Chap Hazard, World Citizen

My good friend and business associate Chapel “Chap” Hazard is something of a living legend. One of those rare individuals who sucks the air out of a room and replaces it with the sweet, burning smell of sexy adventure, Chap is a person of interest in every sense of the word. Wanted for questioning in seventeen countries, a guest at the palace of a dozen others, Chap Hazard is a man’s man’s man with the heart of a child. Women want him, lions fear him, angels use his urine to make gunpowder for God. His potency is unrivaled, his hubris unequaled. He has never known doubt or fear. He can’t even spell them. Someday, he will conquer the world. Or stumble blindly off a cliff. Or, spectacularly, do both at once.

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Why Your Song Sucks: A Hip-Hop Primer

By Grip Grand

I hear a lot of rap music during my day. Some of it is made by my friends, some by famous people, some by strangers, some by myself. Most of it, frankly, is terrible. Well, maybe terrible is too strong a word, but…let’s go with it. Therefore, as a service to the public, I decided to jot down this list of common pitfalls that many modern hip-hop songs succumb to. You’re welcome. Oh, yeah, and if you think this is about you, it isn’t—don’t take it personally. Unless you should take it personally, in which case you really do need my help. Onward.

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Unlike companies who claim to be the best, Autopoint settled on a more modest adjective.

    

Vulture Crash: Culture Out of Context    

Once upon a time, erasers smelled awful. For each mistake made while transcribing your thoughts in already-painstaking analog longhand, you were forced to endure a visceral reminder of your error, even as you worked to remove it. With every corrective stroke, the vile rubber released a toxic odor like a tire fire in a barn full of animal farts. Forced to choose between inhaling that noxious emission and leaving their grammatical lapses intact, schoolchildren and counting-room clerks alike were everywhere driven to the brink of insanity. Truly, it was a terrible time to use a pencil.      

The scenario hypothesized above provides perhaps the most plausible explanation for the otherwise inexplicable phenomenon I find myself facing today. Namely…    

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Vulture Crash: Culture Out of Context

 

Exhibit 1: folca

“A place for everything, and everything in its place.” If you were working on the tag line for a hip new organizational product, that’s probably where you’d start conceptually, and then you’d move out from there into cooler, more current territory. Well, the good folks at folca must have burned out and brainstormed themselves into oblivion, because they came up with this bell-ringer: “If it always has folca an important thing will not forget.” So why did I buy it?

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Vulture Crash: Culture Out of Context

Exhibit 1: Mystery Gum (Product Name Unknown)

I bought this chewing gum at one of my local shops. It’s made by Lotte, which I believe is a Korean company. I could look into it further, but as I’ve said before, what kind of blog would this be if I did research?

The gum is intriguing for a number of reasons, not the least of which is its colorful packaging. Even though I’m at a total loss to read the wrapper or to determine its contents, my initial reaction is to fall back on the universal law of food packaging–namely, that the product will taste like whatever is pictured on the package (hence, a bottle of ketchup boasts a shiny tomato). By that logic, this gum should taste like one of three things: jingle bells, anthropomorphic cats, or gold anthropomorphic cats. I just had to try it.

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As you may recall, I’m occasionally called upon to wield my (ahem) mighty pen in the service of others. Not least among my authorial duties is crafting creator biographies for my various pals in the Wide World of Art.

One such individual is my longtime musical co-conspirator DJ Flip, a fellow I’ve never actually met in real life. Thanks to the Internet, we’ve collaborated on a number of songs (three, to be exact…three is a number, isn’t it?), and Flip has always been particularly proactive in spreading my tunes around as he slithers and slinks his way over the great open wastes of Europe, playing records for large groups of poorly dressed, intoxicated teenagers. Or whatever it is that he does.

Long story short, Flip is a busy man, and he’s also functionally illiterate (I made that last bit up). So it came as no surprise to me when he recently asked if I might favor him with a clever “bio” for his brand new group, The Filth Bags. Of course, I promptly declined, citing the fact that, on the scale of favors owed, the balance was decidedly weighted down on my side, and that he had better pony up if he ever wanted to work with me again. Flip must have sprinkled some kind of magical leprechaun dust on his increasingly desperate e-mails, because I appear to have written the damn thing anyway, despite my contrary intentions. And since no one he sends it to in the course of promoting his “career” will ever read it, I’m posting the Filth Bags’ biography here in hopes that someone else might—for a written word un-read is a tragedy, and I won’t be party to such willful neglect. And so, without further ado, may I present…

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