Common Sense

My all-time favorite hip-hop lyrics. The Roots featuring Common. “Love of my Life.” Common’s verse. One big metaphor about hip-hop. Similar to “I used to love H.E.R.” But so much better. I always dreamed of my Stand and Deliver moment. Dead Poet’s Society. Teaching an English class. Specifically poetry. To a bunch of inner-city kids. And I’m finally able to reach them. Finally able to get them grasp what metaphor means. Finally able to teach them to appreciate poetry. And it’s all thanks to my man Common.

I never taught inner-city kids. I probably never will. I was, however, fortunate enough to teach a section of PHI 191 (Ethics and Moral Value Theory) my senior year of college. I envisioned myself a man of the people, in touch with the students. I’d level with them. “I’m a student just like you. You might see me at the bars, might even have the misfortune of catching me dance on Thursday nights at Darwins.” Laughter. Next I’d explain my game plan to them. “I don’t want to make you do busy work or more reading than you have to. I want our class to be a place where we can come and discuss things. I’m not here to lecture you, just engage in a dialogue.” Now as their friend and their equal, I would inspire them. “Philosophy isn’t always about answers. Sometimes the real thinking lies in the question. On most any topic we discuss, there is no clear right or wrong; my job is to help you explain your beliefs and be able to support them with arguments.” Nice. Twelve freshman and sophomores looked at me like I was their savior. It was the first day and none of them knew what an idiot I really was.

There were some awkward moments. Most notably, the SU/Pitt game were I smuggled in a flask of whiskey and after drinking half of it before the game, spilled the rest all over myself. With a gigantic stain that looked like I pissed myself, a drunken Zidane began to scream at the crowd behind me. They were berating Craig Forth and praising Jeremy McNeil. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about,” I said. “McNeil should only be in when we press, he gets lost in the zone… Forth is our anchor. Watch how he moves off ball. Look at how he sets a screen. Check out his understanding of how to play the high low.” Boos. They were booing me. So I screamed back at them, enraged by their ignorance. Everyone hates a big, tall, lanky white guy who occasionally misses lay-ups, but only a true fan really understood that he was our best bet at center. At some point, say fifteen minutes into my screaming, one of my students, the cutest girl in my class – yes I had fantasies of giving her a little after-school tutoring – politely suggested that I might want to take a seat. I told her to go fuck herself, in the eloquent sort of way that only a really good teacher can.

That was nothing. Oh Common, heaven help me for what I did. It was the week before Spring Break and my section had just taken a mid-term in their lecture. They had no new assignments for the break, nothing to study for, and so I was left without much to discuss. I decided it would be the perfect opportunity to break out the Common lyrics. I should’ve known better, but Jewish boys who love hip-hop are not always the swiftest fellers.

I began class by giving them a choice; I was a fair guy after all. We could either review the material they had just been tested on or we could do an exercise in critical reading involving hip-hop, one that would get them out of class fifteen minutes early. They were on board. Having gone out drinking late the night before (my section met early Friday morning), I didn’t do a great job preparing for my lecture, but I thought I’d be fine. My plan was simple. Write the lyrics up on the board, go through them line by line, decipher what the metaphor was referring to in each line, and then do a conclusion about how when my section read their assignments, it’s not enough to just read the words, they had to make a greater effort to think about them critically. I was pretty fucking brilliant when I came up with the lesson plan at last call at the bar the night before.

I was just about finished writing the lyrics on the chalkboard, when I heard one of my students' cell phones ring. Now, cool guy Zidane, was pretty cool about everything… except cell phones. It was my one rule. If you answer your cell phone during class, I’m going to kick you out. Period. I drew my line in the sand early on. But sure enough, one of my student’s phones was ringing. I looked up from what I was writing and gave him a look – turn that shit off. He gave me a wave of his hand and picked it up. I tried to remain calm. I told the student that if he wanted to talk on the phone, he should probably continue the conversation after class. He brushed me off with his hand again, like, “just a second.” I tried harder to remain calm. I told the student I was going to kick him out of class if he continued to talk on the phone. He smiled at me. I was no longer calm.

“Get out!” I exclaimed. He grabbed his bag and headed out. I thought that was the end of it, but a few minutes later he returned to the class and went to sit back down. I was calm now. “I thought I told you, if you answer your phone in my class, especially after several warnings, you can’t stay. Get out!”

That’s when nice guy Zidane, the friendly teacher guy bit, all fell apart. The students didn’t fear me; they thought of me as a peer. In short, they thought they could walk over me and I was not having that on the day I was finally giving my inspiring Common Dead Poet's Society lecture. The guy freaked out. He screamed at me that he was just coming back to get his notebook. He told me to go to hell. I stayed calm this time. “Bye, bye.”

He left again, slamming the door. I thought it was finally time to do my lecture. I was wrong. A minute later the student returned in a blaze of idiotic glory. “Have you ever gotten your girlfriend pregnant?” he yelled as he burst in. I told him that no, I’d never been that stupid. Usually you have to be sleeping with someone in order to get them preggo; I didn’t have that problem at that moment in time. He kept going. “Well that was my girlfriend calling with the results of her pregnancy test and Jesus Christ himself couldn’t have stopped me from answering the phone!”

Now both the student and teacher were thoroughly embarrassed and I hadn’t even started my lecture yet. I told him I was sympathetic to his plight, but if he truly needed to answer the phone he could’ve told me it was an emergency, mentioned to me before class he was expecting an important phone call, or just walked outside and picked up the phone there. Having done none of these things, and deciding to insult me and challenge my authority instead, I was left with no choice to kick him out. “Bye, bye.” I said again. He left in huff, slamming the door.

I should’ve cut my losses right there, but my stupid hung-over self thought I could lift myself out of the hole with my inspiring lecture. Suffice to say that a class full of white kids attending Syracuse University weren’t too familiar with obscure references to Hype Williams, Common’s other albums, his beef with Ice Cube, or the basic trajectory of the commercialization of hip-hop. My lecture fell on deaf ears. The kids were bored out of their minds. They looked at me, the ones who were still awake, with pity in their eyes. I bailed early. And in that moment gave up any lingering thoughts about doing Teach For America or doing anything else remotely beneficial to society.

There are reasons why there aren’t more Stand and Deliver teachers. First and foremost, there is only one Edward James Olmos. If you watch Battlestar Galactica, you know what I’m talking about. Second, students are assholes who answer their cell phones during class. Third, teachers that expect their students to be as passionate about the subject matter as them are idiots; no matter how good their intentions are, no matter how close they are in age, teachers always seem to fail to understand that their students are probably just taking the class because they heard it’s an easy A for an elective that fills some requirement.

So rather than try and force meaning into Common’s lyrics, I’ve pasted them below. Feel free to check them out and if you get inspired stand on your desk and yell out, “Oh Captain, My Captain,” for this old Cousteau.


Yo, yo I was speakin, to my guy 'Riq and
How she was desperately seekin to Organize in a Konfusion
Usin, no protection, told H.E.R. on _Resurrection_
Caught in the Hype Williams, and lost H.E.R. direction
Gettin eight/ate in sections where I wouldn't eat H.E.R.
An under the counter love, so _Silent_-ly I _Treat_ H.E.R.
Her Daddy'll beat H.E.R., eyes all Puff-ed
In the mix on tape, niggaz had her in the buff
When we touch, it was more than just a fuck
The Police, in her I found peace (like who?)
Like Malcolm in the East
Seen H.E.R. on the streets of New York, trickin off
Tried to make a hit with H.E.R. but my dick went soft
Movin weight, losin weight, not picky - with who she choose to date
To confuse the hate, with her struggle I relate
Close to thirty, most of the niggaz she know is dirty
Havin more babies than Lauryn, she started showin early
As of late I realized, that this is H.E.R. fate
Or destiny that brings the best of me
It's like God is testin me
In _Retrospect_ I see she brought _Life_ and death to me
Peace to us collectively, live and direct when we perform
It's just coffee shop chicks and white dudes
Over H.E.R. I got into it with that nigga Ice Cube
Now the fight moved to in life, makin the right moves
Besides God and family, you my life's jewel

Coffee Shop Music Scene

First, I apologize about the lack of entries lately. I’ve sequestered myself at a coffee shop, here in Hermosa, in order to crank out a pilot during my five week vacation. Nearly all of my time and energy has gone into writing, although I must admit there’s nothing more enjoyable to me, then taking a break in the middle of the day to walk my buddy Hayden’s massive Labradane, Herman. There is perhaps no greater piece of mind, then experiencing the unconditional love of a good dog.

Anyway, back to the coffe shop. Java Man. You should know this about me: I don’t much care for pastries and sweets, refuse on principle to pay nearly nine dollars for a turkey sandwich that I could just as easily make at home, hate the taste of coffee and almost all coffee-related products, but I fucking love the coffee shop. I like that I’ve become a regular. I suppose spending six hours a day there will do that. They know what I’m drinking when I walk in. It’s hot tea in the morning (I vary it up, Earl Grey or this is kick-ass green tea called Fiji) and Iced in the afternoon. I have a little spot by the window that I like. It’s great for dog watching and checking out the most attractive forty year old women you could ever imagine. They’re not that nasty, botox, boob job, liposuction, alien-looking-like, forty-something that plagues Hollywood. These women are beach trophy wives and they’re hot. Okay, some of them definitely have boob jobs. But I’m losing my point.

The coffee shop is the only place I really get productive writing done. I focus there. I sit at my table, sip my tea, put on my iTunes, and write. Recently, I discovered a wonderful thing about Java Man. Because they offer free wireless internet, I’m part of the Java Man network. That means, every other guy in the place writing a script, listening to their music with iTunes, is plugged into the network… and if they’re decent enough, then like me, they’ve set their iTunes preferences to allow other people to check out and listen to their music library.

This is the single best method I’ve found for sampling music for free. Yesterday, I listened to The Street’s “Original Pirate Material,” off Hey Sexy Girl’s library. I’ve heard The Streets before, really like them, was briefly obsessed with their single “Never Went To Church,” but I don’t own any of their complete albums. I will shortly though. Thanks to Hey Sexy Girl, I discovered that “Original Pirate Material” is from top to bottom a fantastic hip-hop record. Ultra chill, great beats, wonderful production, and I’m a sucker for a British accent.

The day before I listened to Jay-Z’s back from retirement “Kingdom Come.” I’d heard about four singles from the album on the radio, wasn’t too impressed. “30 Something” had some impressive lyrics, but I wasn’t crazy about the beats. “Show Me What You Got” (the one from the Bud ads) was a bit too smooth for my tastes. The title track, “Kingdom Come,” which samples “Superfreak,” was nothing special. Then listening to it the other day in Java Man, I felt like maybe Jay shouldn’t have come back. This album paled in comparison to “The Black Album.” That was, until I got to the last track, “Beach Chair,” produced by Coldplay’s Chris Martin and Dr. Dre. Featuring Martin on the song, it was the only track on the album that felt full of soul. It’s probably not catchy enough to release as a single, but it’s far and away the best track on the album and left me with hope.

Quick sidebar. I have no idea what makes a good single. I think I’ve said this before, but in my opinion Kanye West’s “Gone” was the best produced hip-hop song to come out last year. And I understand releasing “Gold Digger” and “Heard ‘Em Say” as the first two singles from “Late Registration,” but I can’t for life of me understand why “Touch The Sky” and “Drive Slow” were the next two released and no one ever heard “Gone.” Craziness. But like I said, I don’t understand how and why a single gets chosen. And I like Jay-Z and Kanye are probably doing alright without me as an A & R guy.

Back to the coffee shop. There are a lot of thirty something guys in the shop and everyone of them seems to have tons of The Dead Kennedy’s in their library. That and Aerosmith’s “Pump.” And show tunes, tons of show tunes. Maybe it’s a generational thing, but this is all seems a bit odd to me. I think if I knew people were going to be browsing my music library, that I might avoid having a significant chunk of it dedicated to show tunes, but that’s just me.

And maybe these guys don’t care. After all, it’s all pretty anonymous. I have no idea who Hey Sexy Girl really is. It’s fun to guess. I assume it’s the prematurely balding guy in the corner, the one with a book on web design and cigarette stains on his teeth. Or maybe it’s his buddy, that he always talks with. The long haired smoker, who talks shit about his ex-girlfriend and he’s better off without her, but it’s so painfully obvious that he’s lonely, that he makes eye contact with me wondering if maybe I’ll talk to him.

There’s no way to know, unless I’m listening to the music and the guy quits out of iTunes and stands up and walks away. Not knowing only adds to the voyeuristic pleasure of it all though. You take a person, check out what may or may not be their music collection, and then construct a personality profile, imagining what they’re like as people. It’s people watching with a musical twist. And when I’m not writing, it’s one of my favorite things to do.

A few other little tidbits. I’ve had the opportunity to go through my own music and dust off some cobwebs, so a few quick thoughts:
1. The Beta Band “The Three EP’s” is perhaps the ultimate coffee shop album.
2. If you like reggae and you like Radiohead, check out Easy Star All Stars… it’s exactly that… reggae covers of Radiohead songs.
3. If you like jazz and you like reggae, Ernest Ranglin is the shit!
4. Gillian Welch is a white girl with some serious soul. You might know her from the O’ Brother Where Art Thou Soundtrack… she does some awesome Appalachian folk music. I mean, white chicks with soul are few and far between. I’m struggling to think of any. Maybe Nelly Furtado? Amy Winehouse? Lily Allen? Anyway, check out “The Devil Had A Hold Of Me,” if you don’t believe me.
5. Vic Ruggiero’s “A Live At The Ladybug House” is everything that a singer songwriter should be live in concert. Great singing, neat and tidy guitar, and lyrics about nasty women and booze.