First and foremost, it needs to be said that the music of Mickey Avalon is an absolute atrocity—the single worst thing to happen to hiphop since someone put four bullets in the body of Tupac Shakur. The Jesse Camp of hiphop (but without the 8th Street Kidz), Avalon is an overnight sensation of worthless hype and clumsy raps which stay loyal to a single topic: his dick. Granted, the bulge in an emcee's pants might be a common lyrical subject, but Avalon's rhymes lack all semblance of structure or flow, and come off as just plain awkward. A far cry from Blowfly, the master of X-rated rap, Avalon's juvenile wordplay is akin to the rhymes of a couple teenage Juggalos on a Faygo bender in mom's basement.

Despite all this, Avalon has a booming fanbase: celebrities. His cumbersome rhymes act as soundtrack to the vapid existence of pals Paris Hilton, Nicole Richie, and various other soulless trust-funders the world over. When a drunken celebutante wraps her car around a tree, you can bet she had Avalon bumping on the Benz speakers. It's hiphop for those who hate hiphop, a glossed-over, ironic, empty gesture that plays up Avalon's good looks more than his mic skills, or lack thereof.

But, you have to give Avalon a shred of credit, since his life story is unique, to say the least. Long before his Blackberry was overflowing with rich folks' digits, Avalon was a street urchin in our very own town. In just a few short years, he went from a handjob hustler in Vaseline Alley (PDX represent!) to a Sunset Strip celeb-rapper (MySpace Records, holla!) with a life straight out of Entourage.

Of course, the end of the Mickey Avalon story has already been written. It's basically the tale of Vanilla Ice, but swap "Ice, Ice Baby" for Avalon's pseudo-hit "Jane Fonda," Madonna for some D-list actress Avalon has bedded, and Surreal Life: Season 2 for Surreal Life: Season 12. Keep that chin up, Avalon. At least Suge Knight will (probably) never dangle you from a window.

Mickey Avalon performs at Dante's on Saturday, August 25.