Wednesday, September 25, 2002

Lake of Burning Branches

I could talk about the long conversation I had with the man who railed against G-Dub da Prez' reactions (overreactions, this man felt) "when they kill another fucking Arab."

Or I could go into whether of not it is right to assail G-Dub for his economic handling, and the fact that his handle has the economic indicators dropping like they're hot.

Or I could discuss the this British report on Iraq's ability to launch weaponry during an episode of Smallville.

Instead, I want to touch on Justin Timberlake. I saw the video for his new single "Like I Love You" on MTV a couple of late nights ago. I was bored. There was a commercial in the dating show I was watching, I think it was the Fifth Wheel. Mmm, Aisha Tyler... mmm...

Jud Timberpond's song was kind of HOT. I couldn't stop singing it. I went out and downloaded it. I wanted to rub it on my tummy like pudding and in my hair like Afro-Sheen drops. I realized that was a level of excitement better saved for better music, and I listened a little closer to this catchy candy bar of a song.

I am still a little impressed with his ability to hit some notes, and sing r & b with some passion. "And then," as he sings with drama and style. And then some rent-a-rapper comes into the scene and ruins the whole bitch. This guy rapped about something-or-other with no consequence. I can't even string his words together into a coherent thought. Before he came in, it was like Justin created a song that was about lust and passion and and high notes and asking someone to hold your coat while you style across the floor. And then we get some cat rapping about how "a few words lead to sex," and he's rapping with "J" and that is an impressive feat.

that last line alone makes it a much less impressive feat. Then I realized that the Neptunes produced the song. The hitmakers that they are, they knew the key to pop cash is the requisite rapper in the middle. You know, for the kids. And the street cred. Sometimes I forget that this is a business to produce radio hits, not tear up the mic with some hot lines and spit some lust into a sweating and salivating horny l'il squealing girl crowd. After all, no one can resist a squealing girl, least of all their moneymaking daddies. Cash motherfucking money.

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