In sixth grade, one’s options for a date location are incredibly limited. Without a driver’s license or an ID to actually get to or into anywhere, one can have his/her parent drop them off at either a.) A Restaurant, b.) The Mall, or c.) The Movies. In Solon, the suburb in Ohio where I grew up, The Movies was most popular.

The first time I went on a “real date,” that is, hung out with another girl outside of home or school, I was 11 years old. My date was 16. I can’t remember how we met or started talking, I remember our first date like it was just yesterday. The movie time was established through a series of AOL Instant Messenger and text messages. Her buddy profile, in large pink font, read “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number,” which, in retrospect, seems incredibly strange, especially for a 16 year old, but when one is going through puberty most everything can be overlooked or ignored in the name of a potential make-out session.

Due to the unconventional nature of our relationship – five years is a considerable difference when you’re that young – I didn’t, couldn’t, tell anyone besides a few close friends, who’d never been on dates before. Everything I knew about going to the movies with a girl was based on my relatively small experience with watching TV.

On the way to the theater, I ignored my mom’s irrelevant-seeming questions about what time the movie would be over and how much money I would need, as scenes from Drake and Josh, Boy Meets World, 7th Heaven, and other Disney/Nickelodeon shows flashed through my mind. Would I pay for her popcorn? Put my arm around her? How? Pretend to stretch? Everything felt new and exciting to me as we pulled into the parking lot a half hour early – I made sure to get there before my date so she didn’t see my mom and my mom didn’t see her – and I got out of my mom’s minivan with a twenty in my pocket and a young, nervous energy in my chest.

I met my date in the lobby where we stood together speaking shyly about nothing and grinning at each other awkwardly, like two puppies staring at an unattended plate of human food, practically salivating. The good thing about TV shows and movies, especially in situations like that, is that it takes a lot of the pressure off of actually having to do or say anything interesting. One simply shows up, does his/her best to look/smell/feel good and lets the screen take care of the entertainment aspect of the date, while s/he waits for The Right Moment to go in for the kiss. I, however, was too stupid to realize that Any Moment is The Right Moment – even during Coach Carter – when you’re young and on a date, because that’s what young people do on dates: they half-watch whatever’s on and make out as much as possible.

The movie ended and the lights brightened. The credits rolled. Our hands, which were clasped tightly in one another’s for nearly the entire duration of the movie, were beginning to sweat. Her fingers lightly trace the outline of mine. I looked at her face. “Do you…want to make out?” I said stupidly. “In the future,” she said, “you’re not supposed to ask; you’re just supposed to do it.” She leaned over the armrest and we made out until the credits were over and the theater was empty and the house lights came on.

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Rapper Rick Ross – who stole his name from “Freeway” Rick Ross, the real Rick Ross, a former drug kingpin from Los Angeles – was featured in the most recent issue of GQ, where he boasted about his lavish lifestyle, “street cred,” and other things.

The obscenely obese former correctional officer, who can be heard on any popular rap radio station capitalizing on the crack-cooking lifestyle of real gangsters – “I think I’m Big Meech / Larry Hoover / Whippin’ work / hallelujah” – told GQ, “I have my homies bringing me the best food,” which, unlike the lyrics in his songs, I believe.

As an artist who comes from an economically privileged background, I understand wanting to live and create vicariously through those around me, but I still can’t seem to concede that capitalizing on a certain lifestyle one claims to be his/her own is an acceptable thing to do.  It would be similar to me tweeting “Just got busted with $1.2 million in cash and 20 kilos of heroin in my basement” after learning that someone in my neighborhood got caught with $1.2 million in cash and 20 kilograms of heroin in his basement.  People would be like “Homie, what? No you didn’t…” That is what I think when I hear Rick Ross.

Though I’ll also admit I may “simply” be writing this article as a means of releasing some sort of generalized anxiety, a cathartic “bitching” of sorts, I still feel like the world would be a better place if people stopped fronting and got real once in a while.  Ross – who also goes by “Ricky Rozay” and whose twitter name is “Teflon Don,” another real name rip-off – told GQ, “…When you listen to my music, you hear me boasting of the most lavish shit [...] But I saw the underworld of Miami Vice. A dude we grew up with was on America’s Most Wanted. An $80 million drug ring came from my neighborhood. The reason street motherfuckers cool with me is if you don’t come from that life, you can’t get away with portraying that life.”  Refer to aforementioned tweet simile.

The more I read and re-read the things I’ve written above, the more I see the inconsistencies, simplicity, and childishness of what I’ve written, but I still can’t shake this burning feeling in my gut that Rick Ross was, well, A COP, which, to me, represents just about the closest thing to whatever’s the opposite of what I enjoy and find valuable in rap music.  So Ross very well may be “the biggest boss that [we’ve] seen thus far,” but I’ve always hated bosses and I’d rather listen to, well, just about anyone talk, sing, lie, anything, to me, than him.

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In a hip-hop industry largely infested with major label put-ups and swagger-jacking stylists, it’s hard to differentiate between the real and the fake. Gucci Mane, however, is one “Skreet Nigga” we need not question – he is definitely hard. The 31-year-old rapper/CEO, who was recently released from Fulton County prison this past July for a number of probation violations brought on by an arrest for driving on the wrong side of the road, plead guilty on Tuesday to “two counts of battery, two counts of reckless conduct, and one count of disorderly conduct for pushing a woman out of his Hummer on January 28.”

The victim, 36-year-old Diana Graham, testified that Gucci offered her “$150 in exchange for sex” then proceeded to push her out of his moving vehicle when she declined.

After his plea, Gucci was sent to DeKalb county prison where he’s to reside for the next six months. The rapper was also sentenced to 12 weeks of anger management therapy – where hopefully he’ll learn to chill a little – and has to pay $5,000 to the victim and $3,000 in other fines.

Having struggled with legal issues in the past – in 2005 he was indicted on murder charges then released due to lack of evidence – Gucci’s rap sheet is quite impressive, both literally and figuratively. Since his release from Fulton in July, he’s managed to release a mixtape, a slew of music videos, and a dual “street album,” Ferrari Boyz, with his right hand man Waka Flocka Flame.

In the song “Tragedy,” off Writing on the Wall pt. 2, Gucci reflects on his status as a felon: “Lord knows I don’t want to be in a penitentiary/ But that’s my reality/ That shit might be a tragedy.” He then goes on to explain his insanity via parental problems, “Excuse me for being gangster, I’m crazy/ Couldn’t have been a sissy, Momma wouldn’t have fed me.” It’s hard to discern whether or not Gucci is clinically insane (during the trial before this one he was admitted to a psych ward for mental evaluation) or a product of a crack-selling, rap-writing lifestyle, but either way he’s a self-proclaimed “weirdo” and seems to be embracing it.

So dust off your Free Gucci t-shirt and pour another cup for your homies in the pen. The hustle can’t stop and the grind must go on. Unfortunately for Gucci, however, “[He] fought the law and the fuckin’ law won,” rendering his paper chase halted – though he’ll still be making money via Flocka and the rest of his squad. Let’s just hope that when he gets home he’ll be more discerning about his murdering, fighting and drug use, saving the street for the studio and not for another sentence.

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Rapper/rocker/pop singer Lil Wayne released his latest studio album, Tha Carter IV, last week and, according to Billboard, already sold around one million copies of it–964,000 to be exact–making it his first album since Tha Carter III (2008) to sell that many records in a week.

The 15-song album features artists ranging from Tech N9ne to John Legend and lyrics ranging from puns about painkillers to puns about pain. In other words, there is something for everyone. In “How To Love,” Wayne paints a portrait of a hurt, helpless and beautiful woman, crooning in his signature smoke and syrup scratched voice over acoustic guitar and minimal percussion. In “How To Hate,” he does the opposite. But one still gets a sense that there is more to this album, more thought, heart, effort, than any of his previous releases, and, though maybe not the same Weezy F Baby we’ve all grown to know and love, ultimately more greatness.

Recording sessions for Tha Carter IV began back in 2008 after the release of aforementioned Tha Carter III, but were put on hold and pushed back while Weezy went to jail, where, by the way, he managed to release a full-length studio album. When he was released from Rikers this past year, he teamed up with a whole hodgepodge of rappers and producers and started over from scratch. He even released a free mixtape online titled Sorry 4 Tha Wait, to tide fans over until the release of Tha Carter IV. I guess they weren’t that upset.

Whether one agrees with Wayne that Wayne is “the best rapper alive” or not, the numbers speak for themselves. One million copies. To put it in perspective, Jay-Z and Kanye’s new album Watch The Throne sold 436,000. Red Hot Chili Peppers I’m With You? 200,000.

Mack Maine, CEO of Young Money Entertainment, the record label Wayne founded in 2007, has been tweeting about the event all day.  Upon hearing the news, Weezy tweeted “Thanx to all who bought my album and helped me feed my family! I love u all! I honestly do. God knows this is true.” He later wrote, “Jus fin sk8′n @ The Berrics wit Steve Berra & Mike Mo! Wtf! I got 2 see Mike break a board & still do trix wit jus half of board & 2 wheels!”

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Hot Sauce Williams, a Cleveland-based restaurant that garnered national attention last year when celebrity chef Michael Symon spoke highly of their ribs and sauce on television, has decided to expand to Colorado and introduce a new menu item: Barbeque sauce infused with marijuana.

In Colorado, it is legal to sell and to consume “medical marijuana,” providing one has the proper permit or a prescription, which, according to Colorado locals, is not hard to obtain.

The restaurant, to be called – I kid you not – “Pot Sauce Williams,” will be family owned and operated. “We hope to make it the Heinz of medical marijuana sauces,” said Norm Roulet, the local consultant who initially “sparked” the idea.

Heidi Morgan, co-owner of “Organalabs,” a company involved in the production of the “pot sauce,” commented on the high demand for a product like this, “[People are] sick and tired of brownies… [People who health-conscious or sick] will say ‘I don’t want 100 milligrams of sugar when I eat this.’”

After ingesting the latest “pot sauce” recipe, Larry Kohn, chief inspirational officer for cannabis-commerce.com, commented “[The “pot sauce”] makes you merry… It’s da bomb.”

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Start early – be interested in girls when you’re in the fourth grade, and be the second or third kid in school to get a girlfriend. Play basketball, baseball and/or football. Be the one of the best players on all your teams, every year, but quit because “it was getting too serious and coaches suck.”

In the seventh grade, have a weird but intriguing relationship with a 16-year-old who has a brother your age and an AIM buddy profile that says “Age ain’t nothin’ but a number.” Make sure people know about it, and when they ask, remain vague and say things like “It’s none of your business what base we’re on now” and “We’re not like, technically dating, but you know…”

Begin high school. Have a close-knit group of predominately white, upper-middle class punk-rock friends who are weird in an interesting, not-too-weird way, and in which the females are, according to conventional standards, hot. Date an attractive Asian girl. When asked about your sex life, remain vague. Remain vague in any and all situations requiring personal information regarding sex, drugs or any other “iffy” activity – depending on who’s asking – in a manner that implies, to those who perceive you as a person who does drugs and has sex, that “sweet sex shit went down” or “you got really fucked up.” The trick is to execute this in a way that can also be perceived as “cute modesty” by potential sex-interests or people less sexually-advanced than you. This effectively allows people to think what they want to think. This will increase their interest levels.

Over the summer between freshman and sophomore year, become increasingly depressed and introverted, but maintain some semblance of “the old you” to those who knew you when you played sports and were more “mainstream.” Dress uniquely but in a manner that is still, by conventional standards, attractive. Be quiet and nice, most of the time. Remain friendly with “the popular crowd” but at such a distance that removes you from all potential drama and dislike.

Be in a band when your sophomore year starts. This is the new you. Play shows at houses, coffee shops and occasionally small venues. Become friends with older kids in better bands. Adopt radical leftist values and talk about them over late night PBRs and American Spirits at one of their duplexes in a nearby college town. Allow pictures to surface on Facebook.

Support your best friend when he becomes the first person in school to “come out” in your junior year. Say things like “I’m not gay, but I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it” and “It’s not like he like, tries to suck my dick at sleepovers” while grinning. Agree that there’s a difference between gay people and gay people. Be a liberal. Don’t be outspoken regarding anything, ever. Conversational input should be minimal and – despite being different – never in extreme conflict with the general consensus of the person(s) you are talking to, unless said person(s) already know what you’re about and “look up to you,” in which case say anything you want, ensuring an element of ambiguity and certainty, partially because you want them to think about what you said later, and partially because you don’t know what you’re talking about.

Let yourself move into senior year without even really noticing it. On top of house parties and keggers, add ‘cultural stuff’ to your mix of social gatherings – Rocky Horror Picture Show, art walks, foriegn films, etc. Always act unaffected in a mysterious, intriguing manner when attending. When someone accidentally ashes their blunt on the party host’s parents bed and someone else rushes over to tell you about it, say “damn” and sip one of the beers from the six-pack of bottled beer you brought for yourself. When the keg runs out at 2 a.m. and everybody’s drunk, offer to buy more beer because “no one really i.d.’s [you]” and you’re “not really that drunk” (despite having had ten beers).

Apply to a state school, get in and plan to go there. When people ask what you’re going to major in, make a complicated facial expression and say “I think I’m going to stay undecided for a year…” then something like “I’m really just using college for four more years of my parents paying rent and stuff while I launch my [writing/music/art/acting career].”

On Graduation Day, slightly modify an aspect of your cap and gown in an alternative manner. Make sure the modification is easy to hide so that when you’re receiving your diploma, your parents can’t see it. Tell the classmates who ask that you “want to give the school that took so much of your life away from you one last ‘fuck you.’” Smile and interact with the students you’ve spent so much of your life with. Make plans to visit each other and hang out during breaks despite knowing that the chances of you ever seeing or ever wanting to see these people again are slim to none. Drive away from the ceremony alone, listening to music at a low volume through speakers, thinking about someone you always wanted to have sex with but never pursued.

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2005: During “2:50 Time,” the study hall period at the end of the school day, I looked at Anti-Flag’s website and clicked a link that said “Buy Nothing Day!” and read that “Black Friday” was the biggest shopping day of the year and that, in protest, there was something called “Buy Nothing Day,” a day in which one buys nothing on Black Friday. While reading about it, I felt a little confused while thinking “What about food, do you buy it the day before… or is that cheating…” and “Cool, Buy Nothing Day.”

Later, on AIM, I asked one of my friends if he was “excited for Buy Nothing Day.” When he asked what it was, I copy and pasted the link to the thing I read on Anti-Flag’s website.

2006: Had a “heated” discussion with my dad about capitalism while standing in my kitchen. Told him I “didn’t want my inheritance” and [other potentially regrettable things].

2007: On the Wednesday before Black Friday, I was at Best Buy with my Dad and my brother. We saw two groups of people setting up tents on the sidewalk outside. While paying for something at the cash register, my dad asked what was “so hot” that would be worth waiting two days in the cold and skipping Thanksgiving for. The cashier said, “We’re not supposed to tell customers what deals we’ll be offering.” My dad said, “Aw, come on, really?” The cashier said, “They don’t even tell us what the deals are.” My Dad said something then said, “So they’re just out there… hoping for some crazy deal.” The cashier said, “Oh, you bet. You wouldn’t believe some of the people we get. It gets crazy. There’s always somethin’. I mean, I couldn’t tell ya what, but there’s always somethin’.”

My dad told my mom about the people setting up the tents when we got home.

2008: I made plans to go to the mall with my friend Steve, Steve’s brother Mike and Mike’s girlfriend Sydney. I smoked a Camel No. 9 brand cigarette in the park in Steve’s neighborhood. We picked up Mike then stopped in a parking lot before picking up Sydney. I smoked a cigarette and yelled obscene things while Mike was on the phone with Sydney.

When we got to the mall, I saw a group of people with their faces painted like zombies and said “what the fuck” while laughing a little. When we got closer to the zombie people, I recognized a peace tattoo on one of their necks then Richard Wehrenberg said, “Jordan?” then I said something like “Oh shit… Richard… What the fuck… Jesus” while grinning. Richard said something then said, “I looked and saw someone wearing a flannel smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee and I thought it was you” while laughing.

I walked around the mall. Sydney and Mike bought me “Kissable Massage Lotion” from Victoria’s Secret. At some point, I saw the zombie people being escorted out of the mall by an overweight security guard.

2009: I tweeted about Black Friday.

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In July 2007, rapper Lil Wayne was arrested and charged with carrying a concealed .40 caliber semi-automatic gun. He went to jail in October of last year and was released this morning after an initial, day-long delay.

“His time was miscalculated,“ an officer at Rikers Island corrections facility told MTV News around 1 a.m. this morning. “He owed, he owes one day of ‘good time,’ so it’s gonna be another night,” he explained.

MTV, who’d been camped out all night, live blogged the highly anticipated event. After a long series of confusing and controversial tweet-like updates, they wrote that the rapper had finally been discharged at 8:35 a.m. At 10:47 a.m., Weezy was spotted with his surrogate father, Birdman, and others entering a Manhattan hotel.

Plans of a homecoming party at a Miami strip club have been confirmed. Of the rappers return, Mack Maine, president of “Young Money,” Lil Wayne’s record label and “family” said the crew planned to “just treat [Wayne] like a king, like the royalty that he is and make him feel like we really missed him and welcome him back to the family, basically.”

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In 1969, Charles Bukowski wrote:

An intellectual is a man who says a simple thing in a difficult way; an artist is a man who says a difficult thing in a simple way.

Earlier this month, with the release of his debut studio album, Flockaveli, Waka Flocka Flame, a young trapper-turned-rapper, proved that he was neither.

Flocka, the son of Debra Antney (of Mizay Entertainment – management to rappers Nicky Minaj and O.J. Da Juiceman) and a member of Gucci Mane’s ‘1017 Bricksquad,’ began his career in early 2009, releasing 7 mixtapes and 2 singles prior to Flockaveli. He quickly gained a large fan base and established himself in interesting ways, frequently saying things like “I’m not a rapper, I’m a trapper” and “I don’t care about lyrics, I’m straight blunt” in interviews. On YouTube, there is a video of him jumping offstage mid-performance and punching a person in the crowd because they threw a cup at him.

Waka Flocka Flame is to street rap as a raw, organic, vegan, homegrown salad is to vegetarianism. Stripped to bare essentials, Flocka’s flows are the extreme of what was once considered “gangster rap.” Lines like “When my brother died, I said ‘Fuck school,’” from the albums first single, ‘Hard In Da Paint,’ and “My partner on a pill / My other partner drunk / Roll up the loud, I’m tryina get fucked up” are perfect examples of Flocka’s lyrical style. When asked why he writes the way he writes, he said something like “No one wants to go to a show and be standing there with a dictionary looking shit up.”

Drugs, guns, jewelry, Brick Squad and women are what fuel Flocka’s life and these are the things one can expect to hear about in the 17-songs of Flockaveli. The opening track, “Bustin’ At Em,” kicks the album off with a bang, indicating strongly what will be heard for the duration of it. The first thing one hears is the sound of a gun cocking then shooting and Flocka saying “Pow!” repeatedly. In the background, Flocka says “This shit hard nigga” then gives shout outs to all of the Brick Squad members by name. The hook begins, the beat drops and the urge to bob one’s head and experience elevated levels of self-esteem becomes nearly impossible to resist. Repeat 16 times.

In 1969, Charles Bukowski wrote something that Waka Flocka Flame has probably never read. Flocka grew up a gangster, selling drugs, hanging out with Gucci Mane and his entourage, living with his mom – and Flockaveli just seems like an extension of that life. He seems to have no concern for being anything except himself. Rap is just another platform for him to “go hard” with his friends and family. I feel like Flocka doesn’t pay attention to what people think rappers or artists “should” be doing, he just does what he wants because he likes to. As he says in the chorus of the final track on Flockaveli (in which he gives shout outs to his friends and family, all by name), “Fuck this industry / Bitch I’m in these streets.”

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When I was in 8th grade, a classmate of mine – a girl constantly the butt of “smelling like shit” jokes – was sent home from school one day for smelling bad.

Almost four years later, in early August of this year, the police showed up at her house in Solon, Ohio, responding to a call from a neighbor who had complained of a stench emanating from the house’s general direction. The neighbor had told the police that her family had been away on vacation.

The police approached the house equipped with respirators and specialized clothing provided by the fire department. As they drew near, they reported strong smells of urine, feces and ammonia. When they entered the yard, fleas actually began to attack them. This is where my former classmate lived with both her parents and two siblings.

When the police inspected the perimeter of the house, they saw dogs sitting on tables through the windows. They called the family and were given permission to enter the house via the garage door code.

Inside my classmate’s home, via Cleveland.com

Inside, the police found 25 puppies and dogs, 8 cats, 3 birds, 2 guinea pigs and a rabbit. Several of the animals were dead. “Every room in the house from the second floor bedrooms to the basement had animal feces on the floor and on the furniture…The second floor master bedroom had a few inches of dog feces packed down on the floor,” patrolman Brad Lender reported. All the windows were closed, and because the air conditioning was turned off, it was around ninety degrees. In the living room, there was a kiddy-pool filled with brown water, which the family apparently put there for the animals to drink from. Of the case, the Solon city prosecutor said, “This is the worst I’ve ever seen.”

The family had left for vacation on August 2, 2010. When they returned, the parents were charged with 39 misdemeanor counts of animal cruelty and 2 misdemeanor counts of child endangerment.

All the animals were taken into official custody. Disturbingly, all but a parakeet were euthanized [??]. Child services were put in control of the kids, one of which is the girl I went to school with.

I had a biology class with her last year. Every day I entered that class, I smelled something like poop and piss and puke permeating the entire room. Someone had tried to explain to me once that it was just that the girl was allergic to soap. I remember saying things like “No, but that doesn’t smell like body odor. That smells like throw up.”

From what I can remember, no one ever seemed care why she smelled like decaying bodies. And after the police raid had made the news, I heard a few students mention it noncommittally in passing. But that was it.