The Whale Ship

[thewhaleship]

THE PARK

The train was long today. I'm not talking about the duration; the ride was the standard a-little-under-two-hours sitshow. There were just physically more train cars than usual. I walked all the way to the last car on the platform.

  On my walk, I passed a few hundred people. Some of them wore hats. Some of them didn't. That was all I could really tell. Some of them might've been angry, or maybe even solemn. But who's to say? I didn't engage them and they didn't engage me. I guess that makes sense. 

  We were at the park today. A lot of people were, thousands perhaps. Blankets and Frisbees and Sunday anxieties. I stood in the grass, the slightly damp soil failing miserably in terms of keeping me grounded. Insignificance washed over me like an overzealous cloud on a sunny day. 

  Conversations tumbled around me at a semi-impressive rate, but I was not included. Never mind the company I kept less than thirty yards away; I was lonely as all hell. Actually, lonely isn't the right word. "Disappointed" might work, in the sense that I would never get to know the thousands of people who I shared the park with today. I like to think of life as a constant process of learning and absorbing, but there's a limit and we're always going to come up short. 

  I would have loved to talk to everyone at the park today, to hear their perspectives on life and decide whether or not they were telling the truth. But what if somebody left before I had a chance to speak with them? What if someone arrived and I didn't notice? I certainly would have had my hands full. I'm not even an outgoing person.

  I want to know everyone. I want to know Pharrell. I want to know a preacher. I want to know the people I don't know exist. I want to know the girl who sits next to me on the subway. There are things about my own parents that I want to know. I want to know myself. 

  I want to know Johnny Manziel and Carlos Santana, too. I want to know the next great American writer and I want to know the bartender at the worst bar in Bangladesh. On principle, I should want to meet the kid in lecture who watches a live stream of the shipping port in Rotterdam on his laptop. But he creeps me out; I'll draw the line there. 

  I could presumably meet some of these people, but I won't meet all of them. I'm young, but not as young as I was yesterday. The clock is ticking, and I'm trying to accomplish something that is inherently impossible. 

  I'm all for surpassing society's preconceived limitations, but I think I'm out of luck on this one. A readjustment of priorities is in order. Rather than trying to collect and share perspectives with as many people as possible, it seems more pertinent to foster incredible relationships with a small, manageable, eclectic group. 

  The definitions of "small," "manageable," and "eclectic" are personal and that's the way it should be, but you know what I'm getting at. I'm clearly not an expert here but the new approach will be to identify the valuable friendships that I currently have and to bolster those as much as possible, while letting go of this ridiculous anxiety. I'm going to run out of time eventually and I’d rather have several indestructible relationships than a thousand mediocre ones. I'll continue to learn and absorb, but that can't get in the way of maintaining the connections that are already proven sources of unrivaled value.

[thewhaleship]

SERBIAN HIP-HOP

January 3rd, 2014

By the time we recover from our restless stint on the crowded overnight train from Budapest, the heavy Serbian sun has already pulled down the shades on Belgrade's sunlit afternoon. We stumble into the dusk, feeling guilty for wasting a day yet relentless in assuring ourselves that we needed the sleep. 

After receiving a few recommendations, we find ourselves being seated at Supermarket, a fusion restaurant that also negotiates its space with a concert stage and a boutique shopping experience. The shrimp risotto is well executed but the girl perched atop the dj booth hasn't quite mastered the art of fake dj-ing; you know, when knobs get turned and brows get furrowed but the sound never changes. 

Ok, it's a little like a kitschy, Serbian interpretation of Williamsburg, but that's not the worst thing in the world. We manage to get a few suggestions from the wait staff as to where to get a drink or two or three. One of the spots sounds enticing; they call it BIGZ, an abandoned publishing factory that is now used primarily as an artistic space. That is until nighttime, when the seven stories transform into a collection of nightclubs and concert venues. 

The cab driver knows where to go, which makes sense as we near the looming, grey mass of industrial demise that is BIGZ. This building has clearly earned a reputation; he pulls up to the curb, smirks, and musters a gravely "have fun." We find his grin contagious as we ascend the grimy steps towards the front door, the persistent weeds and vodka bottles campaigning for prominence on the wet cement.

The entrance leads to a long, scummy hallway. The overhead lights struggle to consistently illuminate the way. We can hear the bass and some kind of crowd noise but it's not exactly clear where it's coming from. The whole experience is fairly disorienting, mostly due to the fact that it looks like a place where people are murdered. 

Eventually the location of the music reveals itself, and we arrive at a pair of orange steel doors with a few barrel-chested Serbian men blocking the way. The fact that we're definitely not from the area registers immediately, causing their backs to stiffen and their nostrils to flare. A process of broken communication ensues; our counterparts exhibit immense amounts of aggression, but we don't understand a word. Eventually we fork over a reasonable amount of dinars and are admitted. 

On the other side lies a frothy, raucous crowd of Belgrade's youth. Their skinny pale arms wave up and down at the command of tonight's entertainment, who goes by Juice. He's a local, but according to the girl next to me in the crowd, he's Serbia's best. Despite his rather diminutive size, he reigns supreme in this little slice of Belgrade. Juice's domain includes a 800 sq ft venue and a stage raised only six inches off the muddy floor. He wears a black shirt with "If they hate then let them hate and watch the money pile up" in white Helvetica across the majority of the fabric. A heavy gold chain and massive sunglasses complete the look; Juice is 2006 American hip-hop. 

We can't understand the lyrics, and despite our new friend's attempt at translation, the entire experience is something of a novelty. Various female fans run up on stage to grind on Juice's worn jeans. In between verses, he flicks small-value bills into the air, although careful to make sure they land near his feet. Underwhelming, to say the least. We hear about six songs, and from his body language it seems like all six are about violent street life. The old song and dance. 

But there's something intriguing about the whole scenario. The fact of the matter is that Juice is 100% authentic Serbian hip-hop. His fans are loyal; I think we were the only audience members who didn't recite the entirety of his lyrics from memory. I can't remember an American hip-hop concert that I've been to that had such an interactive community atmosphere. Maybe that's what it was like in the Golden Age. 

After his set, we get a picture with Juice. His enthusiasm for our nationality is heartwarming: "You guys are from the US? That's dope!" he exclaims. He twists his middle and ring fingers to form a "W" in the picture. I'm not sure how anything alluding to the "West" applies to Juice's life, but I'm happy that he did it. Rest assured, old school hip-hop is alive and well in Serbia, with all the appropriate blemishes. 

[thewhaleship]

AR-15

December 17th, 2013

I'm home for the first time in almost a year. Streets and faces have become less familiar, but the Portland winter - an ambiguous, indecisive amalgamation of snow and rain and mist - feels as warm as ever. No more than a few days after my arrival, a friend from high school invites me to head out to his farm to shoot.

For those of you who don't have connections in the conservative, rural areas around your urban dwelling, "to shoot" means to discharge firearms. Gun enthusiasts often belong to exclusive clubs where one can practice their aim on flying discs, theoretically in order to improve their skills when hunting in the wild. 

We're a little more frugal 'round here, so before we arrive at the farm, we pay cashier Josh a visit at the 76 station off 1-84 and ask to raid his recycling bin. Josh smirks at our request, because there's no other reason to want ten empty glass bottles. Couple of kids going out to shoot their Red Ryder, carbine-action, two-hundred shot range model air rifles, right?

Wrong. We arrive at the farm and my friend sets up shop on his tailgate. He clicks open each clasp on his case; one by one the ominous plastic lid twists and shakes like Taz is about to break loose. 

The beast inside is like the bombshell in the red heels who walks into the bar and demands a double whiskey on the rocks; designed to kill but devastatingly intriguing. The matte black finish on the AR-15 suggests function and durability, but there's an aura about this gun that shines bright. As I'm given a brief lecture on the inner workings of the loading sequence, the genius of this machine becomes astonishing and ever more enticing. 

The target for my first shot is a frozen pond, for no other reason than that it looks cool when the ice erupts at contact. We both shoot a magazine of bullets, with each jolt of the stock more exhilarating than the last. My right ear raises as I grin at the clap of the gunshot and the ensuing twinkle as the shell rattles on the gravel. 

A couple of turns later, we grab the bottles and arrange them at several distances. My friend - the type of guy who looks forward to the 4th of July simply for the ubiquitous presence of gunpowder - has also managed to purchase some exploding targets. Their neon orange casing registers clearly from distance, even in the nosy fog.

It's not until I'm setting my sights on a vintage Pepsi bottle that I start to second-guess myself. The AR-15 serves multiple purposes, including being the blueprint for the M16, the standard issue rifle for the US Armed Forces. But it was also used in Newtown and Aurora. The devastating assault rifle is the favorite among inexperienced, crazed attack men who seek destruction, often manifested as mass-murder.

I take my time with each aim, partly because I'm a mediocre shot, mostly prolonged by the recurring thought of "shit, this is what Adam Lanza saw, only with a kid in the reticle." I manage to hit a couple of the targets, but the shattered nutrition facts on the Budweiser bottle are somehow humanized. My final round is a relief. 

On the ride home, I can't help the feeling of guilt that simmers inside my conscious. Which isn't really fair, all I did was shoot some stuff out on the farm, just like thousands of Americans do every day. My turmoil lies in the fact that I used an assault rifle to do it, specifically an assault rifle that has been used in countless gut-wrenching tragedies. 

The guilt lies in the excess. Many fun things in life exist because of the excess of the activity. A jet ski is fun; it has little functional value, merely a waste of gas and money for the purpose of a good time. A nightclub is fun; again, almost no functional value, merely a waste of money and more money for the purpose of fun. 

But nightclubs and jet skis don't kill people. Well, maybe one or two a year, but you can't walk into a grade school with a jet ski and murder children. You can't walk into a movie theater with a club promoter and conduct a massacre. Please don't take this comparison as humorous, I only aim to reveal the absurdity of our country's gun laws. 

I don't have an issue with guns. I think handguns and shotguns provide peace of mind for many Americans when they sleep at night, and the Second Amendment provides for that. I also find rifles to be permissible, for the purpose of hunting. However, I find assault rifles completely unnecessary. My friend and I had a few chuckles over the excessiveness of his ability to own such a powerful killing machine, but consider the cost. Consider the lives lost. 

There's no reason to have assault rifles in this country. They are professional killing mechanisms, capable of mass-murders unmatched by any other handheld weapon. They have found their way into the wrong hands time and time again. You don't need an assault rifle for personal protection by any stretch of the imagination, even if there are multiple intruders. These volatile firearms should be reserved for law enforcement and military use, nothing more. 

I still feel guilty. 

[thewhaleship]

HEMINGWAY

November 29, 2013

I’m a big fan of Hemingway’s. There’s a lot to admire in a man whose reputation was founded upon pulling trophy blue marlin out of the Atlantic and medaling in World War II, all on his way to the Nobel Prize. Further, he was the cornerstone of an expat movement in Paris, rubbed elbows with revolutionaries in Cuba, and never failed to pick off a few kudu in Kenya when he got the chance. He had girls all over the world and partied like a rockstar.

The guy would’ve made a hell of a Dos Equis spokesman, and his concise method of grand storytelling is nothing short of captivating. Given our glimpse of the last of the Key West sunrise this morning, we made a stop at his Spanish Victorian compound to see what else the guy might’ve done for fun. Turns out he was the man around these parts as well; whenever he took a break from piecing together For Whom the Bell Tolls or The Snows of Kilimanjaro, Papa Hemingway spent his time officiating the boxing matches at the local brothel. His resume is truly the stuff of legend, and it sure puts to shame Tucker Max or whomever else our generation might throw out there as comparison. 

After spending a few moments in the Florida sunshine with one of Snowball’s forty-five descendants, it became clear that Ernest Hemingway spent his life doing exactly what he wanted to do at every juncture. Considering his literary style, that makes sense. He often spoke about writing the truest sentence possible; therefore one could extrapolate that he aimed to live the truest life possible. A true life would regard honesty to oneself as the highest priority, with the remaining aggregate delegated to a secondary category.

It’s a compelling notion; certainly not one that we hear too often. Our educational and religious texts often preach proverbs along the lines of “treat others as you would want to be treated.” But what if those “others” just weren’t in the picture? What if you lived completely selfishly? Such a self-centered lifestyle seemed to work out well for Hemingway, as well as his contemporaries Faulkner and Picasso. Without worrying about the interests or intentions of others, their energy was devoted to their work and to their personal amusement. As graduation nears, it’s hard not to at least consider the profits of a life lived entirely selfishly.

Here’s the problem with that perspective, from what I can tell: sooner or later, people – at least the substantive ones - stop giving a damn about your name, money and accomplishments once you make it painfully clear that the friendship is not mutually valuable. Friendships – not accolades – are the most precious things I have, and from my experience there seems to be a correlation between meaningfulness of human relationships and meaningfulness of life. Plus, my mom wouldn’t be too proud of me if I spent my time gunning down animals when I wasn't being a drunk, haughty intellectual. 

Although I can’t bring myself to adopt the level of arrogance exhibited by old Hemingway, I still thoroughly admire his work and his aspirational instincts. However, there has to be a way to dial back the selfish impulse that Hemingway apparently had and still lead a life of tireless adventure and relentless goal setting. I know it has been done before, but I’m assuming that it’s the personal process with which that balance is achieved that allows for the perspective necessary for a life worth living.

Piece of cake. 

[thewhaleship]

DRAKE

September 26, 2013

Let's set one thing straight: Drake is a very talented musician. His twelve number-one singles and platinum plaques back him up, along with the millions of brooding high schoolers and hopeless romantics. 

Stop-- since So Far Gone, Drake has been synonymous with sensitivity. His verses touch on relationship issues, personal insecurities and regrets. Artists like The Weeknd approach the same topics in a similar style, but Drake catches massive negativity because "The Motto" and his YMCMB allegiance contradict thoughtful, introspective numbers such as "Karaoke." He ignores our established expectations of a rapper to rap about money and a R&B singer to sing about love, causing enough controversy to even ruffle Common's feathers. 

But how established are those expectations? Rappers have been sneaking love songs onto their albums since before LL was clinging to a panther on his album cover. Partly to interlude between club bangers and partly to capitalize on the market for slow jams and break-ups, emotional pieces have always been a staple of the hip-hop genre. 

What's different about Drake is the expertise with which his lyrics contradict his melodic tone's attempt to sooth. His peers who have ventured into relationship rap have been able to speak on the intricacies of falling in and out of love; but Drizzy does it with such sincerity that not only did it actually happen to him, it happened to you too. 

His ability to involve the listener is fairly unsettling, especially for his critics. Nobody likes for their feelings to be illuminated without their permission. Even worse, feelings that have no business existing often emerge due to Mr. Graham's heartfelt verses. He can make you feel like the cashier who gave you the discount on whole milk was the one that got away; trust me. 

The lesson to be learned from Drake is one of self-analysis. Are you that ignorant that you require your music to deny moments of doubt amidst the Saturday night bravado? Are you going to boycott Drake, write him off as "soft" because he artistically dismantles your confidence just after he built it up with "Started From the Bottom?"

Drizzy's understanding of human emotion is almost as aware as his understanding of his public persona. HIs refrain in "Own It" is pointed at those who criticize his unparalleled location in popular culture. "Niggas talk more than bitches these days," he jabs. 

In short, calling Drake "soft" holds no weight; about the equivalent of a high school girl calling her friend a slut. Grow up; this guy makes comprehensive, consistent albums that effectively cater to thousands of scenarios and poetically force you to interpret your life. His third installment, Nothing Was The Same, is his best. Remember, it wasn't too long ago that Kanye and Jay-Z created Watch the Throne because of "pressure from Drake." Let your guard down and appreciate his talent. 

[thewhaleship]

CONTROL

August 13, 2013

Anybody who has ever been on an elite team knows what just happened. There comes a point in every preseason when those who are dedicated to greatness grow tired of their passive teammates; tempers ignite and those who do not belong are exposed. Players make direct attacks against one another, often physical. The expectations are raised to a sink or swim mentality, and the cockroaches often flee for cover from the intensity of the spotlight. 

Kendrick Lamar, who has enjoyed hip-hop's crown since October, put his manhood on the line last night. He called out a slew of rappers, including Big Sean, who's technically the headliner of the track. He did what any good team captain would do if he saw his team was destined for mediocrity. 

Hip hop has been rebuilding the last few years. We had to, after the first decade of the millennium produced relatively little progression for the genre. Besides the French Montana pockets of the game, the diversity of sound in the last three years is astounding. Consider Odd Future, A$AP Mob, and other innovative artists who have changed the sound of hip-hop for our generation. 

But now that everybody is intellectually stimulated enough and the culture has successfully developed, it's time to compete. Everybody has individually pushed the envelope and done their part to create grow hip hop culture. That's all swell, but now starting jobs are on the line. No longer a smirk hidden under the hood of a black sweatshirt, Kendrick has looked his peers directly in the eye to see what they're made of. After all, the collective he listed  in "Control" renders something close to a team. 

So let last night mark a new age in hip hop. It could be a new Golden Age, if the right people respond in the right ways. We don't need chain-snatching and bullshit; just cold lyricism will do the trick. We'll never get back to a West Coast vs. East Coast rivalry, but the interconnectivity of everything should result in a competition that will allow the greats to rise to the occasion and answer profoundly. Let the wild rumpus begin!

[thewhaleship]

ALUNAGEORGE

July 29, 2013

Nature has an educating quality, a unique characteristic that is almost impossible to replicate. Lessons learned during removal from society feel close to the first time you learned about hard work from your dad; they're instinctual but profound.

This isn't an innovative notion; Wordsworth could probably sue me if he wanted to. But as US 1 weaves its way up the coast of Maine, there's a constant dichotomy festering, mostly based on, well, the nature of nature.

See, we've all had our experiences with nature - usually the fresh air and lack of car horns comfort us in a familiar way. Yet nature is purely wild and unpredictable, making our suppositions of familiarity fairly unwarranted. I'm from the westward version of Portland but the treetops and highway signs of Maine's rendition trick me into homey satisfaction. 

After a night's rest, it's my turn to get back at nature. The task is to convince a few mackerel that the lead jig at the end of my line is actually a herring. Another clash of known and unknown; the murky water conceals any confirmation of fish existing under the surface. After hours of attempted persuasion, nature hands out a lesson on the perils of assumption and I leave empty handed. 

Teachings from nature's balance of familiar and foreign continue throughout the weekend, all the way until the drive back. As we return towards smog and responsibility, we get dooped once more; this time by our own kind. Three hours of gridlocked traffic await us, making for a dismal afternoon. 

What does this all have to do with AlunaGeorge, you might ask? Well, the time in the car allowed for an in depth listen to Body Music, the London duo's debut album. I had seen the videos for "You Know You Like It" and "Your Drums, Your Love" on YouTube; there was a lot to like.

Aluna's cocky mannerisms and lyrics are similar to the new breed of "bad-ass" pop (Charli XCX, Lorde, Kat Dahlia) that has emerged in the US in the past year. Miley has even caught on to the trend, certifying that reblogs of beanies and red lipstick have replaced the Britney posters of generations past. At first glance, Aluna appears to be a familiar, interchangeable part of the bad girls club. 

Don't make that mistake. Body Music, the duo's debut, is so much more than a pretty girl with a bass drop and gold jewelry. George is a really talented musician, but I can't really speak on his production because Aluna has my mind on one hell of a daydream. 

It's an album about sex, temptation and playing hard to get. The title assumes as much, but in reality I had no idea what I was getting into. Aluna is positively gripping; her light Londontown accent twinkles around George's grooves effortlessly. She looks to be less than 100 pounds, but her voice slides and snaps with a sinister weight that could make Hatton weak at the knees. 

Ironically, Aluna's lyrics are reminiscent of an early 2000's pop chart. But instead of an Aguilerian power, she brings along a teasing, seductive falsetto. Spears & Co. enjoyed unrivaled sex appeal in their prime, but they could've used a lesson in attraction from Aluna Francis. This is best exemplified on "You Know You Like It" and "Diver." Oh, and "Body Music" isn't half bad either. 

At this point, I'm sold. My guess is that Aluna, 24, grew up listening to American pop and this is her own mature, captivating recipe. But just when I think I've got her all figured out and know what to expect, she hits me with a "This Is How We Do It" cover. I just smirk and shake my head.

Making assumptions is always dangerous, especially in nature. Aluna Francis and George Reid have cultivated something that is naturally incredible, mostly due to Aluna's unpredictability. Perhaps I won't be so quick to categorize the next girl. 

As the traffic loosens up and we arrive back in Connecticut, it's Socrates that rings true: "I am the wisest man alive, for I know one thing, and that is that I know nothing."

[thewhaleship]

DIVISION IV

July 27, 2013

I'm glad I'm not a kid anymore. If I was still a kid, I would be constantly let down, forever scarred by the constant pitfalls of today's athletes. Now don't get me wrong, social media and hightened exposure have made it difficult for athletes to stay squeaky clean throughout their careers. Athletes of the past didn't have to deal with such scrutiny. But I grew up worshipping Ken Griffey Jr.'s home run swing in the newspaper over my morning pancakes. He was the pinnacle of genuine, untainted love of the game. 

Unfortunately, regardless of his pedigree, the illegalities of Griffey's peers will forever keep him within earshot of the "Steroid Era" conversation. It's only gotten worse since; steroids run rampant in a variety of professional sports and all players (especially the elite) are under the microscope. 

But that doesn't seem to stop the cheating. That's why being a kid these days would be gut-wrenching. How many times could you latch on to a pro, become a devout follower, only to be let down again by scandal and deceit? 

The lower rank is even worse. College athletes, particularly football players, are merely a fraction of the intricate machine of corruption that is the NCAA. BCS programs secretly fork over thousands of dollars to their players every month, taking advantage of impoverished upbringings in order to obtain top-notch recruits. Favoring sustained profits over the integrity of the game, NCAA officials look the other way, occasionally busting a major program once a year, just to upkeep an appearance of legality. 

Big 12 commissioner Bob Bowlsby recently suggested that a Division IV - consisting of the Big 12, Big Ten, SEC, ACC and Pac 12 conferences - be created. While the numerical value contradicts the existing formula for naming divisions, I strongly agree with Bowlsby's proposition. 

Creating a "big boys league" comes with one key necessity: paid players. This will do wonders for college football. Consider the perspectives:

The School: Football continues to be a massive source of revenue. The athletics budget of the five conferences can accommodate. Also, the tongue-and-cheek suggestion that these players are student-athletes goes out the window. No more embarrassing post-game interviews. They are athletic representatives of the school but are not considered "students" in the traditional sense. Should a young man feel the need to pursue his academic goals simultaneously, he will receive special recognition for his studies. But given the professional aspirations of most of his teammates, he will be a minority. 

The Player's Family: Their son will not be subject to NCAA violation for using his abilities to support his family or himself. His likeness will not be a source of revenue for the university or corporate America. Additionally, should he have NFL aspirations, he will learn to budget and invest incrementally, rather than receiving millions of dollars upon his professional contract signing without realizing the ramifications of unrestricted spending.

The Player: He gets paid for his work instead of being a rooster in a cockfight. He has total control over the situation; if he intends to play professionally, he can focus his attention on football instead of meaningless sports medicine classes (a popular curriculum for those who intend to enter the draft). Again, if he chooses to invest in his future through education, he will receive special recognition for being a student of the university. 

The Fans: There is only upside. No more scandals, no more bowl bans, no more revoked trophies. 

The Program: Along with the fans, coaches will be pleased that schools like Boise State can no longer sneak into major bowls without playing a schedule comparable to a BCS school. Additionally, even salaries and harsher NCAA penalties will help coaches recruit based on their campuses and facilities, rather than pricetags (ask Cecil Newton).

Essentially, let big boys be big boys. Money and corruption have tarnished college football to the point of no return for most of these programs. Therefore, they should be in a league of their own. Why live in a world of lying and cheating, when we could just be honest about the goals of the current state of elite college football? 

These kids want to play professionally, an occupation many see as their only option for sustained income. They put most - if not all - of their time and energy into football and then take a few bullshit classes on the side. Why are we holding on to an antiquated ideal of the student-athlete at this level if it hardly exists?

Please realize that the "golden age" of college football, from tradition's standpoint, is over. That's because the tradition of college football makes money, and money corrupts things. We can no longer mutter "those ole sons of guns from *insert big-boy school* are always strong, they'll make a run for the championship" over our cigars and whiskey; the quarterback has a new gold chain and the running back has a convertible and it's just a matter of time before they get caught. The uncertainty of who will be eligible to step on the field, let alone appear in postseason play, disrupts any consistent tradition. 

So, rather than pretending that these kids aren't paid, thus ruining the game for everybody, why don't we pay them a little bit? It's only fair, since they don't make a dime off of jersey sales or video game personalities. UPDATE 8/5/2013: Internet explodes over NCAA's corruption towards Johnny Football. Good work, Bilas. Yes, it will be like a minor league for the NFL. But isn't that what it already is, at least for these five conferences? Sure, Northwestern, Stanford, Vanderbilt and institutions like them will have more players who are akin to take their studies seriously. Good for them; but for college football's sake, we can't continue to try to make butter out of spoiled cream. If we do, Saturdays in autumn will be a disappointment for our children. 

[thewhaleship]

NONSENSICALS

Things that don't make sense:

"America: If you don't like it, then leave it!"

...or I could just work to bring about social reform so the policies that I don't care for can be changed. Then I can retain the world-class rights of being an American citizen. Kind of a win-win. 

"Football is a game of inches!"

What game isn't? Every sport is decided by extremely minuscule differences in angle, length and height. 

"Don't toot your own horn!"

In what situation would a horntooter toot somebody else's horn? Imagine a horn section where the musicians only played each other's instruments.

"I could care less!"

Well then why don't you? "Couldn't" seems more appropriate.

"I could do it in my sleep!"

Probably not. 

[thewhaleship]

TRAYVON

July 22, 2013

Here’s what I think happened.

February in Florida. Usually a collection of retired insurance salesmen fleeing the frigid Pittsburgh winter, sometimes it’s forgotten that people actually live here year-round. Just north of downtown Miami, the post-Valentine’s Day drama is finally dying off at Krop High School. Despite the sunshine, the grind between Winter Break and Spring Break is as brutal as ever.

The Friday final bell rings and students burst into the parking lot. Talk of parties, shopping malls and basketball games riddle the conversations of the teenagers as they pack into cars and cruise into the weekend. Trayvon Martin is not among them; he’s suspended for too many truancies.

Trayvon is at his dad’s for the weekend. Three hours away in Sanford, he relaxes and listens to the new Tyga album. He watches Family Guy on Netflix. His dad isn’t that mad anymore about the suspension, it’s just time to wait it out.

The weekend rolls along as it usually does in Sanford. He texts his friends in Miami about the album; not quite as rowdy as #BitchImTheShit, but still pretty good. His stepmom, Alicia, is pretty chill. She makes him Mac & Cheese. He sneaks out to the park to smoke a bowl.

After dinner on Sunday, Trayvon makes his way over to the convenience store for Skittles and iced tea; that’s his go-to combo. He weaves his way through the cookie-cutter development out to the main road. It doesn’t take him more than a few seconds in the store to find what he needs. The bell on the door rattles as he exits, signaling the start of his walk home.

Upon arriving at the gate, he punches in the access code and slides through the pedestrian entryway. He’s opening the bag of Skittles when Rachel calls. It’s not too far into the conversation when Trayvon notices the black Ford SUV a block away is slowly inching its way towards him, headlights off. The gravel crackles under the shadowy tires and a nerve of fear trickles up his spine.

To be safe, Trayvon quickens his pace and takes a right. He uses his phone conversation to take his mind off the car, it’s probably nothing. “What are you up to?" he asks Rachel. As she tells him about the homework assignment she just completed, Trayvon peeks around the fabric of his hood to discover that the SUV has also taken a right. He can make out a pale face in the driver seat, but he doesn’t recognize it. He interrupts Rachel, “The fuck…some creepy-ass cracker is following me." She laughs, “Tray, what? Following you? What are you talking about?" He looks around the neighborhood to see if there’s anybody outside, somebody to help, just in case.

Inside the car is George Zimmerman. He means no harm, but he’s suspicious. The Neighborhood Watch representative has been on high alert all month. A few weeks ago, he was involved in identifying two young black teens who had been burglarizing homes in the neighborhood. One was arrested after a stolen laptop was found in his backpack. He fears they - or others like them - might be back.

He makes a call to the non-emergency police line, protocol for Neighborhood Watch personnel. The correspondence sends a squad car, thanks him and instructs him to sit tight. But the kid keeps looking around, his face concealed by a thick hood. He looks exactly like the previous suspects. Zimmerman exits the car and follows on foot.

Trayvon hears the car door slam behind him, about sixty yards away. He panics and spins around on his heel, facing his stalker. But he’s not scared; at least his face doesn’t show it. His dad taught him that. “You got a problem?" he asks, as the pale face advances. “Sir can I please see some identification?" Trayvon is confused, offended: “The fuck you want ID for? Why are you following me for?"

George tries to quell the situation, but he’s not backing down. His mother and father both worked in the justice system, and while Neighborhood Watch isn’t the most prestigious law enforcement position, he feels morally obligated to do his part. “Sir, this is a private neighborhood. I need to see some ID." He extends his hand, which brushes up against the suspect’s sweatshirt.

The dude asks for ID again, this time he touches Trayvon, which pisses the teenager off. “The fuck?" he exclaims, “first of all, don’t touch me, back the fuck up. And are you even a cop?" He nervously scans the surrounding houses, hoping for a witness. The man begins to explain, “I’m from the Neighborhood Watch—" but he’s cut off by Trayvon’s outburst of laughter. “Yo, I live here. My dad is Tracy Martin. Now go fuck yourself." Trayvon scoffs, turns and walks away.

Zimmerman, once again, follows. “Hey!" he shouts angrily, “I said I need some ID!" He grabs the suspect’s shoulder in an attempt to regain his attention.

Trayvon feels the man’s hand tighten around his shoulder blade. Feeling threatened and outraged, he whips around and shoves the man with as much force as possible, yelling “Get the fuck off me!" He doesn’t connect perfectly, and the man stays on his feet.

Adrenaline rushes through Zimmerman’s body and he launches into attack mode in an attempt to subdue the suspect. He tackles the young man in the middle of the street. They wrestle and exchange glancing blows; it’s a messy fight, neither of them really know what they’re doing.

Suddenly, Trayvon gains leverage and flips the man onto his back. As his fear turns into arrogance, he plans to give him a couple black eyes and then run away; what a story this will be when it’s all over. But then he notices a leather holster under the man’s jacket flap. Just a few inches away is the man’s ring finger, twitching and writihing to escape the pin of Trayvon’s knee.

Realizing the gravity and danger of the situation, Trayvon moves to knock the man unconscious in order to ensure a safe escape. Grabbing him by the neck, he tries to pound the man’s head into the pavement.

In the frenzy, Zimmerman feels the pressure on his elbow release and he grasps his gun. He points it at Trayvon, who looks down the barrel of the gun, and releases his grip on George’s neck. George fires; the white hot lead pierces Trayvon’s skin and rips through his internal organs. Trayvon looks down at his chest in disbelief as his vision blurs.

And just like that, Trayvon Martin passed away at seventeen years old.

[thewhaleship]

MAGNA CARTA HOLY GRAIL

July 7th, 2013

I could’ve written an Experience for MCHG. But I’d rather discuss Jay-Z as a brand and a figure. The album was mediocre in my opinion. He borrowed sounds that he knew would sell and wrote lyrics he knew would play on the radio. 

On one hand, Jay-Z is the pinnacle of rags-to-riches success. He’s stretched his empire across so many cultural and economic sectors that it’s a wonder how he manages to stay balanced. His most recent endeavor, Roc Nation Sports, has completely shattered the existing norms of sports agency. 

On the other, his impressive resume makes Magna Carta Holy Grail all the more problematic. Take his refrain of “I don’t pop molly I rock Tom Ford" for example. Hova is claiming that he is above the likes of Tyga and French Montana - two prominent MDMA spokesmen. Great, but consider Jay-Z’s various titles: industry icon, producer, father, husband, agent, politician, and cultural figure, among others. Shouldn’t he be so far from dabbling in club drugs that announcing his maturity is unnecessary?

I understand Jay-Z might feel the need to upkeep his street cred, but that’s something I’ll address below. Here are four suggestions for Jay-Z to improve his brand:

1. Stop recording solo music. Music like MCHG, anyway. You’re beating a dead horse by continuing to rap about how you’ve eclipsed most of the hip-hop industry. Find something that challenges you musically (ahem, look at Kanye) and excel at it. Don’t rest on your laurels. If you can’t bear to leave Top 40 hip hop, adopt (another) protege. Do what Dr. Dre did and cultivate Kendrick (by the way, I’m still sticking with the Kendrick = Detox theory).

Also, don’t make throwaway, brainless tracks. Don’t make “F*ckwithmeyouknowigotit." It’s disrespectful to your body of work. 

2. Start making more intellectual material. Write. Decoded was a great start. But imagine Jay-Z literature, perhaps a fiction novel or a philosophical essay. The creative ability is there, why not capitalize?

3. Downsize. I don’t mean financially; your portfolio is filled to the brim with successes. Downsize your image. Creative expansion should couple with a simplifying of your public appearance. Dress with class and speak concisely and eloquently. You have paid your dues in terms of “keeping it real." Nobody is going to blame you if you stop wearing gaudy jewelry. 

Get a simple, direct logo and use it for everything. You are affiliated with so many brands, your own brand gets diluted. 

4. Perform for free. Show people that you’re not always in it for the money, but rather proud of your artistic achievements. Be humble, just a man and a microphone. Central Park, Lincoln Park, Venice Beach. Play the hits, but be sure to share your new projects. 

Jay-Z has managed his mind’s products extremely well; my suggestions are not blind criticism. What I’m essentially calling for is a separation between Jay-Z and the common conception of what a rapper should be (an archetype he helped create). It’s all with good intention; consider Jay-Z’s potential not as a “hip-hop mogul," as he’s often called, consider Jay-Z’s potential as a historical figure in American history. Stop talking about molly and be great. 

[thewhaleship]

CHANCE THE RAPPER

June 20, 2013

The Metro North can be a lonely place. Surrounded by pregaming twenty-somethings and blurry coastline, I’m bound to my own thoughts. Luckily, I have a lot to think about; did I make the right decision? See, I’m headed to Chance the Rapper’s last concert before he goes on tour with Mac Miller, an international endeavor that will certainly propel the promising Chicago rapper to magazine covers and sold out arenas. 

Getting a glimpse of Chano in an intimate venue seems like a no-brainer, but the basketball fan in me is furious. Game 7 of the NBA Finals starts in an hour, and missing the most monumental game of the decade seems nothing short of sacrilegious.

I’m anxious, but upon entering SOB’s and making my way to the tap, Lebron glides through the lane and scores on the bar’s seventy-inch flatscreen. Any feelings of loneliness are relieved by the dozens of sportsmen surrounding the bar who have also moonlighted as Acid Rap enthusiasts throughout the Finals series.

While groupies and sweaty high schoolers negotiate with the openers, the rest of us turn the concert hall into a sports bar. High fives, spilled beers; the works. Between possessions, we all take a peek back at the stage to make sure Chance doesn’t sneak on without us knowing. We wouldn't want to be torn between the Finals and Chance the Rapper, would we?

As Tony Parker and Lebron trade baskets down the stretch, final opener Torae exits and DJ Oreo – clad in his trademark tie-dye hoodie – bounces on stage. Now tensions are high; Miami clings to a dwindling fourth quarter lead and Chance is due to make his entrance. Those of us around the bar laugh nervously as we are confronted with yet another decision. Finally, Chitown’s most recent prodigy quietly strolls to center stage. “Hi everyone, I’m Chance the Rapper, I’m twenty years old and I’m from Chicago.” Nothing more; he launches into a raucous “Hey Ma,” the notable track from his debut mixtape 10Day.

He transitions into a solemn rendition of “Everybody’s Somebody.” Despite receiving emphatic audience collaboration for the “middle finger Uncle Samuel” line, Chance is noticeably timid. He was vaulted into the spotlight of hip-hop in a matter of months, now he stands in a room filled with devoted fans, hungry promoters and curious record executives. This is his audition for the big time, qualifying Mac's late decision to bring him on tour. On top of that, consider his competition; the 6’8” 250 lb. Miami forward hits from eighteen feet. This is Chance's shot to prove his worth. It’s official: Chance the Rapper vs. Lebron James. 

The spotlight is on Chance. It’s his first big headliner in New York City and he’s nervous. But then the groovy bass of “Pusha Man” trickles through Oreo’s speakers and Chano starts bobbing his head— but how Quagmire would do it. As he jumps into the verse, his wiry frame twitches and snaps to the beat. It appears Chance is getting some, ahem, “juice.”

His momentum is building. Not to be outdone, Lebron answers with a barrage of humiliating dunks and precision jump shots. He zeroes in on a second NBA title. Back in New York, Chance notices that the stakes have been raised. He gives the people what they want: the arrogant horns section on “Smoke Again” charges the crowd and Chance erupts into a flurry of karate kicks and ligament-tearing fist pumps.

Chance compounds the energy with a quick lesson in juking, followed by “Juice,” his close-to-a-million-view YouTube smash hit. The place goes wild.

Drinks go flying, jaws and elbows collide; this is live hip hop at its finest. Chance the Rapper has broken out of his shell and captivated an audience in a uniquely genuine manner.

The game in Miami is an afterthought. Chance the Rapper went one on one with Lebron James and walked away victorious. He ends by spraying the crowd with water bottles as his crew goes apeshit to French Montana’s “Ain’t Worried Bout Nothin’.”

Even though I eventually find myself back in a train car, I’m far from lonely. The charisma that allowed Chance to beat Lebron James is what awed all of us at the concert. Being a part of that crowd was incredible. Seeing someone execute when tested is always special, and Chance passed with flying, heavily-medicated colors. I can't wait to see what's next. 

[thewhaleship]

YEEZUS

June 18, 2013

It’s hot outside and my headphones are heavy; the faux leather around my ears encourages any previously hesitant sweat. Normally, the rearing of another East Coast summer would call for lightweight ear buds. But today’s walk to work is an exception. From past experience, Apple’s little white tumbleweeds simply can’t handle a post-Grad Kanye album. The bass knocks too heavy, the distorted voices are too harsh for anything besides studio-quailty headphones. Not to mention experiencing Yeezus without complete immersion seems entirely unholy.

I ignored the leak and waited until the June Eighteen release date because my dad taught me about postponing gratification at an early age. Thanks pop; the delay allowed time for Jay-Z to put the finishing touches on his 3-minute Game 5 spot for Magna Carta Holy Grail, his upcoming studio album. Paternal advice ended up illuminating the new standard of promotion in pop culture, as well as detailing the relationship between rap’s most noted “siblings.”

Likening hip-hop albums to foundations of religion and government seems pertinent when considering the money being tossed around. Despite their allegiance, Jay-Z’s partnership with corporate America to host a real PSA was nothing short of an upstaging of Kanye’s projected antics. That being said, money is more integral to Jay-Z’s brand. Mr. West said himself that he “gives no fucks at all” about his album’s fiscal performance. He’s made it quite clear that he would rather be radical and offensive in comparison to Jay-Z’s “businessman” mentality.

Still, there’s certainly a bit of friendly competition amongst hip-hop royalty. It’s a compelling transition in the culture; your bottle tab at Greystone is impressive, but did you shut down the Finals for three minutes? Did you broadcast your most provocative track on 66 buildings around the world? Granted, Jay-Z and Kanye have the budget to accommodate their expansive creativity, but it raises the level of expectation for the genre. 

What about the music being made? The jury is still out on Magna Carta, although the supporting cast featured in the commercial - including Pharrell and Timbaland - looks promising. My walk to work gets barraged by “On Sight,” the opening track off of Yeezus. Daft Punk and Skrillex pound away at their respective keyboards while Ye goes off and suddenly breaking any available glassware seems like the right thing to do. “Good Morning,” “We Don’t Care,” and “No Church in the Wild” – a few of Kanye’s previous opening acts and some of my favorite songs of all time – aren’t like “On Sight.” In the past, he’s welcomed us with open arms; this time he let the screen door smack us in the face.

The racial aspects of the album are similarly provoking. “Black Skinhead” and “New Slaves,” the latter of which debuted via projector, take no reservations on addressing American race issues. His references to Chicago’s violent environment – or “Chiraq” as he calls it – are some of his best examples; the devastating murder rate has yet to be effectively address by the appropriate media or political organizations. These moments of realism are contrasted against the euphonic beats of both songs. This is problematic as a listener, because you can’t really get buckwild like much of Watch the Throne, or any other album (sans 808s) for that matter. The contradiction between the jovial musical elements and the politicized lyrics makes the lyrics more prominent. Imagine if a black phallic symbol replaced the little paper heart on the cover of 808s and Heartbreak; that’s what Yeezus is.

Other impressive tracks include the Nina Simone-sampled “Blood on the Leaves” and the plunging sex anthem “I’m In It.” The former’s trap horns put a new Watch the Throne twist on an otherwise 808s melody. If you’re still reminiscing on Kanye’s first trio of albums, check out “Bound 2” on Yeezus. 

Here's this issue: describing the sound of Yeezus gets difficult because we want to compare and contrast Kanye to what we already know from his career, as well as current musical and artistic standards. He samples his own work, slipping audial memoirs to his first six albums. But this is a completely new tangent. At this point, they’re just a reminder to demonstrate how far he’s come. 

So where does the angry, synthetic, intoxicating Yeezus align Kanye in today’s world? The “give no fucks at all” self-analysis is taking shape in a beautiful manifestation. His definition prides itself on being indefinable. His nonlinear comments in the New York Times interview suddenly become coherent; the Steve Jobs comparison ends up being valid. Think of Jobs as an artist, especially early in his career: radical, groundbreaking and unafraid to question the majority. Remember the first time you saw an iPod? It took a while to comprehend that 1,000 songs could fit in your pocket. Recognize the similarities to trying to comprehend Kanye West.

iPods are now iPhones and mine is almost out of battery after the fifth or sixth listen of Yeezus. The humidity outside persists into the afternoon, so my walk back home is just as uncomfortable. Sweat trickles down my neck and my head aches from the weight of my headphones. But that’s not the half of it; the mental exhaustion and complete astonishment take their respective tolls. I feel like Spinks in ’88. Or maybe Swift in ’09. Either way, my phone dies so Yeezus will have to wait for resurrection. I feel like I just got out of a fist fight. And I like it.