the joe head theory

rap pro·mot·er {rap pra mote ir} n. | L rap-, speak + pro, in favor of + mote, public | 1 one who organizes hip-hop events and compensates / fails-to-adequately-compensate the performing artists. 2 one who uses her or his mind, body, language, or money to encourage the proliferation of rap music and/or a particular artist, album, or song


   I need Booty!
   It's critical.
   As far as I'm concerned, all the pieces are in place for me to be a complete success. I've got everything that I need to fulfill my dreams. Everything except Booty, that is.
   To me, Booty is akin to the Billy Ripkin card that Fleer recalled, or the ever-elusive "Boo Berry" brand of cereal--out there somewhere perhaps, but never within my grasp. Sometimes I tell myself it's a lost cause, that I should just give up. But, just as I reach my lowest point, something always happens to rekindle my hope.
   For instance, last Thursday I had an experience that reminded me, once again, just how important Booty is to me.
   The night started off quite innocently. I walked down to The Roxy on 18th Street to catch the De La Soul/Common show. I'd been looking forward to the concert for weeks, simply because I was in desperate need of some live hip-hop. To be absolutely honest, I went to the show with absolutely no thoughts of searching for Booty.
   All I wanted was some good music. What I got was much, much more.

   After waiting outside for about 30 minutes in the ubiquitous, but surprisingly fast-moving, pre-club line, I received a customary frisking, a yellow emergency-room-esque bracelet that will likely adorn my right wrist for years, and permission to enter the venue.
   Hip-hop events are a notoriously behind-schedule phenomenon, and, as a result, the vast majority of shows are preceded by between two and three hours of a dj spinning classic material. In most cases, a circle is formed during this time, wherein the breakdancers do their thing. Such was the case last Thursday. And, as is my usual practice, I made my way to the front of the circle to check things out.
   On this night, the breakers were far from spectacular. Better than nothing of course, but not much better. As I watched a confused/ing posse of Asian guys with dreadlocks try to coordinate, I noticed this girl standing across the circle from me. She was wearing a tight red shirt and a long black skirt, and looked unimpressed by the brothers bumbling within the circle.
   More importantly, she looked very familiar.
   It took me a few minutes to place her, but I finally realized that I had met her in Albany, during the three days of hell that those removed from the experience refer to as the New York State Bar Examination.
   She was a Georgetown grad, and, following the last day of the exam, had given me a ride from the god-forsaken Pepsi Arena back to the hotel where we were both staying. The only thing I remembered about her was that during the ride to the hotel she was the first to notify me that the names of those who passed the exam would be posted on the internet. This policy is one that infuriated a post-exam, insecure Matthew, and still kinda irks the young attorney Matthew. So, although this girl was nice enough to give me a ride to my hotel back in July, her face evoked within me a feeling of bitterness spurred by two-parts hatred of the legal establishment in all its manifestations and one part insecurity. Truth be told, I was quick to search for the "unfortunates" amongst my graduating class on the Bar Exam website only minutes after the names went up, so I decided it would be hypocritical to hold any grudges against her.
   "Excuse me," I said after tapping her on the shoulder.
   "Yeah?"
   "Didn't you take the bar exam up in Albany a couple of months ago?"
   "Yeah. Why?"
   "I think you drove me to my hotel on the last day, I'm Matthew . . . From Michigan Law. Ring a bell?"
   She did a double-take, smiled, and then planted a big, huge hug on me. I would love to tell you that I was looking especially good that night, and that she couldn't resist getting closer to me. But, that would be a lie. Anyone who has taken the bar exam knows that it creates within all applicants an unexplainable desire to commiserate with others in your situation via otherwise-inappropriate physical interaction. In Albany, I found myself giving heartfelt hugs to Michigan grads I despised back in school. In fact, I think I probably hugged people who simply looked like people I knew from Michigan. It's just one of those things that goes with the territory.
   "Daaaaaaaaaaam," she yelled. "How are you?"
   "I'm fine," I said. "It's weird to run into you like this. What are you doing here?"
   "My firm does all the legal work for the promoter, so we scored free tix."
   "Well played. I'm sorry, what was your name again?"
   "Oh, I'm Tina. Tina Shaker . . . from Georgetown."
   And it is with those words that a dream deferred suddenly became, well, un-deferred. My desire for Booty has never been greater than it was at that very moment, and I knew that I had to capitalize on the opportunity that was placed before me.

   You see, ever since entering law school, I have dreamt of starting my own law firm. Not just any firm either--a firm with a very silly name.
   Nothing corny, or funny in a "legal sense," like "Doowey, Cheetum, & Howe" or "Filthy, Stinkin, Rich." I yearned for something hip. Something "with it." Something stupid in a more modern way--a Chris Tucker dumb, as opposed to a Bob Hope dumb.
   Well, after about four days of law school my hypothetical firm name hit me. And, since then, I have never strayed from it. Although I am far from fond of the "booty shaker" music, and I have written scathing criticisms of artists who resort to the rump shaker reprise as an easy way to sell records, many of my law school friends have heard me go on an on about forming "Booty, Shaker, and Malady"--the ultimate twenty-first century law firm experience.
   Part first-rate legal service provision and part stupid pop-culture name, "Booty, Shaker, and Malady" was always a "can't miss" proposition in my book.
   All I had to do was find my two partners.
   This was a quest that I found to be surprisingly difficult. After months of searching, I realized that even on the off chance that divine intervention would steer LSU baseball/football star Josh Booty or Miami linebacker Mark Bootay into the legal profession, efforts at finding an esq.-ed "Shaker" would be as hard as finding a hairdryer on a Quaker--i.e., quite difficult.
   Tupac came up for a second.
   But he's dead.
   And plus, even if he came back to life, graduated from law school, and passed the New York bar, the result would still only be "Booty, Shakur, and Malady."--clearly a step below what I was looking for. Some law school companions insisted that this triumvirate was "close enough," but you can't merely settle when it comes to important stuff like this. Hell, why not really slack and offer partnership to Hootie, or the Lakers. It's all the same right?
   Wrong.
   Plus, I still would've had to get passed the whole Tupac is dead thing.
   So, with no "Shaker," and the prospects of our athletes Booty/ay getting the prized J.D. hovering somewhere closer to "none" than "slim," I gradually began to give up hope for my dream firm. In fact, only a few weeks prior to this fateful Thursday night concert, I had finally come to grips with the fact that there was not going to be a "Booty, Shaker, and Malady."
   No letterhead with "Booty Shaker" emblazoned in the top margin.
   No firm retreats to Freaknik.
   No corporate headquarters in Vegas.
   Nothin'.
   And now, like either a gift from above or some cruel, cruel joke, the prospect of forming the firm of my dreams was staring me right in the face. And, with a real-life "Shaker," I wouldn't have to deal with, or explain away to clients, the rotting stench of Tupac's dead body. This was truly a "best case" scenario.
   Thankfully, we had a good conversation. She seems more than adequate--smart, engaging, articulate, witty.
   I assure you, I will not let this opportunity pass me by.
   I left the club that night with Ms. Shaker's email address in hand, and the recruiting efforts are already underway. I feel confident that I can lure her away from her big, faceless corporate law world, and into a firm whose bylaws call for the replacement of the words "Sincerely yours" with "Whoomp there it is" prior to signatures on all correspondence.
   Now, if I could just find that all-important Booty.

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