When I Say More, They Say Fire

Lil Wayne [ft. Al Fatz]: Came Down (Mick Boogie Mix)
The W. Carter Collection Pt. 2

How many times can we write about Weezy? Imagine the lifespan of the watery alien that Ed Harris Godbodies in "The Abyss," then multiply that by 46. That's how long we can do this. He'll keep putting tapes out, we'll keep going. There's rumored to be five Tha Carter albums planned. This is a solid plan, creating a narrative arc for an artist, pimping his finest work and making it thematic, like this was in his chamber since Lights Out disappointed. We all know this isn't true, that like all good writers, Wayne had to read and listen a lot more before he could get where he's at. Like the first time you read Joyce's "The Dead" and realized THIS IS THAT REAL SHIT, THAT EXISTENTIAL DOUBLE-DRAMA; I WANT TO DEDICATE MY LIFE TO WRITING. Smells like Weezy got his hands on a couple unedited copies of Reasonable Doubt and Long Live the Kane and Born to Mack around '01 and went to work shortly thereafter. And maybe he read "The Parsoner's Tale" and contextualized character and role. Weezy knows his reputation doesn't hinge on him being the king of anything. He can't be, he's too weird; rockin' pink hoodies on the cover of Vibe and talkin' reckless about old friends like they won't get somebody to chirp back. They will. This is why he becomes Tha Carter, a building where Nino Brown cooked schemes, dreams, blow. Not a Shawn Carter reference, or even a Joe Carter inference (real recognize real). He's a building, an edifice of ideas. Pretense in that idea, of course, but Lil Wayne is a pretentious kind of guy. He's an artiste and he's not a bad interview. Maybe. He also has enough ideas to make 7 mixtapes in 18 months work.

Al Fatz? He's another story. He's fat. Sounds like he's having fun though.


Ain't Just Word of Mouth

T.I.: What You Know
T.I.: I'm Talking To You
T.I.: Why You Wanna
T.I.: You Know Who
T.I.: Told You So

Dear Tip,

Let's get right to the point: If it is an apology that you are waiting for, you are certainly going about eliciting mine in the wrong manner. Five songs dedicated to "you" (read: me) on your latest album surely won my attention, but I wonder at the sincerity of your motives for reconciliation. Or, if such desires even exist. Apparently you contacted Chris and settled matters face to face. I see no reason why we could not have achieved a similar accord. But no, instead I'm assaulted with Tracks 3 & 4 booming from my neighbor's Suburban every time I walk out to get the mail.

Don't get me wrong: Back to back and individually, those two songs are quite stunning. You'll be pleased to know everyone at the office has a real blast "talking to me" over the intercom, now that they know. It is getting a bit annoying, though. For Erin too: Her third graders torture her daily with, "Ay, what 'chu know 'bout that, Miss Styles?" So, congratulations.

But I resent the implication that I know not of what I speak. Pardon me, but I've always known you to return your calls promptly, as you're never failed to respond to mine. That is, until now. Let me tell you that threatening to knock my block off is far from gentlemanly, sir. And allow me declare for the record that I am neither "a scary dude," a "fuck boy," a "bitch," a "queen," or "not hot." More bees with honey, or so the saying goes. It behooves me to inform you that your comportment to date far from characterizes that of a stand-up guy.

And the mixed messages? Frankly I do not see the logic in first insinuating that my afterlife will be less than peaceful as a result of your action, then a few songs later, offer kisses between my knees and waist. That's just confusing. And I don't even wear panties.

If I may say so, lording your success over me by boasting that you told me so is truly the height of vaingloriousness, considering that when we last spoke I remember offering only encouragement. I believe you were incarcerated at the time. I'm willing to forgive this final indiscretion, if you're willing to tell me exactly what it was I did to provoke this untoward rush of blood to the head.

In closing, you are correct; I do know what my name is, and I suppose I appreciate you keeping that name out of your mouth. I would also very much appreciate if we could keep this quiet as is kept, seeing as I'd be tres embarrassed if it should ever come to light that I am "You."

Hoping We Can Squash It,
C. Styles