Showing posts with label The Youngest. Show all posts
Showing posts with label The Youngest. Show all posts

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

"Rack City;" And Why Music Sucks Now.

Photo credit

A few months ago, The Youngest came over to my house to hang out, play some Call of Duty, and probably try to talk me into buying him booze.

The usual.

However, on this particular occasion he came in repeating the same phrase over and over.

"Rack city chick, rack rack city chick." 

If he said this once, he said it a hundred times that evening. He said it when he killed a guy in COD, he said it when our children talked to him, he used it to creatively answer questions, etc. At some point during the evening I finally took the bait and asked him what it was from.

"It's this new song, man. It's awesome." 

"Is it about boobs?"

"Yeah man. Boobs." 

As ridiculous as it sounds, that was all it took for my interest to be piqued. I mean, a song about boobs? Right? C'mon.

So the next day I queued it up on Spotify and had a listen. I picked the unedited version, and the following substance flowed into my brain and temporarily put me into some sort of catatonic state.

Rack, rack, city b**ch, city b**ch
Rack, rack, rack city b**ch, city b**ch, rack
Rack, rack, rack city b**ch, city b**ch
Mutha on the beat
[Verse 1:]
Rack city b**ch, rack, rack city b**ch
Ten ten ten twenties on ya titties b**ch
100 deep V.I.P. no guest list
T-Raw you don't know who you f***ing with?
Got my other b**ch f***ing with my other b**ch
F***ing all night nigga we ain't celibate
Make it sound too dope I ain't selling it
Bar fresher than a motherf***ing peppermint
Gold Letterman last kings killing s**t
Young money young money yeah we getting rich
I Got ya grandma on my peepee (ha ha)
Girl you know what it is
[Hook: x2]
Rack city b**ch, rack, rack, city b**ch [x3]
Ten, ten, ten, twenties and them fifties b**ch
[Verse 2:]
I'm a motherf***ing star (star)
Look at the paint on the car (car)
Too much rim make the ride too hard
Tell that b**ch hop out, walk the boulevard
I need my money pronto
Get it in the morning like Alonzo
Rondo, Green got cheese like a nacho
If you ain't got no @ss b**ch wear a poncho
Head hancho got my seat back
Nigga staring at me don't get bapped
Got my shirt off the club too packed
It's too turned going up like gas
God d**n pulled out my racks
Mike Mike Jackson nigga yeah I'm bad
Rat T-T-T-Tatted up on my back
All the hoes love me you know what it is
[Hook: x2]
Rack city b**ch, rack, rack, city b**ch [x3]
Ten, ten, ten, twenties and them fifties b**ch
Throwing hunnids, hunnids
Hunnids, hunnids
Throwing hunnids, hunnids
Rack city b**ch, rack, rack city b**ch
Hunnids, hunnids
Throwing hunnids, hunnids
Hunnids, hunnids
Rack city b**ch, rack, rack city b**ch
(Rack, rack, rack, rack, rack...)

As you can see, I've had to do quite a bit of work on the censoring front, if only to protect the eyes of some of my younger readers. That aside, I counted about fifteen actual words throughout the whole song. Most of the time it just sounds like the singer, a Mr. TYGA, as it were, has a severe stuttering handicap that is triggered by the thought of a woman without a shirt on. Great stuff, this music of the younger generation. 

Let's break this thing down, shall we? 

1. In the intro, we are introduced to this place called "Rack City," which I have deduced to be a strip club somewhere close to Tyga's place of residence. I'll explain that later. It's also when we are introduced to the artist's speech impediment. At this point, I truthfully thought the whole song was just "rack city b**ch" over and over again. 

2. "100 deep V.I.P, no guest list." There are more or less one hundred people "in da club," and everyone is a V.I.P. There are also no guests allowed, which won't bode well for Tyga's best friend "Lyon," who is an up and coming music producer that has latched on to Tyga like a Lexington, KY resident on their favorite sectional. 

3. Apparently at this point there are two ladies, both of which are his, performing some sort of sensual act on each other. This is where he points out that he is excellent at marathon love-making, which would be easy to do if you were never involved in the fore-mentioned tryst. He then tells us how fresh the bar is, which he likens to a peppermint, so I guess he means sticky. That makes sense. Then he moves on to tell us about having "relations" with your grandmother. Just seems an odd thing to talk about when there are a couple of ladies in front of him obviously willing to try anything once. 

4. In the next verse, he tells us about his stardom, which is evidenced by the paint job on his vehicular conveyance. After that, he gives us a bit of practical advice by explaining that "too much rim make the ride too hard." This is a proven fact, if your rims are too big, then your vehicle's performance over rough terrain will be awful. He then immediately kicks a young lady out of his car and makes her become a prostitute. 

5. "Get it in the morning like Alonzo, Rondo, Green got cheese like a nacho." I wish I could tell you what that meant. Apparently Alonzo Mourning, Rajon Rondo, and this Green fella have a particular affinity for cheese like that on nachos. I also like nacho cheese. Assuming I've not missed any allegorical meaning here, I'm going to say that I'd get along well with those three guys. 

6. The next line advises all the young ladies who don't have a big rear end to wear a poncho to cover it up. I'd like to go ahead and tell you not to listen to that. To quote the amazing John Mayer, your body is a wonderland. Also, Tyga is obviously a boob guy, so what does her care about the rear end for? He then tells us not to get "bapped." Upon consultation of Urban Dictionary, the act of getting bapped is to be hit harder than a thwap, but not so hard that it causes any real lasting injury. 

7. "It's too turned going up like gas." This is the only part of the song I understand. Gas is high. Gas is real high, and it keeps going up. This is why I assume the club is close to Tyga's house. He seems to be concerned with the increasing cost of travel, and when you combine that with strip club tips, he's on the fast train to bankruptcy. 

8. I think after all this is done he's getting a Michael Jackson tattoo. I'm not 100% on that though, I may have mistranslated something. Seems as if the stuttering problem attacks again at this point. 

9. Throughout the song, the amount of money that he's been throwing at these young ladies has been steadily increasing. One can only assume that this is directly related to the amount of alcohol imbibed. The first time is was tens and twenties. Then he started throwing fifties. Now, at the end, he's throwing "hunnids," which is a one hundred dollar bill. Assuming that every mention of a denomination of money indicates what he's thrown at the ladies, and assuming that "twenties" and "fifties" means two of each bill, then at the end of the evening he's spent $1,610 at "Rack City." Also assuming he just turned out the one prostitute at the beginning of the night, and the average nightly take of prostitute is around $615, and a pimp's cut is around 25%, which equates to around $154, then the amount of money Tyga actually spent on this particular evening is $1,456. 

10. The end of the song is just the word "rack" about six thousand times. Many artists choose to end their songs with a clever twist, a beautiful piece of poetry, or a sympathetic word. Tyga went the other way. 

To sum up, the song is terrible. I won't get into the whole "it's degrading to women" argument, because that's the music industry in general, with the exception of Adele, and she's so depressing she doesn't count. But seriously. "Rack City" is just one more example of why music sucks now. 

Monday, November 30, 2009

Memoir Monday: 8 Is WAY Too Young To Learn To Drive...

Meet Josh.

Actually, meet Josh and Katie, who sometimes leaves comments on my blog.

I just wanted you to have the appropriate image in your mind for this story.

Picture Josh at age 8. Curlier hair, less acne, same smile, and a heck of a lot cuter.

Now picture me at 18. Curlier hair, more acne, less wit, but a heck of a lot less fat, thus cuter.

I had a 1997 Ford Escort, "The Scort." I had tricked it out with under carriage neon, three 10" speakers in a custom Superman box, a fancy gearshift, and a license plate on the front with "Travy G" in Olde English style lettering. It was, and you can ask my ex-girlfriends about this, THE BALLS. Never got laid in it though. So lame.

One day I needed to change the oil in The Scort, and Josh was hangin around, being annoying and lookin cute and stuff.

The car was parked in the driveway, about a foot and a half from the concrete slab I needed it parked on.

I'm going to interrupt this story to talk about my bad decision track record.

I've dropped out of college, twice.

I quit a job I'd been on 2 years to sell vacuums.

I've eaten a hot sauce called "Mega Death," several times.

The list could go on, but you get the general idea. I've made and I continue to make very bad decisions, almost on a daily basis. Every once in a great while, I will make a good decision, and the absolue shock of it will ultimately drive me to make a bad decsion. The one good decision I've made is stickin with The Missus, and yeah, in case you're wondering, I manage to almost screw that up daily.

It's a gift, really.

So when I got the idea in my head to let my 8 year old brother move my car a foot and a half onto a concrete slab, you probably already know that it was a bad one.

I didn't. Heck, I thought it would be cute.

It was not.

I got him in the car, didn't bother to buckle him, it's only a foot and a half, right? Right. I tell him, "Listen. Start the car. Okay, now put your foot on the brake, and don't take it off. Okay? You got that? DON'T TAKE YOUR FOOT OFF THE BRAKE. Okay. Now, put it in gear. That's good. Now. VERY SLOWLY, take your foot off the brake. Okay."

The car rolled forward about a foot, and stopped on the side of the concrete slab. The slab was raised off the ground about an inch.

The car wouldn't move. It was stuck. And actually, just sitting here now, I don't know why I didn't just have him lightly press the brake, and me just push it over the hump. Things might have gone better...

Instead, I tell him to goose the gas peddle a bit. Just a bit, I say, just a bit.

He gooses it.

It was not just a bit.

He floored it. By floored it, I mean he wound that little four cylinder engine up to its max, and then applied all one hundred some odd horses to the tires, which then gripped the gravel, found purchase, and RAMPED up on the concrete slab, where we had a picnic table and...just on the other side, a swimming pool.

I've talked on here before about my reflexes.

Well, really, we can thank the picnic table for slowing the car down some. He pushed it all the way across the slab, scratching The Scort very badly.

I dove headfirst into the vehicle and applied the brakes in a hasty fashion, bringing The Scort to a halt and dang near sending The Youngest straight through the window, where I'm sure he would have landed in the swimming pool, all smiles. I say that, because once we got the car in gear and untangled him from the steering wheel, he looked up with that same smile you saw on top there and said...

"That was fun, Travis! Can we try again?"

I love my brothers.

Other "Taps On The Gas" Down Memory Lane: (GO READ THEM!)

Tuesday, August 4, 2009

Unmotivated Tuesday...

I'm blogging from my mothers house. We're watching Jerry Springer. My brother and I. Not my mom. My mom isn't here. If my mom was here, she'd beat all of us for watching it. She really doesn't approve. I'm here for a reason. I'll give it to you.

The Youngest: I'm saying we fix the old one.
Me: Let's do it cheap. As in, no money.
TY: That prolly won't happen. But I still wanna try.
Me: We're gonna do it. I need you to get pumped about this.
TY: I kinda wanted to do stuff to that boat anyway. Make it look not so trashy.
Me: I'm taking the steering off the riding mower and putting it on it.
TY: That's not gonna work either. That's gonna take money.
Me: I will not take no for an answer on that. We WILL make it happen.
TY: A steering wheel on a boat turns with a cable. The lawnmower turns with a shaft.
Me: We're going to make a cable. Or a shaft. That's what she said. But we are.
TY: What time you coming over?
Me: Eh, I have a lame thing around 9:30, and I'll be done around 12. Sometime after 12.
TY: That works.
Me: Say it for me. I need you to believe in this.
TY: I think we can make this boat look tight. But it WILL take at least a little money.
Me: We're naming it.
TY: Nessy.
Me: We'll paint that shiz on the side.
TY: If we're makin it look good, we're paintin it somethin other than blue. That looks so gay. And I wanna paint some graphics on it.
Me: Dude. It ain't a gd speedboat. And if you ask to put nitrous on it, I'm kickin you in the nuts.
TY: Dude. My name isn't Lester. I'm not wearin a wife beater and jean shorts with a 99 cent bright orange life jacket on that boat. I'm not ugly, and what I roll in isn't ugly. That's real.

So began our conversation on what we could to do the boat. You know, the one I mentioned yesterday? Yup. It's just been sitting at my moms house, getting dirty and nasty again. I think it's cursed. However, The Youngest and I decided we were gonna fix it up today. We got real motivated, and then we went to bed.

Enter Tuesday. I went to my lame thing, which is going to be another post tonight, and then I came back here. In between times, I got a job. It's at my old high school, and it's only min wage, but it'll do. I'll get something else part time if I need to. Anyway, back to my moms and The Youngest.

I get here, I get something to eat, and we go out. When we get to the boat, he points out what I call a banana spider. Yeah, I know that's probably not what it is, but that's what I call it. I used to feed these things all the time when I was growing up. I'd toss a grasshopper in the web, and they'd go to town. I love them. So one of those spiders is in our boat. The boat we're gonna fix up! Yeah! I decide to feed the spider, then relocate it, so that we can go to town. I toss in a beetle. Nothin. I toss in a butterfly. Nothin. I was so sad. I'm still sad. I was so sad, I decided that I couldn't possibly work on a boat in this state.

Yeah. That's how easy it is to unmotivate me. The Youngest didn't care, I don't think he was that into it to begin with. I don't blame him. Maybe we'll get on it tomorrow.

Until then... JERRY! JERRY! JERRY!

Saturday, July 4, 2009

Last Years 4th...

Today is the 4th of July. Before I get started on this post, I would just like to thank EVERY single one of the men and women who have died fighting to give me the glorious freedoms I have, including the one to write this blog. You guys and gals are heroes, and you deserve much more. Thank you.

It hasn't rained in Oklahoma (this part) for about 2 or 3 weeks. Before that, we had nothing but rain for 2 or 3 weeks. It was depressing. However, it's raining today. As I'm typing, I'm looking out my window, and watching the rain. I'm also watching the sparrows hit up my new bird feeder that I made, and also watching two gigantic doves try to muscle their way in on some food. I think the only reason the sparrows tolerate it, is because the doves are the same color. My point is, it had to rain today. If it rains out fireworks tonight, I'm gonna be wicked pissed.

The 4th of July runs deep in my family. We love it. My dad loved to spend money on fireworks, and he passed that love down to his 4 boys. Unfortunately, when you lose your job the week before, fireworks aren't too high on your agenda. Normally we go to my moms house, and we talk her into giving us an absurd amount of money, and then we treat our family and neighbors to a show. The last couple of years, we've even gone to Arkansas to get bottle rockets, which are illegal here in Oklahoma. Why in the world they are illegal, I have no idea. Must be some fun haters in our legislature. "Snakes and sparklers, guys. That's all." Anyhow, I guess we're doing the 4th at my aunt and uncles house this year, which is cool, because they have one of those 5 foot deep pools, and I'm fairly certain I can get my grandmother to get me some floaties.

Last year, however, we did it at moms house. Bottle rockets, M-80's, sparkler bombs, the whole nine yards. It was so much fun. For nightime, we got a bunch of those cannon ball things. the ones you put in the tube, light the long fuse, and pray to God on high that the tube doesn't tip over and send a flaming ball of patriocism directly into the lap of dear Memaw. Once again, my mother gave us a stupid amount of money, and we bought a crap ton of these things. We spent a good portion of the day just waiting for nightfall so we could do it up big.

As darkness settled upon us, and we started pullin out the leftover food and the homemade ice cream, my brothers and I started gettin stuff set up. Lawn chairs came out, and everyone assumed the neck back, head up position. And the show began! Everyone oooohing and aaaaahing. It was nice. The Liar and The Youngest set off the fireworks for the most part, with myself and The Groom doing the roman candles and the night time bottle rockets. Then they got stupid. It started with throwing the balls in the air, which is just dumb. Wait....wait....wait....wait...NOW! Anything that involves that kind of thinking is generally a bad idea. It moved on to putting balls that didn't belong in certain tubes into those tubes so they could launch a bunch of them at once. My family is nothing if not show offs. This is where things went horribly wrong, horribly fast.

I have a cousin. His name is The Cryer. When The Cryer comes over, he cries. Inevitably, someone will make him cry about something. The fastest way is to tell him that OU sucks. Anyways, we often times bet on how long it will take him to start crying after he gets to the house. And I'm gonna admit it here, (Ang, if you read this, I'm sorry) sometimes we resort to some low measures for making him cry to win that bet. The thing is, what I'm tryin to say, he's kind of a crybaby. Now that's just keepin it real.

Back to our young firework engineers on that fateful night. They were keeping the box of balls and such right behind the table that they were shooting balls off of. This is a very intelligent thing to do, and a great time saver. For the most part, things were going good. Then they decided that they were gonna do two or three tubes apiece, and make six shots go off. I think they put multiple balls in the tube as well. Well, The Youngest can't quite light things as fast as The Liar, and he kind of got in a hurry... He knocked over one of his tubes. The word "bail" doesn't convey the speed in which they got outta there. They were gone. They didn't really warn us that anything had gone wrong, but we made quite the informed guess when they were back up on the porch with us. And sure enough, it happened. One of those balls rolled right off the edge of the table and smooth into the box of other balls. This is what resulted.

I've GOT to give The Missus credit for that picture. The rest of us were duckin and runnin for cover, and somehow she snapped that off. It looks like that was taking place in the sky, but for sure, that was about 4 feet off the ground. She's a picture gettin soldier. I'm so proud of her. Anyways, one of these balls shoots straight for The Cryer. It doesn't get anywhere near him, but that was enough. Everyone is kind of laughin and still screamin over it, and The Cryer gets MAD. He just started cryin and punchin people that were laughing! I have never seen a more emotional response over fireworks almost killing someone. Sure he's like 10. But so what! Get that stuff together! Anyhow, they went through the box after a safe amount of time, and shot off what was left. But it's really hard to appreciate fireworks when you're locked in the house for safety.

I hope you all have a happy and safe 4th, and I'll see you back on Monday morning.

I mentioned "balls" a lot in this post...