Despite being a polarizingly craptastic ass song, there’s something to be said for Jay’s current re-emergence into the rap game via the movie American Gangster.

It’s all about inspiration. Upon seeing the movie, Jay was inspired to create again. And not in the way of Kingdom Come, though despite a few missteps wasn’t as bad an album as has been stated but was more-or-less non-relatable to the majority of his fans. Hell, he namechecked things on that album that I didn’t know existed. In fact, I’m still not sure if they actually do exist as I wouldn’t know where to find them to actually prove their existence. Oh what a tangled web we weave.

Inspiration is a strange beast for it can come in many shapes and sizes. It can be Oprah pre- or post-tubby tubby or it can come from Tubby Tubby Oprah. You might walk outside and see a bum with a glimmer of hope in his eye that’s really only the residual film from his latest doping binge, bu you see hope and he sees…well, not much really. But somebody got something out of that exchange.

Speaking of weird exchanges, as I made my way to work this morning through the mean streets of Northwest Washington, DC, I noticed nothing short of a cavalcade of cross-dressing he-shes walking down New York Avenue. These were clearly men doing their best rendition of the rumored Oscar De La Hoya froo-froo-she-she pictures that have been circulating Al Gore’s Internet. It baffled me–why in George Michael would a bunch of cross-dressing he-shes be walking down New York Avenue in daylight? And it was like a gang of them. You can’t turn one big gay group trick. Not in the morning.

Maybe they lost a bet. Me no know.

Inspiration.

I remember when I first started blogging, I was so excited to be writing random shit that some people actually stopped by to read. I remember getting my first comment from somebody I didn’t know–talk about your total pick me up. I felt inspired. I had a million and one ideas and nothing planned either. I just opened up Blogger and started typing away and what happened happened. There was no real thought process to it. I remember going to blogger “outings” where other bloggers would mention how they spent time thinking of things to write about. I never had that problem. Most of the time I’d just see something in the news or wherever and get to typing. The world is full of inspiration if you just look long enough.

Plus, I’m black. It’s almost not even fair. No pun intended.

But somewhere along the way, Donny, Roberta and I lost that loving feeling. My interests shifted to other venues. Blogging was cool but what was the point. I wasn’t changing the world really. Arrogant as it may seem, everybody who blogs feels that they’re important enough to have something that other people should read. Any blogger who says otherwise is lying and full of shit. We’re all exhibitionists by nature. Some maybe slightly more comedic or entertaining. Some focus strictly on gossip, etc. But everybody who has blogged has been inspired by something or other to blog. And I didn’t have any inspiration.

Blogging became work not play. And if there’s one thing I never wanted to happen, it was for blogging to become a job. Mostly because I wasn’t seeing nann penny from doing this here. Sure I’d been offered some paid writing gigs but they were all in the hip-hop realm. And writing about rap all the time isn’t in my nature. The world’s too big and there are way too many issues to focus on the world of hip-hop. Plus that would require me to actually listen to niggas like Soulja Boy and provide commentary. I’d prefer to just be entertained by it and not think too hard.

To be clear, if you are forced to think about Soulja Boy’s impact on society, go kill yourself. Ironically, killing yourself would be suicide, which involves death which is totally hip-hop.

Yes, it’s true. Being dead is so hip-hop. Word to Abe Lincoln.

Part of the loss of inspiration is that I knew I wasn’t adding much new to the canon anymore. I’m off kilter like hell but there are a million off-kilter mothertruckers out there. I stopped travellling so much. I stopped watching television which is the source of so much fodder. Plus I’d rather just watch some shit than have to think about the angle I might take on it. It’s difficult to enjoy something if you have to constantly break it down into pieces. Sometimes you just want to enjoy something for what it is. I love Kanye’s new album and its because I haven’t spent any time actually analyzing it for its flaws or for its impact on society.

However, that’s somewhat irresponsible of me. If you have a voice you’re supposed to use it, right? And quite honestly, I do think at times of what I could have achieved had I continued blogging and perhaps taken it as seriously as some people. Difference is, I never wanted to become a famous writer or anything. Hell, I didn’t even know I could “write” until somebody told me they liked my writing. I’m Jay-Zing this shit. Just kind of writing what I think. But then I hear motherfuckers who blog getting on television and radio and saying some uberfucking shit.

And I get inspired.

I hear niggas with causes that go about shit in the wrong way. I hear misguided individuals trying to misguide other motherfuckers. I hear people singing the praises of Master P and his newfound “enlightenment” that allows him to preen for the corporate sponsorship that evaded him while he was the Ice Cream Man. I don’t hear a “reformed” rapper realizing the error of his ways.

I hear a nigga upset that he didnt realize sooner that he could have capitalized on more money had he did things differently. I don’t hear a man thinking of his community. I hear a nigga who wants that white money too. Nothing wrong with that Percy. Just shut the fuck up about your growth.

Then I read motherfuckers railing on David Banner who was the ONLY motherfucker in the actual entertainment industry (including what HAD to be a drunk ass Mos Def on Bill Maher) who had anything intelligible and coherent to say to a Congress with nothing better to do with their time. Agree or disagree with him, at least he can make a point and defend it, sometimes to his detriment.

And the criticism is coming from so-called enlightened people and motherfuckers with purpose. I hate Michael Eric Dyson too but he did make some good points.

Inspiration.

Perhaps what I need to do is just go back to what inspired me to write in the first place. Stupid shit and ignorant motherfuckers. It ain’t like they’ve gone anywhere. They’re still here alive and kicking. They haven’t killed themselves.

I’m inspired to try.

Black with inspiration is what we called the Harlem Renaissance.

(Some white money would help too.)

Plus I have to stop somebody from sullying my name. Google Panama Jackson and you’ll find out what I’m talking about.

I.am.inspired.are.you?