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Thursday, June 17, 2004
8W On A Mission, Volume TwoThe glory from my apotheosis as reigning wunderkind of "Game of Life" flagged under such circumstances as losing three consecutive games to kids all around the age of ten. Admittedly having no real intellectual avocation to prove that I'm not an idiot, I decided that maybe I'm just really, really strong. Of course, things like needing my mother to open jars of spaghetti sauce for me makes one disbelieve this theory, but I blame it on vacuum sealing mechanisms and not having done my proper stretches prior to my attempts. Properly handled in a court of details, I could very well be somewhat below average in terms of wrist strength and dextrous metacarpus; however, whether my arms themselves don't hold untapped potential capable of the most Brobdingnagian of proportions, though improbable, is not out of the question. With this confidence, I decided to arm-wrestle several people at a bar in New York City. Arm-wrestling is, as we all know, the perfect medium to contest several men larger than you with the means of brute strength -- other than fighting, which has your face looking a little brute if you lose. But none of the guys at my table would arm-wrestle me. I like to think this is because I strike an imposing threat everywhere I go, but if that were true, I wouldn't get away with ordering from the Kid's Menu that easily. It turned out the guys at my table, being six feet tall or over, simply didn't want to hurt, what they called, my 'cello hand'. I resent this, of course. Suddenly I felt like I was majoring in flower-arranging. One of them suggested I arm-wrestle a girl first. If there are any feminists reading this site, you must understand that the very concept of girls being weaker than guys is not at question here; it's more whether I'm stronger than a three-month-old baby with a cold. But, being in a bar, they weren't readily available. Anyway, as luck would have it, though potentially devastating to my reputation, I was very happy when they chose for me a fellow musician, a female clarinetist, who was asian and three years my junior. I knew I had made a mistake when we both went at it and nothing happened. We were dead-locked. Everyone thought I was trying to hustle them into believing that I was really that weak. I tried to play the part, but inside -- inside, I was peeing my metaphorical pants. This girl was like Xena. Slowly, my inevitable loss dawned on me, and, clearly from a forgiveable shot of panic-stricken adrenaline passed down from my ancestors being chased by wild tigers, my left hand hovered in the air, in such a way as to hint that I might just start punching her in the face until she let me win. Seeing my rippling tendons -- I'd say muscles, but this is a true story -- my friends started staring in disbelief, saying things like, "Yo, I think he's really trying, man." Soon, I found the back of my hand resting, against its wishes, on the dirty grime of the table, and the unmistakable scent of shame was in the air. Either that or my pants aren't that metaphorical. You don't know how good it feels, trying to find more girls to arm-wrestle in hopes of vindicating yourself. They found another willing opponent, as they were suddenly popping up everywhere. Money was riding on her winning and I realized that I was now the underdog to an even smaller Japanese girl, no more than five feet tall, and weighing, by my estimate, three pounds. I gave it all I got. She didn't really stand a chance because not only was she up against my fervor for redemption, I was also cheating. I put all my 160 pounds into my arm and, in a matter of seconds, I had slammed her tiny little hand onto the table, causing me to roar with victorious excitement: "WHAT! WHAT YOU GON' DO!! I'M TOP DOLLAR BABY! (Pointing at biceps) These things are UNSTOPPABLE!" Only at that moment did I realize how this scene must have looked to unsuspecting passerby: A cocky little bully ballooning his own strength by demolishing tiny girls who are half his size in arm-wrestles. That's when I noticed five guys with forearms the size of salted hams glaring in my direction. Without making this admittedly long post longer still, I had to lose a few more arm-wrestles that night. The bildungsroman that is "8W On A Mission" won't stop until I try to Lance Armstrong my mountain bike this Saturday, and go to Gold's Gym with my boys. You have to admit that my legs had nothing to do with arm-wrestling. Properly handled in a court of details, my untapped potential may now rest solely on my calves. Thursday, June 10, 2004
Email of the Week:"Yo adriane/8W i be learnnng the ropez on how to rap. ur freestyles are sick. funny. can u tell me how u write lyrics for ur songs? how u go bouts it. i live in indiana and me and Mah friends are starting a group, nawmang. lemme lknow if u an Epedimic wannta collab. LaTeZ! P.S. mah friend sent me ur song pAy atention. That hook's hot. how u go bouts hooks. can u show meh one u wrote reacently" ShaDowDiggA (excerpt of one of his rhymes accompanies email) For those of you who are unfamiliar, 'nawmang' means 'know what I mean'. This is the cool way to do it. Orwellian prescience tells me that in fifteen years, all sentences will be reduced to two syllable, indecipherable grunts like these. For now, however, we have an otherwise communicable email of the week. Thank you for the email, "Shadowdigger". I too wish I could dig shadows, as it's most ideal. I'm also a little bitter that the friend who sent you "Pay Attention" must have stripped and burned my CD. As far as writing the lyrics to my songs, the last verse is always the hardest for me. After two full verses, I feel I have nothing left to say about anything. I could probably summarize War and Peace in two lines because there's only so many words that rhyme with "Russia". Anyway, when writing lyrics, it's the hooks that get to me. When I first started writing hooks, they came easily because they all revolved around some aspect of my greatness -- after I said all I could about my hair, however, I started having trouble. Writing hooks is difficult; essentially, I'm thinking up something in a few minutes what I'll be listening to for months. Especially when I'm editing and mixing it. By the time a song is pressed, I've probably heard it three billion times. There's been instances where I scrapped a project three-quarters of the way through because I was absolutely sick of it. I operate under the principle that if you get sick of your own song within two weeks of the process, it either needs a complete overhaul or a heavy electronic drum beat; rap studios never throw out their trash: they just sell it to the dance industry. Anyway, the question I always ask when writing a hook is: "Will I regret this for the rest of my life?" Or, "Willahgretdisfahdastamahlife". Because, sometimes, hooks make absolutely no sense. For instance, the hook you speak of in "Pay Attention" goes: "We in T-Dot, got lots of crazy fans (spit it, spit it).. Let the beat drop, get up and raise your hands (live it, live it).." First of all, I hate to be the first to admit it, but we don't really have lots of crazy fans. We didn't when we wrote it, and we don't now. I take the blame for writing this outrageous lie, but Eppy can take the blame for the hook in "Reigning Forever", where we say something to the effect that we're the best rappers ever. Our self-esteem as a collective whole is either incredibly healthy or incredibly self-conscious and doubtful. I can't decide which. Maybe we're both self-conscious about how healthy our doubts are about being incredible. Okay. In closing, a hook, fresh off the press: "We in T-Dot, got lots of people who strip my CDs.. and then get it sent to them through the internet and then email me and tell me about it (live it live it spit it..)" Thursday, June 03, 2004
So, like, I haven't shaved in a few days. It's pretty much general knowledge that I'm cursed with a thin beard. Some people have taken it upon themselves to create a series of jokes about how often I need to shave. These jokes have enjoyed surprising longevity and, last I heard, I need to shave in 2024. And a popular introduction line they give others when I'm meeting their friends is: "Adrian can barely get a three-day shadow but even then people think it's just the lighting."My friends make a mistake however, because, in reality, I need to shave regularly. When my friends tell me I don't, I tell them to define 'have to'. I think within the perimeters of social acceptance, every two days, I have to. This isn't because you don't recognize me if I don't shave every two days -- you just pretend not to. I have this knack for housing two or three follicles who want to be heroes or something. I mean, I appreciate their staggered enthusiasm, but they sprout out in the most embarassingly random way on my face. Someone should tell them about teamwork; they're making me look like a diseased mountain goat with mange. Only less attractive. So I actually shave a lot. And now my razor's broken. Tonight, I'm meeting two of my friends, both of whom I haven't seen in a long time. Will I slowly descend into that list of people "who think they can"? This reminds me of a conversation I had with my fourteen-year-old cousin, Byron, six months ago on MSN (a thank-you to Byron for his consent in my posting our conversation): Byron says: im gonna grow a gotee... the one that goes from the lip down to the chin... think it'll look bad? 8W says: ... hahahaha 8W says: hahahaha Byron says: what? 8W says: hahahahahahahah I mean, okay. Let's be honest. Did someone not tell him that he's related to me? Last time I saw Byron, yes, he had some facial hair. But it was the type that has never met a razor, so it was like hair-hair. You know? In no way was it going to be something cool like a goatee. He looked like a Rabbi. And you know how many ladies those guys get. Byron says: it's gonna take me like a year to grow it fully tho 8W says: hahhahaaha Byron says: i dunno... Byron- Sweetness says: i shaved off the hair i had on my chin and lower lip today.. Byron says: hopefully it'll grow faster... 8W says: hhaaha.. that's so cute.. when you start shaving? Byron says: .. about... i dunno... 5 months ago? 8W says: hahaha.. cool. Yes, I realize that in the above, aside from the laughing, I say a total of nine words. But I guess he and I would look about the same now, which is sad only because I'm seven years his senior. In the meantime, I hope people note that what's growing on my face is not just the naive optimism of youth, but the indecisiveness that comes from a broken razor. Tuesday, June 01, 2004
I commend the wit that has been frequenting this site. I give you the Emails of the Week:First time emailer. I liked the Why track. At first, I was thinking, "Why, bother?" Get it? I liked it though it was touching. Sam Vu, Connecticut 8dubbizzle. I was waiting for the rap in Why. You know, the signature move you do in Hollow. So I was thinking 'Why is he not rapping.' Anyway, when are you coming to my place to BBQ. I promise I won't smack your face with a burning spatula this time. It was an ACCIDENT cmon-- Shay, Toronto Next song, you should make one called Where. Where did he come from? Under a rock? Just kidding I was actually feeling horrible that day and your song made me near suicidal. So thanks! Angela, Vancouver HOW did he make it? HOW is he not a retard? HAHA. Okay, this is why I don't have a site. Luke Meyers, London, UK How about a song called What, like "What the [expletive]" David, New Jersey 
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