[slobopera]

Richard Pryor, Drake & a Brick of Cheese | o3|19|2o17

[read along with the video]

**important: audio component was recorded before post was proof read, and it’s too late to re-record. won’t make that mistake again. yolo**

The time is 1:36am. March 19th. 2017.

I'm on the Northbound subway to Finch Station - reading the "YOU HOLLYWOOD FAGGOTS CAN KISS MY RICH HAPPY BLACK ASS" chapter of the Richard Pryor  biography, Furious Cool, I shoplifted today from an Indigo I will not reveal. On my way out, I also grabbed Becoming Richard Pryor and Miles Davis' autobiography. 3 books I've previously owned, but sold to BMV at some point out of desperation. I've made a lot of mistakes out of desperation, and will continue to until it's my time to ride the elevator down to light my eternal cigar with Dante. Kinda like that shitty Drake video where he's smoking a cigar in the CN Tower elevator. I always thought that video should have just been him lip-synching whatever song that was along a time lapse of the Sky Dome roof closing, or opening. Trim the fat. Or like the Started From The Bottom video, where it should have just been him rapping in front of the billboard. Trim the fat. I love that song so much. The "wear all my chains, even when I'm in the house" line is fucking brilliant. My love for that song is probably why I'm so passionate about the video. And I'm allowed to insult the video, because I'm the first to admit most of my videos are dogshit. Well, maybe I'm not the FIRST to admit. I'm sure the regulars who scrambled for their phones, or jizz-layered keyboards to call me a fat faggot on Twitter every time one of my shitty videos aired on MuchMusic admitted it before me. Half glass full: without them, I never would have known when I was on MuchMusic. So...thanks? I don't think ALL of my videos are diarrhea. A few are cool. Ironically, my best solo video was directed by the same guy who produced Started From The Bottom. I won't say what video, or who director because I’m a man of mystery. But...Like Gandhi once said... “with every triumph comes a shitty UGod verse.” As much as I love the video, I can't watch it because I was advised to recreate|sing the sample to not fuck over the potential success of the video. The recreation turned out total morning breath, and completely stripped the song of the magic the original jizzed. Distracted by the noodle-melting visuals, and the feeling that this could be the home run to give me the win I fucking deserve - a home run I'm still swinging for - I put too much focus on avoiding a Weezer lawsuit, and zero focus on the fact I was stealing one of the most iconic logos from the most successful shoe brand of all time. For that reason, MuchMusic gave it zero rotation, and No More Words sleeps in the YouTube cemetery with the rest of my videography. I was|am desperate for a win, and desperately made a mistake by resigning the Weezer sample. And replayed the beautiful piano loop that drives my song with some shitty stock synth. Whatevs. I've made a lot of mistakes out of desperation, and will continue to until it's my time to ride the elevator down to light my eternal cigar with Ray Romano. Right now, I desperately want to get high, but pharmacies are closed at 2:14am. HEY! Believe it or not, I'm at the Pharmacy Road RIGHT NOW! Stopped at Pharmacy as I wrote the word "pharmacies". Maybe it's a sign. A sign that I should hop out and rob a Shoppers for their percs. Maybe not. They probably keep them in combination-locked safes because of irony-magnets with blogs like myself. Is that even irony? I don't know. Fuck Alanis Morissette. Besides, I'm at Warden - my stop. The Stitches Outlet is beautiful at 2:22 in the morning.

Today started amazing, then ended trash bag. Some might disagree since I have a knapsack filled with amazing books, thick-cut bologna, new hand soap and a brick of cheese. But. It was trash bag. I won't get into why because it would be unfair to a few, and I've already done my fair share of that. I'm gonna stop writing because my hands are cold, and I have 8 minutes left on my walk to McNicoll I'm going to spend thinking about my sins. Now you know where I live. Don't bother visiting without Pizza Pockets. Goodnight. *author's note: I wasn't going to post this as it has nothing to do with my original vision. I wanted to focus more on my shitty ending and talk about my current gloom and feeling like everything's a wrap. But. Maybe all isn't a wrap. I think tomorrow I'll enter HMode and rule the world. Yeah. That's what I'll do. The slob represents a butterfly on an octopus. A butterfly. On the head. Of. An octopus. Let the children die. 2:31am

[slobopera]

Peter Paterno, Son Real & Another White Rapper | o3|o8|2o17

[read along with the video]

1:43pm

I’ve been plotting my return for over a year. A return to nothing, or at least I think. Slob Opera is what I call the movement. The movement of nothing. The name hit me with the same landed jab as Let The Children Die. It made complete sense without making sense at all. I believed it defined me. It was a eureka moment. The name I’ve been searching for my entire life. I finally had the right ammunition to fight the war. I purchased the domain name and prepared myself for take off. I fell asleep and was awaken by a shrieking ostrich outside of my bedroom window. I could see my morning breath in the crisp March air. I checked my email, and lumped in with the usual newsletters from Bob Lefsetz and McDonald’s was a renewal notice from GoDaddy. SlobOpera.com’s year was up, and it was time to fork over another $20 to continue a second successful year. The email made me sick to my stomach. I closed my window to block out the ostrich’s cries and marinated in my self loathing. One fucking year? One fucking year!

 I still remember sending a message to my pal Aaron Brophy, telling him about my excitement over Slob Opera. I still remember hashtagging it for the first time with some black & white Instagram video of a beat I made on Garage Band – the early stages of a song that materialized into nothing. One fucking year wasted.

 My father and I were watching The Flintstones. He told me, “if I can give you one solid piece of advice, it would be to cherish and make good use of your time. The older you get, the quicker it runs out.” I didn’t think much of it at the time. I was young and had it all figured out. I was about to fly to Los Angeles to meet with entertainment lawyers – most notably Peter Paterno, who represented Dr. Dre at the time. He played 3 of my songs to Dre, who responded, “he’s ok, but I already have a white rapper.” That was enough to convince Paterno to represent me. I passed on Paterno because he spent our entire meeting staring past my head at the television behind me, watching a Los Angeles Dodgers game. My then-manager, Bill Siddons advised me against it. I felt insulted. And others were interested. I had it figured out.

 I had all the attention and opportunities in the world, but no content to take advantage. I had no experiences. No voice. But America wanted to play ball. I rescheduled the game for a future date to be announced. Then life happened. Life kicked the fuck out of me. In the midst of the assault, I found my voice. And the songs I needed to finally be a contender. But I was 5 years too late. The attention was gone. The lawyers and management and publishers had moved on. I had grown out of the confusion of a wannabe Slim Shady who believed shock was necessary to sell. I had songs. I had stories. But I waited too long. I wasted time. And once again, I’m in the same boat.

 One fucking year. I can’t waste another one. I still remember what I was wearing when I was 24 years old, listening to my father’s lecture about time. And here I am. 36 years old, in the same position I was in, sitting on my grandfather’s red chair. I turn 37 on the 29th of March. I can’t enter 37 with nothing. That’s not the artist I am. It’s not who I was when I shot out of a cannon in 2008 and released 15 albums over 5 years.

 Two weeks ago, Melanie and I were driving home from the Son Real show at the Mod Club. He packed the venue and put on an entertaining show. I remember emailing Darryl Rodway [founder of Urbnet] when I first heard the kid, pitching a possible label partnership to sign him. Truthfully, I wouldn’t have been able to do anything for the kid, but I saw it. And 2 weeks ago, a lot was running through my mind. That kid shot out of a cannon, but didn’t pause the grind. Today, he’s living the dream. And I can’t fill the Silver Dollar Room. And that feeling sucks when you only have yourself to blame. On the way home, I decided to detour to my old building – 620 Northcliffe Boulevard. I needed to stare at it. I needed to feel the energy around it. Driving there, Melanie said “do you have a lot of secrets you’ll never tell me?” I replied, “I’m not sure I have a lot, but I think everyone has a plate full of shit that will forever remain buried.” I spent the night thinking about her question. I realized all a person really has is their stories. What’s the point of keeping them hidden in the sock drawer. I then decided to tell my stories. All of them. If, for anything, my daughter to read when she’s older. I may not live long enough to tell her everything, and she deserves to know who her father was.

 Last night, I was waiting for the Dufferin bus at Queen Street, after leaving Muneshine’s apartment. A car pulled up beside me. The passenger yelled out “D-Sisive! Where the fuck have you been?” I nodded, and said “hey man!” He said, “fuck that! Get back in the studio. I feel like you abandoned me.” As the car drove towards the green light, he screamed, “LET THE CHILDREN DIE!” I never thought about my listeners as being ones I could abandon. And if they are, I guess I did. But I didn’t do it for the fun of it. A lot happened over the past 2 years. Shit I never planned on talking about, until Melanie’s question after the Son Real show. That guy in the car deserves to know. As do all of you who are here because of my work. So, I’m going to tell you. Along with everything else about me. My Slob Opera.

 I’m ruthlessly fucking flawed. And have a giant mess to clean up. But this post is my first step towards scrubbing it spotless. I have many people to apologize to, and my apologies are sincere. My first apology is for how scattered this post is, but if I didn’t start today, I would have hated myself even more in 2018. It’s time to get back to what I fucking do best. Time to get back to telling my story. To those who have, thank you all for sticking around.

 LET THE CHILDREN DIE!