The Increasing Devaluation of The Concept of Next Level Shit

I gotta get something off my chest.

Kanye West is not Next Level Shit. 

I'm sorry, but it's true. Don't get me wrong: he's exactly what the face of hip-hop needs to be right now; My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy is bold, ambitious, complex and, most importantly, catchy as fuck (go listen to THIS right now; tell me you don't want that playing every time you enter a room. Go on, I DARE you.). But game-changing? Not really.

Understand: I'm not trying to hate on Kanye West. If this is what stands for contemporary hip-hop these days, then hip-hop is in a good place. It's just that when I hear the phrase 'next level shit' applied to an artist, I expect that what I'm listening to is gonna make me think a little differently about, well, what I'm listening to - and while 'Power', 'Monster' (despite it's yawn-inducing video), and a few other tracks on the album are, as Jeffrey Storey outs it, bangin', it isn't anything I haven't heard before, which really isn't a bad thing, as the nature of successful pop music in general is to reinvent itself so that you imagine you're hearing something new. It's why we like pop, and it's all pop, whether you listen to hip-hop, metal, country, folk, or Indonesian bhangra-punk. We just don't like to admit it.

But like I said, Kanye = good. You should own a copy of My Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy. But you want innovative? Progressive? Next Level Shit? Well, I dunno. I'm a white boy from CANADA, so my opinion on the subject might be less-than-informed than, say, everyone else in the free world.

Still. Here:

1. Shabazz Palaces, 'Belhaven Meridian'.

I've been telling EVERYONE about this for the last week, so some of you might be sick of hearing about 'em, but still. Remember Digable Planets from way back when? Of course you don't, because the average music listener has the memory of a fruit fly, but anyway: Shabazz Palaces is the new project put out by Ishmael Butler aka Butterfly. He/they've only got a couple of online releases, but both are killer.

2. Kid Cudi, 'Wild'n Cuz I'm Young'.

Yes, I know we have Kanye to thank for introducing us all to Scott Mescudi, but I gotta admit, I listen to Kanye and I think, "Hey, this is just like Kid Cudi, only Kid Cudi's doing more interesting things with it."

3. Cubic Zirconia, 'Hoes Come Out At Night'.

Like you didn't just get fucked by this track.

4. Dudley Perkins, 'Testin' Me'.

See, I know this strays from what we'd normally consider hip-hop; Dudley Perkins has this weird neo-soul thing going on, and he's been doing it for a while (although he does rap under the name Declaime, which is also worth checking out, but it's the stuff under his real name that I find to be a bit more progressive), and seeing as he's got Madlib backing him most of the time, you can't rely deny his place in hip-hop.

(As well: a case could be made for the fact that hip-hop encompasses more than just a sound, and is in fact more a culture in and of itself (go watch Style Wars, you'll see what I mean), which Perkins definitely embodies, but again: Me = white = least authentic hip-hop authority on the internet.)

5. Oh, wait, you don't know who Madlib is? Go find a copy of Shades Of Blue right now. In fact, you're not allowed to read any further until you've listened to that entire album.

You're welcome. Let's proceed.

6. Saul Williams, 'African Student Movement'.

I know. I'm sorry. The Inevitable Rise and Liberation of Niggy Tardust was awful. That's what you get when Trent Reznor gets involved with hip-hop. Listen instead to either Amethyst Rock Star or his self-titled album, and you'll see why people are willing to forgive him for ...Niggy Tardust, and why most of us are actually looking forward to Volcanic Sunlight.

7. Bilal, 'Levels'.

I'm really only including this because this video is IN-FUCKING-SANE.

That is all. For now.

Oh, and: please stop saying 'next level shit'. It's just lazy, and the more you use the phrase, the more you realize that it really doesn't mean anything.

I gotta go buy tomatoes now.

I Apologize If My Anger Made Me Spell Things Wrong & Stuff.

I shoulda known better.

I mean, yes, the Little Miss was showing signs of crankiness, which meant that the sooner we got the grocery shopping over with, the sooner we could get home for a nap, and the less chance there was of her passing out in the carseat before I actually got to the store, and since we were at the car dealership watching what Hazel now calls 'hockey dancing' when Hazel's mom suggested we go to the Superstore just around the corner so I took her advice and it was well-intended advice, given that she's well versed in dealing with cranky Hazel falling asleep while running errands, so let me put that right out there and say: I don't blame her for suggesting it, but still. I shoulda known better.

I've always hated shopping at Superstore. There's always been this vague feeling of unease that comes over me when I enter the store, like I've just accidentally bartered a piece of my soul away in exchange for a wonky shopping cart, and I've always joked that Superstore was where suburban families went to die, but, yesterday, well, yesterday was truly something remarkable. 

It started with the realization that I had no loonie to put into the shopping cart - no biggie, I thought; I'll just pop by customer service and get some change, no problem. And look at that, there's only one person in line, and they seem to be disputing the price on a 2 litre bottle of Pepsi, this shouldn't take long...at...all...

Fifteen fucking minutes later. Standing behind a man who can't seem to understand why he has to pay a deposit on a recyclable bottle, even after the employee's explained that he'll get it back if he returns the bottle to a depot when he's finished with it, even after the employee's fetched her manager to come and repeat the same thing to him, and by this time I've resorted to asking people as they pass by if they'd be able to break a five for me, because even though there've been about five or six employees who've stopped to watch this pop battle, none of them are 'authorized' to open the goddamned till and help me out.

Cut to: another fifteen minutes later, stuck in the electronics department, waiting in line to pay for a movie that I told Hazel I'd pick up for her, the person ahead of me picking up what looks to be around twenty-five different packages of photographs, and trying not to get aggravated when he decides that he needs to check on EVERY PRINT in EVERY PACKAGE, because, well, it's a lot, right? Who wants to get home to find out that the developer switched your family vacation pics with someone's homemade porn-I-mean-art? So, just chill, Janzen, this won't take as long as you think, and it looks like someone's opening another till over there, oh, wait, no, he's just...doing nothing. Standing there. With an open till, and a scanner in his hand, he's just standing there, looking bored, sighing every now and then because he's got such a shitty job that makes him stand and do nothing. Well, let's go give him something to do.

"Sorry, actually, my till's not working, the computer's down."

Oh. Okay. Back in line. Thanks anyway.

Five minutes later: "Oh, did you want to pay for those?"

Um, yes? 

"You don't need to wait here; if you're doing more shopping, you can just pay for them with everything else."

Gee, it's not that I'm not grateful, I mean, you're letting me get out of this line and continue on with my trip through what seems to be one of the deeper rings of Hell, I mean, you ARE doing me a favour, but maybe you could've told me this when I asked to buy these EARLIER?

Whatever. Not worth exploding over. Just get your shit and get outta here. Go get milk. Milk is good, right? You need it for stuff. Go get it. Where is it? There you go, oh, wait, hold the door open for that lady so that she can grab a carton, be nice, y'know, and - sure, why not, sir, go ahead and pick something out, I'll just hold the door for you here, and then I'll - oh, sorry, was I in your way? No, go ahead, lemme just hold the fridge door open for you, and for you, too, and then for you, and then - 

Really? Am I really getting forced out of the dairy section by the amount of people cutting in to grab a carton of milk? Is this actually physically possible? Okay, fine, just go grab something else, calm down, you're fine, Hazel's fine, even if she's singing "ASTROBOYASTROBOYASTROBOYASTROBOY" at the top of her lungs, it's kinda fun, except for the fact that no one's moving.

Which is strange in itself, given that every time you move in to pick something up off the shelf, twenty people seem to dart in from nowhere to block your way and grab the very thing you meant to pick up, not unlike the way schools of starved piranha act when a wayward cow somehow gets dropped into the Amazon; and while this is going on, you look around and notice that everyone else in Superstore is basically grazing: they're moving at a snail's pace, making their way from food item to food item, making their dietary selection with as much affirmation as it takes to chew cud, usually pushing a shopping cart filled with 4.5 kids, eyes glazed over out of boredom as their lethargic frames are draped over the sides of the cart, and I get it, y'know, shopping with ONE kid is tiring, I can't even imagine how much shopping with THREE kids would kill me, but really, I look around me at places like this, and EVERYONE is moving this way, they're either shuffling along aimlessly or else they're scrapping with each other over who gets to park their cart next to the yogurt, and all I see are people waiting to die. I see absence of hope. I see people for whom this moment is no different than the next, that all they're doing is marking time until their inevitable demise.

Which, y'know, isn't a nice feeling. But before I get the chance to muster any sort of sympathy or sentiment, or maybe wonder about how the so-called convenience of bulk food box stores might be having some sort of detrimental effect on our collective spirit, how we might be forced to select our food based not on its nutritional merit but by which logo is more eye-popping, how maybe the decision to seek out actual markets run by people who've either grown the food themselves or at least know where it's come from might be worth the slight increase in price (if any), someone steals my cart WITH MY DAUGHTER STILL SEATED IN IT.

Seriously: I was right next to the cart, trying to pick out a loaf of bread, when I notice the cart moving away from me, and WHAT THE FUCK DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!

Okay, so it turns out that the lady was suffering from dementia, and had been doing this all day to people, and the staff who came to my aid tried to make all the right apologies and I tried my best to keep from blowing up and recognize that it was Saturday and it was bound to be a busy if not stressful shopping day, but really all I could think about was getting. The fuck. Out.

Oh, and: I would feel no remorse if someone bombed this fucking store out of existence.

So, we left; in record time, I think, which probably wasn't all that hard to do, given that after about forty minutes of 'shopping', all I had to show for my efforts were a carton of milk, a loaf of bread, two DVDs and a pack of batteries.

Which is why we're going grocery shopping again today, after a good night's sleep and a full day of just hanging out and eating pancakes. And if anyone ever suggests that I go to Superstore again, I might just punch them, so this is me apologizing in advance.

Walking With Hazel: Emergent Princess-ness.

So, today started out with the Little Miss's mom asking if I knew how to make braids; when I said no, she replied, "Oh. Um. You might be in trouble." 

So, Dad's in the market for a new skill set.

Anyway: first we went grocery shopping. Which is always awesome, because it means that we get to choose lots of awesome food to eat, and sometimes we get treats because Dad is a big softie, which is why we have cashews, watermelon chunks, pineapple chunks AND cookies for later.

Then we went and got comics, and Dad got the next issue of S.H.I.E.L.D. by Jonathan Hickman which is insanely good, and Hazel got a few issues of Looney Toon Adventures, because she couldn't decide on just one, and yes, Dad is still what we like to refer as an Easy Mark.

Then we came home, and chopped up the watermelon and pineapple, and then Hazel helped Dad put away the dishes from the dishwasher, and then we got to make silly noises with balloons, and then we played in the new Spaceship Fort that we made a few days ago.

That's right: you SHOULD be jealous.

Then the Little Miss asked Dad if she could break the spaceship. Sigh.

Then we watched Yo Gabba Gabba, which meant we did a lot of marching around the living room, until Hazel decided that we shouldn't march any more, and banished Dad to the kitchen. A few minutes later, Dad poked his head to see if she wanted any more watermelon, and the it turned out that the Little Miss was trying to put Dad's deodorant on her lips like it was lipstick.

Lemme tell ya, Dad has no idea how to handle THAT one.

Then we had visitors! First, Bryn came over and had coffee with Dad while Hazel got to eat chicken noodle soup minus the chicken and the soup and the vegetables, and then later on Christina and Pete and Eislynn dropped by to say hi (and to also pick up Eislynn's water bottle because the three of them are MOVING TO B.C. ON MONDAY DON'T TELL SHH!) and we ended up using the pieces of the spaceship in order to build an igloo! 

Which will probably be torn down tomorrow so that Hazel can use the pieces to pretend that Dad's laying purple eggs. Don't ask, he doesn't get it either.

Then it was bedtime, which was filled with many important questions like "Can I bring my telephone to bed?" and "Do you have boogers in your nose?" and "Will you wear my princess shoes?" and "I'm huuuuuuung-ry." which isn't really a question but is usually uttered at bedtime all the time and would probably have more sway over Dad if the Little Miss hadn't just spent the last few hours eating half a watermelon, two jam sandwiches, all the noodles in the world, a banana, a snack bar, some popcorn, and an entire apple sliced up into pieces. So, no, Little Miss, you're not hungry, you're stalling and it's time for bed.

Which obviously makes me the worst Dad in the world. But she's asleep now, and tomorrow morning she gets eggs and pancakes and probably a couple bowls of cereal, so shut it.

And then Dad realized that he hadn't written one of these things in a while, which meant that everyone missed out on the trip to Vancouver and the Little Miss taking her pants off at the airport and running down the aisle laughing and the various Christmas parties and all the amazing but LOUD toys she got for Christmas and New Year's Day Fort Building and a whole buncha other stuff, so he figured he might as well get on it and say: Happy New Year from Dad and the Little Miss.

Now Dad's gonna go watch hockey and eat popcorn, cuz he's got free cable.

Bah.

Oh, wait, Christmas, right? Hold on, I got something here, just, y'know, gimme a minute...

So, um, yeah, everyone's busy. We all got stuff goin' on, and haven't had that much of a chance to get on here and say silly things about your Mom's drinking habits or ask if your brother's been in my garage sleeping off his latest meth binge, because if he is, it's cool, just ask him next time to leave my tools alone, okay? Thanks.

Anyway. Christmas.  So.

The Little Miss' mother and I sometimes disagree about things, and holidays sometimes fall into that conversation, but no matter how we feel about these things, we both tend to agree that the focus during these times is not supposed to be on the holiday, but the company we keep during the holiday. I mean, it's what MY parents tried to drum into my skull when I was a kid, although they had a much harder time with it, I'm sure, seeing as I was completely smitten with the idea of PRESENTS. (More specifically: you guys gave JEFF the G.I. Joe Tank? JEFF? The kid who kept eating the heads off of my Star Wars figures? Christmas sucks, FOREVER.)

Point being: we're not in too much of a rush to spoil Hazel and teach her that Christmas is day when you get stuff.

That being said, watching Hazel open her presents fills one with an almost indescribable joy. She's just, y'know, happy, and what's more, she seems to really enjoy sharing this happiness with everyone she's around, and that can't be a bad thing. To that end: lately, daily, even, I've been coming into Beano to find that someone or other has dropped off a gift for Hazel, and my first thought is always, 'hey, where's MINE?', because, y'know, I'm SELFISH, but it doesn't take long for me to dismiss that thought and just be really grateful. So, this is me saying to all of you: thank you. It's not the that the gifts help make my daughter a better person, it's that your generosity shows through, making this season a little more (dare I say it) magical.

No, really: thanks. To everyone.

Except for Kimmy.

Now I must go to work, but here are a few random links for y'all that might or might not have anything to do with Christmas:

1. PJ Harvey, 'The Last Living Rose': yes, please.

2. You might have seen this already, but it deserves repeating: Ricky Gervais on why he's an athiest.

3. I'm not sure if Eskmo's music is anything to crow about, but this video seems to calm me down.

4. Common sense in Missoula: a jury refuses to convict over a sixteenth of an ounce of marijuana.

5. Susannah Breslin on, simply put, why you shouldn't kill yourself.

6. Ohheyanewblog: co-worker/minion Tiffany and her friend Sarah showcase their mad skills daily.

7. Also: since someone seems to have killed The Straw, Josh decided to give us all a new venue through which we can vent our weird little thoughts. There hasn't been much activity lately, seeing how everyone's doing seasonal stuff, but it's still a lot of fun: The Actual Writer's Guild Of Canada.

Oh, man, I stink. Gotta shower and stuff. MERRY DAY OF EATING TURKEY AND WONDERING WHY YOU GOT ARGYLE SOCKS IN YOUR STOCKING!

Well, That Wasn't Creepy At ALL.

Okay, so, go to the site Dangerous Minds, and watch the video posted there. It's cool, I'll wait.

Back? Fucked up, no? Yeah. YEAH.

I mean, here's the thing: we all engage with pornography in some way or another. You can deny it all you want, I won't call you on it, because, hey, that's your deal, not mine, but I know where you're coming from, because I spent more than enough of my life thinking it was wrong, that I was somehow a pervert or worse, simply because I sometimes found it enjoyable to watch other people have sex. I don't feel that way any more, but, y'know, there's a time and a place, and OH MY GOD THAT PLACE IS NOT WITH YOUR CHILD.

Sorry. That one got outta me before I could stifle it. Anyway: there's part of me that starts to sympathize with this guy, because he's obviously gotta believe that what he's doing (making 'adult entertainment') is not only not a bad thing, but in fact is a good thing, so that he can wake up every day and go to the office and do it. Make the movies. Hire a cast and crew, find a location, shoot it, edit it, arrange for distribution, do PR and whatnot - I'm guessing here, because I haven't yet produced my own porn so I don't know exactly what goes into it, although it might make it's way onto my very own Bucket List, so yes, I'm accepting resumes...okay, enough. Point: he can't do all of these things if he thinks he's ruining lives and reinforcing negative stereotypes in regards to sexual dominance and gender politics (I don't know what any of those words mean, I just made them up).

He can't do all of these things if he thinks he's a monster. Which, y'know, he isn't. He might be deluded, misguided, completely inappropriate, hell, FUCKED-UP, but he's not the Most Evil Person In The World (that title belongs the guy who delivers my papers, a person who, despite my many requests to have the paper deposited in my mailbox, continues to pitch it into the deepest snowbank he can find). He's a guy who thinks he's found his calling, which is to provide the rest of us with the means to get off through the wonders of technology. Even if it means using his step-daughter in his movies.

Which is where my sympathy dries up. Because as much as I know that my own daughter will one day grow up and do...things which will no doubt make me uncomfortable were I to know of them, it will be none of my fucking business. My job isn't to dictate her sexuality, or to enforce certain gender roles upon her, or even to guide her towards what I think a safe or enjoyable lifestyle might be. My job is a) to make sure she knows that she is safe and loved, b) to make sure she knows she has the right to be happy and treated with respect, and c) to hopefully let her see that she has a responsibility to treat everyone else the same way. And, well, d) to make sure she knows damned well that Han fired first. 

That's it. Well, and the whole feeding and caring thing, and brushing her teeth and getting her to poop in the toilet and not on the sidewalk, but beyond that, I have no right getting involved. And I don't want to sit in judgement of anyone, because I've learned so many times from personal experience that it always comes back to bite you in the ass, so instead of saying that I consider this man's behaviour as reprehensible and as abusive as, say, outright beating your child, I'll say this: if any of you ever hear of me doing something as damaging as this to my own child, you have my permission to put two bullets in my head and dump me in the river.

Now I must go, because apparently we have to play a game where we shoot volcanoes out of one hand and numbers out of the other. It's like Cops & Robbers, but with SCIENCE.

Yeah, Um, No.

So, everyone's heard by now about all the examples of redonkulous abuse of (supposed) authority being committed by the TSA (or the Transportation Security Administration, for those who are confusing airport security with a group of middle-aged super-heroes), ranging from the mildly awkward to the downright humiliating to the fucking outrageous. I think it's safe to say that everyone's of the same opinion, that you won't catch terrorists by groping everybody's nether regions and making air travel as appealing as a visit to the gynecologist/proctologist.

How's YOUR colon, by the way?

(Of course, some might go so far as to say that these tactics have very little to do with 'catching terrorists' and more to do with conditioning a populace towards acceptance of an atmosphere where civil liberties are suspended at the mere mention of a 'foreign' name or a glimpse of slightly darker shade of skin, because, y'know, it might be said that it's easier to influence and/or control people when they're too afraid to think straight, right? But who would posit something like that? Certainly not me. Anyway:)

TSA regional security director James Marchand just took this stupidity one step further, by saying that you might want to tell your kids that they should pretend that these pat-downs are just a game, despite the fact that "...telling a child that they are engaging in a game is "one of the most common ways" that sexual predators use to convince children to engage in inappropriate contact."

Don't get me wrong: no one's saying that the people who do this undoubtedly reviled job are child molesters looking to cop a feel. Most of these people are just doing their jobs, and probably hating it, and wishing that they were anywhere else instead of knuckle-deep in your unmentionables. What I'm saying is this: 

You're not touching my kid. 

I don't care who you are, or what your justifications might be. You're not touching her. I realize that I'm being slightly paranoid; our flight next week is only domestic, and I haven't heard of any of these things happening here in Canada, so there's very little chance that the Little Miss and I will get caught up in any of this, but I must reiterate: I will find any alternate mode of transportation, even if I have to drive a goddamned horse and cart across the mountains in winter, before I let you grope my daughter.

Just sayin'.

Jerks.

Walking With Hazel: Grocery Girl

So, there were a lot of things that we did yesterday that were very cute and fun and worth mentioning, but they all pale in comparison to the moment when we got home with our groceries and put them away and then the Little Miss decided that she wanted to "dress up like a shopping bag."

Yes, she tried walking with that thing on her head.

Yes, she walked into a wall.

Yes, Dad laughed out loud.

But, to the Little Miss's credit, all she dead was say 'ow' really quietly and then ask for an apple. Then she decided to wear the bag like a cape, which meant that the strap went around her neck, which REALLY freaked Dad out, which she thought was hil-AR-ious, and so we spent about five minutes running around the house, she giggling like a crazy person and Dad tripping over lego blocks and duplo blocks and wooden pots and pans and matchbox cars until finally we were able to entice the Little Miss to sit still on the couch with a snack bar and repeated viewings of Monsters Inc., which led to us shouting out the name 'MIKE WAZOWSKI' out loud over and over again.

It's fun. You should try it.

Today we're going to the Science Centre with Bruce and Forrester. Because we rule. So there.