If you go searching for Fahamu Pecou on Wikipedia like I randomly did several months back, you'll find that his page was deleted for suspect reasons, including a failure to "assert the importance or significance of its subject."

Besides confirming yet again that the collaboratively edited online encyclopedia is a wack source for journalistic research, the rationale behind the deletion struck me as ironic considering how much "success" plays into the theme of the celebrated visual artist's latest collection. All Dat Glitters Aint Goals takes aim at the performance of success in black male culture by holding up a mirror to the absurd proliferation of niggerific images in contemporary pop.

Pecou's own international success in the art world has come largely from his penchant for pointing out such ironies. He tackled the cult of celebrity by turning himself into one. His resulting collection of "Fahamu Pecou is the Shit" self-portraits, painted with him gracing art-magazine covers, served as dual commentary on the art world's air of exclusivity and pretentiousness.

This time, his deconstruction of black masculinity also tests the limits of the fine arts world by taking the exhibit beyond the white walls of the gallery. In conjunction with the art collection, Pecou released a 5-song EP of original hip-hop inspired by, and titled after, the paintings in All Dat Glitters. Though the exhibit debuted last September at the Lyons Wier Gallery in New York, he's recently taken it into overdrive with the release of two new music videos for the project (see below the jump) and the announcement of a mobile app to be released next week. On May 31, the Fahamu Pecou Art app goes live on iPhones and iPads, featuring the current exhibition, accompanying music, and other interactive content.

The combined art and sounds of All Dat Glitters Aint Goals serve as both a cultural critique on the played-out tropes of black masculinity pervasive in mainstream rap and a grand lyrical statement of Pecou's alternative worldview. It's not the first time the artist - who penned his own lyrics for the project - has offered up a meta-rap critique. But while his former dabblings on the mic have come in the form of comic parodies (The Soggy Bottom Boys, Shit Gangsta Rappers Say), the All Dat Glitters EP is a serious work of art. He enlisted the help of a host of Atlanta-based hip-hop heavies, including producer Illastrate, emcees stic.man of Dead Prez, Yamin Semali, Methuzulah, Mike Flo, Ekundayo, DT, Boog Brown, Joe D, Massive, Divine, G.R.E.A.T. Scott, and vocalist Jamila Crawford.

When I visited Fahamu Pecou last August at his Decatur home, he was in his garage studio putting the finishing touches on "Shiny Things," the last painting in his latest collection. He'd just run out of some new glitter paint made out of gold and was planning to make a run for some more before the art store closed. When I asked him if it shined like gold on the canvas, he said it was so subtle that you wouldn't really be able to tell but the effect was still ill. It felt like a cool metaphor for the theme behind the whole exhibit. Below are excerpts from the rest of our conversation, including Pecou's honest query about how Gucci Mane sleeps at night, and his admission that he used to steal his big brother's raps back in the day and spit them at school as if they were his own.

Sounds like perfect fodder for a Wikipedia page, in case anyone's interested.

Can you break down the concept behind the project for me?

We wouldn't dream of hoofing it to Churchill Downs without first becoming acquainted with the horses. Amy was already familiar, having ridden in the hunter-jumper seat from a very young age. Laura's experience with equines was limited to flat-palming apple slices to foals at 4H fairs.

Naturally the two of us saddled up at the Little Creek Farm and Conservancy off of Lawrenceville Highway to take a gander at their grounds and consult with Dana McDaniel one of the three resident instructors. Founded in 2004, the conservancy is a 40-acre farm home to over 40 privately owned horses. Steeped in Southern history, the land has played host to less welcome horsemen, as well - General Stoneman's Union Calvary once recouped there before marching toward the Battle of Atlanta. After a brief stint as a dairy farm in the 1920's, the land returned to the horses in 1958 and has remained faithful to them ever since.

If the Kentucky Derby is the ultimate Southern carnival for grownups - where the stakes are higher than the Dunk Tank, the horses are real, not tethered to a carousel, and the action's faster than the Tilt-a-Whirl - then the mint julep is surely the adult Snow-Cone. Instead of a rapidly wilting paper funnel, you've got a delicately frosted pewter cup (or, failing that, the small part of a cocktail shaker), and the syrup's made from freshly muddled mint instead of artificial cherry goo.

We learned the cocktail-shaker trick from Miles MacQuarrie, the phenom behind the bar at Leon's in Decatur. If you want to get all fancy about it, the traditional julep cup can be silver etched with some evocative pattern, but you can use an old-fashioned glass in a pinch. Beyond that, try not to take too many liberties - remember, this is the South, where appearances matter as much as what's on the inside.

Two minutes out of the gate and the Kentucky Derby's finished, famously lasting no longer than a future Chi Omega's nervous beau after prom. But, after all, performance is hardly the point - it's all about the dress, the shoes, the limo, the corsage. So too at the Derby, where anticipation, ritual, and pageantry matter more than the short-lived event itself. Which is why we've been prepping for our inaugural pilgrimage to Louisville for, like, a year and a half. This week, we'll reveal all the tips and tricks and insider knowledge we've picked up along the way in a series of posts that will mark our countdown to Derby Day. Okay, not all of our tricks. Like any Southern lady worth her salt, we're keeping our cards pretty close to our chests - or, rather, hidden in our hats.

Between the two of us, we've lived in Indiana, New York, Boston, Paris, California, Seattle, Chicago, and Bangladesh, but we claim the South, and we'd like to think the South claims us. Our accents might slip occasionally (blame the original "90210" and "Gossip Girl") and we're hardly Junior League material, but we would've voted for Carter if we were alive then, and we never run out of lemonade or sweet tea (that's a lie, but we sure wish it weren't). But damn if we weren't bred for the ultimate Kentucky cotillion, no less than Secretariat. That's what we tell ourselves, anyway.

What writer in his right mind would publicly demand credit for Tyler Perry's critically panned Temptation? That's exactly what William James did by alleging in a lawsuit filed this week in Indiana U.S. District Court that Perry stole the premise for Temptation from a novel by James titled Lovers Kill.

He claims in the lawsuit that he passed a copy of Lovers Kill to "an associate" of Perry's BFF Oprah Winfrey in the hopes that it might find its way to the film mogul's reading room. Satisfied that it did, now that Temptation has reaped a cool $49 million, James is asking for monetary damages and a change to the beginning and ending credits to read: "Based on the novel 'Lovers Kill' by William James."

I hope for his sake that a financial come-up is worth the risk of ruining his name by association. Apparently, he and Perry have something else in common because James obviously has not been reading the critical backlash sparked by Temptation, much of which has blamed Perry for perpetuating rape culture with his latest morality tale. The story revolves around a young unhappily married woman (Judith) who falls in lust with a horny Internet mogul (Harley) after he seduces-slash-rapes her on his private plane. If you need a plot breakdown, they're all over the Internet - as are the take-downs, this one courtesy Jezebel's Lindy West, which picks up after the rape scene:

"Everything you say is interesting. I don't know what it is but every experience you've had is interesting to me." - Jimmy Kimmel, to Mike Tyson

There's something about Mike Tyson. Especially when he sits down on a couch and the cameras start rolling. Whether he's groveling on Oprah in front of his former ear-bite victim Evander Holyfield or telling Conan about the time he got Las Vegas police to escort him to the dope house while high, he's such an unlikely but highly likable communicator. Sure, his diction is fucked and sometimes he tongue-twists his syllables and says something like "West Vile Nirus" on Jimmy Fallon instead of "West Nile Virus," or lets out a random Neanderthal growl (3:50 mark above) when at a loss for words. Yet somehow he's emerged as an eloquent storyteller, if only because the story of his life is so fascinating.