The Ants And The Grasshopper

Every year about this time, when the seasons start to change, I get a little Introspective.  I reflect on the past year, assess the various decisions I’ve made, recount the circumstances I’ve fallen into, and try to form a plan of action for the coming year.

Most years, I’m reminded of the parable of the ants and the grasshopper.  If you’re not familiar with the parable, it goes something like this:

***

There once was a colony of hardworking ants who lived in a hollow tree.  When the weather was good, the ants had more food than they needed.  The ants would spend all summer gathering food and storing it in their tree.  The ants knew that the weather wouldn’t be good forever.  They knew that winter would come, and that when it did, there would be no food to be found.  There was also a grasshopper who lived nearby.  The grasshopper was very lazy and lacked foresight.  All summer, he lounged around, ate all the grass that he wanted, and never thought that a time might come when there would be no grass to eat.  The ants warned the grasshopper that winter was coming, and that all of the grass would freeze and die and be covered with snow and that he would have no food to eat.  When the ants told him this, the grasshopper simply laughed at them, and told them they were foolish to spend all the nice summer days storing food for a winter that would never come.  Well, winter did come.  And when winter came, and the grass froze and died and was covered with snow, the grasshopper began to starve.  He went to the ants’ hollow tree and asked if they would feed him.  The ants were still angry that he hadn’t listened to them, and they told him no, and they let him starve to death.

***

Well damn.  Ain’t that a fucked up story.  I mean, I guess it makes sense to certain people.  I guess a person with a certain mindset might appreciate this story and its moral of frugality, modest living, and long term planning.

I, however, have to be a bit suspicious.  Now, I know a lil bit about ants and I know a lil bit about grasshoppers and I can pretty much assure you that this parable was written by somebody with an ant mentality.  People with ant mentalities are different than people with grasshopper mentalities.  People with ant mentalities tend to like propoganda.  They tend to color stories and omit certain important points.

I guess what I’m saying is, there are two sides to every story, and if this story was written by somebody with a grasshopper mentality, it might not’ve been been so gat-damn obviously flawed.  That being said, this parable needs to be modernized, and some facts need to be cleared up a bit.  And if anyone is good at modernizing and clearing, it’s me.  So, without further ado, and much like Ice Cube.  Seth Shellhouse’ll tell the kids how the story SHOULD go:

***

Once upon a time, there was a colony of ants who lived in a hollow tree.  The ants lived a modest and fucking onoriginal lifestyle.  They worked all day for some whack ass queen ant who couldn’t remember their names and thought they all pretty much looked and acted alike.  It was a shitty existence for the ants, and they knew it.  Yet and still, in everything they did, the ants fell right in line like some ol’ bitches.  Now, nearby, there also lived a grasshopper.  The grasshopper lived a very opulent lifestyle.  He ate the finest grasses and clovers and maybe occasionally some imported tulips from Holland and shit.  The grasshopper was large and fat, and the muffugga could fly.  MUFFUGGA COULD FLY.  He was FAT…AND…he could fly.  Needless to say, the grasshopper was ballin out of control.  Now old grasshopper, he lived alone (except for sometimes when he wanted to have mad hoes over to admire his spread…which he did with regularity).  The grasshopper lived alone because he knew the type of style his neighbors, the ants, liked to rock.  The grasshopper was very wise to keep his distance from the ants because if he didn’t, the ants would EAT HIS ASS.  That’s right.  That’s another little piece of information that was omitted from the original parable.  Ants are FUCKING CANNIBALS and they would EAT. HIS. ASS.  They would do anything they could to eat his fat grasshopper ass…and obviously, grasshopper was having none of that.

(NOTE) There are a couple main reasons for ant cannibalism, and I feel, in order for you to understand this story fully, I should elaborate:

A) Ants are jealous creatures.  They are jealous of grasshoppers.  They are jealous of grasshoppers’ baller ass spreads of various grasses and prolly some smoked meats and decent cabernets.  They just cant stand to see a grasshopper live.  They hate how grasshoppers live SO MUCH, that they would rather eat a grasshopper than see him shine.

B) Ants know they ain’t got shit.  They spend their entire existence marching along hunting trash for their queen.  They. hunt. fucking. TRASH.  Aside from FUCKING TRASH, they’ll eat pretty much anything, including grasshoppers, wasps, crickets and any other neighbors they happen to encounter.  they take shit that ain’t theirs and never bring shit to the table(this is why you don’t picnic with them).  Ants are broke as fuck.

(END NOTE)

So, knowing what he did about the ants, and knowing how they felt about him, grasshopper formulated a plot.  He knew the winter was coming, and that it would be lean times until next summer when the grass grew again.  He also knew that the ants were stockpiling a gang of trash and crumbs in their dried up ass hollow tree and that they would be holed up in there all winter serving their queen.  So, grasshopper waited for the winter, when the ants would retreat into their tree.  When the first snow fell, and the grass was dead and covered in frost, and all the ants were stuffed snugly inside their tree, he crept up on that joint, doused it in gasoline and burned that muffugga to the ground, ants, trash and all.  The heat from the tree fire melted all the snow and allowed the grasshopper to access the dead grass, which he ate.  The grasshopper knew the dead grass wasn’t very tasty and it was NAGL for a player of his stature, but he knew it would do til the ill grass grew again in the spring.  What the grasshopper DIDN’T do, however, was eat the ants’ bodies, or their burnt ass trash, cuz that would be some ant shit, and he was above doin ant shit.

***

So, there you have it.  The NEW, IMPROVED parable of the ants and the grasshopper.  I hope you take something away from it.  And if you don’t, I pretty much don’t give a fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuug.

WEEKLY KELLZ!: Back To School Edition.

This week, I thought it would be appropriate to post a WEEKLY KELLZ that is a little more intellectual than you’re used to…somethin with a little meat on its bones.  I know a lot of you had to go back to school this week.  You’re bucklin’ down, smartenin’ that ass up, gettin your brain on (hopefully in both senses), so I’ma take y’all to school this week.

Now back in my day, when I used to walk 3 miles in the snow to get my learn on (I did tho, for real, on the LES), we had respect for our professors.  I took four semesters of advanced Playernomics under Professor Kells himself (also known as the remix professor) and I learned a lot.  So, if you know what’s good for you, you should pay attention while I school you to a little remedial lesson.  Honestly you shoulda already learned this, but, in case you haven’t…without firther ado…here’s this week’s

WEEKLY KELLS: The Science Of Makin’ It Rain Edition.

Now in this lesson, I’m gonna explain Kells’ theorom on the production of “models” from “bottles” in a club environment.  Pay attention.

To begin, I’m gonna refer you to minute 47 of Prof. Kells dissertation on makin’ it rain in the club.  In minute 47, Kells states that, in a controlled club system or environment:

“If one bottle yields one model, then the introduction of additional bottles to the system will yield a number of models greater than or equal to the number of bottles (typically increasing exponentially).”

This initial theory is also paraphrased in Kells’ remix of Fat Joe’s “Make It Rain” in which he states: “I orders one bottle then I fucks with one model then I orders more bottles now I gots more models”.

This statement presents a very clear correlation between bottles and models.  Pretty simple.  Of course, the introduction of a few other key factors prove that the exact number of models rendered by a given number of bottles depends on a few other factors.

For instance, the number of models will be effected by the status of the bottle provider.  I will refer you to the pie chart on page 367 of Kells’ primer on ballin’.  You will see that bottle providers are split into 3 groups, 5% being Players (those who work hoes), 15% being Nuthangers (those who cling to the undercarraige of Players), and 80% being Lames (those who love hoes).  Obviously, if the bottle provider happens to be a Player, the model yield will be substantially higher than if the bottle provider were a lame (as a lame would certainly show hoes love and respect and therefore lose their interest).

Additionally, the number of bottles can change everything.  Buying 2 bottles in the club may constitute “ballin”, but does not necessarily constitute “makin it rain”.  In certain clubs, 3 bottles may constitute “makin it rain”, especially if accompanied by an impromptu showering of the floor with large denomination bills.  In some clubs however, it is necessary to “buy the bar” in order to “make it rain”.  For instance, one may purchase upwards of 20 bottles in his home or some skank titty bar, but he’s not necessarily making it rain, more than likely, he aint got shit…put your ‘brellas away.

Finally, the quality of club bangers being bumped in the club can highly effect the conversion of potential to kinetic energy in the club.  A club with a consistently high kinetic energy level will likely lend itself to far more episodes of “makin it rain”, much in the same way that a collision of a high pressure system with a low pressure system in the atmosphere creates a highly charged environment, and signals the likelihood of severe rain.  As for how to produce club bangers, I will refer you o page 233 of Kells’ dissertation on the remix wherein, he states that “the square of the remix = 150 times the original multiplied by Kells”.  So basically, it can’t hurt to bump some Kells remixes in your club if you hope to make it rain on hoes.

I hope this little lesson will help you all in your understanding of Playernomics.  This has been your WEEKLY KELLZ, and now, I turn you over to the man himself:

How Is An Infant Like A Boner?

I firmly believe that all great jokes come from great drunken conversations.  Great jokes, like great snaps, like 16 great bars, like great nicknames are never written.  They come from the cypher, the dozens, the diner, the corner.  They are improvised, refined and tested live. And they usually have variant versions.

So, about a month ago, some homies and I were having some dumb and fully inebriated conversation that, for some reason I can’t remember since none of us have kids, revolved around infants and how to make them stop crying.  It was a long conversation, and it went off the rails at some point.  I’ll spare you the details, but somehow, at the end of it, we came up with this joke…which is actually a bunch of jokes.

Anyway, here’s the joke:

How is an infant like a boner?

A) If you shake it hard enough, it throws up and goes to sleep.

B) If you shake it long enough, it’ll go limp and stop bothering you.

C) If you shake it enough, It pukes and passes out…and for some reaon, it gets shorter.

See.  that’s a trick question.  There are so many different types of humor in the world today.

The Guilty New York Transplant Hater

I usually don’t do this but uh…Ima go head.

I usually don’t snap off publicly on my own home town.  I feel it’s typically a bad look…kinda like how you’re supposed to pretend to have a perfect relationship with your family in public (like at church and school and stuff) even if you do secretly hate eachother.

I was always raised to believe that families should save all the ass whoopin and pointing out of flaws for when they are alone behind closed doors.  Like you and your brother probably beat the shit out of eachother all night, but during the day, at school, you would never point out eachother’s weaknesses to all the other (outside) people whose asses you have to whoop together.

Well, today, I’m breaking code.  I have a bone to pick with the NYC and baby, I don’t care how far we go back, I’m bout to air you OOOUUUTTT!

I have discovered a new species of hater, and I’m gonna share my findings.

I moved to LA from NY in 2003 for a number of reasons.  It was a tough time economically.  I was feeling stale.  The city was changing fast.  The outer boroughs (Brooklyn I’m looking at you) were changing too.  I really feel like a lot of vultures were swooping…long story short…I moved.  Nowadays, I get back a lot, but I haven’t lived there in six years.

I was working back in the city last week.  One morning, late in the week, I was walking through the old hood…or what used to be the old hood.  Due to gentrification, is now utterly unrecognizable.  To clarify (read: take sides), I don’t like the gentrified downtown.  I liked the old downtown, the tough downtown, the affordable, tasty downtown that had its own style and code of conduct.  So, walking through the new/old neighborhood, I was probably already feeling a little hostile.  I had my head low and was writing a text when some guy ran up behind me (and by some guy, I mean, some 40ish hipster grad student type…the type of person who would never have walked through the old neighborhood, but now runs free in the wild) and started angrily lecturing me.

Now, as an aside, I fuckin’ HATE when people talk to me on the street, unless it’s just to holla or some shit.  But this dude was persistent, and angry, and following me, so I had to listen.  From here I’m gonna go to the transcript:

New New Yorker:  ”Hey dude…hey dude.  Hey! hey! Dude!

(don’t fucking call me dude)

Me: (still texting) “yeah.”

New New Yorker: “Ive lived here a long time. I’ve lived here a really long time man, and that thing hanging off your wallet…that’s no good”

Me: (still texting) “yeah”

New New Yorker: “I’m serious about this.  This town is a lot safer than it used to be.  It’s not as dangerous as it was.  It used to be bad.  Real bad man.  You don’t know.  But it’s still kinda bad”

Me: (still texting) “yeah”

New New Yorker: “There’s still young punks around here.”  ”They’re gonna snatch your wallet, and be gone.   And they’re so fast you could never catch ‘em.”

(subtext: he’s referring to poor kids who grew up here whose parents and grandparents haven’t been squeezed out QUITE yet)

Me: (still texting) “K.”

New New Yorker: “I’m serious about this”

Me: (still texting) “Thanks”

And scene.  Now, I know this dude meant well in his own way, but I think if he had said one word more, I would have just robbed HIM to make him shut up.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that I lived very happily on this block for years, even in the nineties, when he was probably still in Kansas being made fun of for being the one guy in town who “might like dudes, but might just like art”.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there’s a keychain hanging off my wallet cuz it’s empty.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there are twelve dollars and 3 cards broken up into different pockets and shoes cuz if I WERE to get mugged, it would be better to toss the wallet, open the pepper spray and run before five kids with choreboy gloves beat my skinny ass.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that no one smart EVER got snatched or mugged in this neighborhood…even back in the day.  AAAND finally, I didn’t have the heart to tell him that his claims of the old neighborhood being “bad” were not only faulty, but inherently classist and racist.

The old neighborhood wasn’t “bad” it was just different.  The dirt lot social club where dominoes got played is now a yuppie lounge.  The pollos brasos spot is now a Whole Foods.  The Whoo Kid mixtapes bumpin from the windows have been replaced by Santigold blasting from a 4.00 coffee spot.  The hand-to-hand kids on the corner have been replaced by dudes in $300 trainers with masters degrees.  And the little kids playing have been replaced by fixies…hundreds upon hundreds of neon colored fixies.

Now I’m not saying that the new neighborhood is bad either.  It’s simply not my style.  The new neighborhood could (and does) exist everywhere…it looks like any other generic affluent urban neighborhood and is inhabited by the same generic affluent people as any other generic affluent urban neighborhood.  That’s fine.  I just happen to prefer neighborhoods with more specific cultures.  I, for one, liked it the old way.  I liked that it was tough.  It wasn’t a fucking warzone like this yuppie guy tried to convince me.  It was just people’s homes…and people run their homes how they please…and now…now that it’s gentrified…it’s nobody’s home.

When I first moved there (a white guy with no crew and no fam) I kept quiet.  I didn’t act defensive about being new and different.  I learned about the hood, minded my Ps and Qs, and assimilated.  I learned who ran my block, who was whose cousin, whose little brother I bought phillies for, who I had to help move something to get my super to fix a pipe, where I should and shouldn’t be at what time, whose sister not to talk to and all the other little established rules that real communities have.  I didn’t buy up all the real estate  and Columbus the fucking place, I just learned to play the game and played my damn position.

I guess what I really miss is real communities.  I miss being able to go home without having thousands of trust fund Christopher Columbuses tell me what the city is about and convince me of how long they’ve been there.

This reminds me of another week, a couple years ago, when I was working in the city.  I stopped by a new hipster bar two blocks from my old apartment with a friend of mine.  The minute I walked in, the bartender, a cashmere wearing, inked up caucasian mark started ice grillin me.  He knew my friend and was chatting with her.  He asked her who I was.  Sort of offended that he asked her and not me, I took it upon myself to answer him…as I should, as men do.  He then asked me where I was from.  I told him I was visiting from LA, but that I was from right here before LA.  And then…he said to me (I shit you not):

“Well, anybody who was really from here wouldn’t have to say that”.

He said this, mind you, in what may have been the most defensive tone I’ve ever heard.  I was a little surprised and kinda laughed at him before telling him: “it’s changed a lot”.  But after that, I got really sad.  It was really sad to know that this tool, this new breed of guilty transplant hater was what my old neighborhood had become.  He didn’t ask if we knew mutual people, or if I was here for specific events or where I went to school or if we ever dated the same girl… Instead, the Guilty New York Transplant Hater said:

“Well, anybody who was really from here wouldn’t have to say that”.

So, here’s my point.  As long as there is money in the world, and there is desirable real estate, gentrification will happen.  But I am openly asking all of the NY hipsters who swooped in when the economy was bad and Giuliani’s real estate policies were strong to learn a little history.  If all you trust fund art students would pause a moment you would realize that decent art comes from decent culture, and rather than completely overrunning a neighborhood, you should try to preserve some local flavor.

New York is the only city on earth that suffers from transplant guilt.  Because New York is being lost to the rest of the world.  New York is the only place on earth (except maybe Hawaii) where transplants feel a strong need to publicly convince strangers of how long they’ve been in the city while all the while knowing nothing about what New York was when it was a specific place.  And I see this in my own friends.  They adopt fake accents, they exaggerate the number of years they’ve lived in town.  They talk to me about the city like I’ve never seen it before.  They rag on LA constantly, but to be honest, most of the people I saw in NY last week were from LA…or at least some other town, and honestly, given the current culture, it’s a little difficult to differentiate between the two cities.  Blame it on the web, blame it on the jet set, blame it on public safety, I dunno.

Anyway.  That’s it.  That’s my gripe.

That being said, If I ever buy a nice house in Venice and try to tell you old Venice heads what Venice is about and tell you how shitty it used to be and maybe try to convince you that I’ve been here for a decade or so…please…PLEASE…stomp my dumbass out.  And if I ever try to tell any of you 3rd generation New York kids who had to tough out the eighties while I was being a kid in Baltimore a gat-damn thing about the NYC, well…you should punch me too, cuz that shit is WHACK!

And to all the towns I’ve lived in…I love you just the way you are…or were.

Stories, Tales, Lies And Exaggerations

You know, maaaaaaannn.  I’m bad enough as it is.  We don’t need to exaggerate. 

I like to think that I am a relatively decent, intelligent, ethical and sensitive individual.  And I know, for a fact, that I do some things that most people would consider unsavory…however, when I hear rumors about myself, I really have to wonder how people think of me.  If every rumor I’ve heard about myself was true, I would be a walking LEGEND.  LEGEND, DUN.  However, if every rumor that I’ve heard about my self was true, I would also probably be a bad person….oh, and I’d probably be dead.

If I had slept with every woman that I’ve heard I’ve slept with, I’d be dead.  If I had done drugs with everyone I’ve heard I’ve done drugs with, I’d be dead.  If I had punched every dude I’ve heard I punched, I’d be dead.  If I had been punched by every dude I’ve heard I’d been punched by, I’d be dead.  

Anyway, even if you are a world class hater, and you really, really, REALLY wanna believe every adverse thing that you hear…don’t.  Don’t.  Believe.  Every.  Thing.  That.  You .  Hear.  You will hear a lot of untrue things about a lot of people, cuz, and one day (or, if you’re me, most days) you will hear something untrue about yourself.

That being said, I CAN box like no one you know, I DID date that one chick, and I DO know Pablo, the real Pablo.  And Tom Cruise is clearly gay.

Oh yeah, sidebarz: ‘member when I covered a song off RUMOURS?  Jus’ sayin.  I’m pretty good.

Someone Tell Mr. Bentley To Bring His Umbrella

This week’s WEEKLY KELLZ is a very important installment, indeed.  This time around, I’m focusing on the importance of keepin your friends close, your enemies closer and your straight HOMIES in your damn HEART.  We all know Kells is pretty damn baller on his own, but in this song, Robert proves that keeping the homies close and showin’ out for your dudes makes everybody look harder.

For instance, Kellz slaughters his verse on this collabo, and he sounds tough doin it.  Lil Wayne also murders his verse, and HE even sounds hard…something that would be impossible if it weren’t for all the homies being present and accounted for.  Lil Wayne is 3 foot 5 and a fake Blood…but with all the homies supporting him, dude sounds imposing.

Keep your people tight, take care of them, and make it rain.

Hope you’re thirsty.  

Girls Like Guys Who Have Skills

You know what?  I write like no one you know.  I rip guitar and bass.  I write awesome songs.  I draw photoreal.  I secretly have a ridiculously high IQ.  I have an unbelievable threshold for pain.  I m very funny without being cruel.  I have no fear of death or injury or anything (except talking to girls) and am happy to demonstrate.  I broke a rib and ripped off a toenail for fun.  And I work like a kid from a blue collar/Marine/Baltimore upbringing who got an education and yet…AND YET…the only thing ya dude gets paid for is drinking skills.

WTF life?  WTF?  I’m trying to be an upstanding citizen.  I’m trying to be serious.  I’m trying to be respectable and make my gramomoms proud.  I’m trying to get a real job, and dress neat.  I’m trying to find religion.  I’m trying find a nice girl, buy a house that doesn’t host underground boxing in the basement, and settle down.  I’m TRYING.  But damnit, it seems like I spend every day whoopin’ fools in quarters, playing acoustic covers, surfing for 3 hours, building bikes, wrestling my dogs, and hurting myself cuz its funny.  

Anyway.  I’m gonna go surf and think about this shit for a minute.  Hope to see you fools out tomorrow night.

Should I start a weekly west side party for the summer?  Pretty girls and cold beer ner the beach?  Is this a good idea?

I wrote this:

http://www.myspace.com/carriorband

Some Call It A Tavern, But I Call It Home.

It’s the holiest day of the year.  Act accordingly.  

If you’re in LA, be careful.  I’ve learned in years past that there are very few Irish police in LA…so we get no free drunk and disorderly passes on this most holy of days.

Happy St. Paddys.

Step Away From The Table, Brian.

This week’s Federline Award For Greatness In The Field Of Doin’ The Best You Can With What You Got, No Matter How Gat-Dam Meager It May Be goes to…

Brian Austin Green.  

This muffugga’s got game.  A couple weeks ago, Brian Austin Green (who, let’s face it, ain’t got much goin on these days)  publicly broke up with super hot and successful actress Megan Fox, and within about a week, he was back with her.  This is the smartest thing he ever could’ve done.  

Despite being a major, MAJOR proponent of both ambition and greed even I will advise that sometimes, in life, you simply have to look at your situation and say “this…this right here…is the best I will ever do…this is way better than I should, by rights, be doin’, and I damn sight ain’t gonna do any better, so I best just hold what I got”.  If you are lucky enough to roll the dice and hit big once, you might just need to step away from the table.  Maybe in five, ten years you roll again, but for now step away.  Step away Brian, step away.

That being said, I think Brian is smarter than any of us ever realized.  I think he contrived this breakup just to keep his girl on her toes.  As any true playa knows, a breakup can keep your significan other on her/his toes…and everybody gets one.  Every relationship gets one non-stick breakup free of charge (you ain’t even have to pay taxes on that joint).  And as any OG playa knows, a real hustler never pays his mate’s full day rate…an OG playa never lets his/her significant other realize their full street value…that wouldn’t be pimpin’, pimpin’.  So, Brian played his non-stick shakeup/breakup card, and brought it back before his girl had a chance to roam around town, realize her true street value, and realize that she was trading at deep discount.  

Well played, sir.  Well played.

Your Federline award is in the mail.

No Cadillac, No Perm So You Can’t See.

This week, we’re gonna slow your WEEKLY KELLZ down about a step or two.  As many of you hoes know, I have hired an image consultant to help me overhaul my reputation, and revamp my public image so that I can (without actually adjusting my behavior) begin to be seen as a more upstanding citizen, more professional, and more family friendly.

Right now, the words that are most frequently associated with me are unsavory terms like “player, hustler, inebriated, womanizer,   broseph, violent, arrogant, materialist and mutiple stabbings”.  When I’m done with my image renovation, people are going to associate me with terms like, “family, charity, non-illegal-gun-owner, sober, reasonable, frugal and Jesus”.  And the best part is, I don’t have to change a damn thing about my actual personality and/or actions.

It’s kind of like the second half of Scarface.  Tony’s major mistake was that he got flashy.  He bought into his own hustle and couldn’t help but flaunt it.  I mean, who needs a tiger?  A lady tiger?  Well, to be honest, I do.  But I don’t have to show her off…and that’s the difference between me and Tony.  I might be illegally harboring a beautiful white lady tiger, sheerly for my own gratification, and it may (allegedly) be chilling next to me on the couch right now, watching Chapelle and laughing that unmistakable tiger laugh…but you’ll never know that, cuz I know how to manage my image…and keep it on the DL.

So, that being said, I guess sometimes it’s best to fly under the radar…and it’s always best to heed the words of Kells.

Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you’re thirsty: