*FOR CLASS*

Well...in class today, my prof asked us to make a blog.
Me thinking I was smarter than the rest, decided to take a short cut and just use one of my old blogs.
I should have known that she was going to ask us to write on it, and publish new posts. So in order to keep from confusing my usual audience, I will place *FOR CLASS* on a post that is FOR CLASS.
You can choose to read it, or ignore it- I guess it depends on how nosy you are. Haha...
But anyway, this post is about why I'm taking the class, and what I expect to get out of it. The class is COM 3330- for those who are like me, and think numbers mean NOTHING- that's News Reporting and Writing.
I'm honestly kind of intimidated, because I took a Writing for Communication class, and I FAILED it.
Yeah.
I'm a writer with a nice support system, and I failed a writing course.
Hopefully that doesn't interfere with this course, ey?

~ L.M.

Texts From Last Night

Today's Text From Last Night:

(510): he said he didn't have a condom.
(415): and you said?
(510): that that's fine cause i was ready to be a mom. yeah - he magically had a condom he forgot about after that.

~ L. McCall

Breast I Ever Had...

Yeah...many men may not agree with me, but this video was garbage.
I guess it will boost Drake's record sales due to men, though.
But yeah...Kanye directed it...and seeing as his previous videos were amazing, I really have no idea what he was thinking. But whatever...
Maybe it's because I had expectations...you know? Pictured Drake with this one gorgeous girl...and then some kind of twist at the end...
But no.
Just breasts.
Breasts everywhere.
WTF.

~ Lucius M.

Mike's Dead...

"Micheal Jackson just died."
I recieved the text as I walked from aisle to aisle aimlessly at work, wondering why the hell I was still at Wal-Mart and not at some journalism internship submitting articles every day just to get rejected by this old fat man with no sense of creativity. I truly believed anything beat walking around in a dingy, 'Faded Glory' blue polo shirt. This was my everyday life, and Wally had TEMPORARILY become my world.
But when I received that text, my world stopped.
I figured it was a joke. It was so random…
…right?
My mother called me to confirm it because she knew how I felt about Mike, and I felt myself growing sadder as the truth set in.
Texts bounced back and forth between close friends and I, stating that he was dead, he wasn't dead, he was in the hospital...and then finally...the concrete black cloud of bad news hovered right over my spirit and put a damper on my life.
Many of you may be thinking-- damper on your life? Wow, this guy is being way too dramatic. It's not THAT serious.
No, reader. Yes. Yes it is.
Many don't know that my life and aspirations revolved around M.J. in a way. If you know me, you know I possess a long list of goals; 4 of them being:

1) Meeting Mike (he was allowing this for $5000 at some time in the past. If I had it, I would be there.)
2) Getting a hold of his wardrobe—all of it, with a deeper desire to capture the red and black jacket from the Thriller film, as well as the red jacket with the zippers from the Beat It music video.
3) Getting the same, or a close replica, of the car that appeared in Moonwalker. Yes...the car that he transformed into when he was cornered by those bad guys. The car that traveled at the speed of light
4) I also wanted a panther to live in the backyard of my writer's mansion, and now that I think of it— it must be inspired by Mike's morph...after crashing those car windows, and the store glass. Remember that?

Yeah.

I don’t know what it was about Mike (or what it is about me), but he captured my attention and kept it for years. As a child, I would record those marathon specials that VH1 and MTV would occasionally play, and watch the tapes over and over like a favorite movie. I studied him. When the part in the video where he performed Billie Jean at the Motown special would come on, I would rush to my closet, stuff on my little loafers, and turn my room into the theatre for a few moments. My eyes would remain glued to the T.V. screen as he would introduce the moonwalk for the first time ever, and I would get chills every time—as if it were the first time ever— right before attempting to do the same. When Black or White would come on, I would stretch out my undershirt a little bit, and stomp through flames with hidden images of anarchy just as he did. When Beat It came on, I would lay in my bed and jump up just as he did, somehow placing a jacket on in the middle of my impromptu choreography. If you happen to be a good friend of mine, you know about my head snap as well (snapping my head to one side or the other along with the beat). Yeah…I got it all from him. He was my older brother, my only influence in a life with no father figure.

I remember when I was really young, I would dig through my grandmother’s albums and pull out the ‘We are the World’ single featuring M.J, as well as half of the industry. Of course it wasn’t all Mike, but something as simple as hearing him seemed to have an effect on me—and it still does. Whenever I’m having a bad day, stressed, or just plain tired of hearing the same old crap being played on the radio, I always seem to find myself slipping in a Mike mix, and then proceeding to sing off tune. My ex girlfriends have had to deal with me chasing them down the street screaming, “hey, pretty baby with the high heels on!” or blasting Dirty Diana in my room as I gyrated my body, seemed to fondle myself and sing to them way off key (I believe that video is where my fetish for legs was derived).


Over a decade later, as I partied at Opera nightclub with my lady friends the night after his death, I realized that I wasn’t the only one who seemed to be deeply affected by Mike’s art. People danced to old school, new school; I swag surfed with a guy, bounced around to the chant of all white bricks, and admired the VJ’s parallel alignment of video and audio. But it wasn’t until the familiar whoosh mixed in with a wolf’s howl that people went ballistic.

They knew what was coming.

“It’s close to midddddniight, and something evil’s lurking in the daaarrrkkk…”
The audience’s level of excitement shot up and split through the energ-o-meter.
People started to reenact the Thriller video all around me as M.J. stared down at us from an HD television.
The VJ didn’t stop there. He played a snippet of hit after hit, and it just drove people crazy. The bass kick of Billie Jean was more intoxicating than the shots of Patron we took pleasure in. He controlled out bodies with his voice—as well as the instrumentals. Something a lot of people can’t seem to do these days.

Most people express themselves throughout writing, dancing, and singing. Michael had all three of these forms of art wrapped up in his glittery white glove-- even at times recreating what it meant to do these 3 things.

What most people fail to realize is, Mike told stories in a genius type of way. He wanted the world to feel good. He wanted people to realize that it aint too much for them to jam. He wanted the world to come together-- bring peace. He also wanted to do what he did best-- entertain.

What other artist do you know can wrap up good messages, amazing beats, and compelling dance moves into one and dish them out to the world to consume?

Yeah.

Some people just fail to recognize genius.
Like the a$$hole that rung me up when I was buying Michael Jackson Number Ones for the second time.
“I see everybody’s buying all this Michael Fagson stuff now.”
I glare at him.
“You ever heard this song,” he continues. “I pledge allegiance to the flag, Michael Jackson is a fag.”
I take the CD from him and advise myself not to slap him across his ignorantly ugly face with it.
“I guess I have to say was now, since he’s dead. He was a fag.”
I force myself to depart so I don’t stuff the CD down his throat and force him to recite every song on the album.

Backwards.

Things didn’t get any better when I tuned into CNN later that night, and some stuck up, snooty old man was amplifying all of the problems M.J. faced when he was alive. The molestation charges, the plastic surgery, the perm, the bleaching…he went on and on until I couldn’t take it anymore. I can’t stand people who act like they know everything about everything when they know nothing about something.

Read that again.

In my life, Mike has changed the way he has looked more than three times. He has had different pigments, different hairstyles, different lips, a different nose…but the only time his sound changed is when it changed for the better.
Like an innocent child, I never noticed his skin color...I was always too absorbed in the music. I was too captivated by the way he moved, and the perfect ad libs that fit into every open pocket of his songs. The messages that he sent that as a child, I didn’t quite understand, but as I got older, I realized what he was really about.

“Oh! He’s saying ‘I don’t know’, there?! Oh my God! He’s answering himself! What a genius! ‘Ana are you okay? I don’t know! I don’t know!’”

To this day, Mike is still setting records. His music was, and will forever be timeless...so you can get tired of them playing his songs and videos back to back, but to be frank...I never will. Along with the millions of others who supported the world's greatest talent. Hate if you want...he has over 200 songs that have been unreleased.

The king will live on.

And on the contrary, if you never liked Mike before, and are just now hopping on the crossing bandwagon...welcome. It's never too late to change religion.

My sister texted me to inform me she was crying.
I replied, "It's okay. I understand. Trust me. THat guy was a damn genius. Without him, there wouldn't be a lot of things. And people made fun of him and stoned him. Didn't understand him. All he wanted to do was help mankind, and we cursed him into hiding. Now he's hiding, and the world mourns."
She responded, "Pleeeassseee write something tonight. Please."

I did.

R.I.P. the King of Music.

Peace & Blessings
~ Lucius McCall

Hip Hop...is that you?

Nuff Said.

~ L.McCall

Texts From Last Night

Wow. A lot of my friends always call me weird, because I find the most random websites and visit them regularly. Various hip hop blogs, picture blogs, gossip blogs, but now I have come upon the greatest of them all. Reality at it's finest.
Texts From Last Night.
This website features text messages from people from all over the country saying random things that most of us can relate to. I find it very entertaining when the other websites I visit are moving a lil slow...
Think I'm weird?
Know I'm weird.
Go on, try to look at it and not get addicted. I dare ya.
Since my discovery, I've decided that others need to join in on the fun, so will be posting my favorite text of the day right here on ohsolucius. Every day. Every night. Or whenEVER I get a chance.
Yeah.
Today's Text From Last Night:
(956): I got my half for the rent already.I called the cops on the drug dealer neighbor and got a 500 bucks as a reward.
LMAO. That is the WORST!

Peace & Blessings
~ L.McCall

WHO/WHAT IS HOLLYWEERD? "CHANGE"

Lenny’s.
12:13 A.M.
A variety of music blasts from speakers surrounding the bar as people socialize, drinks in hand.
I ask her, “You here to see Hollyweerd?”
“Huh?” She glances up at me, Pabst Blue Ribbon in hand. “Highly weird? What’s that?”

No, not highly weird, though that description fits them like a missing screw. Hollyweerd; a group that some would call a “megazord”— equipped with Demond “The Dreamer” Toney, Chris “The Love Crusader” McAdoo, Tuki Carter, and Jaye “Stagolee” Price.
But who exactly are these guys?
The Dreamer, 24, was born in Oakland California. He moved to Atlanta, and attended Georgia State University to pursue a degree in Film Production. The Love Crusader, 24, is a full time tattoo artist at the illustrious City Of Ink tattoo parlor. Stagolee, 24, who is originally from Alabama, has just been here for five years. Alumni of Morehouse College in Atlanta, Stago calls himself an artist, musician (he is also a member of the talented jazz group, Jaspects), and educator. Tuki, 27, was born and raised in Los Angeles. He is the co-owner of City Of Ink. I asked him if he was enrolled in college, and he smirked as he lit a joint with a Slim Jim tucked in his ear. “Nah…I quit.” He replied. “I’m a college drop out before Kanye.”
Some may ask ‘who is Hollyweerd?’
Or, better yet, ‘what is Hollyweerd’?
Allow them to explain it to you.
Stago says,” Hollyweerd is a mastermind, master group that can prepare everybody’s creative energies.” According to The Love Crusader, Hollyweerd is nothing less than a “talented group formed by 4 dudes with a common bond of dope music.” He continues, “We’re trying to have an outlet of music outside of what people are accustomed to. We were all in school and known as the “different kid”, may not have had straight As, you know…Bs…Cs…Ds…”
The Dreamer screams out, “Fs!”
The Love Crusader laughs and continues, “And its not because you were dumb. You may have been thinking about a song, or you may have been doodling. You may have had an imagination that you just couldn’t control. I remember as a student I used to draw on my tests! It’s for the people who were different, the people who felt they were a little bit weird, or didn’t fit in. This is music for those weirdos, man. Hollyweerd is change.”
That may be the most adequate allegation yet, seeing that both The Love Crusader and The Dreamer were born on November 4th, the same day America’s first black president was elected to be the 44th president of the United States of America.
Irony?
Many may wonder, how could such a random group of men bond together to form such a brilliant brand? Sadly, Nobody may ever know the answer to that, but what we do know is— Atlanta is known to be a very fertile mother to talented artists.
Hollyweerd is the newborn; Atlanta’s musical toddlers with promising potential.