now here it is, the big bang; I’m about to admit something that every single arguing  American will relate with, but will never dare to admit or possible even lie about: I don’t fully understand the language of the Health Bill. Yes, I said it; and yes, I have read it, nearly all of it–but that doesn’t mean shit. I understand roughly 1/6 of what I read. What I didn’t see was anything that would make me board up my house. I didn’t see anything mandating panels of people to judge your status in our society, I didn’t not see anything that says health care would be provided for illegal immigrants. (I have seen this argument pop up a few times, my argument is, did we not all come here as illegal immigrants? Is this not that immigrant capitol of the world? I say give em’ health care, it’s not like they have not worked enough for us.)

My biggest fear is that these people are all afraid, mainly, because Obama’s skin color. Which would make me sick to my stomach. It would confirm my suspicion, that much of the “social acceptance of diversity” that I see happening is false. A facade to make themselves feel, but mainly look, like better people. I ask again, for the second time on this blog: how far have we come? When we are still willing to make childish name comparison, and openly throw out phrases like “the great white hope”. (Kansas representative Lynn Jenkins said that the republican party needed a “Great White Hope” to take back the white house from Obama in 2012. Read more here.) So what are we really about? Are we really the cultural melting pot we have praised ourselves for being?

I don’t have answers, only more questions. Right now I am tired and angry, having woke up at 4:30 am in a fury to write this. Now it’s 6, and I should sleep. I will publish this, but edit it later, so sorry if it’s a little more on the ranting side.

By the way, if Obama wasn’t president, do you all realize that Sarah Palin would in the White House?

Hardball MSNBC – The man who carried a loaded gun to the Obama public meeting

This guy scares me. Though I gotta say, the Hardball guy is always rough….

“Uh, wow, heh, who would be silly enough to carry an unloaded weapon?”

An Encounter with Desdamona

Yesterday I met a women who embodies everything that I hold sacred to my heart. She is a fellow Hip-Hop devotee, a spoken word aficionado, and she is a founding contributor to B-Girl-B, and continuous project that celebrates women in Hip-Hop. As Desdamona describes it, B-girl-B is her baby: something she wanted to start because she felt women were being misrepresented in Hip-Hop. She does what I talk about. It was empowering and inspiring to be able to sit with her. I am ashamed I to say that I knew next to nothing of this amazing woman, which is most likely the reason I felt out of place when I sat down to meet with her, and two of my friends/associates, for a meeting to see how we could best provide a street team for her.

I walked into Dunn Brothers 20 minutes before the meeting was going to start, hoping to be able to get my soy latte, dump about 1/8 a mini-bear of honey into it, and quickly suck down a cigarette before anybody arrived. If I timed everything right, I would even be able to wash my hands and put in some eye drops. But, as I should have guessed, (this being a meeting of passionate, willing and able women) the three ladies were sitting down at the table, excitingly discussing viral video campaigns, design, marketing & basic promotion: there was stacks of stickers, flyers, and CDs scattered on the side of the table. Needless to say, I had no idea what was going on.  A week earlier I had received a message from one of my friends, saying Desdamona asked if she could round up some women to help assemble a street team. I said yes because I figured it would be a great way to ride my bike before the summer is over, and it would give me a chance to explore my new city, ST. Paul. So, here I am thinking that  this was going to be a simple “here’s the flyers, post them everywhere, peace” kind of a deal, I walk into a whirlwind of ideas, all way above what I expected. After five minutes of listening to Desdamona talk about what she does, why she does it, what she loves, what she struggles with… I felt like a complete asshole. I wished I could have done anything but sit in silence. In awe, actually. I wished that I had known, or even thought, to prepare for this rendezvous, so that I would have had something to contribute besides my blabbering when she asked us each what we were about, what we wanted to do with ourselves. This question could not have come at a worse time, because a month ago, I had a stone cold plan, solid as a rock. I knew exactly what I wanted and had a concrete plan to get there. Slowly build an army of urban artist, to eventually breakthrough and inspire the world. OK, when I write it like that it still sounds like a great idea, but I would like to be realistic, without losing my ambition. Realistically, business work doesn’t make me nearly as happy as creative work. This is neither here nor there I am getting way off topic, back to the subject:

Desdamona, was speaking, literally, out of my memory bank. She was saying phrases I have uttered only with an adverb or two different. She spoke impeccable truth. Women are misrepresented in Hip-Hop. You could type Hip-Hop into any search engine in the world and what would show up? Half naked women, in a gold bathing suit. With high heals, and her ass hanging out. B-Girl-B is finally, our chance to break this bullshit, to show that we are just as much a part of Hip-Hop’s soul, as it’s body. I had the pleasure of listening to Desdamona’s  album “Inkling” (with beautiful artwork might I say), and found it enchanting. Spoken word artist, it seems (and maybe this is just where I’m from…I am still new to this area), are few and far between. Desdamona is a rhythm women, speaking to the heart beat of Hip-Hop. She is smooth, collected, yet her words burst, and pop into similes that beget metaphors that unfold into something that will make you close your eyes and lean into the speaker to make sure you don’t miss a word. I watched her video “The Source”, and felt progressed through every second. She has a magical way of weaving words and meaning leading any rapper to say: “damn”. I listened to Desdamona spit “We Will Always Be” off the Brother Ali album “Rites of Passage”:

“…vocals eclipsing ridiculously dope beats, and they are blind to the signs that the rhyme combined with the mind connects them to their feminine side, the groove slips through their thighs and makes their hips wide like mine, as mother Hip-Hop places her eternal child inside something impossible to see through these jaded eyes…..Redefining their DNA, so when archaeologists dig up the past, they will say these homo-sapients are from the era of Hip-Hop days.” (I apologize if this is misquoted, I had to write it out by ear).

Arguably one of the greatest rhymes about our culture, thought many men would disagree with me.

Fuck them, and thank you Desdamona, you have inspired me, and I will be there to support your poetry, and B-Girl-B, because you are one of those hand-full of people who are ready and starving to make change. To encourage better of people, as a whole. We need more Kick Ass Women like you.

“The Source” By Desdamona

“We Will Always B” By Desdamona

My Brain is Sweating.

My head is full of all kinds of compulsive thoughts. Reoccurring ones that will not go away. Big questions are coming to light. Mainly, who and what am I? Right now I want to write about meeting with Desdamona about street teaming. (Desdamona is a Twin Cities Spoken Word artist and fellow Hip-Hop devotee. She is one of the founding contributors to B-Girl-B, a celebration of women in Hip-Hop.) But right now, my head is pounding weird pictures against my eyes and I don’t feel I could do Desdamona, (or my thoughts), any justice by writing about that now. Instead I want to rant about a couple random things, and hopefully find a clever way to tie them into each other while I re-read this. The first thing is the main reason my head is melting. I don’t know if I want to do music business anymore. Music is my love, Hip-Hop is my lover. I wanted to support Hip-Hop, through honest, fair business. That’s why I wanted to start the TrueMuse Collective . (TrueMuse Collective was what I had hoped to be my baby, my gift to the Hip-Hop culture. A place where artist could come together and collaborate, inspire, and basically create, at the lowest possible cost and stress to them.) After diving head first into efforts, I found my dreams intruding on my waking life, angered about their neglect. I was spending night and day working for the one artist I had involved in the idea of what I wanted to accomplish. I poured my heart into trying to slowly, but earnestly build our community. If you haven’t guessed by now, I got burned by that one artist. Pretty bad. I had always known that this was part of the job. Countless people would try to take advantage of me, and what mattered was how well I picked up and kept truckin’, right? I get that, and I wasn’t all sad that my feeling were hurt, but more so upset that through all this time, I ignored my own abilities, my talents, and the things that truly made me feel good, the things that made me feel like I was progressing as a person. Things like reading, writing poetry and songs and creative fiction and really, really opinionated articles. I always thought I didn’t want to be on the other side of things, a performer that is. I still don’t. I want to combine music and humanitarianism. I desperately want to directly intertwine music with raising funds and awareness about things I feel passionate about. Like bringing music into schools, keeping the arts a firm part of our education. I want to write about everything. I want to chronicle my life in an attempt to discover even more.

Not to mention my craving to photograph rappers on stage, break dancers on cardboard, graffiti on the streets and elegant, sleek turntables. I desperately want to capture time, frame my memories so will never forget. That’s my biggest fear: to forget all the good, and even the bad things that helped to shape me.

Here it is again, the too much coffee, too much herb, too much of myself for myself jelly forehead.

On that note, I will read World War Z, kill zombies in my dreams, and I just might have a new favorite Femcee.

A moment to speak about Hip-Hop

Recently I found out that Hip-Hop is not supposed to be capitalized, as it is a genre of music. Or, perhaps it is that it is not supposed to be capitalized when it is referred to as a genre of music, but what ever. Hip-Hop is a culture, more importantly it is my culture, and I often get questioned on my knowledge and dedication to Hip-Hip. I would like to fully explain how much Hip-Hop means to me. It is more than your son in baggy pants finally having the courage to swear in front of you. It is most certainly NOT said baggy-pant’sd son in a gang, carrying a gun and so on. Hip-Hop is the ultimate lesson of what will happen to suppressed people. Art. Time and time again, through music, painting, dance, etc…; people who are put under the most intense socio-economic suppression tend to spawn new generations of art. I don’t want to trail off too much so I will get to the point. In my creative writing class last week, two people said that they thought “Bush Killa” by Paris was Hip-Hop at it’s finest. “Bush Killa” stands out as transcending time with its ability to resurface in relevance as George Bush number 2 entered the White House. Also, Paris sticks to Hip-Hop’s roots by calling out The Man. By verbally assassinating the man he felt posed a national threat. By taking every part of his aggression and composing it into a shoulder-dislocating jam to pump after watching our leaders fuck us into situation we wanted nothing to do with. (In my opinion, “Bush Killa” becomes MORE relevant the 2 Bushy around.) You might be asking why it is I disagree than. Here:
“Bush Killa” represents Hip-Hop well because Paris VERBALLY assassinated Bush. And while “Bush Killa” is dope, I would hardly call it “Hip-Hop” at it’s finest. I feel I thoroughly researched Hip-Hop (while there is always more to learn, because Hip-Hop is the collaboration of almost every and any genre of music, so it is constantly expanding…) and I have noticed a dual history. The trail leads back to two people : DJ Kool Herc, and Afrika Bambaattaa. (Personally, I find that Herc goes back farther) Both were DJ’s in the Bronx and the earliest stages of Hip-Hop, and both influenced our culture in unprecedented ways. This alone explains to me that Hip-Hop is full of many different voices, views, opinions, thoughts, and STYLES. Which is what makes Hip-Hop my first love. It incorporates so many things. My brother often complains, because he favorite music is Classic Rock (also near to my heart) and he rarely gets new music. It’s the exact opposite for me, because, like I said earlier, Hip-Hop is a collaboration of all genre’s, (Dj’s scratch all kinds of world music, jazz, blues, Dj Relm spins the Beatles), so as our culture changes and progresses, Hip-Hop progresses right with it. (That said I must point out that as a result of this vast array of changing music, Hip-Hop is not exempt from pumping out really, shitty, crap. )
The best is yet to come, the Hip-Hop that will truly represent will always be formulating, growing, sifting itself into something better, perfect. For example, local Twin Cities rappers Mug-B have some incredible shit. Their verses are well composed (no pointless fillers) and spit impressively, their beats are smooth; some are slightly grim, but all of them sound like they were compiled carefully. I would bet $100 they are incredible on stage. Two rappers out of Boulder, CO called Back Pack Symphony are probably the best new lyricists, period. Back Pack Symphony has continually brought gritty, meticulously written material. Muggshot Grins is known for his champion speed and accuracy, and M.O.N.E.Y. is on that word play shit that has you steady rewinding the track.  They are opening for David Banner in the next coming month, which is a phenomenal chance to display the point I am trying to make. Hop-Hop at it’s finest didn’t happen in 1992, it happens at a constant. If you don’t believe me, get heavy into Seattle or Portland’s Hip-Hop scene, or delve into the Twin Cities underground, because it happens every day.

All in all, this is why I will always capitalize Hip-Hop.

Behind Closed Walls…??? (and no, i don’t hate women)

I was reading a few magazine articles today. I browsed through Paste and Pitchfork, stumbleing to the NY Times, (a far drift from music mags, I know), and I came across an article about how Indie movie producers are doing all of the marketing and distribution out of pocket. NY Times writer Michael Cieply was talking about this as if it was a revolutionary thing for a film maker to do. He proceeded to discuss the problems of starry eyed kids wanting to sell to major studios yadda yadda….but what I could not believe is that NO WHERE in his article did he make the comparison to the music industry. The Music industry has been doing this forever. It’s called a Vanity Label. It’s called Doomtree. Not to mention that every Indie musician AND film maker usually do everything out of pocket anyways. But what ever, that’s completely beside the point, and I truly have no descent segue, (as life normally doesnt), so Boom, new part of the story.

Continuing further into the NY Times, I found an article entitled “Do Women Make Better Bosses?”. I did not read this article, and I almost feel guilty saying that, HOWEVER, there is a very specific reason I did not read the article. Today at school I attended my first Women in Music “social event”, (I’m not even sure what to call it, but to me, it was free tacos), where of course we were encouraged to walk around and talk with each other, meet new girls, etc. I suppose I should explain that I am not exacly sure what the Women in Music club does at my school. Every so often I see a newsletter, and even less often, they will do something a little bigger and bring a guest in. All in all (and I say that really meaning “the only thing I understand about it is that”) it’s about empowering women. Which I am all for, but I am not sure how we accomplish that in a locked room eating tacos. Either way, I starting to think about what “women empowerment” really means, and to be honest, I don’t know. It seems to me that anytime women want to “empower” themselves, they all gather around in a group and either eat or read, or both. I am all for eating and reading, and empowerment, but I’m afraid books and food (although they feel powerful) are not empowering women as a whole. Another thing that truly bothers me is the fact that we always separate ourselves from men when we need empowering. Which, to me, only furthers the thought and image that we cannot FEEL powerful around men.

I asked a couple of women in the group why we could not bring men in to do this with us. Mostly, the response was, “well, they would just eat all the tacos and leave” (which forced me to stay longer than I had intended, as my agenda was to eat a taco and leave).  One girl even said to me “don’t men have enough stuff?” I don’t understand how tacos or boys having enough “stuff” relate to involving men in our club. It’s not going to change from Women in Music, the center of it will always be just that. Plus, it would be a great chance for the men in our school to be educated, and informed about women in the industry. I did a quick tally at school, and there is a significant more amount of girls that have come into my school this quarter than when I started over a year ago. This leads me to believe that in the near future, women will no longer have to “strap on the boots”. Perhaps, men will soon “lace up the boots”, in a sense. What I mean by this is that I believe the industry will become balanced, to a point where women will not have too measure up to a man in order to be taken seriously. (Personally, I don’t really feel like I have to do that now….but I AM A WHOLE DIFFERENT SPECIES.) Shouldn’t our talents, our abilities, our focus or our diligence measure us? Another point is that bringing men in our group would greatly help the communicative abilities between the sexes, especially when it comes to us working together. The more comfortable we become with discussing things like inequality, (when and where it is relevant) the more we have done to diminish its presence.  Lastly, and most important to me, is that boys and men join in our quest for empowerment. It is good for us to collaborate on that level, face to face, about this kind of this. Bring in women speakers, let’s learn about Bessie Smith and Ella Fitzgerald, but lets ALL take an in depth look at how these women effected our society. Otherwise, all we are doing is furthering the very thing we are sitting in rooms, eating tacos talking about.

I am very close with many of the girls that make up the Women in Music club at my school, and I have nothing but respect and admiration for every single one of them. They each are amazingly talented, generous, and courageous women who are a glimmer of light in our industry. One in particular, is arguably THE hardest working person in our entire student body. She continues her dedicated booking positions in another state, and continues to spread into fields of artist management, and PR. I want to make clear that I do not think it is the women that have made the club that make it exclusive, but it is the idea of the “women’s club” itself. I am not talking about the “personal” sort of social women’s club, like a book club or a wine night. That sort of thing is comparable to a cigar club. But any kind of club that is oriented on education, or igniting social change, could not and should not be gender specific.

I would like to reiterate, that I am not against the idea of a Women in Music club. I think too often are revolutionary women in our industry like Florence Price and, I have to say, Mary Ann O’Doherty, forgotten. These women were so influential and important, why would we leave the men out of a gathering dedicated to their history?

Possibly what bothers me most about this social reoccurrence is that I am afraid of posting this on a networking site where the women who are heavily involved in this group would read it. It’s not that I fear I would offend them, (because if I am not offending at least 1 person a day, than I am too sheepish for my own liking), but because I fear they would take this as a hate article. Really, it’s just an opinion article, one that I feel, as a woman, I had to write. What I am most afraid of, (and very afraid to write these next few sentences) is that the organizer of the club could stand to make my final quarters of school very unpleasant if she does not like what I have to say about the Women in Music club. So I ask you, how far have we really come?