The Most Dangerous Blog In The World

I have always been in love with O’Shea Jackson. The way he carried himself, that street-borne braggadocio mixed with literary genteel, a marred Dionysus not outdone by our screwed up society. The crushing weight of discrimination, heavy to bear, yet O’Shea kept his shoulders up, his head high, never quite frowning. Bothered, but not broken. His Jehri curl, perfect.


Ahh me.

Cradled face on twin bed as my heart sighed towards the telly, ankles crossed, marking the beat for Straight Outta Compton. The rest of the clan: Eazy-E, Dr. Dre, Yella, MC Ren, they were alright, but not the focus of my tween attention. Ice Cube was bad, but not bad meaning bad…well, you know the rest.

Of course I went and watched the documentary this past weekend, of COURSE I did! And please, whatever is causing you to be scared to go, don’t believe the hype. It’s just like Coal Miner’s Daughter. A story of struggle against the status quo, of artistic starvation, of personal definition. The moment Loretta Lynn decides to write and perform a song about birth control, wanting to take back womens’ right to be a human being and not society’s brooding sow, she is forever marred. Instead of being recognized for her bravery in speaking out for the oppressed, she is demonized; her music, considered dangerous.

The struggle is real, and so is the talent.

As I pass the movie lobby poster making note of ‘the most dangerous group in the world’ or whatever, I smirk at the thought of, who labeled N.W.A. as such? They certainly didn’t. What they did with Fuck The Police was utilize momentum to take back the right to be acknowledged as human beings and not society’s kicked down domesticated dogs. There was a scene that was so agitating for me I squeezed my man’s hand really hard, then realized he was angrily squeezing mine back. Damn right, fuck the police, we both expressed in pissed-off embrace.

I knew I was going to cry once E got sick. His voice, his crowd command despite his tiny build, reminds me of my monster days. I let the tears flow then broke a selfish smile at the thought: “I bet you would’ve liked I Blew Up Juarez, E.”

Straight Outta Compton the documentary did everything right. Honored Eazy and Dre; made me smile as I learned more about my tweenage boyfriend’s skills as a writer.

I had my demigod Oprah’s ‘a ha!’ moment at an early age, listening to West Coast rap albums, following Ice Cube’s skyrocketing career, putting into practice what Cube was extolling: people are out to placate, not celebrate, dark individuality. My a ha was realizing everything is not unicorns and rainbows, and I’d be lying to myself if I even attempt to write prose or poetry without darkness. After all, that’s the point of “gangsta” rap: tell the ugly truth, expose the pretty lies.

Great documentary; I will likely own it once it’s out on Blu-Ray.


Von and The Hipster GP Talk Sex

Courtesy: BlogSpot

I knew I was gonna like this guy as soon as he entered my exam room. Bushy brown beard, wide smile, left arm completely tattooed, rocking a bright blue “I ♥ PAs” t-shirt super ironically. He’s more the type of guy I’d flirt up at Rollin’ Oats. Instead, he’s snapping on gloves, getting ready to examine my Hoo Hah.

A “well woman’s exam” as they like to put it now. We start topside, and he feels a tight mass on the left. “Hmm,” he frowns, then skates his hands over to the other boob, and finds a matching tight mass.

“You work out?” he says ironically/unironically.

I mention I started free weights at the gym that month.


“No, I’m good at kicking my own ass.”

As he heads downtown, Hipster Doc asks about my sexual activity which I honestly share “None.” Right then it feels like he’s placed his entire forearm into my uterus, and I realize, this is the most intimate I’ve been with a hot male of any profession in…years

Hipster Doc does the ol’ swabby swab then hands the super sized Q-tips to his assistant for examination under the scope. He gives me my privacy to clean up and re-dress as he examines the culture. When he returns, he sits down in front of me with a severe look in his eyes.

Damn, baby. You got some blue ass eyes.

“I found something in the culture.”

Oh oh.

“I sent three pills to the pharmacy, you just drop those, you’ll be fine.”

What the…??

“You’ve got trichomoniasis.”

Huh? What?? My Rolodex† of whore-related diseases isn’t finding this.

“They’re not necessarily sexually transmitted…could be from swimming in natural waters, or public pools…”

“Well it can’t be sex, I’m not havin- wait, did you say ‘they’? Do I have creatures in my vag?!?”

I swiftly do a search on my phone and I gasp.

“There’s….THINGS…with…FLAGELLUM!?! IN MY BODY!!”

“Just knock those three pills out,” he assures.

I groan. “I shouldn’t have fucked that granola…”

Hipster Doc laughs hysterically.


Earlier this month, I went to see him because now I am having The Sex (yeah homies, that’s right! I’m gettin’ some! On the regular! WOO HOO!!) and that also means, now I have to think about birth control. The last guy I was steadily with I divorced four years ago, and until this visit, I’d only had sex with two men. So, I tell him, bring me up to speed on what the kids are into. 

Hipster Doc reminds me I’m A Women Of A Certain Age, and so, risks do increase. He asks, “Do you smoke?”

“Tobacco, no. Marijuana, yes.”

He scrolls down his MacBook screen, “Women who smoke are at higher risk of life threatening side effects…”

“Uh huh…”

“…but the research on marijuana doesn’t suggest any significant impact.”

“Of course.”

“So don’t smoke tobacco.”

“No problem. Weed?”

He shrugs, ‘I don’t give a shit.’

Hipster Doc scrolls his screen some more and starts listing available medications. I share my history with birth control, which is not great: excessive weight gain, high blood pressure, asthma even. Hipster Doc scrolls further.

“With your age…”

Stop pointing that out!

“…and you’re not a tobacco smoker, and your history with hormones, I would suggest an IUD.”

“Sign me up!”

“An IUD is gonna run about $1000 without health insurance.”

“Fuckin’ ‘ell, mate!”

“You know a reversible vasectomy for a male without insurance is only $150?”

“Well, order a round of male sterilizations for everyone!”

“Oops! I shouldn’t have told you that…you might start a revolution.” I should mention here I brought Hipster Doc up to speed on my psychosis. His background is in psychology, so he understands my zeal.

“‘Mass sterilization for all’ is what I heard you say, doc!”

“Oh boy…”

“Thanks for the suggestion; I’m gonna go start a revolution.”

“Yeah. You do that.”

He leaves the room and whips back with a form in his hand. “Fill this out, see if you qualify, it’s a non-prof that covers IUDs for low income women. Take it next door.”

“Thanks man.”

We share a pound, and I’m out the door.

Courtesy: DeviantArt

This week, I phoned up Hipster Doc for a hookup on allergy medication and information on foreign travel immunizations. I leave a phone message and expect it to be lost to the cosmos, but lo and behold, Hipster Doc calls me back in the early evening.

“Yeah got you hooked up for the sniffles. Over at your pharmacy. Yeah, check with county on those shots…where are you going?”

“Central America.”

“Alright, maybe the basics. Typhoid, malaria. Yeah, I’m pretty sure the county has a department. That’s where I went to get my rabies shot.”


“Dude, I’m not even going to explore why you had to get a rabies shot. But I’ll check out the Foreign Travel Department.”

“Alright. Laters.”


I ♥ my GP!


†: a device used pre-personal computer to collect contact information, phone numbers, notes, etc. on note cards separated by alphabetical tabs which spun on a rotating stand for quick access.