H-I-P. H-O-P. H-E-A-D.

...been since 1-9-8-3. Well, in my case, it was 1985. (But I couldn't resist throwing down the Jurassic 5 quote.) Although that's not exactly true either since my first genuine exposure to hip hop was accidentally seeing the Beastie Boys when they opened for Madonna on her Like A Virgin tour. (No, I'm not kidding. It's true! Horribly, irrevocably, true. Look it up!) So at age 17 I stood in Met Stadium with my mouth agape watching three unbelievably strident, skinny white boys leap around the stage screaming "You gotta fight! For your right! To paaaaaaar-tay!" What. The. Hell?! I had absolutely no idea what I was seeing. I hated it. All I was interested in was that idiotic material girl. Ahh, the 80s.

Of course 1986 brought the release of Raising Hell (Run D.M.C.) and the rest is hi(phop)story. To say a lot has happened in the genre since then is beyond understatement. And last night I had the privilege of listening to one of the veritable godfathers of hip hop, Chuck D, talk about it all at the Fitzgerald Theater for the last in The Current's Fakebook series. He is erudite and funny and as I sat up in balcony two I wished every person I know who turns up their nose when confronted with rap was there to hear him.

So. It's time I come out. I've been listening almost exclusively to hip hop for the last couple of years. Well, exclusively is a bit strong but at least to the point of annoying various friends and very probably my husband. I don't personally know many people who are fans so I've stumbled along in the dark eagerly following the bright lights of Wu-Tang Clan, Missy Elliott, Roots Manuva, Jurassic 5, the Beastie Boys, and Public Enemy (word); with side trips over to a bunch of the Frenchies ( like MC Solaar) and the Cubanos (like Orishas), Das/EFX and Mos Def; finally graduating to the likes of Common, Nas and Rakim.

I've made discoveries on film soundtracks. Most notably Wu-Tang and especially RZA after seeing Ghost Dog: Way of the Samurai (Jim Jarmusch). Or I've fallen in love with a voice I've heard in some more accessible (to me anyway) band, like finding Chalie 2Na of Jurassic 5 doing vocals on a Gorillaz song.

But why the love? I realize a big part of it for me is simply words. I'm a reader. A lover of text and language and no one, no one, plays with words with such abandon as rappers. I can't help but make the very early connection to the first time wordplay made me laugh out loud and made the hair on the back of my neck stand up in the same way hip hop can: Amelia Bedelia books (Peggy Parish). (Oh, Chuck D! Tell me you loved them, too!) I know it's a cliché to cry poetry! about rap, it's been done, but only because it is often absolutely true.

Now I'm not talking about gangsta rap here (although there a few I find sort of humorous but most is nasty and pointless). I think a huge part of the bias against hip hop comes from the very unfortunate success of a few shallow pop/rap stars (I ain't hatin' I just heard better) who make way too much money and waaaay too much news. But look at any popular stars and you see the exact same thing. Madonna (there ya go). Britney. Lindsay. The rap/pop stars of the world are no different. We can't condemn all popular music because of a thin layer of whipped cream on top of the real deal.

Great art isn't going to be delivered into your lap with a pretty bow on top. You need to do the work to learn about it and rush out to meet it half way. Rap isn't easily accessible to some of us. Neither is opera.

Chuck D is an artist in every sense of the word; and he invented a few of his own. To hear him speak of music, art, politics, activism, his family (and his '94 Montero), and growing old and gettin' corny (own it!) and giving back was inspiring. He has stood his ground throughout his career and set an example for those coming up behind him and for us all.

Still dubious? I suggest taking a closer listen. So much of hip hop is just joyous. Smart. And some of the most fun you'll ever have. And if you doubt the talent of some of these guys...pick pretty much any rap and try to learn it. Try to deliver that flow with any kind of smooth coherence. It is daunting. And dang if you don't feel awesome when you finally get it!

Truthiness.

Truman Capote deserves credit for pretty much single-handedly inventing literary journalism. And re-reading In Cold Blood is reminding me of all the other books in this form that I love. I think authors like Joe McGinnis owe TC a huge debt. I very highly recommend McGinnis' The Miracle of Castel di Sangro. (A big shout out to Ivar Johnson, not a regular reader of 'novels and the like' who picked this up on a whim in an airport and broke down in tears over it-and it's mostly about soccer-on the flight. He gave me his copy.)

The same visceral vibe crosses over into a lot of historical fiction and a couple of my favorites in that realm include Pulitzer-prize winning The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier & Clay (Michael Chabon), Devil in the White City (Erik Larson), and a fabulous book based on the life of Virginia Woolf whose title is completely escaping me at the moment. (I just know this will be keeping me up tonight.) I had a copy signed by the author which in my excitement (and like an idiot) I lent to someone I didn't know very well; and alas... No doubt the title will hit me in the wee hours and I'll be up editing.

(And yes I was watching Stephen Colbert and blogging at the same time. I must earn some kind of special nerd patch for that, no?)

Quid pro quo.

When I was little my babysitter, Donna, lived right next door. Most days after she got home from school I would pull together a hefty stack of books and march across the lawn to her back door. Donna invariably answered my call and would spend seemingly endless amounts of her precious teenager free time reading to me. Blessed with book-obsessed offspring, my mom calls it payback.

With the almost-six-year-old well into his own stack of reading, (except for nightly bed time stories read to him by my husband because "he can do all the voices") I was just waiting for the almost-two-year-old to make that story connection. This weekend he did. In spades.

There is now a stack of about 14 board books, all with conveniently-shortened-to-one-word titles; like "Uh oh" for We're Going on a Bear Hunt (Michael Rosen) and "Fly" for The Very Lonely Firely (Eric Carle) next to the comfy chair in my living room. Rest assured (or actually, not), I know when I walk in the door this evening I will be greeted with "Mama! Hand. Walk. Sit. Read!"

Drunken, frisky pagans.

Is that a beautiful phrase, or what? I totally stole it from Chuck Terhark's (hi, Chuck!) intro to the feature story in the April issue of METRO magazine. He's a clever lad who manages to reference both Pump Up the Volume and Fight Club coherently in the span of two paragraphs. If you think you know everything about the Twin Cities, think again. And go buy a copy of METRO! (You can't miss it. Just look for the gigantic, fuschia, snakeskin shoe on the cover. Yikes!)

This month's feature is a collection of bits about everything from lunatics who surf Lake Superior to Minneapolis' up and coming graffiti (outdoor?) artists. Most notably, John Grider, who is incredibly talented and very, very brave. Though mention of the jump from the street into galleries just made me think immediately of Jean-Michel Basquiat (a/k/a Samo) who accomplished this feat and far more before he died of a heroin overdose in 1988.

Quick story tangent: I worked at a certain Beverly Hills hotel in the 80s and Basquiat stayed there while in town for an art show. He removed all of the "paintings" from the frames in his room and rehung them empty. He denied maids or anyone else access and when he departed, they opened the room to find that he had kept all of the windows open and welcomed in numerous pigeons. (I also have stories about Emo Philips, Michael Jackson, Vidal Sassoon, Mickey Rourke, Milton Burle, Willem Dafoe, Tone Loc, one of the Princes of Saudi Arabia, and Billy Idol. It really is in your best interest to buy me cocktails.)

There is a lovely film about Jean-Michel's life and death done by New York painter and director Julian Schnabel. Schnabel also directed the absolutely stunning Before Night Falls and the surprising Le Scaphandre et le Papillon (The Diving Bell and the Butterfly) which was nominated for four Academy Awards this year.

We're not in Kansas anymore.

A while since the last post, I know. Spent a week in Mexico where normally I would accomplish quite a lot of reading between the plane rides and laying around in a lounge chair but my son is nearly two. Need I say more? Luckily, he naps. And pool+beach+sunshine equals tired babies so when I could keep my eyes open long enough (the above formula works on grown-ups, too) I was also able to get in a chapter or two after kiddo bedtime.

I brought along and finally finished What the Body Remembers (Shauna Singh Baldwin). It was our first book group selection this year and I just couldn't get into it. Yet there it sat, leering at me from my 2008 Reading List and I just couldn't in good conscience leave it there unread. Baldwin's lush descriptions grew on me and like any book, once I got to know and understand her style and came to appreciate it I enjoyed it immensely.

The story tracks the Punjabi peoples in India through Partition: Muslims, Hindus, and Sikhs. I couldn't ignore the parallels to the current war in Iraq and America's complete disregard of the history, customs, and beliefs of three very distinct cultures. The story is eerily relative and I think is a chilling look at what may be in store for a country "created" by a distant, arrogant and criminally ignorant nation. (Ooh, did I say that out loud?)

Roop's personal story is so small by comparison. And yet it's intimate nature allows the reader to really move through this foreign world with some sense of reality and understanding. Singh Baldwin leaves us touch stones along the way that give us the ability to become invested in Roop and Sardarji in a way the occupying English never could. This irony is not lost on the careful reader.

To follow this up with The Yiddish Policeman's Union (Michael Chabon) brought some interesting insights. One of the many underlying themes is the fictional reversion of the state of Alaska from a forced Jewish refugee settlement back to America. Going from India's Partition to Alaska's Reversion has an odd and unexpected synchronicity which I totally dig.

Yet Chabon's prose couldn't be more different from Singh Baldwin's. His writing is tight, clever, and when wielded via hammer blows pounding out a pseudo-historical noir thriller, it is downright heart stopping. His prose is gorgeous and to steal my best friend Sarah's line once again, makes my brain tingle. It reads like the love child of Raymond Chandler and Thomas Pynchon.

I was hoping to spend some quality time relishing Chabon's words over Easter but between a trip to Duluth and then the incensed "toto" (Calder's work for chocolate)-induced hilarity after the bunny's visit I'll have to work a little harder this week. Though I think it will be no effort at all to push through this page turner and move on to In Cold Blood (Truman Capote) before next book group on April 2nd.

Oscar buzz.

This Sunday I watched the 80th Academy Awards in the lobby of the Hilton El Conquistador in Tucson while on a business trip. It was really fun to chat with strangers I'll never see again about movies, dresses (what was with all the red? I think Diet Coke and their heretical "heart health awareness" campaign is behind it), and good v. bad acceptance speeches.

I happened to be in the middle of reading Atonement (Ian McEwan), our March book group selection and a Best Picture nominee. (I made a point of not seeing the movie until I finished the book.) By the way, I am violently opposed to novel covers pumping a movie. I steadfastly refuse to buy any book with actors on the cover and did actually have to go to two bookstores before I could find a copy without those horrid words "Now a Major Motion Picture." (Have you ever noticed it's always major?) Bad enough that the version I did find, though a lovely black cover with a black & white image, still says "In theaters soon. Read the book before you see the movie!" But at least that's a sentiment I can get behind.

I was halfway down the very last page just as my plane touched down in Minneapolis. Perfect timing. How odd it was to see the clip for the Best Supporting Actress nominee, Saoirse Ronan, and then come to that "scene" in the book and have that moment of "ah, that's what she was talking about." I loved the story. I had inklings along the way of what was coming--tingles--and was completely enamored of Ian McEwan's process. A great book, a great ending, and I can't wait to discuss. (Important note to book group members: be sure to finish this one or you will be pissed! You do NOT want this one spoiled.)

During the Oscars there was a totally overwhelming montage of the previous 79 Best Picture winners and it was interesting to see Truman Capote's In Cold Blood, our April book group pick, noted. It was nominated for four Academy Awards in 1967, the year I was born: Cinematography, Directing, Music (Quincey Jones!) and Screenplay-based on another medium. That interesting coincidence put the idea in my head to watch all of the Best Picture Oscar winners from 1967 on, and write movie reviews! I'll let y'all know when I find some extra time for that little project! (Don't hold your breath or anything.)

Beautiful dreamer.

Reading Vanity Fair this morning and this just tickled me. "Guinness heir Garech Browne at Luggala, the family estate in County Wicklow, Ireland, where he has put white sand around his black lake so that it resembles a glass of Guinness." Isn't he wonderful?

For more, check out the Vanity Fair web site.