Pimposition

Sometimes in a dream, or in the state of half-awakeness, I come up with a joke or an idea that seems really profound and interesting, but when I think about it in the sober light of day, it doesn't make much sense. Take last night's example:

"If they were Generation X, and they were Generation Y, are we Generation ZZZZZZZZZZZ?

No wonder I'm so fucking tired."

I don't really know what it means. All I know is even the idea had that italicisation, which probably means I'm controlled by the age of computers or something.

***

I'm a big fan of hip-hop music. In addition to liking the kind of backpack, Guardian-reader, right-on stuff (A Tribe Called Quest, Jurassic 5, De La Soul, etc), I also like the other stuff. I used to listen to a lot of Gangsta Rap and stuff too.

It raises the question of whether you can appreciate art if it seems morally or politically abhorent to you. A lot of rap music is disgustingly homophobic and misogynistic (and violent, but I don't really care about that). Does this mean I shouldn't enjoy it? Should I likewise reject the works of Wagner?

To be honest, I can't be bothered to go into it now. I probably believe good art is good art regardless of its ethical implications, but whatever.

What I really want to talk about is a particular aspect of Hip-Hop culture: the glorification of the pimp.

Now I know the word has altered its meaning. To pimp is now to promote. In common usage, it has spawned the Pimp That Snack and can be used in new and interesting ways. As a wrestling fan, it is now commonplace to hear someone asking for a site to 'pimp some 70s Dory Funk' which sounds like another language.

But pimp as occupation still seems to be revered. People like Snoop Dogg and 50 Cent (the least charasmatic, most overrated piece of shit in the world) dress like pimps, talk about their ho's (I don't know, is that right? maybe hoes), and wear big furry hats and canes which Kramer should have made uncool fifteen years ago.

Well done, lads. There's nothing better than selling women into sexual slavery. Let's have a party to celebrate! Those pimps, they're the model for a good lifestyle. They have money! They're good businessmen! Did I mention the hats?

Being proud of a horrific profession is one thing, but there is an extra layer of hypocrisy on top of the furry cake:

Hip-Hop comes from a long tradition of black music stemming from blues songs as an attempt to rebel against prejudice and slavery. This kind of music is a voice of protest and passion, letting the world know that freedom is attainable.

So it seems to be a fucking shame that these rappers who would (I'm sure) extoll the virtues of the heroic struggle against slavery, advocate a modern slavery. They have no idea, and they're so fucking proud of themselves!

But you don't really notice it. It's just accepted. Everyone just hates 50 Cent for other reasons. Anyway, I thought I should mention it. Maybe I'll release a joint of my own, criticising pimps and praising the humble librarian. Word.

[The preceeding comments make me sound really uncool. In reality, I'm slightly less uncool than they suggest.]

I'm probably a hypocrite because I'm in favour of legalising and regulating prostitution anyway, so don't listen to me.

***

I sometimes save good emails and conversations I've had online, and might reproduce some of them here to make up for my lack of ideas. Correspondence from when Lucy and I were both working at OUP has lots of fun, work-avoiding nuggets, which I'll hand pick. For now, here is a very short story I must have written when bored one morning. This makes about as much sense as my Generation Z comment above, but I'll post it anyway. I have a feeling Philip Hensher would hate it. Which makes me feel a little fuzzy inside:

At the party, the milling of several dozen semi-sensible professionals ensured that Arnold would remain in his self imposed exile in the far corner, lest some insensitive, blundering middle-manager mark Arnold out as a kindred spirit, having (as was perfectly possible) a similar mobile phone ringtone.
Arnold’s worry (well, not worry exactly, as his brow resolutely refused to kowtow to the social convention and physical oppression of a frown) was unjustified, however, as the attention of the room was captured by a small child, bouncing on the lap of a particularly pliable house-guest. The child resembled (so Arnold thought) a slightly disabled baby bear, with ideas above its station. The glowing smiles and pointedly jovial laughter of the surrounding Punch-and-Judy family friends caused a slight downturn of Arnold’s lip. He remembered when he had been the centre of idiotic attention as a baby bear; searching for honey, or fish… or whatever it is baby bears search for. On reflection though, Arnold reasoned that the adult faculties of intelligent conversation and self gratification more than outweighed the benefits of having someone change your nappy and bounce you on their bony, khaki-covered neo-liberal knee.
Looking for an out, Arnold turned to the woman nearest him (to whom he had been introduced by his narcoleptic, manic-depressive accountant Andy some three months previous). He was no good at instigating conversations, so asked her if she thought the scar on his forehead looked like a question mark. Nonplussed at her response that it looked to her more like “a duck doing a shit”, Arnold turned and ran head-first through a plate-glass window.

That was written nearly two years ago, which is freaking me out a bit. I'd better go and lie down (have a wank).