laowlaowpantz

had to move.  you people are too much.

leave me alone.

-mlv

anybody who knew me in my adolescent years knew i was an aspiring emcee.  i had dreams of being a dorky filipino rap star.  imagine that.  anybody who knew me REALLY well knew that at that time in my life i was at constant war with myself.  which made rhyming difficult.  eventually i gave up on it and focused all my creative energy on my asianavenue.com page.  pretty lame-oh.  i guess i felt there was no place for what i needed to talk about in hip hop.  along with the serious doubts about my ability with the pen.  i lost the passion.  i was more concerned with people thinking i was cool.  so everything i rhymed about was false.  these days i could really give a fuck.  i’m more on a i speak, you listen type tip.  besides that i’m mad dope.  doper than a lot of these khats.  seriously.  which is what brought about this new fire.  i find myself getting so angry at hip hop.  khat’s are still making kid’s music.  hip hop is over twenty years old.  GROW THE FUCK UP!  most khats making it back in toronto got the right idea.  i’m so proud i’m from there.  now i live in BC and i keep coming across GARBAGE.  inexcusable GARBAGE.  pseudo-gangstaz.  underground khats that think that because their intentions are true their horrible sound is listenable.  I DON’T GIVE A FUCK WHAT YOUR STANCE IS.  I DON’T GIVE A FUCK IF YOUR MAINSTREAM OR UNDERGROUND OR KEEPING IT REAL.  JUST BRING IT!  bring it.  that’s all i ask.  where are the dope tunes?

i got this buddy, tom, out here who’s an aspiring beat-minder.  he’s from the vancouver equivalent of scarborough.  we share the same philosophical approach to music.  we speak daily about the great and the garbage.  we go to shows and straight up HATE.  i mean HATE.  maestro came to town.  we were excited to see him live.  he’s a legend.  the dudes who opened up for him were lucky i didn’t walk across the empty floor right to the front of the stage.  stop.  look disgusted then spit on their air force 1’s.  then the man comes out, MAESTRO.  after he did ‘backbone’ it was pretty much all downhill.  buddy came out and started screaming at the top of his lungs "all my real niggaz throw your hands up" (or something to like that).  i can count all the black folk in this town on one hand.  what made it worse; maestro’s buddy concise the black knight was on the wings guzzling hennessy straight out the bottle with a chain down to his dick and his dad’s shirt on.  no class.  what a waste of cognac.  fuckin amateurs.  i kept thinking "this guy is nearly FORTY YEARS OLD!"  he’s making music for high school kids.  me, tom, and dopey (who OPENED for maestro) walked out in the middle of the show pissed off and hit up the drum and bass night.  we thought we could do better.  finally we decided, FUCK THIS . . . WE CAN DO BETTER.  so now me and tom are on this CHANGE THE GAME mission.  even more so now that dilla died. 

i have two main goals in life.  number one is write a book that’ll give your mother a heart attack and make your frat-boy boyfriend cry.  number two is pen the definitive classic asskick of a hip hop album.  i mean that dope shit.  neither of them have to blow up.  if anything my grandkids will enjoy them.  at least i gave it a go.  besides i’m too dope for my material to reflect anything BUT dope.

so i’m back on the rhyme again.  it’s starting off really slow.  i mean i’ve only written one rhyme and it ain’t even complete.  i ain’t got no beats (tom’s mad lazy).  so that sucks.  but still i feel a confidence in my pen that wasn’t there before.  i’m more sure of myself.  what i’m talking about is really what i’m thinking.  it feels like how i feel when i write in this blog.  easy.  which is how it should be.  and even though i only got ONE rhyme, i feel like i’m on to something.  give it a little time and it’ll start to flow proper.  i’m sure of it.  it’s just in me.  and beyond that i’m way too pissed off at rap to not make it happen.  i owe it to the world.  let’s make some dope music.

i was gonna post that one incomplete rhyme but i think i’ll save it for later.  by the way, the manuel and tom duo is called NO I.D.  we have this on going joke about filipino’s not having any identity.  and he’s just a dirty slovak.  and here we are tryna make hip hop music that tries especially to not be hip hop (not in the sense that THEY think of it).  plus we can never escape getting IDed at every gin-joint and BCLO.

that would make a great an album cover.  our faces would be all like "dude, we were just in here YESTERDAY!"

now quit jockin’ me and peace.

-mlv

when i wake up and take a shit i sit on the toilet and read charles bukowski’s poetry outloud.  his shit is much better when read outloud cause you can hear how tough his line is.  he would’ve loved that i read on the toilet.  i think that’s why i do it.  bukowski has been a good friend to me ever since that first book flew off the book shelf, whizzed across the library, and buk’d me in the forehead.  i read bukowski alone for almost half a year.  i wouldn’t consider anything else REAL writing.  bukowski is writing.  the way i think of it anyway.  he writes with urgency, like his soul is on fire and the only way to bear it is to bare it to you.

i’ve been meaning to post some of his work for awhile.  except you have to promise not to print it out and to go buy the damn books.

this isn’t his most profound work but i was sitting on the shitter and thought "this is clever, imma post it."  so here it is:

EXPERIENCE

she claimed to be

worldly

to have traveled

everywhere

was said to have known

many famous men and even

slept with some of

them.

really she had

(she said)

done it

all.

after dinner

at a neighborhood Japanese restaurant

I asked her

if she would care for a

drink.

she ran her eyes

over the menu

then said she guessed

she’d have the

sake

which I

ordered.

and when the drink

arrived

she picked it

up

sipped

then quickly set it

down

looking disgusted.

"what’s the matter?"

I asked.

she replied,

"why is this

stuff

hot?"

-c.b.

learn more about this awesome dude.

i might as well post some of my own work:

THOSE THREE WORDS

fuck off.

bye!

-mlv

you know why i’m hardly taken seriously?  i’m little.  you know why i’m not taxing your girlfriend?  i’m little.  you know why i haven’t ALREADY taken over the world?  i’m little.

you know how i get props?  how i get respect? 

i got this troublesome mouth of mine, but i can’t fuck with people.  i’ll get beat the fuck up.  so generally i’m not myself around new people.  older folk don’t talk to me like an adult until they catch me at a bar.  i’m not being paronoid or insecure when i say this, but i walk into a bar and people look at me and assume i’m a 17 year-old virgin asian kid who’s never been tested by life.  i’m asking to get fucked with.  i’ve heard this. 

so this is how i get my props:  i sit down and order the hardest most rudebwoy shit they got.  the bartender pours a pint of whatever and a shot of wild turkey (aka the funky bird, bad christmas dinner).  that’s when i feel the curiousity all over me.  who the fuck drinks wild turkey?  did he just shoot that shit straight?  he’s getting another one?  i make sure they see me licking those off all night without making a funk face.  it’s the only way i know to make frat-boys and big folk feel small.  reading my book, drinking that big-round old dude under the table, who breaks the ice by asking me "where in mexico you from?"

sometimes that’s better than being called ‘boy’ (or cute).

i’m not complaining.  i love little.  i’m much more clever because of it.

i still wish i had a gigantic cock or lightning fists.  i’ll settle for my iron liver and flawless complexion.

now please move along.  i gotta hem my pants and shrink all my hoodies.

-mlv

"big guys always think they can win.  little guys know what can happen.  little guys understand an ass-whipping.  little guys only fight when there’s no choice."

-chris rock