The Expendables: A Review

Jason Statham at some point is cheated on by his girlfriend, the lovely Charisma Carpenter. That is pretty much all the plot I could extract from the 103 minute explosion that is The Expendables. But if you are looking for any negative criticism of Sylvester Stallone's valiant tour de brute force, please look elsewhere (read: everywhere.) The film is currently unmatched in it's machismo and masculine vigor, and while Stallone aims to remind us of a time when these traits were lauded, the film is firmly entrenched in the right now.
These men are mercenaries: well trained, heavily armed, elite soldiers of fortune delivering pocket-sized wars to the doorsteps of anyone with the appropriate funds. In the film, the appropriate funds come from Bruce Willis as Mr. Church, fervently cementing the inherent homage to the Die Hard-like sentiment. But more importantly, in the theater the role of the benefactor of explosions is played by us. (I provided a hefty, very modern-day $13 out of the 38 million box office yield(*) simply for something to explode - and oh, DID they explode.) Thus, The Expendables is more than just Stallone, Lundgren, Willis, and Schwarzenegger making a comeback. We the viewer are coming back. And the film does exceptionally well welcoming us back with wide-open, tatted-up, ripped arms.
So now we're all back. But even at the very onset, the film's premise goes even further and asserts that... we've never even left! Mercenaries for hire are all the rage in The Expendables universe; have always been. There's no need for a back story or a weak formation of the team montage like the recent A-Team movie or Inception. You already know who's down. They're sublimely familiar. The roster reads more like your cell phone's contact list then an IMDB page.
The film begins with our friends in a standoff with Somali pirates holding a hostage. The politics of the film are overtly simplistic and tropes and cliches outline the antagonists, sometimes with culturally insensitive hues. Great! In this way, The Expendables poignantly emulates the denial of nuance and subtlety that exists deep within Americana, our media and our arts, whether we admit it or not. It's the post-everything hyper-liberalization of culture that has left an empty, sinking feeling in our stomachs. The Expendables nobly aims to fill that with an explosion or two.
So from Somalia we travel to South America because Bruce Willis said so. Once again very simple politics and developmental dialogue background immaculately choreographed fighting and explosions. There's some banter, some laughs, knives get thrown, red-shirts get shot, someone gets a new tattoo at some point, an airplane shootout, a car chase, a boxing match with Mr. T, Hulk Hogan wins the belt back from the Rock, a double cross, man hugs, some short jokes, an Old Spice guy (no not that one), maybe some objectification of women, and basically everything else that could be manly was allowed to roam free across the celluloid, untethered from logistics or politically correctness (admittedly, I chuckled when I put together that Jet Li's character's name was in fact Ying Yang.)
So untethered of a film, I felt no obligation to place the customary spoiler warnings anywhere in this post. Honestly, you can't spoil something so sweeeeeet. Also, as mentioned before, the plot is somewhat hazy to me and will probably be to you as well, so shrug. And not hazy in that "Shit! Inception blew my mind, bro! Do you think it kept spinning?" sort of way. More like, a 104th minute would have permanently ruined your ability to suspend your disbelief ever again, in turn killing the art of film for you forever, and perhaps actually killing you. Ignore that. Eventually the beautiful Charisma Carpenter saunters back into Jason Statham's life. So don't worry. Be a man, go watch the movie. I'd go again if I could find a theater that seats 20 thousand and got as drunk as I did the first time.

The Beef in Hollywood

Supposedly, when movies suck we, the consumers, know it. We tell our friends. We tweet it. We even go on web-hosted tirades and bash the actors, directors or racial makeup of the flick (sigh, The Last Airbender.) Bad movies cost us precious time, money and brain cells, so it follows then that we have the right to wage war on their existence (post-production) even if that means elevating the film to an undeserved prominence in the meanwhile.

But what happens when an actor or any other willing participant in some multi-million dollar venture in Hollywood degradation joins us in our fervent critiquing? They must consider themselves valiant in someway by pointing out the obvious, that The Last Crusade should have very well been the last crusade. But what the Shia The Beefs of Tinseltown seem to forget, is that it’s their fault - completely, unadulteratedly their fault.

Recently, comedic legend Bill Murray attempted to explain away the live-action Garfield films to GQ magazine. Basically the bulk of his justification rests on Joel Cohen, writer of such gems as 2003’s Cheaper by the Dozen with Steve Martin (I’ll call you a liar if you saw this film and didn’t smile once), not being one of the Coen brothers, who may or may not have won some Oscars and the like and may or may not have a crush on George Clooney. Chances are the interview is simply another example of Murray’s wry humor acrobatics at the expense of a CGI lasagna-loving feline. (There was a sequel, after all.)

Bill won’t be penalized for the remarks in any way. He’s a Ghostbuster after all. Shia will probably get a slap on the wrist and have to wait a little longer for a dog at the yearly Spielberg barbecue. Megan Fox trash talked the Transformers franchise and director and won’t be in the most recent installment, but she’ll bounce back - probably in a wet baby-t of some sort. Some media outlets have even lauded these actors as honest whistle blowers within the vacuous machine of Hollywood big-budget, low-quality film making.

Well, those media outlets may just be misled cogs in that same machine. Actors get paid to act. (The logic is sound, believe me I checked.) Sometimes they get praise and awards for other things - speaking out on the war, showing up at benefit galas, wearing political t-shirts and so on. But in reality, even in these instances they are doing what they get paid for: acting. They are acting like us who care about various causes and actually have things at stake, but are unable to be heard or heeded or showcased because People magazine has limited space on the cover and Katie Holmes-Cruise is kinda tall.

When these actors start acting like consumers that hate something they had previously acted in, in many ways, it forms some sort of space-time paradox that only the Old Spice Guy can adequately explain. But I’ll try: You did it though! You read the lines. You cashed the check. You took the fame. You did it. Now, it’s no good?

Its simple. Movies are movies. Some are good (to some). Some are bad (to others). Ren Stevens’ little brother happens to act in a bunch of them - even more on the horizon. People may very well watch movies because he’s in them, but he’s in them definitely because people watch movies. People pay to watch movies. They consume these movies, digest them and do what they will with these movies, whether that is develop a cult following of mediocrity or publicly chastise its creation. Actors act in them. The problem arises when actors act like consumers that consume, cannibalising themselves, threatening the Hollywierd machine we truthfully love and love to hate. Well not actually threatening the machine, it is Hollywood. They had us wearing funny glasses with red and blue plastic lenses. Ha! And they’re having us do it again, only worse. But maybe its taking some tiny, minuscule hits.

So please Shia, stop hitting yourself. Stop hitting yourself.

The Misadventures of Fanboy and Hater

Sigh. It seems that now more than ever some decisions must be made and positions must be steadfastly assumed. Fence-sitting, middle-ground and indecisiveness have been thoroughly cast aside, along with any acknowledgment of opinion as being just that--an opinion. These days its become a feat to find someone with simply a phone in their pocket, merely songs in their headphones or just an operating system on their computers. Everyday I’m often accosted by the ravenous iPhone clan, the dedicated Drake defense league and those that truly believe Windows 7 was their idea. Likewise, as soon as you break free from their clasps, from behind some digital bush comes the blog posts and tweets of those that scream of open-source, clamor for wheelchair Jimmy’s demise and poke fun at drivers and anti-virus protection (honestly, I forgot what those things are.)

Although preference is an undeniable right of anyone with a Facebook account, I wonder why it has to be so aggressive. This aggression almost without fault comes from two equally fanatic fronts: the Fanboy and the Hater. The fanboy of course is known by many names -- zealot, go-hard, d*ck-rider, etc. -- but they all seem to have a common thread of some sort of brand loyalty. Whether its Apple nowadays or Rocafella in 2000, brand loyalty’s perhaps saddest feature is that brands will not and cannot return your loyalty. Lady Gaga’s monsters and all the Bieber-maniacs may get a RT or a good soaking, but neither Lady Gaga or Justin will buy your album. They won’t come to your concert. They’re probably not even following you back, are they? (Realistically Justin Bieber might. This might not even apply to him because he truly loves each and every one of us as the gospel hath told us.)

This is in no way an attempt to burst any evangelist bubbles. Love what you love...in moderation. There’s no need to convert us. My salvation is not in jeopardy because Entourage doesn’t entertain me. There’s nothing wrong with choosing Glee as your savior. But it’s when the love over-floweth from your Fuckyeah Tumblr blog, do we see the error in the fanboy’s ways. Because too much love will almost always find you face to face with that most infamous of creatures, the hater. They even have admittedly catchy songs about the beast. While their mating habits are still unknown we do know that haters apparently see you and are deserving of hi’s. Other than that we can’t always be sure of their motives or rationales for hating. They just do it. They thrive off the rapid decrease of your enjoyment. Usually, they assume some ad-hoc opposing position but are really more focused on the hating. (Like you really think Blackberry’s are better than iPhones because you guys can message one another?) Even when haters have valid points they usually deliver them in obnoxious, yet comical ways that make their point seem to not matter that much anyway.

A battlefield between two stances can be made from anything. Like, is your web browser that important? As long as it handles porn and Hulu with the same efficacy, who cares?

...Ironically the Firefox at my job just crashed (Chrome bitches!!!) so I’ll conclude with this: just as they currently exist inseparably interconnected like incestuous parents/brothers, it would behoove the eternal fanboy and audacious hater to find some sort of peaceful coexistence, for all our sakes. Currently, I have no idea what new multi-billion dollar conglomerate I should give my hard earned greenbacks to in exchange for some overpriced, over-marketed, over-hyped product that will inevitably fail to satisfy my unrelenting consumer thirst. Oh and hopefully it’ll have a front-facing camera. I’d like that :-)

A track by track review of Recovery

Eminem's highly anticipated seventh studio album "Recovery" is what Eminem fans have been waiting for since "Encore". From working with noted producers such as DJ Khali to Just Blaze, a welcome change from the traditional overbearing presence of Dr. Dre that's featured on most of Eminem's past efforts. Eminem also bids adieu to his "Slim Shady" persona, revealing a more serious MC that brings an onslaught of laser sharp lyrics equipped with multi syllable rhyme scheme that would make Big Pun himself press rewind.

Cold wind blows

Eminem sets the tone of the album with an onslaught of aggressive lyrics equipped with a beat by Just Blaze, and a hook of Em doing his version of singing which is a reoccurring theme hook wise with this album. With this track he demands respect warning his fellow MC's that hes back to his old self spitting such lyrics such as

This shit is on, cause you went and pissed me off
Now I'm sitting and pissing on everybody
Give a fuck if it's right or wrong
So buck the buddha, light a bong
But take a look at Mariah the next time I inspire you to write a song.

Read More...

Distant Relatives (2010) Album Review

Perhaps we've forgotten about Africa, that often non-geographical homeland of big green, red and black wooden necklaces where an oblong continent or fist may hang. Maybe World Cup tourneys, Somali pirates, civil wars, fictional West Africans either scamming extraterrestrials or threatening Jack Bauer's America have turned Africanism or even Pan- Africanism into fodder for weak NYT editorials or punchlines to an unspoken international joke. Do we even remember Mandela or Selassie or Kinte (you know, Lavar "Kunta" Burton)? If their names appear suspect next to one another, then maybe we have forgotten Africa - Africa as the promise land of a peoples, where return was imminent and liberation and connection to roots were promised.
Nas and Damien Marley purport to have not forgotten with their recent combined tour de African force, Distant Relatives. But their, more so Nasir's, sincerity appear questionable at times. With occasional glimpses into the aforementioned Land of Promise (Track 8), we are immediately introduced to the bleak, disillusioning possibility that Africa is just a continent; Ghana, Nigeria, Mali...simply an assortment of countries. The Marley child, Jr. Gong, allows us to pretend a bit longer, a bit stronger as he relates to his audience as a Jamaican artist with Rastafarian overtones, it follows then, that he possesses a significant (spiritual) connection to the continent emblazoned almost subliminally on the album cover (wait look closely, there it is!). And to Damien I say who am I to question spirituality. *shrug* African pass accepted. But like many before him, he falls victim to the tropes and cliches of poverty and western neglect, without providing anything substantially new to the argument. In fact, you might ask how a millionaire spawned from nepotism, virtually a pop star with locks of irony, even comes to know poverty, distinguish himself from the western funds filling his bank account and financing his lifestyle. Nonetheless, Africa Must Wake up made me rethink putting away my big African chain for a moment, and Patience establishes Marley as a lyrical powerhouse. Learn the patois or you'll miss something.
Nasir Jones, on the other hand - a hand perhaps uncomfortably distant from Marley's, sadly comes short as he's known to do nowadays. It's possible to speak of him so separately from his cohort even though the form of the album aims to emulate almost inseparable hip hop duets like Eric B. & Rakim or Mobb Deep at it's best, Jay-Z and R. Kelly (the second time, not the first) at its worst, because Nas doesn't engage in the back and forth rapport and dually consistent flow necessary to pull something like this off. He simply gets out-shined. He's another millionaire rapping of difficulties too far gone to genuinely recall in rhyme, but doesn't seem to even believe this stuff himself. Truthfully, the match of the two MC's makes sense. They've done it before on Damien Marley's last outing, Welcome to Jamrock (Road to Zion, Track 11), successfully. And to bring a wider audience to a project that might be boxed in as simply reggae, why not invite a legend that comes with at least 50,000 or so hip-hop sales automatically? But Esco, why not show up?
But you know who did show up? K'Naan. If you don't know who he is, Google the man, add a new Pandora station. He provides a bit of legitimacy to this 61 minute 48 second voyage through the diaspora. Even with a shotty flow and squeaky voice, I appreciate his presence. The production value and other features are often impressive as well. Speaking of features, Lil Wayne's on the album somewhere, so watch out! Subpar, overhyped rappers have different affects on people's ears so guard yourself. Weezy automatically subtracts a few thousand bloggers from the already struggling rating for the album... so here we have it: 13k money making bloggers approve :) download link

NEW FEATURE: Questions From Our Readers

Due to the abundance of letters and texts and ims we receive daily, we've decided to address some of the troubles and woes that are on the minds of some of our hypersexed and confused readers and perhaps help us all learn something...or not:

Reply

Edit

Carlito Asks:

Dear 20kblog,

I've been dating this girl for 6 months and it's getting pretty serious. We've been having some great sex...well at least great for me, but I don't think I'm satisfying her. She doesn't seem able to orgasm from sex with me and I don't know what I'm doing wrong. She's able to orgasm with her vibrator and she says its not a big deal, but it's DEFINITELY A BIG DEAL, right? I really care about her and want her to feel good with me. It also just makes me feel like less of a man. Please help me out.

Response:

Ike: You're not smashing

Wes: Secondly, I want to point out Carlito, that 20kblog members do not suffer from this most serious of inflictions...ever. We satisfy all our women, even perhaps some of yours. JK Rowling. But in earnest, I want to respond to your problem with a question: Do you want her to have an orgasm for her or for you?

Ike: If it's for you.... you need to also realize sex can feel good for women even if they don't have an orgasm every time so enough with the pressure.

Wes: Farreal. Women like sex sorta like you like sex. Have you never had your knobs slobbed and not came, yet enjoyed the experience nonetheless? And you can make women orgasm like crazy and still be a douche. Do you wanna be a douche Carlito? Do you? If not, chill. Enjoy your woman. Trust that she's enjoying you, when she tells you she's enjoying you.

Ike: "Knobs slobbed" ... Nice... But, anyways Carlito, if you're trying to make her orgasm for her... then you gotta start swivelin' your hips, dude.

Wes: Not too much though. I have a patent pending on that. But talk to her. Figure out what kind of kinky-disgusting-back-breaking-nasty-Kendra-sextape-type shit she likes and DO that. Your penis might not even be part of the show. You gotta be willing to really work with her and for her to make this work... to make this relationship work.

Ike: Or invest in more batteries.

If you have any questions or concerns you would like us to address here just shoot us an email at 20kblog@gmail.com (f.y.i. we will probably make fun of you.)

OH SNAP! Curtis "Fiddy" Jackson's Dying of Cancer!

Well not really. He's just that great of an actor. Link to the movie that will clearly get an Oscar nom (and by that, I mean this will clearly help a dude named Oscar selling the bootleg on the ave get a sandwich and nom nom it.)
And here's another link begrudgingly to a huffpost article that shows more pics and info about the diet.
I suggest if you are not making money like we making money, partake in the diet.

The Truth...

... is cruel. Or at least that's been my stance on the subject for 24 years of my life. The Truth is always more tragic and painful than the reality you believed and hoped for. That's the cynic's perspective.

I came across this quote from Chris Crocker (yes that Chris Crocker) and it left me with a few things to think about:

"The truth doesn't hurt, people, the truth feels really really good. If you'd listened to the truth all along, whenever something happens you can say, "oh, i knew that!" But when you know something and you keep pushing it back and you deny it, deny it, deny it, eventually when it comes out you're gonna kick yourself because you were ignoring the truth. As long as you listen to the truth the whole time, it's on your side. Ok? So that saying 'the truth hurts,' that's not true. Truth heals. The truth, it's on your side, and if the truth hurts you it doesn't mean to. The truth is your friend. So don't say that the truth hurts, the truth loves you."

I want to write up my thoughts on this in the future when I've adequately composed them. It'll be something along the lines of an essay on why people are so negative and the power of positive thinking, etc. I just need to understand and master those skills myself before I preach to anyone else.

See you later.

-Ik

The Genius of Hot Tub Time Machine

At first glance, the title of this post appears to be a poor attempt at an oxymoron, and maybe it is. How could a low-brow comedy with a name like Hot Tub Time Machine possess anything close to creative genius? Well, judging by its appearance on three screens at the local cinema, and it still selling out every show last night, the creative forces behind it must have some type of insight. The brilliance in the film doesn't come from the deadpan stylings of Craig Robinson or the charming vulgarity of Rob Corddry, although both more than hold their own. It comes from the movie's unwavering simplicity and complete lack of self-awareness.



It's safe to say that we are in the midst of a high-water mark in our culture's popular entertainment. At a time when other forms of media are dying or predicted to die at the undiscriminating hand of the internet, the television and motion picture industries are pleasing both fan and critic alike at a level not seen in 30 years.



There's a common thread that ties these new hit series and films together: these pieces purposefully create an intricate world, explaining away any doubts the viewer may have, and demanding the viewer be actively involved. Investigatory crime dramas dominate the weekly broadcast ratings. NCIS is consistently the number one show on television. The entertainment these shows provide is derived entirely from the viewer's implicit participation in the drama. The audience wants to figure out who the killer is, they want to do it before the heroes on the screen do, they want to save the day. These shows are very different from the standard Law & Order that peaked in the 1990's. An emphasis is now placed on the science and logic behind the pursuit of a suspect, rather than "gut" or the gritty experience of the protagonists. There are now ten dramas of this type on network television, and more are added every Fall season. CBS has gone so far as to base an entire series on the premise that a non-cop solves cases in The Mentalist, mirroring and enhancing the experience of the audience. The wrongdoers can never be discovered because they "looked good for it," or "something was off" with their story in the protagonists' estimation. Rather, every detail of their dastardly deed must be accounted for. However, the puzzle is never fully understood until some sort of cathartic exhortation is made by the guilty party, giving the protagonist and the viewer the security that at last, everything is accounted for.


Nowhere is this more evident than in the hit ABC series Lost. I will spare the exhaustive technical explanations provided for how the fantastic realm functions in the world of Lost, just know that they exist and are very very detailed. Lost is a show who's whole appeal is that it will explain the functionality and logic behind the mysterious happenings of the series. Characters die, then come back to life, but some don't! People travel threw time, new characters mysteriously appear as if out of thin air, there's time travel, there's alternate planes of existence. These plot points all seem rather extraordinary, you might enjoy Lost if you like that feeling. Oh...wait...no you won't, because the people behind the series need to jam down every arcane explanation of time travel and multi-dimensional theory as they can. The ridiculousness of this is of course that they are attempting to reduce the doubts of the viewer by resorting to the two most illogical/complex threads of science fiction and theoretical physics. It's as if they realize that they cannot provide a logical basis for the tale that they have woven, and are so uncomfortable with it, that they have intentionally cast a cloud of confusion over their audience. The better that they know not the real terrible secret of the island: that Lost is in fact a science fiction series.


Why this obsession with logic and explanation? A neurosis about the use of poetic license is pervasive in today's Hollywood. To the uninitiated, poetic license is that bit of room that we the audience give a storyteller or performer to allow them to be free of constraints so that they may tell a better story. Yes, we all know that conventional space travel is not possible at speeds higher than or even approaching light, but we let George Lucas get away with it because Star Wars would be pretty boring if it took half of the movie to travel from one planet to the next. It would also be a lot less cool or fun without that magical bit of the fantastic. The dreammakers in the media, but especially those behind Lost, have fetishized a lack of poetic license, as if the audience is "too smart for that." Poetic license has nothing to do with intelligence, it is much more a matter of faith or credit. Imagine a driver in the city. He stops every car he passes to present his operator's license from the RMV, along with the original of his licensing exam (marked, of course), and his insurance record. Society would come to a halt around him, and driving in that locale would be a lot less free or enjoyable. That's what Hollywood is doing to us. It's forcing us to study in order to enjoy a television show, it's infecting us with the germ of that neurosis.


I can laugh at The Big Bang Theory without knowing that every equation on the assorted blackboards and whiteboards that populate the characters' environments are balanced and are real-life theoretical physics statements. It's not important to me. It is, however, important for the writers and producers and directors of the series to make me know this, as they mention it in every interview or review. They could produce the series for a lot less work and a lot less money if they didn't employ a science czar for the production.


Hot Tub Time Machine is genius because it understands that you don't have to bat the audience over the head with obscure philosophical treatises or a text in theoretical physics to buy into a story and enjoy it. If the film has an explanation for the time travel aspect of the plot, it is that a mischievous squirrel knocked over a Russian energy drink into a hot tub's electronic controls. That is a lot funnier and simpler to get than anything the previous series have done, and it makes the film a lot less tedious and a lot more interesting. Consumers don't want to pass an exam before they watch the next episode of Lost or NCIS or any entertainment-they want to be lost in it.

Album Review: Legal Drug Money (1996)

Once upon a time in the Southeastern region of Queens, New York, boyz were lost. More than a generation removed from a movement filled with symbolic marches and heartfelt speeches, these boyz took the to the streets of their disappointingly unchanged communities—Francis Lewis and Guy R. Brewer, Springfield and Farmers. Fueled by anger, hungry and ignored, they desperately painted their neighborhood with reds and blues and blacks and greens, paisleys and graffiti.
This mural, painted by adept young Afro-Caribbean artisans, exploded out from the intersection of Parsons and Archer to the edges of the Cross Island and the Belt. The images depicted were of violence, crime, sexuality, pain, horror, salvation, spirituality; all interwoven into an aesthetic representing that richly convoluted tapestry of being a economically troubled minority and therefore lost in American society of the nineties.
In 1996, Spigg Nice, Mr. Cheeks, Freaky Tah and Pretty Lou stood tall on top of a soapbox of tape cassettes stacked high on 165th street and Jamaica, on top of WQHT Hot 97.1’s pervasively urban broadcast strength, on top of an American music culture that’d recently embraced hip-hop as a commercially viable product, and together they represented the Lost Boyz by eloquently narrating the mural they’d been embedded within.
Legal Drug Money is often overlooked in the best-of rankings and listings of the casual hip-hop observer. I emphatically wish to argue that this is simply because instead of being most influential, the Lost Boyz were impeccably influenced. Instead of being timeless, Legal Drug Money is excruciatingly 1996 Jamaica, Queens, NY. But importantly, in being so Legal Drug Money expounds upon a narrative of similarly lost peoples of the past, and likewise foreshadows the sentiment of communities that in too many ways remain lost in the decades that follow.
In just under 71 minutes, these four Boyz inspire, educate and meticulously chronicle the lifestyles of those who seek to be rich, albeit shamelessly. Even going as far as to rebuke Mark Wahlberg and those like him who seek to emulate and imitate the stylings of the community that births Lost Boyz:
Some whites talk peace
But they ain't ready for the planet
Marky Mark (Oh, the nineties) be talkin that slang
But he don't even understand it…
[Track 13, Channel Zero]
But in vice and in virtue, in commercialism and in controversy, in stark misogyny and in heart wrenching odes to loves lost, in desperate lifestyle sustaining criminal activity and in prominent recreational drug use, the lyricism and production quality never wavers from its gritty on-point delivery dynamic. Each track carefully balances on an artful tightrope between the angry rebelliousness of the NWA and the conscious optimism of Tribe Called Quest. Just like the hyper-energized chants of Freaky Tah backgrounding almost every song, many find it difficult to digest the content of this album because it’s the party soundtrack…after the kegs been tapped and the cops have started with the citations and handcuffs. I invite all 20,000 of my brothers then to have another helping, or feast for the first time to the sounds of LB’s finest up in 'dis piece.

And Life... It goes...

I figured for my big come back, I'd share something my old and dear friend Tracy once told me that I feel everyone needs to hear sometimes:

May 27, 2004 - 12:19 PM

Listen Up

The more I talk to people online, the more I realize we’re all very similar.

Even though we are all very different.

In some cases…VERY different.

And somehow that makes me feel even that much more closer to you strangers.

This has been a weird week for many different reasons.

I’m not going to go into them.

What I do want to say is…

You…over there….I am talking to You now.

And by “You”, I not only mean You…who thinks I mean them…but I’m also talking to the You that thinks I’m not talking about them.

You might not know who You are. But it is You.

If you are now looking at your screen, mouthing the word, “Me?” with a thumb pointing at your chest….then yes, I mean You.

You are fucking amazing. You know this. Stop not knowing this.

See all those people that love You? Do You think they are awesome? Do You respect them mostly? Do they have genuinely nice traits that make them decent human beings?

If You answered yes to any of those questions…then here’s the second part:

Do You think those people we just talked about would think so much of You if You sucked? If You were a raging fuck? If You were blacked out and rotten on the inside?

No. They wouldn’t.

Therefore, You are not sucky or a raging fuck, or blacked out and rotten on the inside.

You are beautiful.

All over.

It’s hard to own that sometimes. We are supposed to be humble and struggling and low self esteem and not see who we truly are………who we are to everyone else but ourselves.

How ironic is that?!

But You need to do this. Cuz it bothers me…dare I say hurts me…that You, in all of Your wonderfulness, struggles with this knowingness about Your insides that we all can see but You.

No, You are not perfect. Nobody is. But that small sprinkling of imperfections is something we all have. It is not the totality of what we are. It does not cancel out the greatness that is You.

Because Your greatness outweighs those commonplace imperfections by the weight of 4000 cruise ships.

The imperfections put us all on a level playing field. It’s the Asshole Evil Skankiness vs. the Good, Joyful, Always Trying, Greatness at that point…on the level playing field.

That’s where You have them beat.

Please know this.

Just try.

Cuz I’m sick of all of You Great People saying the same thing. You are beautiful. Just own it.

It will make me feel better.

Thanks.

We're back on. Expect a little something from Wes and Dre later.

Good to see you all, by the way. Have you been working out? You look good.