Homeless Hall of Fame

San Francisco has LA beat pretty soundly in the cultural department. Believe me, San Francisco has more than its fair share of annoying phenomenon, chief among them the wave of hipsters that have descended up on the city like a Vans-wearing fog. There’s nothing more aggravating than someone who spends hours every morning trying to look like they just rolled out of bed. At least LA doesn’t pretend, aspiring actresses aren’t ashamed to admit they’re just steps away from becoming collagen enhanced cyborgs. But there is one area that San Francisco soundly beats the bejeezus out of LA, their homeless population. SF has some of the most creative and memorable homeless folks in the country. In a way they’re a microcosm of the city’s general population, people who just didn’t quite fit in other places and at least found a place where no matter how crazy they are, there’s someone infinitely more insane waiting around the corner. I have to say I’m relatively disappointed in LA’s homeless population, there’s plenty of them but I don’t think I’ll remember a single one. It may be a matter of location, West Hollywood may not attract the cream of the crazy homeless crop, but I oddly find myself longing for the days when a guy wearing a tinfoil hat would calmly sit next to you on the bus. In SF the homeless become minor celebrities, every neighborhood has its favorites and a select few even achieve city-wide fame. It’s not uncommon to have this exchange:
You: “So where do you live?”
Me: “I’m in the Inner Sunset.”
You: “Oh, you know that guy who walks around with a live rabbit on his head?”
Me: “Of course, I was just talking to him today next to the ATM machine.”
So to ease some of my San Francisco homesickness here’s the first induction ceremony for the Homeless Hall of Fame. To qualify you need to be not just crazy, but you need to make a significant contribution to the crazy game, setting the crazy bar just a little higher for the next generation. On a side note some of these people are certainly homeless, and for some it’s completely conceivable that they have a home yet spend every day on the streets doing things that would in no way qualify them to participate in mainstream society. The point is we’re not talking about eccentric millionaires or performance artists here, these are people who are genuinely a few sandwiches short of a picnic. Ladies and Gentleman, may I present the 2007 Inaugural Class:

The Guy Who Smells Like Pee: The name says it all. Anyone who rides the N Train on a regular basis knows exactly who I’m talking about. Now it’s nothing special for a homeless man to smell like pee, but this guy has taken it to a whole new level. He smells like he peed his clothes, took them off, peed on them again, and then put them back on. Rinse, lather, repeat. He smells so bad people cram into the front car of the train to avoid him, giving him the back car all to himself. In every other way he’s your run-of-the-mill homeless guy, tattered clothes, doesn’t even really talk. It’s like he decided he was simply going to own the urine-smell department. Just simply outstanding work, a real dedication to his craft.

Painting-scooter guy: Here’s someone who probably does have a home somewhere, but how he makes enough money to survive I have no idea. He’s an innocuous older white man complete with decades old khakis and loafers who works primarily around Church St. and Market St. He putters around on an ancient scooter with a trunk in the back while wearing an enormous black helmet. Every so often he calmly pulls over, reaches into the scooter’s trunk, pulls out a paint brush, and slops a couple of lines of white paint on some surface. Billboards, storefront windows, the sidewalk, it’s all fair game. There’s no `apparent logic behind what he paints and there’s no discernable image or message. It’s undoubtedly illegal but he does it so calmly that no one ever says anything, everyone’s just so stunned by his brazenness he operates with seeming immunity. He’s my hero.

Lucy – I’m pretty sure that’s her name, my memory is letting me down (I’m sure one of our SF readers can confirm). She’s consistently smears her entire face with red lipstick and hangs out around 9th and Irving St. She never stops ranting, just a constant stream of fascinating associations. “No you can’t take my dog! Marshmallows! Where ‘s the hammer, I need some nails for the hammer!” What really sets her apart is her ability to speak completely lucidly for small moments. She’ll go into a store and calmly buy a packet of cigarettes with loose change, exchange pleasantries with the store owner, talk about the weather, and then literally the second she steps foot on the sidewalk it’s back to “Merry Go-Round explosion unicorns!” The rumor is she used to be a lawyer before her life fell apart. Watching her transition from complete civility to insane rant is incredible.

Hate Man: A true Berkeley institution. He believes that only in anger can people truly connect, so if you want to talk to him you have to go shoulder to shoulder and lean against him so there’s a constant struggle to remain upright. Everyday he can be found banging into a never-ending stream of people, ending each conversation with a resolute “I hate you.” He’s relatively non-threatening, and frankly it’s only a matter of time before you have to give it a whirl; give him a shoulder bump, and say “Hi, I hate you.”

Frank Chu (see picture above) – The undisputed champion. No one seems to know any real info on Frank, the rumor is he has a house in Oakland (he might also have a house on Zenon), regardless his prospects for unemployment seem remote at best. He walks around the Financial District screaming that an intergalactic organization called the 12 Galaxies has conspired to keep him from becoming a move star. I don’t even know if I can explain how little sense he makes. Take a moment to read his sign in the picture, that’s exactly what he’s talking about. He’ll show up to protests and do his thing with little to no regard for what’s being protested.
Crowd: “Stop the unjust war in Iraq!”
Frank: The transuniversal ecto-laws have made me intergenic!”
What we need is for some enterprising reporter to just follow him for a day to see where he goes at night, I’m astounded the SF Chronicle hasn’t already done it. God I love Frank Chu.

I present to you the first class of the Homeless Hall of Fame. For those of you who live in places without enormous homeless populations who might think this is a little unsympathetic to say the least, let me respond: either you start finding a way to laugh about the army of destitute and pained people around you everyday, or you turn into a quivering mess of regret and guilt. The reality of the situation is a little more complicated than “I’ll do a good deed and give this guy a couple dollars.” I encourage all you out there to send in your nominations for the Hall of Fame, we can make this a truly national endeavor.

May Day Riot

Nevermind. This is a battle. As I was writing the May Day article yesterday the LAPD was firing rubber bullets into a crowd of non-violent protestors. I’m doing my best to not fall into the “us vs. them” trap I wrote about yesterday (no matter who you feel is “us and who is “them) but that’s also a luxury I have sitting in my apartment, bullet wound free. I’m gonna go ahead and quote Jesus, “what you do to the least of these you do to me.” If the police are willing to beat anyone they’re willing to beat you. The anniversary of the L.A. riots was last week, talk to any local and they’ll tell you all about the police abandoning a burning Koreatown and forming a protective ring around Beverly Hills. Who do they serve and protect? It depends on where you fall on the hierarchy. As a white male I’m definitely a lot better off than most, but I also know if there was an earthquake tomorrow the copters would be flying right over the crumbled ruins of my studio apartment to rescue those poor millionaires stranded in the Hollywood Hills. The only solution is to recognize our common humanity and make as many connections with others as possible. A bad night, but a good reminder of the raw force the government can bring down when it chooses. Here’s the video…

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFdNkXJMH9A

Lighter fare next time, I promise. Unless I’m kidnapped, thrown in a plane, and tortured in some remote country…it’s a good thing the U.S. government doesn’t do anything like that or I’d be worried.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UFdNkXJMH9A

May Day

The media does it’s best to frame contemporary life in terms of a series of wars to fought by screaming heads. According to news outlets the country is currently locked in a blue state/red state battle, which is a ridiculous oversimplification; a relatively small number of people identify themselves as a “red person” or a “blue person” (my apologies to the Blue Man Group and Duke fans).
One of the most relevant examples of such polarization is what CNN has elected to call the “Immigration Battle,” and leading the charge is General Lou Dobbs. I’m not going to get into refuting his arguments; the more important thing issue is this “battle.” I would agree that many immigrants are battling for survival, but no one is taking up arms, yet. Today thousands of people marched through downtown Los Angeles to bring attention to the immigration debate and none of them burned down buildings or attacked police.
Geronimo once said “America is a crazy person,” and that about sums it up. I’d recommend the country get therapy, but Dr. Phil beat me to it. In the 1920s the government began Bracero Programs which bused Mexican workers into America to work in agricultural fields and factories, then the Depression hit and they were rounded up and sent back to Mexico…until World War II came along and the busing began anew…until the soldiers returned from the war and they were once again shipped back. So to summarize here’s our immigration policy: stay in your own country, unless we need you to support the economy, which we do so come on in, on second thought get out, wait I didn’t mean that come back I love you, I hate you, why do you make me hit you, it’s only because I love you so much. That’s right, out immigration policy was created by Ike Turner.
Every morning on the corner of my street a line of men forms and slowly but surely luxury cars pull up and in one or two of them go, off to work on some Beverly Hills lawn for the day. The parallels to prostitution are unavoidable. This isn’t exactly an underground practice, the police could easily crack down, but no one wants that, least of all the undocumented workers. So the cycle of exploitation continues.
What’s the solution? I won’t pretend to know how to solve the problems that arise with ever expanding globalization, but treating the guy who cleans the dishes at your favorite restaurant as a fellow human being and not an enemy combatant in an invisible war is a start. I'm probably preaching to the choir and I don’t usually writepolitical fare, but some annoying little part of my brain (a conscience perhaps?) has been gnawing at me all day because I went to work instead of joining the marches. So this is my tiny contribution/useless attempt to alleviate the guilt, and even though I’m doing my best to ignore the militaristic “Immigration Battle” rhetoric I will say this: Lou Dobbs has a place locked up on my next Hater Nation list. You’ve been warned Lou, you’ve been warned.

I’ll leave the history lesson notes behind next time and get back to what really matters, brain-dead famous people! Can we deport Paris Hilton?

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.