Please don’t let me get sick and die.

Very sad… and very fucking funny. RIP Patrice. 

He was one of the few rappers, fuck it, musicians, who didn’t let his weight stop him from being cool. Growing up as a chubby kid who listened to, and still loves, hip hop, I didn’t really appreciate it as much as I should have. (Back then, I was too busy worshiping the pizza gods aka whoever delivered them.) But I do now. Thanks, Heavy D. RIP.   

Outside the Apple Store in Lincoln Park. #RIPSteveJobs


RIP: Comedian Greg Giraldo passed away today at the age of 44. He was hospitalized on Saturday after overdosing on prescription pills.

Our thoughts are with his family. He will be missed.



“The Boss” and Billy Martin - 1977. (via Getty Images)

On the microphone you know that I’m one of the best yet
Some punks, ain’t paid all of their debts yet
Tryin to be fly, ridin high on the jet-set
With juvenile rhymes makin fake-ass death threats
Big deal, like En Vogue, here’s something you can feel
Styles more tangible, and image more real
For some time now, I’ve held the scrolls and manuscripts
When it’s time to go all out you be like, “Damn he flipped”
Now I’m sick, fed up with the bullshit
Got the lyrical full clip, giving you a verbal asswhip
Don’t trip it’s the gifted prolific one
Known as Bald Head Slick — why is the press all on my di-dick?
My style be wilder, than a kamikaze pilot
Don’t try it, I’m about to start more than a friggin riot
Styles unsurpassable, and nuccas that’s suckas, yo
Them motherfuckers are harrassable
For I be speaking from my parables and carry you beyond
The mic’s either a magic wand
Or it gets tragic like the havoc of a nuclear bomb
Then I grab your palm, no pulse you’re gone
And if you thought we’d lose our niche in this rap shit you way wrong
I stay up, I stay on, shine bright, like neon
Your song’s, pathetic, synthetic, like Rayon
Fat beats, they play on, want dope rhymes, put me on
Word is bond… you know my steez