I haven’t decided what conversation was more demeaning to have growing up: a white person saying they were blacker than me or a black person saying I wasn’t black enough.

There are easy ways to define what is and what is not “black.” We can now identify Black names. Black music. Black neighborhoods. Black churches. As an “Oreo,” I knew these did not apply to me.

When thinking through this article, I consulted with my personal Cornel West on all racial matters: my former intramural flag football teammate and friend, Sam. He was born to Nigerian father and Jamaican mother. He lived in a predominantly white suburb in Maryland. He played soccer. He was, by many standards, a fellow “Oreo.” Now a degree-holding, Taye Diggs-resembling, confident black man I admire, he has come a long way toward embracing his identity. But he wasn’t always this way. He described his childhood mentality in an e-mail thusly:

I bought those horrendously baggy Southpole jeans and Tim(berland) boots to try and fit the mold. My jackets had to have a baggy hood that covered my face like some Sith Lord. I listed as many rappers as I could under the ‘Favorite Music’ section on Facebook and MySpace. I even looked at other black people’s profiles to see what rappers they had so I could listen to a YouTube song of theirs and claim I liked them too.

When I first read his candid admission, I laughed. Our stories felt so similar. Our confusion was equally shared. It sounds silly now, but for some African Americans, we are either born black or we have to work at it. Discovering this distinction can be painful and even harder to fix.

As I grew older, I decided to not worry about not being black enough. If someone defined blackness as being “inarticulate, ill-mannered and intimidating,” I agreed with them. I am rightly not any of those those things. Additionally, I took no responsibility in making someone change his or her understanding of blackness. Above all, I reasoned, I represented only myself. I represented my character. I was responsible for my choices. I refused to be tied down to popular ideas of blackness.

Which is not to say I did not seek to define blackness in my own way. In my search for blackness, I demanded richness, nuance, and complexity. I knew blackness was more than the easy definitions. Yet I am realizing now that this search for complexity was equally fruitless.

It is clear now that how I understand race personally is almost completely irrelevant. How we understand it collectively is entirely important. Customizing definitions of blackness that fit my character ignore realities of race and have consequences I can’t allow.

When Sam and I step out in our physical or metaphorical hoodies, it doesn’t matter what songs are on our iPods, it doesn’t matter how few days we missed from school, it doesn’t matter the things we contribute to our community. We engulf the best and worst definitions of blackness, whether we fit them or not. We have no choice. In those moments, nuance, complexity and richness are meaningless. Blacks of all intellectual and emotional capacity must accept this.

Now, there are some who argue that there is no such thing as race. My sister, who took the verbal dismissals of her blackness much harder than I did, grew to embrace the idea that it was unfair to define her as a black woman; that it limited her choice to dictate how people could respond to her. There is a value to that sentiment. Race does not and should not dictate what anyone values.

There is also a thought that racial enlightenment comes from transcending the mention, thought, and reaction to race. We are all humans, some conclude, and that is enough. That in moving beyond blackness, I have evolved into the next phase of human cooperation. I can’t accept this.

But this rejecting of a racial identity as a solution for community harmony is faulty on two fronts. Don’t deprive me the opportunity to live out being the legacy of courageous men and woman of all races who made my story of blackness a reality. Acknowledging this legacy in blacks, or anyone, should not make you uncomfortable. Setting ourselves apart from that legacy does not celebrate my identity. It neuters my history.

More importantly, this definition of blackness has massive consequences on those who never had a chance to define it at all.

I watched Boyz n the Hood for the first time recently. Nothing in that movie reflected an identity I could relate to. I never juggled weekends between parents. I never felt truly threatened by my neighbors. I never lost a friend. John Singleton didn’t set out to show my narrative as a black man. But I was moved, understanding how dismissing blackness has consequences I never realized.

If blackness is limited to those from South Los Angeles and the like, they’ll be easier to structurally dismiss by society. I can’t let that happen. I don’t deserve justice more than someone in Bed-Stuy because America might feel slightly more comfortable with me dating his or her conceptual daughter. I don’t deserve a thorough education because I don’t make society clutch their metaphorical purses when I walk by.

I didn’t rise above any stereotypes because I set out to with perseverance and strength. I got lucky. I didn’t keep my parents together. I didn’t determine that I would be blessed with teachers that cared. Which isn’t to say I didn’t do my part to capitalize on the opportunities I had. But if not for forces I had no say in determining, I might be no different than those I previous blamed for giving blacks a bad name. Pretending that I am “more than black” only proves that I’ve surrendered the role of defining blackness to those that don’t care about black people in the first place.

Which is why I’m not going to let the world accept the easy definitions of blackness, thinking that they never applied to me or that they don’t matter. I’m not going to fit a mold of blackness I think I earned or worked for. The definitions of blackness matter as long as I let they define blacks I might never see or interact with. I will represent them as much as they represent me.

If you’re going to define what blackness means, you’d better add me, a Coldplay-loving, baseball-watching, piano-playing writer, to the equation.

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10. Unless the neighbors know your name, you are doing it wrong.

Perhaps before moving in, Trey Songz should have knocked on his neighbor’s doors and introduced himself by saying, “Hi, my name is Trey and I’ve been required by law to inform you that my love-making is what some would classify as ‘chandelier-shaking loud.’ Thank you for your time.” Do your own neighbors only know your name because they got your mail for you that time you went to a conference in Tucson? That is a mistake. (‘Neighbors Know My Name’)

9. The way to be a good girlfriend is to go to the strip club with your boyfriend.

If your man is heading to the strip club, the best possible way to ensure he doesn’t cheat on you with a stripper is obviously to come along. Consider it “date night.” The couple that stuffs dollar bills down a lady named Bambi’s thong together, stays together. After Badda-Bings, you and yours can head home and re-enact what you saw up on that pole Wendy Williams told you it would be fun to install in your bedroom. Bliss. (‘Already Taken’)

8. Your body is a problem but it can be solved by the right man.

If you’re like every other woman, you frequently walk around looking hot only to suddenly stop and sigh with frustration, “Golly, my body is such a problem.” Fear no more, ladies. All you need is a man who can solve a problem better than Maria and the entire Extreme Home Makeover crew combined. Consider your torso a complicated math equation. Let’s say: Vagina + Boobs ^2 – Peen / Chest Hair = SeXXXy. Now consider Trey the Albert Einstein of bodies. You’ve basically got it down. (‘Neighbors Know My Name’)

7. If you’re trying to stop cheating on your lover, one last go around is totally okay.

Say you’re a sexy hotel receptionist who sleeps with an R&B sensation who comes through town every few months on tour. You’re at work looking forward to some downlow getdown, when he rolls up with his day-time lover. SAY WHAT? Not one to be burned, you slip him a note with his room key asking for one last tumble. Self-respect be damned! You work in a hotel and he performs with Lil’ Wayne. Get your priorities in order and spread ‘em. (‘Last Time’)

6. Don’t have sex with your friends!

An oldie, but a goodie in the relationship advice world. Trey laments his inability to be friends with his ex by singing, “I wish we never did it and I wish we never loved it.” Those seem like two different wishes. Does he wish they did it but hated it? That crosses over into rape-y. Does he wish they’d loved it but never did it? Impossible logic. In this case, syntax is key. In fact, saying “syntax is key” is one way to make sure your friends never want to have sex with you. (‘Can’t Be Friends’)

5. Sometimes, you’ve just gotta drop your panties and hope for the best.

All a fella needs is the right song to make sure a woman wants to release herself from her underwear. The technical term is “a panty droppa,” though it can also be known as a “baby maker” — though that implies responsibility beyond the dropping of the panties that I’m not sure a minute-thirty slow jam can make a woman commit to. I get that it’s a panty droppin’ love song but let’s wrap it up and keep babies out of this. (‘Panty Droppa’)

4. Don’t be a tease if you’re not gonna ride.

If you meet a woman during the day, let’s say you approach her at a clothing store, it is then completely acceptable to drop lines like, “Grip them legs back, call me pliers” and “your body is my home, let me come inside” on the first date. Preferably before you even get inside the hotel, which is where all first dates inevitably end. (‘Wonder Woman’)

3. A good sext (sexy text) is an art form.

No need to be a wordsmith when it comes to sexting. Sometimes a picture and an emoticon speak louder than any misspelled terms for vagina. Simply include an “LOL :)” as the subject of every dirty text message to show you’re playful about your shadow-y nipples. (‘LOL Smileyface’)

2. Drinking alcohol is the linchpin of any good sexual encounter.

None of that “ordering individual drinks” crap. Trey orders by the bottle. None of that “taking sips” shite either. Trey pours the whole thing down your throat at once. Now get up on that table and dance. After all, Trey is your doctor and he is prescribing nothing but cranberry and vodkas for a disease known colloquially as “DTF.” (‘Say Aah’ & ‘Bottom’s Up’)

1. He invented sex. Bow down, mortals.

Not sure what else needs to be said here. The man makes the most definitive claim in the history of sticking it in and moving it around; he invented sex. Trey’s controversial prototype of “lady-on-top-while-Usher-plays” has floated around the world of sex since Biblical times.

Trey Songz is not here to change the world, just to make you change your panties. (‘I Invented Sex’)

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“Rob me a nigga/Rob me a, rob me a nigga/Rob me a nigga,” goes the chorus to my favorite 2011 song, “Rob Me A Nigga” by Indiana rapper Freddie Gibbs from his Cold Day In Hell mixtape. This is so much worse than the time I couldn’t get “F-ck The Pain Away” outta my head.

You know how when you get a dope pop hook in your head you just wanna sing it out loud ALL THE TIME? I can’t do that with “Rob Me A Nigga.” It’s offensive, and I’d probably be accused of racism. I also don’t want to promote robbing. Am I promoting robbing by liking this song? Am I saying that people should rob other people? Am I promoting robbing RIGHT NOW? I hope not, because robbing is bad.

But, seriously the hook’s so damn catchy! I catch myself internally singing it ALL THE TIME. When I wake up to poop in the morning, I’m singing the hook. “Rob me a nigga/Rob me a, rob me a nigga.” When I’m walking down the street, it’s always there. “Rob me a nigga/Rob me a, rob me a nigga.” So damn catchy! But sooo problematic. Wittgenstein argued there’s no such thing as a private language. Does the same apply for hooks? Shouldn’t the best hooks be public, and not private? One would think so.

Maybe I like this song so much because I don’t have any money. I am pretty broke. I owe more money in student loans than I will make in 10 to 20 years. I will never rob anyone no matter how broke I am, but I think it’s still okay for me to appreciate raw, extreme, and brutal (artistic) assessments of criminalistic money-making. Maybe this is ultimately just a song about class war, and class war is always ugly. But class war is good, right? The 99%, etc…

“Rob Me A Nigga” picks up on a major theme in rap music. It’s Gibbs’ finest contribution to the history of tunes like “Ain’t With Being Broke” by Geto Boys and “What We Do” by Freeway. On that opening track from his debut, Philadelphia Freeway, Freeway spits, “If a sneak start leanin’ and the heat stop workin’/Then my heat start workin’ I’m-a rob me a person.” Perhaps stealing from someone isn’t the best way to remedy this condition, but the extreme solution at least helps to clearly articulate the claim: He’ll do anything necessary to take care of himself and his family. (Interestingly, on “Anything To Survive,” two tracks after “Rob Me A Nigga” on Cold Day In Hell, Freeway makes a guest appearance where he quotes one of his own lines from “What We Do.” “If my kids hungry, snatch the dishes out ya kitchen,” he spits.)

Gibbs uses a similar logic on “Rob Me A Nigga”: “What you know about kidnapping?/And holding a nigga’s whole family for ransom/When your stomach empty, it’s easy to understand it.” In such situations, traditional ethics are suspended; an exception is made. Hunger opens a legitimizing space for a certain set of actions (violence, war, etc.) that deviate from the established moral code. It’s sorta similar — take a stretch with me — to John Locke’s argument in Two Treatises Of Government, and Thomas Hobbes’ in Leviathan, where individuals have a right to violently revolt against the state if it stops doing what it should be doing. When this agreement breaks down — when the state refuses to provide for its citizens — war and violence are justifiable solutions.

But, in relation to Gibbs’ “Rob Me A Nigga,” what’s most critical is realizing this hostility should be directed toward the state and its agents (whatever/whoever those are), and not one’s fellow citizens who are also suffering at the “hands” of a system that needs to be held accountable (kidnapped and held for ransom?) when it doesn’t deliver the goods required for the well-being of its people.

Is this what “Rob Me A Nigga” is sorta about? Sorta. Is it about how capitalism turns citizens against each other such that they use violence to advance themselves within its twisted game-structure? Yes. Is it okay to like “Rob Me A Nigga” now? Yes, maybe. Can I sing it out loud and in public? No, definitely not.

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1. Awkward street cred issues re: recent events with “the 99%.”
2. Discomfort with monogamy and upcoming fatherhood, esp. w/in the context of being a very powerful individual (i.e. sex from whoever he desires widely available yet unattainable due to moral obligation).
3. Increasing existential distress re: fatherhood, fame, identity, public image.
4. Trouble figuring out which is the healthiest cooking oil.
5. Irritating eczema between index, middle and ring fingers during change of seasons and humid weather, exacerbated by high temperatures and showering; especially irritating in the middle of the night.
6. Worries about bad breath.
7. Sometimes ‘forced’ by Beyonce to “Facetime” via iPad with in-laws; finds this excruciating; almost impossible to maintain any semblance of enthusiasm while doing so.
8. Zipper on favorite backpack (irreplaceable b/c found in an eclectic thrift shop in east Berlin) consistently ‘jams’ for unknown reasons, seems to be getting worse.
9. Kicked out of his own bar a month ago in shameful, drunken loss of control.
10. Detection of flowering, toxic claustrophobia/ fears of not being able to ‘get out’ when in group settings in which others would notice signs of anxiety and nervousness such as excessive sweating, heavy panting, body odor, fidgeting, and repeated swallowing.
11. Life + Times intern extremely sexually attractive, unsure feelings about how to navigate that re: wife.
12. Strange pain in upper left corner of abdomen whenever hungry (suspected peptic ulcer).
13. Worries about drinking enough water.
14. Toilet in one of the men’s stalls at the 40/40 New York experiencing unseemly clogging issues.
15. Persistent anxieties regarding making the ‘right’ decision and simultaneous increasing feelings of confusion about concepts of ‘right’ and ‘wrong,’ made esp. troubling by comparison to pre-fame days, when almost always confident in ‘gut instinct’ and rarely questioned decision-making abilities.
16. Fear of flying, near-panic and severe nausea during episodes of turbulence.
17. Unexplained bouts of insomnia.
18. During bouts of insomnia, genuine, hours-long experiences of fear/ despair that future plans will lead to irredeemable failure and chronic unhappiness, coupled with toxic analytical spirals that further exacerbate inability to sleep.
19. On Steve Jobs’ bad side when he passed away.
20. Random, unwelcome visual images of Beyonce performing oral sex on Kanye West, Kanye West having intercourse ‘doggy style’ with Beyonce, and, sometimes, Kanye West’s penis.
21. Growing addiction to Coke and Mountain Dew.
22. Worries about posture coupled with angst/ disdain for the fact that good posture is difficult to maintain.
23. Distress/ distaste about own uneven facial hair pattern.
24. Major losses of productivity due to recent near-obsessive consumption of cat videos.
25. Tired feelings of jealousy and resentment for Ryan Gosling; sharp, anxious desire to keep Beyonce away from him at all costs to prevent any possible affair (+ refusal to admit any of this to self).
26. Unwelcome, distracting, and time consuming psychic digressions and fantasizing concerning, for the most part, a girlfriend he had when he was 22 years old.
27. Unwanted resentment for Beyonce.
28. Worries re: porn addiction.
29. Extreme fear of spiders.
30. Not enough alone time.
31. Drinking more than a glass of wine before bedtime disrupts normal sleeping patterns and causes waking around 3 a.m., after which insomnia will often ensue, often leading to problem described in (18).
32. Kanye’s personality so hyper-aware and self-absorbed it’s begun to cause physical anxiety and slight waves of nausea when in his presence, especially after difficult days in the studio.
33. Worries regarding ‘letting himself go,’ in terms of moral values and physical health.
34. Increasing trouble accepting the true existence of ‘authenticity,’ of which his identity has been largely based.
35. Still unable to get through Joyce’s Ulysses; currently on his fourth attempt; contributes to an insecurity that holds he’s “not good enough” and “not intellectual.”
36. Three-week long stalemate with Beyonce regarding a particular baby name.
37. Fear of saying close to anything about women due to expected backlash from the internet feminist militancy.
38. Favorite pair of pants have inexplicably not fit ‘right’ for the past month or so.
39. Concerns about sufficient protein and omega-3s intake.
40. Unable to discern if recent stomach issues due to lactose intolerance or some other food allergy.
41. Current income seems ‘weak’ compared to the GNP of the US, other Western powers.
42. Increasing inability to stay awake longer than five minutes after beginning to read a book.
43. Anonymous identity on formspring.me keeps asking “y r u gay” and variations of that theme, repeatedly, and has been for close to ~four months.
44. Shame for having engaged in a small-scale, petty argument with Ellen Degeneres last week.
45. Strange, growing obsession with Craigslist Missed Connections and the desire to tweet and text ‘cock shots.’
46. Troubling, awkward moment with Scarlett Johansson last Friday at NPR studio after a confusingly difficult, nervewracking spat of witty banter spiraled out of control, culminating in a desperate attempt to come off as at least slightly charismatic by joke-asking if he and Scarlett should both go into the studio and have sex, to which Scarlett averted her eyes and laughed and said “Uh, no thanks,” and he laughed nervously, obviously extremely upset at this point.
47. Awkward issues regarding the fact that his cleaning staff is ~80% African American, many living in Bed-Stuy.
48. Writer’s block.
49. Gossip blogs.
50. Innate tendency to suppress all hints of enthusiasm when meeting new people — makes people think he’s “depressed all the time,” and wonder if they came off the wrong way.
51. Increasing realization that he has a serious lack of concrete skills, such as farming, furniture building, first-aid, beer brewing, etc.
52. Confusion regarding how frequent one should use Q-tips to remove earwax, due to information he read that stated, more or less, that Q-tips were damaging because earwax had specific, important functions to ear health and bodily orientation and that the removal of earwax simply stimulated the production of more earwax, rendering Q-tip usage asinine.
53. PayPal terms of service and customer service equally horrible and difficult to understand.
54. Still unable to defeat final boss on Nintendo’s Super Mario Bros. 3.
55. Quickly disintegrating upkeep of dental hygiene due to feelings of meaningless and apathy.
56. Navel lint.
57. Confusion regarding the moist towelettes vs. dry toilet paper debates via recently hearing moist towelettes were for some reason bad.
58. Trouble discerning which types of socks are in fashion.
59. Consistently unable to choose apples, avocados and cantaloupes at the store — they generally turn out to be mealy, too soft, or too hard.
60. Sudden ‘attacks’ of discomfort with physical closeness with Beyonce.
61. Very strange smell in Range Rover.
62. No time to read anymore.
63. Worries about experience of no sense of ‘place’ or ‘home’; feelings of belonging ‘nowhere,’ esp. in regard to American and European cities which lead to a sort of uncanny experience of ‘floating’ and meaninglessness at each house purchased.
64. Trouble choosing NFL team to root for as a cause of the feeling described above.
65. Consistent desire to drink more alcohol, on weeknights, than Beyonce non-verbally allows.
66. Repeated worries regarding the end of industrial society via peak oil videos on YouTube, related literature.
67. Chapped lips.
68. A growing sense of lactose intolerance.
69. Despite love of dogs, completely unable to train them since childhood, eventually resulting in frequent, embarrassing ‘pee’ and ‘poop’ incidents in his various residences, many times while guests are over.
70. Realization that own happiness has come to rely in large part on external circumstances such as other people’s validation, rather than an inwardly driven agenda of contentedness.
71. Several long-term Gchat relationships with attractive females seems like they will never overcome the ‘IRL’ barrier b/c of crushing feelings of expectation and fear of the gap between online and IRL behavior.
72. Increasing severity of claustrophobia/ nausea ‘loops’ that threaten vomiting/ panic-attacks in public situations while hungover.
73. Disparity b/t morning coffee preferences in combination with Beyonce insisting that they have breakfast and coffee together every morning leading to being ‘forced’ to drink watered down, half-caff coffee maker coffee, rather than the preferred full-strength french press coffee.
74. Beyonce insists on fine grain Morton brand salt when sea salt flakes are obviously better.
75. Increasing inability to maintain eye-contact with various alphas.
76. Unable to control giving off ‘shaming vibes’ in the presence of over-enthusiastic behavior.
77. Public logical defeat at the hands of Stevie Wonder, his autism making the associated shame all the more disturbing.
78. Pandora’s ‘Classical’ radio station often plays ‘easy listening’/ modern nu-jazz/ sappy piano ballads that are so far removed from actual Classical music that earnest offense is taken.
79. Recent series of acne breakouts on area between eyebrows, the creases of nose, and back.
80. Continuing toxic shame re: incident three months ago in which Tina Fey told him he had coffee breath.
81. Recently discovered higher thread count on bedding indicated softer sheets; for some reason always assumed lower thread count was softer and as such has been sleeping on less-than-ideal sheets for pretty much entire life.
82. Still has yet to fart in front of Beyonce due to embarrassment, but feels that it “has to” happen in order to “break through” to some abstract notion of a “new level of the relationship.”
83. Recently realized certain aspects of what he thought was his identity were actually just uncontrollable delusions lacking any concrete behavior as evidence of their truth and significance.
84. Typical behavior from Beyonce to unsolicitedly, unexpectedly say to “smile” or to “cheer up,” when feeling as if simply minding own business, neutral and/or even slightly positive.
85. Mother constantly taking the side of Beyonce in any perceived relationship quarrel made known to her.
86. iPhone 4S disappointing battery life.
87. Limits of the philosophy behind consumerism almost constantly making themselves felt despite any real cognizance regarding alternative ways of life or systems of thought, thus feeling mired in a sort of fog of meaningless, or, as recently put, “drowning in an ocean of sh-t.”
88. The impossibility of knowing which shampoos and conditioners are ‘truly’ the ‘right’ ones.
89. Despite nutritionist advice, inability to wean himself off of Hungryman microwavable dinners.
90. Frustration due to limited options for hairstyle (currently include ‘bald’ and ‘afro’ and ‘not an afro’).
91. Seemingly uncontrollable tendency to put on way too much cologne.
92. Uncomfortable with excessive @replying on Twitter, despite the fact that Beyonce demands in-public, often-revealing dialogue over said medium.
93. Desire to be more ‘well-read’ never backed up or fulfilled by actual reading.
94. Attention span seems to have dropped drastically such that now most time on the internet is spent looking at memes on reddit and 4chan, consistently passing up articles longer than 100 words.
95. Convinced that Lil’ Wayne’s enthusiasm when around is actually a drawn out inside joke/ mockery among Lil’ Wayne and his entourage.
96. Grossed out by the fact that hands and arms sometimes smell vaguely like garlic in the morning.
97. Strong, random, distracting desires for fried, cheesy things at inopportune moments, such as award ceremonies and commencement speeches.
98. Weekly, forced attendance to Chick-Flick Night with Beyonce and members of Destiny’s Child.
99. Has yet to master the art of cooking the perfect steak.

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Hip-hop is one of the weirdest genres of music to ever exist, and I say this with all due respect to acoustic black metal and, like, whatever that Lou Reed/ Metallica record is. Hip-hop is weird because sometimes if you write about music, rappers will follow you on Twitter. Even, like, famous ones. That never happens in other genres (although shouts out to my friend who interns at Rolling Stone who got followed by Lana Del Rey).

Here are all the rappers who follow me on Twitter:

Roscoe Dash (@Roscoedash)

Followers on Twitter: 181,075

People he follows: 19,906

Do I follow him back? No.

Roscoe Dash started following me last fall, way before I even thought about trying to write about music. I have no idea why he decided to follow me, other than I used to tweet about how much I liked Waka Flocka’s “No Hands,” which is a song that he appears on. I used to follow him back, but he kept tweeting too much so I stopped. Social Media is crazy.

Danny Brown (@XDannyXBrownX)

Followers on Twitter: 10,554

People he follows: 4,342

Do I follow him back? Yes.

The idea behind rappers following random people on Twitter is that if they follow you, you might check out their music and then become a fan. This never works. Except that’s what happened after Danny Brown started following me. He’s just that good at rapping. Danny and I used to tweet at each other every once in a while, but we’ve since lost touch. Hopefully when he gets off tour he’ll have the time to be my Internet Friend again.

Duke Dank (@DukeDank)

Followers on Twitter: 141

People he follows: 469

Do I follow him back? Yes.

Duke Dank is actually a dude named Ned who it turns out went to nature camp with me when we were in preschool. He lives on Staten Island, and I’m going to hang out with him sometime.

SL Jones (@SLJONESY)

Followers on Twitter: 5,562

People he follows: 3,297

Do I follow him back? Yes.

SL Jones is a rapper from Little Rock, Arkansas. He looks like a teenager and raps about selling crack. One time I interviewed him about video games. He was really nice and swore fewer times than I did when we talked. He might have the funniest Twitter account of anybody on this list.

Don Trip (@MrDonTrip)

Followers on Twitter: 26,638

People he follows: 3,304

Do I follow him back? Yes.

Much like SL Jones, my Twitter friendship with Mr. Don Trip began after I interviewed him (it is, evidently, a common courtesy to follow someone on Twitter directly after speaking with them). He tweets pretty normal stuff, punctuated by the occasional @reply where he threatens to find someone and beat them up.

Starlito (@LITO615)

Followers on Twitter: 33,690

People he follows: 2,806

Do I follow him back? Yes.

Starlito used to be signed to Cash Money Records but never actually put an album out. Then he had a New York Times article written about him and subsequently got dropped from the label. He made a mixtape with Don Trip, and he called me five minutes after I got off the phone with him. He joked that the reason he got dropped from Cash Money is that he kept beating Birdman in video games. He mainly retweets stuff that other people say about him, but sometimes he’ll tweet at Don Trip and call him Donald, which makes me laugh every time I see it. Rappers can be best friends too!

Drizzle Dollar (@drizzle_dollar)

Followers on Twitter: 174

People he follows: 635

Do I follow him back? No.

I didn’t even realize that Drizzle Dollar followed me until I looked through my followers list a few minutes ago, but Drizzle Dollar is a rapper from, well, I have no idea. Georgia, maybe? Anyways, I just watched his music video and it looks like he recorded it on a MacBook. I sort of feel bad for him. Maybe you should follow him?

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Drake went out to his mailbox and found the latest issue of The Source. Drake loved The Source, because sometimes they put him on the cover. But not this time.

When Drake saw Rick Ross on the cover instead of him, his eyes welled up with tears. He felt hurt and sad. Drake wanted a different magazine. One with tips on which products to put in his hair and the nine coolest sweaters to buy this winter and also an interview with Shia LaBeouf. You know. Guy shit.

Drake needed Details Magazine.

He got in his car, a 2009 Scion xB, which he bought because he wanted something sensible and reliable but at the same time wanted something a little edgy, and drove (hurriedly, but safely) to Walgreens. He was going to buy Details, and maybe some condoms but probably not because he felt like he had enough already.

Drake had the Degrassi theme song stuck in his head as he entered the Walgreens. Sometimes, when he was flipping channels he would find an old episode of Degrassi he had appeared on. His hair was such bullshit back then. Good thing his shiny new issue of Details was going to change all that.

He looked at the magazine rack and couldn’t find a single issue. There was GQ. There was Esquire. Even Complex and Maxim. But no Details. Drake was losing hope, when tucked behind a back-issue of Cigar Aficionado, he saw it. Details. Armie Hammer was on the cover. Fuck yeah.

That night, Drake stayed in, made some tea and read his issue of Details Magazine. It was perfect. Just like he knew it would be.

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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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I left the office at 5:45, stopped home to feed my cat, then headed east to pick up Chris.

From his place, it was another 40 minutes to the “venue,” which gave us more than enough time to go through our entire set twice. But I still wasn’t ready.

“Are you ready?” he asked as we pulled into the banquet hall parking lot.

“Absolutely.”

My hands trembling, I put the disc with our instrumentals into my coat pocket and we got out of the car.

For the longest time, we had wanted to start a band – Chris on bass and me on guitar. Or keyboard. Or vocals. But the problem was, I couldn’t play guitar. Or keyboard. And I have no business singing.

So we started making electronic music, under the moniker Kissing Cuzzins.

We discovered early on that writing songs – even techno – requires skill. But once we figured out the kick-hat-kick-hat + snare roll formula, things slowly came together.

Then when we realized you can drop techno down to 85 beats-per-minute and essentially create ‘80s-style rap beats… well; it all sort of snowballed from there.

“Hey, do you know where DJ Ray is?” We asked a dozen people before finally spotting him at the merch table. He matched the description we’d been given perfectly (white kid in a black t-shirt). “Hi, Ray?”

We shook hands as some other white kids in black t-shirts set up lights above the stage. Ray introduced us to his collaborator, MC Exactly (also white, but with a gray hoodie). They handed us copies of their new CD and thanked us for supporting them at their release party.

We breathed no word about the fact that we had never played another show.

Ray said the first act would hit the stage in a little over an hour. We were going on in the third slot. So we found ourselves a table on the outskirts of the dance floor, took off our coats and headed for the bar.

It was the perfect setting for a second-rate prom, the archetype of a banquet hall. There were minute gold details on the dirty ceiling tile, chipped plaster columns in the lobby, and the worn carpet would have looked at home in the elevator of a fleabag motel.

We had heard that one of the other rappers on the bill actually worked there. I never did find out who, but by the looks of the crowd milling about, it could have been anyone.

White rappers – whether they spend their days as banquet hall dishwashers or technical support representatives for local publishing firms – are not a rarity in the suburbs of Metro Detroit. Chris and I took to it just as soon as we realized no one would ever listen to our tracks unless we added vocals.

When I started writing lyrics, they mostly took the form of “I’m like this, you’re like that.” Who was I battling? The status quo? Other rappers? No idea really. But at least it gave me something to do while occupying the periodicals window at my part-time library job.

I’d go over Chris’ place once a week and we would drink, exchange beats and lyrics we’d written, and record whatever verses fit. At no point was it clear whether we were serious, or if this was all a joke.

In fact, there was no plan to do anything with our tracks other than post them on MySpace or PureVolume (as was the custom at the time). But when our friend, Jon asked us to record a proper LP – which he would put out on his indie label, Splattercat Records – we obliged without much arm-twisting.

Chris came up with the title (We’ll Burn That Bridge When We Come To It), I took over production duties, and we each wrote 12 sets of verses.

The ridiculousness of it all was not lost as we recorded vocals in my tiny bedroom – embarrassingly located across the hall from my parents’ room.

When the album was finished, Chris and I listened to it together, pat each other on the back, and then… did nothing.

Instead of releasing We’ll Burn, Kissing Cuzzins went on hiatus. I graduated from college, spent six months looking for a “real job,” found one and moved away. Chris got busy with his life, too.

Though I sometimes brought up MCing as a sort of self-referential joke, I had no plans to return to it. And by the time I met the girl who would ultimately become my fiancée, I had stopped mentioning rap entirely.

The further I got from it, the weirder it all seemed. It was as if I had been in some kind of daze for four years. How could I – an office worker who ends hard days with some Madeleine Peyroux and a good Earl Grey – think I could/should be a rapper?

And yet, when I got the text message from Jon, asking if we’d play at his friend, Ray’s CD release party, I replied “Sure” without hesitation.

It had been over a year since Chris and I had written or recorded music together. I was 25 and months away from quitting my office job and moving to Florida. MC Exactly was introducing us to a tremendously pasty crowd.

“These guys are Kissing Cuzzins. No, they don’t do that. That’s what they’re called,” he said. Then he burped into the microphone and added, “I didn’t do that.”

A bass line hummed through the speakers, shaking the flimsy stage beneath us. Voices steady, Chris and I uttered the first few words in unison: “Straight out the ‘burbs!”

20 minutes later, I officially retired from rap.

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“Party and Bullshit” by Notorious B.I.G. contains a question of subtext. Primarily, the track is touted as being an appropriate song to play at parties because it’s catchy and features a highly aggressive, nervous energy throughout. However, it seems as though this is a song less about the enjoyment of partying, but rather, the empty monotony of it. Even the chorus sounds monotone and dead. This is a track seems more about the emptiness of a party lifestyle in which nothing is ever truly accomplished; this can be observed as an absurdist paradigm. The consistent repetition of the lifestyle leaves the narrator feeling empty and seeking an alternative, which cannot be found within the world that he’s caught. So this empty cycle is repeated ad infinitum, culminating in aggression amongst the participants (“Chill man! Chill!”) due in all likelihood to the entrapment within a tiny microcosm of empty indulgence. The party is the bullshit. The “bullshit” is a flippant regard for any sort of substance, because substance isn’t something experienced within the realm that the narrator resides; it’s one empty plateau to the next with little solace between each. The party and bullshit never stops; at the end it even fades out – we can hear its continuation until it fades into oblivion.

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