Today's case-in-point, Chet Hanks, son of Tom, who has taken to this rap game like Sarah Palin capitalizing on a national tragedy. Word.
Turns out Chet Hanks, described as a "frat boy," is a fan of the weed. No wonder. It's been described as being more available in L.A. than Starbucks coffee. If you grew up here, yeah, it would be hard to avoid.
Baby Hanks raps:
"Raised in Santa Monica/ Pacific Palisades/ On the west side of town/ That's where they know me round/ That's where we smoke trees and breezies get down."
We like how his Northwestern University education hasn't yet injected him with the ability to spell Westside or to differentiate Santa Monica from the city of L.A. (which one is it?).
But it's especially cool that Chet has tapped into the soul of black music. Because the whole point here is to dig deep into one's hardscrabble street life for meaning that can be universal. It's sort of like graffiti art, set to music.
And Pali has that in spades, whether it's flexing at the nearby Color Me Mine or slangin' used golf balls at Riviera Country Club, yo, what the world needs is to have more light shed on this oppressed milieu.
Chet (a.k.a. Chet Haze) also boasts of "... stacking dollar bills to the height of Patrick Ewing."
Must be all that Forrest Gump money. At least he spits from the heart and shows truly what he knows.