If three seasons of Flavor of Love
Anikka turns four in a couple of weeks, so I figure it’s time to get the ball rolling. We started her Jedi training last weekend listening to a little PE on the iPod while working on papier-mâché clocks to wear around the house until her little frame is strong enough to support the real thing. Soon, she’ll be able to handle any rap legend on her own without my guidance. I’m so proud.
Now, you might be wondering what makes a middle-class white dude who graduated from a high school with exactly two black people (Abe and Benji, brothers in every sense of the word) and who isn’t even half-way through his online MIT Hip Hop class qualified to own a Public Enemy CD, let alone preach their gospel. How dare you question me. Don’t make me smite you. Homes.
Of course, my little Padawan’s training won’t be complete after she’s down with PE. We’ll need to at least touch on some NWA, and breeze over some of the latter day rappers. Since every rap album released since Doggy Style has sucked ass, it should be a quick lesson.
Bass in your face
Not an eight track
Gettin’ it good to the wood
So the people
Give you some a dat
Reactin’ to the fax
That I kick and it stick
And it stay around
Pointin’ to the joint, put the Buddha down