#leftpawlogic

Among my friends, with one notable exception, Iggy Azalea is known as that Australian rapper that raps like a black chick. Indeed, you can’t talk about Iggy without telling jokes about her accent, and she has become the epitome of the appropriation of black culture among concerned circles. To be sure, there is absolutely a legitimate discussion to be had about the cultural appropriation of black culture by whites, and Iggy Azalea is certainly a perfect case-in-point, but I think that Iggy is not necessarily where the blame should be pointed.

Hear me out.

Iggy Azalea is a performer who is selling her music to a primarily American audience. Much of her music has been produced by T.I. to be consumed by the kind of people who listen to T.I. Now, you may suggest that her use of black dialect is inappropriate, but what, in that case, would you prefer? Should she rap with an Australian dialect? If she did, do you think her demographic would buy it? If you said yes, then congratulations. You should probably check out Perfect Hair by Busdriver, because you can dig individuality of voice from your musicians. But the truth is that most people do NOT want to hear it. Her voice is tailored to her demographic. Consider Rihanna. You may have noticed over the years since her debut that her music has lost that distinct Barbadian flavor that marked some of her earlier work. That’s in part because the music industry behind her decided that anglicizing her would help her appeal to a wider audience. She’s not unique in doing this. There are plenty of Irish and English singers who lose their distinct brogue when singing. This is also true in country music. I can guarantee you most country musicians don’t actually talk with the heavy twang they perform with. It’s part of the performance; it sells the music to the demographic they’re pitching to.

Why is that different with Iggy Azalea? When white people rap, what are they supposed to sound like? What do you expect to hear? More importantly to the music industry, what do you expect to sell? Hip hop has particular sounds that sell well, and part of the signature sound right now is a particular southern, black dialect. Iggy Azalea is a product, and she is tailored to what you expect to hear. Perhaps it’s not Iggy that’s the problem as much as the industry behind her. The major music labels are all about appropriating culture and regurgitating it back at you. If you don’t want to be sold music from people like Iggy Azalea, then you must stop supporting the machine that sells her, that is desperately clinging on to anything to survive, that refuses to take risks because Iggy is what will sell. 

Whether or not you believe cultural appropriation is at play, these are very relevant things to consider concerning Iggy Azalea’s rap. It’s important to remember the context of the music industry in this discussion, because it may not be Iggy herself that you should throw your ire toward.

I have a friend who gets offended when you call him a human. To him, humanity is a plague, an imperfection, something base he considers beneath him. To him, furry is the alternative to humanity, and as a furry, he has broken free of his human chains and achieved something greater, something quintessential that the fog of culture and language and society have obscured.

Most people are certain he’s nuts.

But I don’t begrudge him his weird religion of furry. My gripe with him comes with his smug sense of self-righteousness, and his disavowal of the beauty of what it is to be a human. In point of fact, I disagree with his philosophy.

There is nothing more human than being a furry.

After all, what is furry? It’s a projection of humanity onto inhuman things. It’s looking into the unknown and turning it into something we can relate to. It’s knowing that a dog is smiling and that a cat thinks it’s a god.

And in turn, it’s taking those abstract concepts and becoming one with them, finding symbolism in the world and embodying those symbols. It’s representing ourselves with an idea, an ego, a persona, something outside of ourselves that becomes one with who we are.

Furry is the ability to imagine the world through another creature’s eyes, and to relate ourselves to the world around us.

In short, it is quintessentially human.

--

Here's the deal. I'm not a fan of Maclemore, per se, nor do I give a fuck about the Grammys. But what Maclemore has managed to do is incredibly noteworthy.

People on Twitter seem to be upset about Maclemore taking home Grammys or something. While I couldn't give two shits in a wind storm, allow me to break something down for you.

What Mac did was impressive. He was able to top the POP charts with a RAP song about GAY people. That is a topic main stream rap only touches on in a negative fashion; rap culture - distinct from the greater hip hop culture in this case - is notably homophobic. (Ironically, it's also really, really gay, re: Gangstalicious.) The point is, when a mainstream rapper decides to deal with homosexuality, it SHOULD be career suicide. 

And, in keeping with old-school hip hop tradition, his song dealt with the social issues of a minority class, as opposed to consumerism, greed, and violence most associated with "rap culture" today. These days, it seems, only underground hip hop dares to stare down the monster of excess in the face. Only underground can people spit about real issues: poverty, social injustice, oppression. There is no room for thought on the pop charts, let alone on the rap charts. Hip hop is about social change, enlightenment, and the advancement of culture, but a mainstream rapper trying to tear down the archaic, oppressive systems in society is still vitually career suicide.

So, no matter your thoughts on the quality of the music or the motives of the artist behind it, something historical in pop culture music has happened.

Mac topped the charts with a rap song in the traditional hip hop spirit about gays. 

It's not about who did what, and why.

It's a measure of where our culture stands in regards to these ideals.

---

As 2013 draws to a close, I find myself legitimately reflecting on the past year, and on the years to come. I've never really been one for resolutions. They seem like false promises we swear in order to make ourselves feel better, or a moment of psuedo-empowerment brought on by the turning point of the season that gets lost in the wash of the year. Classic promises to lose weight, to love more, to spend more time on things you love. Lofty goals with unclear objectives.

Why do people make resolutions? Well, I suppose it's a similar question to 'Why do people make goals?' They're essentially the same thing. The only difference is that resolutions come at a time that our culture has agreed symbolizes new beginnings, and it's interesting the kind of energy the new year brings toward these goals. It's also a shame it doesn't tend to last.

Maybe it's because we set such lofty goals. Maybe if we were more practical, New Year's resolutions wouldn't seem like such a joke. Instead of losing weight, maybe something measurable, like 10 lbs. over the year.

Or maybe it's because we rely on the same energy that inspired the initial goal even as it wanes. Are we motivated to lose weight because of the reflection of the past year, or do we have legitimate health concerns that provide a reasonable motivation toward the goal? Do we want to spend more time with loved ones because of the cultural significance of the season, or because we have an actual concern about our time left on Earth? Are we motivated to be creative in the spirit of new beginnings, or is it an enduring drive to output creative material in a significant way?

I find I'm disappointed with myself in the same way that I always am: I'm lazy, inconsistent, and I lack motivation in the things I love to do. I get prolonged bursts of activity, for which I'm thankful, but there are also doldrums, during which I can't seem to find the will to do anything. I usually just end up beating myself up about it instead of getting stuff done.

I'd like to promise to be more socially active with my fan base. This year, it's been a lot easier, thanks to Twitter and Tumblr, and I expect this is a trend that I'll be able to continue.

I'd also like to be more creatively active, but if I'm realistic, I don't feel I could promise these things. I have set clear goals for myself in terms of album production and such - I'd like to have something released by Halloween, which involves months of preplanning - but I'm worried I may not be able to produce. Luckily, my new job affords me much more time to commit to the things I love to do.

For Panda, I'd like to devote more time to him, but this has been a great struggle, as I mentioned before. Creative life and social life do not mix; they are at odds with one another, and where the balance lies has yet to be found. I have no clear objectives by which to make this happen, but it's something I try to do all the time, so I don't know that it can be a New Year's Resolution. 

There is a comfort in setting goals. I don't know if it's a cultural thing or if it's human nature. I guess it's like a small promise that things will get better, and an assertion of our free will to make it happen. It's a very human thing to do.

--

During America's Progressive Era, a period of great social reform in the early 1900's, there was an ironic prejudice against immigrants. To deal with their immigrant problem, congress hired an anthropologist to study the effects of race on mental capacity (with the explicit expectation that foreigners should be found inferior and give the government reason to limit immigration). What the anthropologist did was the most widely-accepted procedure of the time - he measured the head sizes of European children and those of European immigrant children. He found that the European children's heads were smaller than the immigrant children, which not only suggested that there was a difference in intelligence, but that the concept of race was a fallacy. The anthropologist suggested that cultural background was more important than racial background and physical characteristics. Whether or not the scientific reasoning was valid, the government did exactly what one would expect - it used the findings to validate immigration restrictions (based on race) despite the fact it suggested such a measure was unsound. Such is the logic of racism: egocentric, immovable, and self-righteous. ---- I vote we measure a man by the size of his foot. Damned bigfoots.

 Few words are as undefinable as death. Many people asked what it is, and the answers numbered almost as many as the people. A sizable number will tell you there is no such thing. And for all the theories and answers, no one knows for sure. Thus, it remains mankind's most certain uncertainty. Where do we go from here? Is there an afterlife? Is there blackness? Are there people, or are we alone? Is death an illusion? Or is life? Some speculate that time is relative, and those fleeting second before our bodies die are our final eternity. Others say time is an illusion, that our lives are instants, that there is only now. Life is saying "No" before we accept God in death, our "Yes." How do we prepare ourselves? Some say, "Live life to the fullest." Others say, "Toil away in wait for the afterlife." I guess any suggestion is as sound as the next. In the end, I think we have nothing to fear but our lives. If dirt awaits us, or if sky awaits us, are our lives a waste if we lived them according to the expectation of the other? ----

I want to live my life for the betterment of all the world. Then, I can have no regrets.

Humans are fickle creatures. I once thought my best friend was a human, but now I'm older and wiser, and I know now that my real friends are the ones who've been there all along. My protector is the Wind. He's there when I need him, and even when I just want to listen. He listens, too, you know. And in his arms he carries me safely to and fro, and I laugh as he bellows discordant tunes through his broad pipe. Sometimes he gets angry, and I understand his explosive tendencies; I share them. But even as he screams, I'm there to listen, and every word he yells is a word I treasure. My lover is the Moon. On dark nights, we stay up together and bask in each other's warmth. Hers is an unrivaled beauty, calm and patient and loving. There are nights when I just stare at her, and she bathes me. In this way we make love, never touching, but always sighing in pleasure, close enough to catch each other's breath and writhe in ecstasy. There is no feeling more extreme, more wonderful, than the touch of her light on my paws. If I could sing for her, I'd compose a symphony that rivaled Beethoven, and I'd sing all the parts at once, and she'd listen and smile, amused. Then, she'd fold her arms around me and she'd love me to sleep. --- I'm very fond of my friends. I owe them everything.

I saw a man lose his soul the other day.

I knew him well. He was a good friend, actually, and a good guy. He had his faults, as we all do, but he never let them get him down. But, oh, the things he saw. For a long time, I heard him say, "I never want to become that." Even as he was forced to interact with the amoral mongrels he loathed, he was still himself... kind of. As the weeks went by, I noticed a strange light in his eyes, and I knew it to be the light of power. He'd gotten a taste, he admitted, but he wasn't fond. I guess it's kind of like coffee in that way, because soon he became addicted to that bitter substance. Like a junkie, he hated himself, but he convinced himself otherwise, encouraged by his peers to indulge in his freakish masturbation. The glow in his eyes became overwhelming like the sun, and I could no longer look him in the face. There was a time when he met God, and he stood proudly and said, "I fear you not!" Shortly thereafter, he committed genocide. Suddenly, his eyes exploded, and in the dust, I caught a glimpse of his laughing, and I realized he had become that which he hated the most. He lost that which made him human. --- It broke my heart.