Throwback Thursday: Tupac – “I Ain’t Mad Atcha”

Whether he “knew he was gonna die” or not makes for great conspiracy theories. The video imagery he designed also just plain looks phenomenal, and plays into that prophetic theory well, but what’s more fun to imagine is the atmosphere when he actually recorded the song.  According to friend and rapper, Kurupt:

We knew when that was done, it was over. Oh yeah, ‘Pac heard the beat and flipped out. And basically he was just like, “Man, this is it. “We sat and we drank and then Daz was just operating on the record, and when ‘Pac was in there working, he wasn’t with the distractions. It was more or less all, “Let’s knock this out, let’s knock this out, let’s knock this out.” I mean, he’d get mad at the engineers for moving too slow. That was his thing. He’d be on top of them like that. You know, “Come on, man, what the fuck? This ain’t too God damn hard. All you have to do is press fuckin’; ‘Record.’ Press fuckin’ ‘Record.’ Now!”

That said, Press Phuckin play NOW! This ain’t too hard for your throwback.

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App Appetizer: Pocket

The horror when people first see my iFun’s screen is only matched by the horror when they see the the 43 tabs on my Chrome browser, or the suppressed anger in my co-blogger’s voice begging me to clear the 12 unfinished posts in the draft-log.  Checkout the first page, and see if its that bad:

This first App Appetizer is dedicated to reducing the problem, avoiding the horror, and soothing the anger. “When you find something you want to view later, put it in Pocket.” is their slogan and pretty much explains it. Here’s how it works. If you copy any url from your browser and open the app, it’s ready to gobble it up like:

Continue reading App Appetizer: Pocket

Potato Of The Day Episode 72

BingCherryI don’t know you guys, but seeing Bing Cherry here chilling all alone really has me bummed out. Like the little guy just got straight up abandoned by the rest of the pit crew, you know? It just seems so unnatural, so wrong. If this was cousin Maraschino running solo, it’s no big deal. Maraschino does what Maraschino does. That’s a one cherry pool party on ice, anytime, anywhere. But Bing Cherry? Bing Cherry isn’t supposed to be without a big ole family of cherries. Bing Cherry isn’t supposed to be isolated like that. Bing Cherry isn’t supposed to be cherry orphan. That’s… well, heartbreaking. Give me a moment guys, this shit is making me downright EMOTIONAL. #shedonetearforacherryinneed

Does anyone know of a non-profit specializing in cherry adoptions? There’s so many ridiculously specific charities out there I assume there has to be one for cherries, right? Right? Anyone? Hello? Don’t make me set one up myself, you guys. I’m not good at paperwork. I’m also greedy. I’d give myself way, way too large of a salary, turning donated dollars into dental plans and domestic dealings, skimming off the top for administrative fees and holding penalties, pumping up my own retirement plan, billing it as a mandatory expense. It’d be a shell of a charity, a hollow hole to suck generously donated funds, preying on weeping hearts, crying foot-soldiers of donation set in misguided empathetic motion by the tragic story of our orphaned cherry.

It’d be so easy, you guys. Like, too easy. I’d run a commercial with some Sarah McLaughlin, or Celine Dion, or Dido, or Adele or, whatever the hell music is making all those dope emotional gold diggers and cougars with disposable income weep these days. They’d get all misty eyed and shit, reaching for checkbooks without the slightest inclination to do any real legwork. Who needs research when you can just patch the searing gaps of your heart with feel good cash, right? And the money would just straight up pour in, wine and tear stained check after wine and tear stained check, all covered in a nice little layer of ground-up Zoloft powder.

Inevitably, I’d start licking that powder, consumed in cash thirsty madness, a monetary lust, collecting minute glints of highs, eventually demanding more, upping the dosage, huffing check after check until it wasn’t enough, scourging forward out into the deep dark crevices of soul, searching out the next big thrill, spiraling ever downward in a cash-happy tailspin of drugs – cocaine, crack, heroin, oh my! Next thing you know, I’m a living after school special, broke, on the streets, dodging IRS and DEA agents, desperately trying to pimp the only friend I have left in the cold, miserable world. Yup, poor little orphaned Bing Cherry.

Annnnd, you know….  I think I’m just gonna stop. Wow, that was starting to get pretty dark. Kind of fucked up, huh? Anyway, all I’m trying to say is don’t separate a Bing Chery from its family. It does not end well. At all. For me. Or the cherry.