illmatic on the r

do me a favor. when you get home, go through your collections. i want you to look at all the media you have. review your clothing, letters, all your personal, material items. while doin' this, take out all thoughtful pieces that were given to you that you've kept. find a piece that meant a lot to you (that copy of tales of a fourth grade nothing, the homemade bookmark of russian profanity, and yes, that picture frame made out of macaroni). take it out, yo. if time has been good to you, you've collected a few items that may not be worth a damn but save some sentimental booyakasha's for that waftin' soul. people don't know how we feel about 'em the majority of the time, but if i was reminded that someone kept my ol' mix of lisa lisa classix in their mixx...i'd feel...wait, lump in my throat.

yeah. let's do that. take a picture, wear that shirt, play that mix and let that person know that whatever they did for you in their time has remained timeless for you.

brooklyn, ny 2005

mr. mark would like his copy of the gun in betty lou's handbag back. that wasn't a gift, yo.

black nostaljack

there was a time when memories were allowed to be that. apparently, the future won't allow nostalgia. not when you can view your favorite childhood movie as a director's cut at the drop of a dime (it was cloak and dagger and it sucks as an adult). not when you visit where you lost your virginity via google maps (it was the bench in front of wendy's and it's got a guy with a soul asylum t-shirt sittin' on it). and not when you can reconnect with someone on facebook who should've stayed a memory since it's depressin' to find your cherished pot buddy now holdin' down fort as the assistant manager at ruby tuesdays (and he's still rockin' the long hair minus a lot of folliclelage).

damn you technology. you make my memories smell like poo.

nyc, 2003

yet, mr. mark looks better than before. and he's just gettin' started. owwwwzah!

no endz, no skinz

damn. those battle scars from the pre-adulthood days of crushes and heartbreak stay with you forever. i can get over a bad date as a 30-year-old. but the time i put into ana j., the big bootied argentine...boy those memories haven't faded. she was too nice to me, because it gave me false hope for a day where we'd she let me touch her butt while we tango'd (i of course envisioned wooing her with a surprise tango routine...jaw would drop, her knees would shake, a muscle flex or two would rip my shirt). when she gave up the digits, she set me up for failure. again, envisioining long phone conversations where she'd ask me to recount the amount of times i'd seen the goonies, or how many pairs of glasses i'd been through in my 8 years since having them. instead, i was offered a constant ring tone and her wonderful mother who apparently never knew where her daughter was. i eventually made it over to her place one night to smoke pot and listen to blues traveller and argentine folk songs. and while i watched her play guitar, smilin' at her mistakes, i envisioned a time where i would be with a queen who would be playin' songs for me, askin' me about my life, and letting me pat her butt freely.

i didn't envision askin' her to be quiet for a little bit and takin' my hand back so i could grab the remote and turn up the last few minutes of no reservations. damn, why you be so annoyin'?

go back to your 16-year-old mind at times. it'll make you appreciate your booty grabs better.

rockville, md, 1995

mr. mark wonders why you have some chinese family still tellin' mr. mark "there no ana here" whenever he calls, ana?

i'm the magnificent

as a kid, it was somethin' with a kung fu grip in the backpack. as a teen, it was usually a wethered condom in the wallet. as a young adult, it was a license carrying your own home address on it. now...well, we still got them things we keep on our person to showcase who we are, whether it's true or not. keys with some euro auto emblem blazin', a few pics of your kids, that same condom. shoot, maybe that'll never stop. you end up walkin' with a cane by the time you're ready to go and we all know the kind of stroll that's called.

i carried this joint in my back pocket my senior year provin' how cool my weekends were. hopefully, nobody smelled the bluff.

washington, dc, 1997

mr. mark carries his cell phone on him. he just wishes it would ring.

orange pineapple juice

what is nostalgia? was the past really a better time or is it safer to bet on something that can't change? maybe we just need a few things that won't alter in our lives. so much does and it'd be nice to have somethin' be consistent. maybe that's why dick clark won't die. that's nice of him.

st. laurent, qc, 2006

mr. mark misses michael j. fox sitting still.

always comin' back home to you

you gotta give props to where you're from. you look around close enough and you gonna find somethin' that someone else admires. even if it's the biggest target store.

word up otsego, minnesota. damn, y'all got everything there. mall of america. lakes. prince.

washington, dc, 1994

mr. mark counters with black people, headline ready interns, and a label hatin' punk rock outfit that charged less than a hamilton for rawness. doncha know, son.

they reminisce over you

i wish some things didn't change so quickly. 12" dance was were i copped my first hip hop record on vinyl. it was the geto boys "mind playin' tricks on me" back in the early 90's. 12" became dj hut which now will become...something retarded, no doubt. in their words:

DJ Hut friends and customers,
We have some sad and disappointing news to share with you. DJ Hut can no longer battle the dual headwind of the demise of the music retail industry and the economic downturn. As a result, we are forced to shut down the store and go strictly online at the end of April. Effective immediately, all vinyl records, CDs, DVDs and books will be liquidated at the rate of 20% off the regular price.
We would like to thank you for your support over the last 7 years at the store and we look forward to your continued support online.
Best,
DJ Hut Crew

i'm tired of losing small, personable business in america. i'm starting a fasting movement until this changes. i'm not eating my vegetables until this country comes to its senses. rally up and join me people. we're leaving the brussel sprouts on the table.

washington, d.c., 1994

mr. mark emplores you to buy vinyl locally. it's good for the environment and it's safer than war bonds.

a song about (anotha) friend

what would you put on your "sorry for being a major prick in my early 20's" mix? i think i'd start out with "peach fuzz" by kmd 'cause it's cute and it's hard to stay mad at someone when they do endearing things like that. like when women laugh during sex. i take it as endearing, at least.

nyc, 2002

mr. mark would like to add that it's his rendition of "tonight you belong to me" that provided the laughter. he thinks. wait, that's fucked up. that was mad sincere and shit.

x clan

there's always some way of upping the game with your peers. back in high school it was all about a bit of shading on certain parts of your body. it claims the "what happened last night" label, and dammit if you didn't work to get your due. if you walked into school with dark bags under your eyes, scratches or dirt on your skin, or maybe, just maybe a bluish purplish lip stain on your neck...you got some respect. but if you were really lucky, you walked into school with a black mark or "x" on your right hand telling everyone that you are a nocturnal animal and the city is your bitch. and since most teens will give you the benefit of the doubt, you don't have to make up an alternative to the bare truth- spending the evening seeing amy grant with your grandparents. for the third time. in one year.

i miss the simple power of black ink. student loans, credit card payments, and mortgages don't really have the same effect on peers. ya feel mee?

washington, d.c., 1996

mr. mark's superhero power would involve a black rubber stamp.

ex girl to the next girl

hmmm...lookin' back on your past relationships, how much was she the mistake versus you? 'cause when it comes down to it, we all lookin' for somethin' with our s.o.'s, whether it be love, validation, or santa's magical gift bag. 15 wasn't really a scoring age for nookie but i got my fair share of swag from the poor ladies that were in my pimply path. my mind wrapped itself in it's own form of validation, namely, if they're not giving up the nookie, it better be some form of loot. in six months i had aquired a copy of star wars, a boombox, tube underwear (for some reason), and these prized autographs.
thinkin' back, i realize where the mistake really was. i mean, are you really gonna give nookie to an acne'd 15-year-old tgif watching fool who will probably horde this prized possesion past the age of 30?

skeletons lurk in that closet, yo. i still have some thumbtacked to the wall.

rockville, md, 1994

ladeez, mr. mark luvs you, but it's time to part with that jordan catalano pillow. a hangin' with mr. cooper blanket will be sacrificed for your maturation.

award tour

big up's...props...we all need recognition and shit. my biggest moment came one year ago where one of those claw grabbing machines at a denny's in harve de grace presented a challenge. you know the kind...you put in a quarter and move the claw to grab a stuffed animal or something made in china. the dark knight was in there and i had to prove it to myself. three quarters, some skillful maneuvering, and it was mine. i even saw the staff give a quiet nod. besides that and this award (rightfully earned), you'd say my life is sad. but, i ain't reachin' for pieces of paper, gold statues, or stichery from china to validate me. there's somethin' called a hug and a smile which i get pretty often. it makes my soul shine and shit. and no award can outgloss that, son.

hugs are life's way of validating you. they also get you closer to boobies.

potomac, md, 1988

mr. mark does sleep with the dark knight next to him and requires the glow of a night light.

the rep grows bigga

what would the romans have done if they had digital cameras? what about genghis khan? leif ericson? what kind of documentation would we have had? age automatically adds something. the vintage pix are all about "crew stylin'." ain't even tryin', just doin'. even when we try to get a rep with the photographic image it can't mess with the posse effect of stone faces and sepia from years back. but who knows, maybe the romans would've inundated us with thousands of pix of them celebrating with their girlfriends over martinis and "oh god...yeah...that one where marci fell down...and oh yeah, the one where we're all in the picture clinking our glasses...and the ones where we're dancing because 'livin' on a prayer' came on"...without even the common decency to edit them before putting them on facebook. fucking romans, yo.

while this pic may not be in my lifetime, fella in the middle was. spawned me in '79 and thank god there ain't no "stylin'" pix of that, son.

puerto rico, 1950

for once, mr. mark would like to be invited to have martinis.

hip hop from mom's basement

life is 3% luck, 45% showing up, and 52% managerial. movement is caused when you get up and show your face. the rest falls in when you do the paper work. wonder why you still see shitty movies, watch bad television, and hear wack music? how many bosses have you had that you'd consider "bright?" 90% of people can't function with the 97% of effort that's needed. especially artists, yo. what a sensitive bunch. suckas can work a canvas, but most turn jello when they have to represent themselves, pay a bill, or leave for sunlight. that's why we're stuck with business mindedness in life, yo. and a lot of the good stuff will stay underground until artists can find a way to leave their basement and say "i am....oh, god i'm not ready for this." maybe just the "i am" part. don't worry, that was just the postman. it's gonna be alright, dog.
after saying all of this, there are times when the art should stay in the basement. rather, it should die there.

potomac, md, 1994

daisy fuentes? mr. mark is deeply ashamed. deeply.

so fresh, so clean

i was 8 when i stopped going to my local barber. he was vietnamese and always performed a straight up operation. in 1987, i went in and surprised him by asking for an ollie cut- a crewcut style from the 50's, dog. 5 minutes in and some hair chopped, he asked "so you like oliver north, do you?" maybe i should've asked for the noriega.

montreal, quebec, 2002

couffure pour hommes no longer sits on st. laurent. gettin' harder these days to point to the sign and say "make me look as orwellian as possible."

knowledge reigns supreme over nearly everybody

i aim to learn. use this thing called google a lot. but a lot of my information comes from kids. they pick things up and pass them on to you. kids are the real google, yo.

i knocked my arm months back while i was teaching. funny bone tinglin'...lost my concentration. dc youngin' says, "funny bone, right?"

"what about it?"

"give it a few seconds. that sensation happens because your bone is moving and it keeps it from breaking."

i will never trust information from the internet again.

kids are lil' scholars, yo.

washington, d.c., 2008

mr. mark stops 4th graders to ask how to stop hiccups.

'96 année érotique

foreign exchange students. not sure if i need to apologize for this, but they were the first i went after. actually, all the otha grrrls was first, until i realized that it's hard to turn someone down when you don't speak the language. when my muscle flexing didn't translate, i went to the cine. we was mad close to a french invasion in the 90's. and for real, would that have been a bad thing?
julie delpy was girl next door, when the girl next door was that foreign exchange student who still knew more about what to do in town, and was a constant source of imported gauloises.
emmauelle béart. angelina jolie? get the fuck outta here. yo, béart was doing it before you, grrrl. better lips and better pathos. jolie's the type of woman who sleeps with eye wraparounds, forcibly on her back, while she shoos brad away for disturbing the type of sleep prescribed by her inside source at W magazine for removing "unwanted streesful lines caused by bad spiritosis." béart squirms and screams in her sleep, waking up to have a cigarette, saying "fuck, that was goood."
finally, still jonesin' to see ms. deneuve get the props that she deserves stateside, especially after catching her do the lesbian bit in les voleurs in '96. keep agin' mama. still goin' strong givin' pride to older women, if only they'd give her the juice she deserves...

esquire, '96

mr. mark hopes charlotte gainsbourg responds to his fan mail at some point.

ladies love cool james

what lady out there doesn't like a cat who can dance? it's a tough world out there when that ain't impressive no more. my mom was always awed.

1994, my mom and i had our issues. she was a widow and taking care of a confused, hormonal, pissed off, fatherless 15 year old. so, what happens when the grief prevents you from talking, and your son isn't about to admit to stealing your victoria's secret catalogues? you don't talk. you take your son to see james brown. in the future, there will be this communicative device called a blog, which your son will use to write "thanks, mom."

mothers are natures way of birthing you. they also put bandaids on shit when you fall.

upper marlboro, maryland, 1994

mr. mark still has no idea why the catalogues disappeared, but misses the second skin satin collection.

the visualz

highways in this country really mess with your identity. if it isn't making you feel bad for not knowing your new testament, it's taunting you to stop and say hello to the friendly folks that live in cracker barrels, waffle houses, and sbarro's (which i figure is some kind of native american saying...which makes me feel worse for not having cultural sensitivity). my community don't have none of this...i'm really not feeling "alive with pleasure" as you say. however, this country affords everyone the right to their independence of spirit and with patience you can find your identity on the side of the road. mine smells like rae dawn chong.

signs and billboards are america's way of telling you where you're going. they also sell shit too.

jerome, arizona, 2008

mr. mark will trade mom's basement for an overnight in a waffle house one day.

i used to love h.i.m.

mr. ford was once han solo.  christopher walken was considered for the role.  you do not see christopher walken in mexican bars with midwestern tourists and central american travel agents.  he drinks his coronas in the dark.

mr. ford, you've ruined my nostalgia.  take your age with grace, dog.

ny post, 2004

mr. mark no longer believes that indy can crack a whip.  

don daddy

missing fathers do their bit when they come around.  maybe a guilty conscience.  when my dad did it, he did it big.  at 13, he asked where in the world i'd like to- 

"jamaica, pop."

kept his word and we went.  i got away with that shit, yo.  pop bringing me to jamaica.  besides getting island diarrhea, buying a machete, 2am phone calls from island janes, and a young friend who liked to sing ritchie valens songs, i was all about picking up tracks to bring stateside.  not like i was a producer, i just liked my walkman more than clean underwear. walking into a store, "mark, what music would you-"

"all of this," as i pointed to a rack of tapes.

spoiled again with 6 tapes of unreleased stateside hype.  i was popular in my head for a long time after that.  every parent does their thing in tryin' to show love to their kid.  my dad had his moments.  i don't have any photos from this caribbean excursion, but i still have ninjaman.

i think he had a feeling about some other stuff, too.  dad died 9 months later.

jamaica, 1992

mr. mark still thinks he's popular.  ninjaman tells him so.