Hater Nation

It’s time I just came out and said it: I’m tired of living a lie, always afraid to reveal my true self. Ok, here it goes. Hello, my name is Nathan, and I’m a hater. How do I know? Because people tell me constantly, that’s always a clue. If Webster’s had definitions for this sort of thing it would read:
Hater (noun), Someone who speaks disparagingly about another person when such criticism is unwarranted. Also see jealousy, envy.

I can’t deny some part of this definition applies to me. I can’t help it, I’m from Boston, a place where hating is a way of life. For example, I hate Alex Rodriquez, the third baseman for the Yankees. He’s currently having

the best offensive month in baseball history, and I’m completely unable to appreciate it. Why? Here’s why.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3jp1hfYQAXE&mode=related&search

Those people clapping and chanting “Yankees suck” as grown men pummel each other? Those are my people. With roots like you have to hate.
The hater label has also been used to shield folks from any legitimate criticism. Hip-hop artists use it all the time to dismiss anyone who thinks their music is terrible (I’m looking at you Jim Jones). And it’s worked surprisingly well, no one wants to be called a hater and so many a much-needed put-down goes unsaid. It’s hard to imagine that tactic working in other facets of life:
Cop: “Son, you were going 85 mph in a school zone, and I believe you’re intoxicated…is that a loaded handgun on the passenger seat?”
Me: “Damn! Why you hating? Go drink yourself some Haterade Officer McHatesalot.”
Cop: “Yeah, you’re right. Well, be on your way then.”
So we can see there’s a proper time and a place for some good old fashioned hating. The place is here, the time is now.

The NFL Draft – Now I love football, and I mean almost in the Biblical sense, but the draft has gotten way out of hand. There’s around the clock news coverage of a completely hypothetical situation! ESPN’s been running draft updates every thirty minutes, except there’s nothing to update. “This just in, the draft still hasn’t happened.” The truth is a large amount of the draft is a crapshoot. Ryan Leaf, Tom Brady, Jerry Rice, all of them were monumentally mis-analyzed by draft experts. Plus draft guru Mel Kiper’s hair looks like the Exxon Valdez disaster. I think I saw a Greenpeace worker rescue an oil drenched puffin from his scalp yesterday. For some actually insightful draft coverage check out www.the323.blogspot.com

ATMs – Did you know that in France ATM machines don’t release the money until you’ve collected your card. Brilliant! I don’t even want to talk about how many times I’ve forgotten my card in the machine. How hard could this possibly be to implement? You go to hell Wells Fargo ATMs, you go to hell and you stay there.

Alberto Gonzalez – I absolutely believe the politically based firing of eight attorneys is wrong, but it’s hard for me to really get worked up about it. His testimony on the other hand, that was infuriating. The man said, “I do not recall,” over 50 times. So either he’s a lair or has the memory of that guy in Memento. The testimony reminded me of the kind of tactics you used when you were a kid and got caught doing something wrong.
Mom: Nathan, did you eat the entire package of Oreos?
Me: Um, no.
Mom: Then why are there Oreo crumbs all over your mouth?
Me: I do not recall.

The cashiers at the Sunset/Fairfax Rite Aid – I realize working the overnight shift at Rite Aid probably isn’t what you wanted to do with your life, but when I approach the counter you look like I just punched your grandmother in the face. And there’s really no need to wrap my Diet Coke in four plastic bags.

Fergie – So “My Humps” wasn’t exactly the most intellectually stimulating song of all time, but I was willing to dismiss it as just shallow fun (Alanis Morisettes parody is fantastic http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tZw-8RSyvh8 ), but “Glamorous” is terrible. I can’t help but hate a song that repeatedly tells me “if you ain’t got no money keep your broke ass home,” and then talks about going to Taco Bell to keep it real. You can’t have it both ways Fergie, either you’re richer and better than us, or your just a normal girl who likes crappy faux-Mexican food. Which reminds me…

Anyone who went to the Taco Bell on Valencia St. in San Francisco – I’m not going to hate on fast food, but the Mission district of SF probably has the highest concentration of Central American restaurants in the country. Why would you go to Taco Bell when there’s a place literally next door that will give you homemade papusas for half the price? That’s like going to IHOP and saying “you know what, instead of delicious pancakes could you just reheat a Hungry Man breakfast and charge me double.” Why God why!?

Believe me, I have a lot more hate inside just waiting to bust out, but I’m starting to get a little worked up. And when that happens it’s only a matter of time before the old middle finger starts flashing at anyone who pulls the “drive into the crosswalk while I’m walking” move. And if the guy in the BMW convertible who pulled that shit on me this morning is reading, if you do that again I’m going to strangle you with your own $500 thrift store t-shirt. See, you take me out of Boston, but you can’t take the Boston out of me.

And another thing….

*Got something you want to hate on, let it out. Share with your fellow NoChancers, you’ll feel much better afterwards. Or remain a bitter little ball of hate, either one.

*CNN continues its crusade to blame the problems of the world on hip-hop. Now Anderson Cooper has ridiculously managed to link rap with the V. Tech shootings and serial killers in an interview with Camron. Did you know Busta Rhymes was actually the chief architect of the Iraq War? It’s true, just ask CNN. Here’s a great NY Times article about it:

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/25/arts/music/25hiph.html?ex=1178164800&en=1e14302a3381319e&ei=5070&emc=eta1.

* Besides having one of the coolest names in the history of mankind, NoChancer Sahara is also a dope photographer. Now you can look at her work online, enjoy.
http://saharamarinaborja.blogspot.com/

MC Imus in the house

After a media saturated week of outrage the fervor around Don Imus’ comments that the Rutgers women’s basketball team were “nappy-headed hos” has begun to die down. The shock jock said a terrible but completely predictable thing, he was fired, people have chosen sides, end of story. Having exhausted every possible Imus related angle the media has moved on to its new favorite pastime, blaming hip-hop for the societal and cultural ills of America.
This week CNN, Fox, and even NPR ran segments and commentaries essentially saying that Imus’ comments were terrible, but they were the same things rappers say all the time. I’m no hip-hop apologist, I fully believe that hip-hop owes women a collective apology for decades of objectivism and often outright violence, but this is a completely false parallel. Who’s really responsible for Imus’s comments? Oh yeah, black men, that makes perfect sense.
The link between Imus and hip-hop is tenuous at best, unless he’s been taking secret meetings with Ice-T, which I somehow doubt. These news segments bring on as their “expert’ people who clearly don’t know very much about hip-hop, a.k.a. anything at all (and may none of them have been black women, the group in the best position to offer relevant commentary). On NPR’s Weekend Edition host Scott Simon named Snoop Dogg and Slim Thug as the most misogynistic rappers. I will seriously pay Scott Simon a thousand dollars if he can pick Slim Thug out of a line-up. Here’s a hint Scott, he’s black, see if you can narrow it down from there. There are plenty of people qualified to intelligently speak about hip-hop, yet news organizations are determined to avoid them at all costs. Wolf Blitzer leading a roundtable discussion on hip-hop is like inviting me to lecture on international monetary policy.
Furthermore, this is clearly the reactionary commentary of people who don’t listen to hip-hop. First hip-hop and rap is not a monolithic entity. There are certainly rappers who call women bitches with an alarming frequency (Too Short), and there are also those that call for radical feminism (Dead Prez). Saying hip-hop is sexist is like saying movies are sexist; some of them are, maybe even many of them are, but clearly not all of them. Even among mainstream rap the “bitch/ho” epidemic just doesn’t exist on the level most seemingly believe. Take a look at the current hip-hop singles chart, there’s not a song on there that uses either of one those words.
http://charts.mediaguide.com/format/R_B_Hip_Hop_single.html
The #1 song is R. Kelly’s, and as we’ve previously discussed at length he’s completely ridiculous. The song is Kelly’s warning to other men that their girlfriends will find him more attractive, “She be callin’ you Kelly, when you’re name is Tommy.” Hardly inflammatory, actually kinda hilarious. Even a glancing view of hip-hop videos will reveal no shortage of objectification and booty shaking, but the editorial staff of NPR seemingly listened to an Easy E track from 1989 and decided it represented all of hip-hop. The truth is the majority of hip-hop played on the radio is no more sexist than your average Fox drama, which admittedly isn’t exactly something to brag about, but it doesn’t make rap the leading cause of sexism in the U.S. Can your young son easily find misogynistic hip-hop on the internet, absolutely. But he’ll probably be bombarded by some many free-porn offers he’ll never even get around to listening to it. Hmmm, maybe the problem’s a little bigger than one musical genre. Just maybe.
The drive to point the finger at hip-hop also smacks of the of the argument offered by people over the use of the word nigger: “hey, black people call each other that all the time, so why can’t I? What, just because I’m white I can’t call someone a nigger?” Yes, that’s exactly what it means. There’s nothing good about black rappers calling black women hos, but it’s fundamentally different than when Imus says it: one’s sexist, the other’s sexist and racist. White men enslaved and raped black women for centuries, so the historical implications are extraordinary. And for those who think such power dynamics are thing of the past may I offer exhibit A, Don Imus. Instead of confronting this ugly history some part of the nation wants to pass the blame right back onto black culture, “hey, it’s ok for me to call black women hos, Nelly does it all the time.” Well, if Nelly jumped off a bridge…you get the idea.
Instead of an almost hysterical reaction to the supposed moral corruption of hip-hop, intelligent and thorough exploration reveals an art form that dynamicly reflects the sexism of society as much as it is a catalyst. That type of critical thinking would of course be too much to ask from CNN. But blaming the other is nothing new, and it makes for some great ratings. “Next on Fox News, hip-hop is coming to rape your daughter, but first here’s Todd with the weather.” Pretty exciting stuff, almost like something a shock jock would say.

It's That Time of the Month

Well it’s April folks, and you know what that means. It’s National Poetry Month! Or as I like to call it, National No One Gives A Crap Month. That’s right, the nation is currently busy not reading, discussing, or even thinking about poetry. From coast to coast millions of Americans have not spent time at work googling poets, resulting in millions of dollars in work productivity not lost. If Nas thinks hip-hop is dead, than poetry’s already decomposed.
Now I’m by no means intellectually above the average American, I’ve watched my fair share of funny cat videos on YouTube, but I actually went to school for four years and got myself the most pointless of all degrees, a BA in poetry. That’s right, suck it philosophy majors! My degree’s even more useless. Surprisingly I don’t regret my decision to study an ignored art, despite the complete lack of financial reward; although as we previously discussed there’s a pretty big difference between writing about health care and having it.
Why don’t people read poetry anymore? Unlike many of my fellow poetic peers I don’t blame the populace, I blame the poets. Remember Crystal Pepsi, Pepsi’s short- lived attempt to make a clear Pepsi? It tasted like a weasel’s gym socks, and people accordingly avoided drinking it. Pepsi pulled Crystal immediately. If Pepsi were a poet they would have blamed the insensitive taste buds of Americans and kept pumping it out. That’s a pretty stupid approach for a group of people who consider themselves so smart. So today I’m going to give you a quick tour of the contemporary American poetic scene. Think of it like a poetic sampler platter, like that plate you can order at Hooters that has chicken wings, popcorn shrimp, fries, and a dessert. Plus unlimited soda. Yeah, exactly like that.

*The Chicken Wings (w/cool ranch dressing) - Beau Sia’s Letter to the Entertainment Industry, a poem about selling out. I thought it only appropriate…right now I’d write an ode to Viagra if Pfizer was paying. On a side note I once watched this man jump off a six-foot stack of speakers and belly flop onto the stage. Absolute insanity.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C40EUMU3pFc

*The Popcorn Shrimp (w/tartar dipping sauce) – Alan Kaufman’s Bus. No further introduction needed.

At the gateway to America
Greyhound strikers shrieked
“You won’t get out!”

Ninety buck to cross the
land by bus

Fort this, embarked anonymous,
neither lonely nor glad

A young man with a family stared
at his ticket, afraid

And an old aunt stooped to hear bags
as a skinhead cursed her back

We boarded like
souls on Charon’s bark

As the road, stroked by wheels
removed it’s dress, one by one
we laid our tired heads on breasts
of trembling glass

But somewhere in Pennsylvania I woke,
My face a gun

*The French Fries – Saul Williams’s Coded Language. Williams is an absolute force of nature, one of those people who readily deserve the genius label. For more rent the movie Slam, or pick up one of his CDs/download something somewhere.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jzY2-GRDiPM

*The Dessert – If anyone thought I wasn’t going to include my own work, then you don’t know me very well. I understand the ridiculousness of putting my poems next to Williams, but he’s got recording deals and tours. I have this blog, frankly I need all the self-promotion I can get. Plus I’m my own favorite poet. This poem is from a collection I did that combined works of canonized poets with hip-hop MCs, you could call it a poetic mash-up/remix. Here’s William Burroughs and E-40.

William Burroughs Ghost Rides the Whip

A silent Sunday against tall black windows of the dormitory
down Fillmore rooms with high ceilings
seven deuce scraper parking lot runaway
a distant voice so painful to scan out/enemy inter
momma stab the rats in my shoes in the stomach your jaw
wired up and flashed for no apparent reason
across the valley/whole sky burning/water frayed stars of youth
so I burnt her at the mall or something riding sideways
this is a slumper coordinated with a two by a four
trailing a lonely dining room world I created quite empty
when they cut my name on hours and tinfoil
I was there in your mouth like sugar
there across the playground bare feet twisted
when I was broke grabbed barbed wire fences
understand my system sprinkled with holy water
torn September sky an arm dripping across the golf course
in the traffic a heart made of granite looking
or bleeding a room full of white folks
clear as the old sunlight over twisted coats on a bench
sideshow broke the sunroof them boys
from the headshakes broke headlights doors open
foreign suburbs a distant hand fell here washing light
let the beating begin before God get prescriptions
died when they swept the streets hyphy
Any second now the whole fucking shit house goes up
let me have your baby the winning lottery ticket
put your clothes on scratch her up for me
lear as the sky enemy intercepted over New York
refracted on static those sixteen year olds I recruited
put your head on the curb forgotten
here on the shore dead stars splash his cheek bone
this fire extinquisher over the pavement can’t breathe
run up in his home gnashing a broken deal
steps from the lake from the hill from the sky
from nothing
you can watch our worn out
from the blocks

Well I hope you enjoyed your outing at Hooters, poetry version. I generally try to avoid such educational fare, but a topic so near and dear to my heart deserves a little love. Thanks for listening/reading, you’ve put in your time for National Poetry Month. Unfortunately, no one will give a crap.

A True American Hero

There are talents that come along once in a generation, artists who’s influence echoes for decades and changes the way society views the world around it. The Beatles first notes on the Ed Sullivan Show, Warhol’s Campbell’s soupcan prints, Pollock’s daring new painting technique, all moments that altered the course of American culture. Little did we know that when a young man named Robert Sylvester Kelly released the classic R&B song “Bump N’Grind” in 1993 the world would never be the same.
The last paragraph was ridiculously over-dramatic, but it’s a fitting tribute to the subject of this week’s article, R. Kelly. Kelly was the biggest-selling male artist of the 90’s, and he’s well on his way to dominating the new millenium. I have no reservations about calling Kelly a genius, he’s the best songwriter alive in terms of crafting melodies that lodge in your head and refuse to leave, much like an inoperable brain tumor. What makes his success paticularly mind-boggling is the absolutely ridiculous substance of his lyrics. Modern R&B is not exactly Shakeperean, but R. Kelly’s songs reach levels of absurdity previously unimagined. The depths, or heights, of his lyrical ability force us to come to two conclusions: either he long ago realized the words he sings are completely irrelevant to his album sales, or he’s so deluded he actually believes his lyrics are the greatest of all time. Which is it? Genius or retarded llama? Let the debate begin.
Let's take a little R. Kelly refresher course by watching the first editon of his opus "Trapped in a Closet, or just take a gander at the photo above (nice crucifix, I wonder what Jesus would think about "Sex Me"...he's probably love it. Just click below to watch the video.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eUVLNghzLtI&mode=related&search=

Ready? Ok, join me in a land of magical wonder.

* “Ignition” off the album Chocolate Factory, 2003

"So buckle up cuz this could get bumpy babe/Now hit the lights and check out all my functions babe/Girl back that thing up so I can watch it babe/honey we gonna mess around n get a ticket babe/its like...oooo...pull over babe/and let me put this love in our family trunk babe/So buckle up cuz this could get bumpy babe/Girl we gon mess around n get a ticket babe"

Let’s put my poetry degree to good use, or terrible use depending on your viewpoint. First I’d like to note his use of end-rhyme, rhyming “babe” with “babe” eight consecutive times, quite a feat. Mr. Kelly has built this song around a metaphor, sex with him=driving a car, note his use of repeated entendre. I’m a particularly big fan of “check out all my functions babe, and quite frankly I’m not sure what to make of “let me put this love in our family trunk babe.” The allusion is relatively straight forward, but it’s the “family” part that throws me off. I don’t even know what a “family trunk” is, a trunk large enough to fit your family in? Sorry grandma, you pulled the short straw today. This is Kelly’s genius, the ability to code his eccentricities so well they often go unnoticed.

* “Sex in the Kitchen” off the album TP.3 Reloaded, 2005

"Girl you're in the kitchen/Cooking me a meal/ Something makes me wanna come in there and get a feel/Cutting up tomatoes, fruits and vegetables and potatoes/Girl, you look so sexy while you're doing the damn thang/Sex in the kitchen/over by the stove/Put you on the counter by the buttered rolls/Hands on the table, on your tippy toes/We'll be making love like the restaurant was closed"

Remember what I said about Kelly’s ability to code, forget about it. “Sex in the Kitchen” couldn’t be more straightforward; the man likes sex in the kitchen. It often sounds like there’s no filter for Kelly; if one day he started thinking “Hey, I really like those pretzels they sell at airports” he’d release his new smash hit “Airport Pretzels (if I could I’d have sex with ‘em)” in a matter of months. No one in the history of R&B has ever used the phrase “cutting up tomatoes, fruits and vegetables and potatoes” erotically; at least we know he’s eating healthy. “Right next to the buttered rolls” is also classic, is anyone else getting a little hungry?

* “Feelin On Yo Booty” off the album TP.2 .com, 2001

"Feelin on yo booty, yo booty,yo booty, yo boo-ooFeelin on yo booty,yo booty, yo booty,yo bootyyo boo-ooty, booty ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, ba, ba,ba, ba-ooty, baby"

Seriously. The song peaked at #9 on the billboard charts. Seriously. At this point he’s given up even trying to form words, vowels will do just fine. I don’t even know what to say, and yet I’m strangely drawn to it. I think this is what it feels like to be a moth and spot a light bulb.

“Trapped in a Closet” off the album TP.3 Reloaded, 2005

"Shh, shh, quiet Hurry up and get in the closet" She said, "Don't you make a sound Or some shit is going down"/ I said, "Why don't I just go out the window?"/ "Yes, except for one thing, we on the 5th floor"/ "Shit think, shit think, shit quick, put me in the closet" /And now I'm in this dark ass closet, tryin' to figure out /Just how I'm gonna get my crazy ass up out this house/ Then he walks in and yells, "I'm home"/ She says, "Honey, I'm in the room"/ He walks in there with a smile on his face/ Sayin', "Honey, I've been missin' you" /She hops all over him /And says, "I've cooked and ran your bath water" /I'm tellin' you now, this girl's so good that she deserves an Oscar/ Throws her in the bed /And starts to snatchin' her clothes off /I'm in the closet, like man, what the fuck is going on? /You're not gonna believe it /But things get deeper as the story goes on /Next thing you know, a call comes through on my cell phone/ I tried my best to quickly put it on vibrate /But from the way he act, I could tell it was too late /He hopped up and said, "There's a mystery going on And I'm gonna solve it" /And I'm like, "God please, don't let this man open this closet"

I could write a thesis on this song. It’s R. Kelly’s attempt at narrative story telling, starting with him waking up in a strange bed and being caught cheating with this man’s wife. This is only part 1 of 12 sections. It’s like The Odessey, only with more gay sex, midgets, brothers on parole, cherry pies, and trigger-happy police officers (you can’t make this stuff up). My favorite is the exchange between Kelly and the woman about where to hide him: “Why don’t I just go out the window? “Yes, except for one thing we’re on the fifth floor.” “Shit think, shit think, shit quick, put me in the closet.” I love that we suddenly get to hear his thoughts, which mostly consist of the word “shit.” And what house has five floors? What tops it off is the melodic accent he puts on lines, “I tried my best to quickly put it on vibrate” is funny enough on its own, but when sung with such soul and conviction it’s hilarious. Those of us who watched the schizophrenic solo performance of this song the world will never be the same. It was like watching a schizophrenic throw a toaster into a bathtub, simply electrifying.

So there you have it, I’ve laid out the evidence, the jury has deliberated, what’s the verdict? I want to make it clear that despite the negativity occasionally displayed here, I like R. Kelly in all seriousness. I’m freely confess to unabashedly singing along to his songs on the radio. A better question may be what is it about these songs that are so addictive? I’m not sure, maybe the NoChance community can come to some sort of consensus. I’ll close with a line from Kelly’s newest single “I’m a Flirt”
"Cuz hey I'm black, handsome, I sing…plus I'm rich"
Truer words were never spoken.

God Thy Name is Traffic

There’s no way for an outsider to fully understand what traffic means to L.A. It’s a literal living entity, like some Godzilla sleeping in the ocean just waiting to emerge and wreak havoc on the city. If there were any virgins in LA residents would have long ago thrown them into the La Brea tar pits in an attempt to appease the terrible gods that determine the length of your commute. This is probably why there aren’t any virgins here, parents encourage their children to start early in order to avoid becoming a human sacrifice.
LA is not a city, it’s a state. In second grade LA beat up Rhode Island and took its lunch money, so you can forget about public transportation. Walking? HA! There’s no way to get around the city without driving. Not a day goes by that I don’t dream of owning a rocket pack (why hasn’t this happened? It seems like the most useful invention of all time. How do I not have a rocketpack!? Other than the whole unbelievably dangerous thing).
How can I get you to understand what traffic means to those of us stupid enough to live in the City of Angels? People here talk about traffic like they talk about the weather on the East Coast. Last week the LA Marathon shut down half the cities streets, it was like a nor’easter was brewing.
“Oh man, did you hear? There’s a marathon a headed this way, it’s gonna be real trouble. I’m not going to leave the house all day. You better go to the grocery store now, when I was there they were down to bottled water and cans of tuna.”
If someone tells you they’ve lived in LA, ask to see their calves. Seriously. Their right calf should be freakishly developed from hitting the brakes thousands of time in traffic jams. There’s also a chance they’ve had calf implants, in which case they’re definitely from LA.
I’m still not getting my point across, the accumulated frustration has reduced me to a quivering mass capable only loosely organized rants. Here are some more concrete examples:
* The Sunset Ave. exit ramp on the 405 has a sign that says “Ramp will be closed intermittently until Oct. 2010.” There is no way that sign exists anywhere else. They’ve basically announced that they’re going to screw you repeatedly for the next three years, intermittently. What could they be doing that takes three years? They better be painting elaborate frescoes on the pavement. Whatever it is they’ll be done exactly in October.
* The other day I was, surprise, sitting in traffic on Santa Monica. In my side mirror came a man who was obviously a serious meth addict. He was wearing short basketball shorts circa 1974, tube socks pulled up knee high, no shirt and a small pink backpack with an airbrushed portrait of a unicorn. Even from across the street I could tell he smelled like hot dogs, snickers bars, and pee. Good times. Every so often he would start sprinting as fast as possible while swatting at the air, my guess was he thought he was being chased by a swarm of flying scorpions. But he would get exhausted after twenty feet and stop to catch his breath. The race was on. For literally two miles I watched him go flying down the street, pink backpack flapping behind him, and then collapse onto the sidewalk. Traffic would move, I would pull up on him, catch the scent of pee wafting on the afternoon air, and he was off again. Traffic is so bad in LA a crazy meth-head can outrun you for miles. I was seconds away from getting out and racing him on foot. I think I could have taken him.
The more I think about it the more insane it is. People complain about traffic constantly, but unlike the weather they have the means to control it. You know you’re going to get slammed in traffic, and yet you start that engine anyway. It’s like complaining about how sharp darts are, and then jamming one of them into your eye. There’s nothing quite like being ten feet away from the person in the car next to you for two hours, and not acknowledging their existence. It’s the car as a cocoon.
The other day I was behind a SUV with TVs in backs of the chairs; the kids were in the backseat watching the screens in a somnambulant daze. Remember being a kid and staring out the car window on trips? That’s where you learned about the world, saw human civilization pass before you in a speed blur. It seems like a dangerous sign that kids don’t stare out the window anymore, which is a shame because lord knows they’d have plenty of time to look. TV-glued-kids could easily miss the enlightening sight of a meth addict bouncing down the street. I don’t want to live in such a tunnel-visioned future.
I apologize for the scattered nature of this weeks installment of NoChance, I just needed to get this off my chest. Thank you for reading. Let’s have a little whining party. Is there something you have to deal with everyday that drives you insane? If there isn’t I got news for you…you’re the thing that drives other people insane. Feel free to share with your fellow NoChancers, we can all wallow in our misery for a week. Coming up soon, a detailed breakdown of R. Kelly’s lyrical genius! I don’t know about you, but I can’t wait.

Before we go here’s a new installment of overheard quotes classics, severely inebriated version:

From the one and only Emily in San Francisco: Late at night/early morning. The roommate’s drunken friend won’t stop talking, her drunken monologues are keeping the whole house awake. Finally blessed silence, it appears as if the drunken friend has finally passed out. Then, from the darkness, comes
“Wait…I was cuter than that other girl, right?”
It’s kind of sad if you think about it. Good for us we don’t think about things, so that’s just hilarious.

From Steve, teacher, father, lover of sunflower seeds:
“While eating dinner at the restaurant my sister works at there was a drunk patron yelling at her ...when he handed her his credit card she asked “do you want me to run this”...he said "run it hard baby, run it real hard, really hard’”.
I’m not even sure what that means. I hope she ran his card real hard, like 40% tip hard.

Heather and Mike Tyson? Only at NoChance.

Normally I spend countless hours carefully handcrafting the articles you read on NoChance (or at least keeping the whip hovering over the heads of the Malaysian children I have working for me) but some urgent matters have come to the forefront which demand my immediate attention. A writer’s work is never done…sigh.

*Some reader mail: For those of you who may have missed it, NoChancer Heather from the great state of Texas (a.k.a. Mexico part 2) had a follow-up question to the tattoo article. Here’s the essence of the response:
"I think I would have to add one obnoxious question to your list though... this is the one that gets me themost. "So, what does it mean?" I probably asked you that about your first one way back in the day, but I have become much more older, wiser and more tattooed since then, so I'll just skip the apology. Also, I have no problem with friends asking me this, but strangers... WTF! To me asking what the tattoo means or why I chose the ones I did is fine from friends but from perfect strangers it seems like a very personal question. It is along the lines of "so, what kind of person are you, anyway?" or"do you believe in god?"

Preach on sister! In order to address the “what does it mean” dilemma we have to consider both sides of the question. On the one hand, it’s like asking “what’s art?” one of those questions posed to hopelessly enthusiastic freshman in humanities classes (oh the good old days). Tattoos can be intensely personal and symbolic, or simply serve the same aesthetic function as a Rothko painting. In the spirit of full disclosure, all the tattoos on my sleeve are taken directly from the Tibetan Book of the Dead. The large flaming-headed demon on my forearm is named dharmamahakalapala, and for those scoring at home my spellcheck just has an aneurysm. He’s the guardian spirit of the Dharma (the Bible of Buddhism) and also the protector of the East. Plus he looks badass. So basically he’s the badass guardian of words that come from the East, rather appropriate for yours truly, no?
On the other hand, some tattoos are stupid and meaningless; don’t be afraid to think so. When I lived in San Diego, I knew I guy who had an enormous crying clown tattooed on his leg. What could have possibly been the story there!? “My dad was a circus clown who died one morning in a terrible pie accident, so I got this tattoo to memorialize him?” “I love clowns, but I hate happiness, so I got this crying clown tattoo to properly express the paradox that is my soul?” It wasn’t just a tattoo, it was his entire leg. If I’ve said it once I’ve said it a million times, people are stupid. You read this column, so you’re obviously at the apex of intelligence. Use your best judgement; if it feels appropriate, ask someone about the meaning of their tattoo, you just may get a fascinating story. And if they have a huge crying clown make a mental note, and then rush home and write me so NoChanceNation can collectively mock them. I love reader mail!

* On a completely different note…there’s no way to say this without sounding like the epitome of LA, so I’m just going to go for it. I met someone famous, actually infamous would be the proper term. That’s right, I met Mike Tyson. It was one of the most surreal moments of my life. There is an endless parade of minor celebrities in my gym desperately working the elliptical machine like their career depended on it (I’m looking at you cast of Real World/Road Rules Challenge), but a bonafide celebrity is rare. The sequence of events was completely ordinary; I’m walking to the squat rack, the large black man in front of turns around, his face is tattooed, and it was Mike Tyson. Sometimes you see a celebrity and there’s that moment of “Is that? Could it be? Oh my God it is.” This was not one of those moments. This was more like the type of “Sweet Jesus that’s Mike Tyson” moment that gazelles must feel right before they spot a lion creeping towards the watering hole. It was all I could do not to pee my pants. He was surprisingly calm, like he was on serious psychological medication calm, but I was ready to run at any moment. He could have pulled a trident out of his gym bag and speared Jeff Goldblum and I wouldn’t have been surprised. We were essentially face to face when he asked me something in such a soft voice I had to ask him to say it again.
“How are you?” asked the former heavyweight champion of the world.
“Um, I’m fine, how are you,” I responded numbly. It would later dawn on me that this was an extraordinarily dangerous question to ask someone who once bit another man’s ear off, but it only seemed polite at the time.
“I’m wonderful, just wonderful,” lisped Iron Mike, “it’s important to be wonderful, are you wonderful.”
“Um, yeah, sure, I’m wonderful,” I responded. At his point every moment I was still alive was a wonderful moment.
“Good, I want you to be wonderful,” said Mike as he walked away to do some sit-ups.
That was it. Nothing spectacular, but I can legitimately say I’ve never been so terrified of another human being in my life. My heart was racing for an hour afterwards. And one last bit of tattoo advice, someone with their face tattooed has officially announced that they have no chance of joining the normal world, not even for a moment. Mike Tyson is so far outside the normal world he makes Flava Flav look like Tom Hanks. I’m not sure that analogy technically makes sense, but you get the idea.
I’ll post a more worldy relevant article next week, that is if Tyson hasn’t hunted me down and eaten my unborn children. That’s basically a direct quote, he actually threatened another boxer with such a fate during a pre-fight press conference. God, I feel so blessed just to be alive right now. Until we meet again…

Ink You Very Much

Here at NoChance we’re committed to not only entertaining you with tales of Hollywood happenings and removed organs, but we also strive to provide our readers with thoughtful and balanced information. And when I say “we”, I mean myself, and the magical elves that sneak into my room late at night to write articles. I firmly believe that knowledge is peace, and that the more we know about each other the better the world will be. Also, a lot of people make me angry when they ask me stupid questions, and that needs to stop. So in the spirit of inclusion and harmony I present:

The Average Person’s Guide to Dealing with Tattooed People

In this handy-dandy little guide I’ll answer some frequently asked questions and review some protocol for dealing with those who are tattooed. The first step is to figure out where you belong. Are you a tattooed person?
Do you have a small turtle inked on your ankle from a spring break in Mexico? Then no, you’re not, and there are probably some embarrassing videos of you on the Internet. Do you have barbwire around your bicep? Then no, you’re not, and steroids have shrunken your testicles to the size of raisins. If neither of these scenarios describes you, than congratulations, you’ve done something right with your life.
Still not sure where you fit? If you’re routinely asked about your tattoos by strangers, than you are, and if not, than you just might be annoying the bejeezus out of others (like say, Nathan Richards Slavik). I’ll also try to let you in on a little bit of inside information that you can use to ridicule people who think they’re cool because of their lame tattoos. Think of this like a public service announcement, I’m in negotiations with Al Gore to do a documentary.

Question 1: “Did it hurt”?

Jesus Christ on a bicycle! Yes it hurts! When you’re tattooed a needle (which can range from the size of a highlighter to a pin) repeatedly punctures the layers of skin directly below the surface. That’s not pleasant. Some parts of the body hurt worse than others, the general rule is the more skin you can pinch the more it will hurt. For example, the inside of your arm hurts far more than the outside. The next time you see a “barb-wire around the bicep” guy, check to see if the ink extends completely around his arm. If the ink is incomplete than he’s a wuss who’s obviously overcompensating for something. Feel free to share your observations with him.
Also parts of the body that don’t have much protection at all (ribs, elbows, collarbone, etc.) are routinely the worst. It’s not so much that the pain is excruciating, as you have to overcome your instincts. When a needle is being driven into your elbow every nerve in your body wants to jump away, it’s exhausting to stay still. That punk kid on the bus who thinks he’s hardcore because of the star tattoo on his arm (that conveniently goes around his elbow but not directly on it)? Call his mom, he’s probably late for piano lessons.

Question 2: “Who did your tattoos? Can you hook me up?”

This is like walking up to grizzled crackhead and asking, “Where’d you get that crack? Can you hook me up?” If you don’t already have a dealer than a true crackhead isn’t going to point you to the good stuff, and he’s certainly not going to share his own stash. Tattooing is a unique art form in that it involves a contract between two people: you need the artist to get tattooed, and the artist needs your skin/canvas to practice his/her art. It’s a partnership. Most tattoo shops operate under the partnership principle. If you bring an artist a piece that they can be genuinely excited about or that you worked on together, the tattoo’s price will be minimal. Artists make their money by overcharging people who bring them typical and boring tattoos (hello sorority girl with flower tattoo). Just like I imagine a crack dealer would take one look at me, assume I have no real idea about the market price of a crack rock, and charge me double. You’d be surprised how useful crack can be in various analogies.

Question 3: “Can I see your tattoos?”

This is by far the most innocuous but most aggravating question, and I hear it all the time. I now routinely cover my tattoos in unfamiliar situations. The demand is a very abrupt invasion of my personal space, yet if I were to say, “No, you can’t look at my tattoos,” people would think I’m a jerk. In other contexts you can’t just approach strangers and ask them to show you their bodies. Here’s the best analogy I can come up with, and no it doesn’t involve narcotics. It actually involves imagining myself as a woman (I think my mother may be starting to get worried.)
Let’s say you decide to really get in shape, and you work out every day. After a while you start looking pretty good. Sure enough, summer comes along and you think “you know, I usually wear one piece bathing suits, but this summer I’m feeling so cinfudent about myself I’m gonna wear a bikini.” If a friend or family member were to compliment you on the new look, you’d feel pretty good, but that doesn’t mean you want every guy on the beach coming up to you and asking to see your breasts. Think about that the next time you’re tempted to talk to someone about their ink. And if you’re the type of person who just routinely asks people to expose themselves anyway, there’s nothing I can do. May I recommend a barb-wire tattoo.

I hope this little tutorial has taught you how to deal better with tattooed people, or given you ammunition to more effectively mock them. You know, either one. Because here at NoChance we’re determined to change the world, one convoluted, rambling, barely read article at a time.