Category Archives: Watch out Gisele

Oh excuse me miss I couldn’t help but notice you have the same taste in clothing as epic white man Dennis Coffey.

L-R: Librarian, Coffey (back of Goin’ for Myself), stripper/librarian.

Silver magic ships you carry/Jumpers, coke, sweet Mary Jane. Dennis’ spooky pale intense face is pleasing and trance-y just like that Pusha T flaming GIF, and he obviously knows how to dress, but I’d like to focus for a sec on his quality production work, please. Sixto Rodriguez – “Sugar Man.”



And to get with me you better be Chief Lots-O-Doe.

Ha! Only jokin! Money’s only good for rolling around naked on at Rozay’s parties. I don’t need money.

Please just be sweet, and not a cop, and don’t be uptight when I culture-poach in the name of fashion, of course be nice to my mom, and enjoy grabbin hips, singing/rapping while driving, and sharing in my excitement when I find cute shoes and a feather necklace at the swap meet that also remind me of a freaking rap classic from last decade, a big fat beautiful song about global ass and ethnic stereotypes. You’ll also need to worship me when appropriate and tell me to knock it the fuck off when appropriate. Your work will be rewarded, though, I promise–in homemade cupcakes and affection and my eternal feminine gratitude for killing bugs and opening jars. I would also like you to listen to my daily rants about the sad state of rap music (Pusha T’s verse is about that Lanvin H&M collection? And his voice seems to have lost something, that snap and fire; he sounds tired) and my daily speeches about the beautiful state of rap music (bug-eating Fairfax boys). I dress my ass off and my walk is meannnnn but who cares when I know all you boys care about is my big heart and my master’s degree. And that fact that I can tell you Barry White produced that break!

Professor Longhair – “Big Chief.”



If you expect me to believe Eminem drives a Chrysler you are stone crazy but listen, I got some white and some syrup, I’m tryin to sew up my town.

I just made a nice cotton dress with my own two hands and my sewing machine, and I decided to honor Pimp C with the title post. (Sorry, “Snitches Get Stitches”; you never had a chance)

Patti Jo – “Make Me Believe In You.” I thought about posting a song about sewing, or thread, or even completing a project. But in the end it came down, like always, to the old “walking down the street in a cotton dress” bass-drenched song with sassy female vocal, and this one probably has top 10 status in my heart. Not one note is sung ’til the first 2 and a half minutes go by, and it was written by Curtis Mayfield (you can tell when you hear those lyrics and get a feel for it, the whole vocal phrasing), and it makes me want to curl up in a ball because the universe is so wonderful sometimes I can’t take it. Don’t worry–I’ll delicately arrange my dress before curling up so nothing inappropriate is seen. Hi Mom!



White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #4 (other than going to Dallas to valiantly help out with the stripper shortage)

Gettin paid for lounging half-nakedly, mostly showin some hips n ass but showin a little front too, for The Loved One

and for Free People.

OHGOD I would KILL this shot if I weren’t afraid of looking like I was offering my body up for sale due to the vulgarity of my hips. I do this pose EVERY DAY, alone in apt. 15, simply for my own enjoyment. I’m doing it right now, matter fact.

Funkadelic – “Can You Get to That.” Y’know, ’cause I’m just loungin without my pants on and who better to provide the sounds than George and the crew. The song’s about a breakup but that bassline says otherwise. PS, Can you get to that was like a more formal version of You dig, right? Or maybe more like the ’70s version of You feel me.


Ski Beatz – “Taxi” (instro). ‘Cause the words are kind of sad but that beat is not and it is suitable for loungin, dar-linnnn.


Just Blaze – “Exhibit C” (instro). BECAUSE IT WILL NEVER GET OLD, and because Laboe played “Cross My Heart” the other night when I was driving and I almost crashed by the Chevron station on Temple.


Seu Jorge – “Rebel Rebel.” Because sometimes I fuck around and tell people I’m Brazilian, and they believe me, because I have both a trustworthy face and an ethnically ambiguous face. And because I couldn’t find Caetano Veloso’s “Não Identificado.”


Isaac Hayes – “Hung Up on My Baby.” BECAUUUUUSE! I don’t need no “because”! Just listen to it. Plus it’s Isaac, and he has a no-pants rule. I would also like to inform you that I make big money, I drive big cars/Everybody know me.



Plaid: variations on a theme

Now I’m in the limelight due to the fact that I rhyme tight, and also because of my vast knee-high/thigh-high sock collection. These pics are from that one day when Biggie informed my outfit choices, and I strutted around in my red-and-black lumberjack and my pixellated-Biggie-face slouchy tank top, and nobody dared fuck with me. WE DID IT, BROOKLYN.

The only things I know about fashion are

Bathing suits are nice,
it took me a long time to figure out that boys like skinny legs and go crazy when they are paired with short garments + heels; I wish I’d known sooner because I would’ve really capitalized on the shit instead of being awkward and self-conscious about my own terribly skinny legs,
Zac Posen has a mean case of bitchface,
florals will be huge this spring,
I would like a bag from the House of Wang with those DOPE GROMMETS on the bottom!,
there was this one time when K. West and crew went to Paris fashion week and just did not give a collective fuck about how they would be perceived by all the dudes in their old neighborhoods. Other than that, plaid is in for fall, and as someone who is partially made of hardy Scottish stock and who likes songs about red-and-black lumberjacks, I endorse this.

In other plaid news:

I miss this individual and his solid technique of verbal intercourse. And yes, my wistful memories and corresponding photograph are appropriate in this post because houndstooth is a form of plaid. Fall back, pattern police.

“Livin’ Astro.” When rap’s Sun Ra tones the weirdness down, he has a Chris Wallace sort of lyrical bent. This could be a Biggie verse, no?

I got my shades, big rock star compared to Elvis
Signin autographs for rappers, while girls move they pelvis
Write songs quickly, for Elton John or Lionel Richie
Call up my butler, get clothes washed by the maid
Ivory soap, this is clean, feel like Cascade
I count the bills, roll to Detroit in Sedan DeVilles
I throw my skully on, big robe like Marvin Gaye
Step in the front row, primetime I move your way
Budweiser Fest soundcheck, demanding more respect
I come correct through the Metro, and turn y’all petrol
I’m up here early bitin donuts sippin on espresso.

Isaac Hayes displays how stunting is, in fact, a habit.
That is all.

Just found out they fucking play Pavement at Urban Outfitters. Not counting the fun I had singing along in my head when I walked around, this was a bad experience. My stress level really suffers because of these kinds of daily intersections of commerce and musical purity. Who cares if the 15-year-old next to me is hearing Pavement on account of shopping in a store headed by a conservative capitalist entrepreneur? She’s 15, and it’s Pavement, and this means that the music will seep into her and inform all of her choices in life. She might not hear it otherwise, until years later when Natalie the roommate plays it for her during freshman year at UCSB. My mom says it’s bad for me, all this mental anguish. But she also says that my sassy mouth is the reason I’m unmarried, so what does she know. Look at Steve there, though. That’s a pretty nice haircut (har!). I love the purple v-neck, too. Fashion, baby.

That is all.

If you can rap like this, and we all know you can rap like this, how come you don’t rap like this all the time? There’s the crushing grind of the rap game, the pressure of feeling pressured. I know the work won’t always be sublime. I have a tiny bit of sympathy. But overall, I’m tired of the games and the distracting sidework, Nasir.

I’d rather die in a box than live safe in witness protection
Gotti was a racist, but he still get praises
We don’t give a fuck—gangster is gangster.

Abbey Lee Kershaw has that gap-toothed, tiny-facial-featured beauty that I will just never be able to master. It’s frustrating. Fashion loves skinny and white, and I’m both of those, but sadly, fashion does not care for hips and that’s why my modeling career peaked when I was 12, then plummeted and landed with a resounding thud. I have confidence that I could pull off something like the look in this photo, though, because I can master nakedness under a plaid button-up, I can master having an adorable bellybutton, and I sure as hell can master a bored expression in front of the camera. This picture is oddly sexy and I can’t understand why, although it’s that criterion that generally applies to anything sexy. My point is, just please, someone: manipulate an electronic image of me, and give me cartoon antlers.

The Great Typo Hunt has been all over NPR, and the concept is kind of cute–these 2 guys who get little to no ass embarked on a journey to fix all egregious misuses of grammar in signs, ads, and articles. They then wrote a book about their, uh, adventures. I’m kind of like these guys, except with sloppy rap songwriting and production. I see it and I have to call it out; I’m on a mission from God. Maybe one day I’ll write a book about it, and then you’ll all be sorry you ever made fun of me.

Oh look, here’s our first example. That awful Game and his buddies Swizzy and Jay Elec (whose presence here confuses and upsets me) have made a song called “Higher,” which is bad and which flips and bounces Bob Marley’s “Iron Lion Zion” incorrectly. “I’m gonna be higher,” they believe the chorus goes–except somebody didn’t pay attention to the fact that the song is called “Iron Lion Zion,” and there is no mention of the word “higher” in there. It sounds like “higher” because Swizz, I guess, cannot understand Jamaican patois, but all he had to do was consult the title of the song he chopped up and looped. This is just lazy songwriting, and more proof that the best thing Swizz Beats ever did was play hypeman to DMX on Chappelle’s Show. That’s where he excelled.

Ciccone Youth!

Mike Watt is never not lumberjackin’, sartorially speaking. Always with the flannel button-ups, that one. But you know, you’re in San Pedro, you got the onshore flow, it’s overcast. Dress in layers. They did a piece about him in the LA Times over the weekend that was entertaining and delightful. His feelings about Iggy Pop and, more importantly, BASS, are summed up below. Watt will always be the same, even with creaky bones and gray hair, just like Adam Yauch.

Iggy’s a great cat, as a music person, but he actually knows a lot about culture. He’s very intelligent. I’ve learned so much about being a better bass player from that guy. There’s these guys that don’t operate machines, they have different perspectives of the sound; they’re more like conductors, almost like a bridge to the people. So they can help you, especially with bass, because it’s kind of mysterious how bass works. It’s not just a guitar. It’s a weird thing, kinda like grout between the tiles.

OHSHIT SONNNN. Gallo’s a disgusting Republican jerkoff but he keeps good company. VMAs, ’94. Snoop must’ve magically risen from that wheelchair.

First of all, this is just an excellent photograph. It’s full of joy and movement. Who knew Jehovah’s Witnesses could swagger so convincingly.

Second, it’s MJ’s birthday. That’s why “Human Nature” was all over popular radio today, even though they should’ve been playing “The Way You Make Me Feel” (late-’80s MJ), “Say, Say, Say” (early-’80s-underrated-pop-duet-banger MJ), “You Haven’t Done Nothing”* (mid-’70s-backing-Stevie-Wonder-with-his-brothers MJ), or “I Wanna Be Where You Are,” from the heartbreakingly-innocent-face era of MJ. OH, or “It’s Great to be Here.”




White on white in white, you dig.

Annnnd the hits just keep on comin.

Name: Rasputin’s Stash, self-titled (Cotillion, 1971).

[Cotillion also released the Woodstock soundtrack (3 records, fold-out sleeve, I know it well; hi, Mom and Dad!) and the Velvet Underground’s Loaded. I’m still not sure how I feel about Lou Reed. He seems a little too cool for school for me to really like. Those Supreme ads were pretty fresh, though.]

Is this OK? Yes. Romanov Dynasty references will always murder the game. I also like the use of possessive here and I find myself mulling it over in my head at work. I need to know what’s in that precious stash.

Entered my life: ’09 (?). Normally I keep track but I don’t know what happened in this case. Beat Swap Meet. $16.

Produced by: Andy Pappas, mystery human who does not exist anywhere on the Internet which means he does not exist. The man appears to have made this record and then quietly gathered his things and left the city of Dodge. His name tells me he’s of Greek descent, which gives him ethnic cache since in this regard he’s part of the same group as John Cassavetes and, according to the mighty Wiki, Shuggie Otis!

Difficulty of finding, 1-10: 7.52 in the brick-and-mortar, dusty-fingers world, AKA my world, AKA the real world. If you are a weak and pitiful cyber-digger, it registers as only like a 2 or 3. I hope you sleep ok at night, you monster.

Breaks contained: “Mr. Cool” is, sadly, used in a song by the non-Kool-Aid-pushing, non-Peoples Temple Jim Jones, which is to say the less dope of the two Jim Joneses. I hear Cassidy used it on a mixtape and Beck looped a break from the same song too, but who cares.

Life lessons, important messages contained:

– Like every early-70s funk record, when listened with superficial ears it’s about being naked, looking fresh, walking down the street, and driving big-bodied American sedans. Underneath the calm surface of funk and sexual satisfaction, though, the revolution is swelling. It was recorded in 1970, so these songs are about Kent State, My Lai, Jimi dying–all informed by Psychedelic Shack and Tangerine Dream’s first record. And Iommi on “War Pigs.”

– More glide in my stride, more dip in my hip. I have both, and I use them to get boys to buy me things.

– There aren’t really any handclaps, but the far more obscure high-five sound (00:59) is used to quite the joyful effect. No jive.

– “I used to fool around with the president’s old lady,” “I was the first man on the moon,” blah blah. Braggy dudes don’t get the girls out of their clothes. It’s like you learned in English class, boys–show, don’t tell.

Best YouTube comment: “Sexy as fuck.” So concise, and so devastatingly on-point.

Suitable activities while listening: ANYTHING BUT BALLLLLLIINNNNNN and doing air jump shots. “Gentlemen, stop it.” – me in ’06, as well as in ’07 because dudes would just not stop it.

Really, though, regarding activities–just throw on your onesie, belt it, then lounge around and wait for the premiere of Mad Men like a good girl. Clean the house. Read the paper. Today would’ve been an excellent day for a televised sporting event, too. SIGH. Miss you, darling NFL.

Other notable things about today:

– The entire Portland scene was because of basements.

– Tour de France pics on The Big Picture are lush and distractily entertaining while at work. You pull ahead of the peloton and you just might get the maillot jaune, or maybe you’ll just keep cruising around my neighborhood thinking about Johnny Marr and you’re ok with that, but you’re only a real winner if you’re wearing a cute, shiny necklace. Get ’em, Francis de Greef of Belgium!


– Song-inclusion excuse 1: It’s the birthday of Jim McCarty, the Yardbirds’ drummer. As a white person with a heart full of soul, and as a white lady with honey in her hips, I am required by law to love the Yardbirds. “For Your Love” is a 0 on the obscurity scale, but the song thrills me with delight, and not just because of the almighty fuzzbox. OH FUZZBOX, you are almost as great as the Speakerboxxx, just not quite. Mr. McCarty starts the song sounding like he put a penny in a tin can and rattled it around, and then when the tempo change hits he just brings out the big guns, that bass drum. SWOON.

– Song-inclusion excuse 2: It’s Verdine White’s birthday! The Earth Wind & Fire bassist/singer/songwriter with the hair almost as long as mine, that’s who.

Earth Wind & Fire, “Power,” from Last Days and Time, which I own (!) and will soon be clutching in front of myself with my camera’s self-timer in order to do an obnoxious “Ha ha I have an original pressing of this album” post. I can’t really say the bass stands out here since it’s competing with the mighty kalimba and various woodwinds, and I believe I hear some tambourine in there as well, but that bass is still terribly important. Plus I heard* Monch hand-picked this song on account of that break and then, brimming with inspiration, he went and wrote a song about machine guns and being good at rapping. *I did not actually hear that.

Fantasy thing(s) that happened today: I woke up and had the angelic dollface and height of Natalia, but I got to keep my own bodily proportions–most importantly, my prized waist-to-hip ratio. So I was finally pretty satisfied with what looked back at me in the mirror. Finally. Then I saw Joell on the street and I told him, “OMG, that Dave & Buster’s line? HILARIOUS. It’s an awful song, but I swear I don’t turn it off til after your verse.”


Too $hort, Merle, Saturn’s F ring, & my blue sweater.

When I’m mad at the Internet for being a shill for Rick Ross, Inc., I turn to my greatest muse—the records of apt. 15.

Name: Skyy, Skyway. (Salsoul, 1980)

Is this OK? Yes. Skyy vodka is bad (Belve, strictly Belve for this lady when Lloyd Banks and I get bottle service), but Skyy is a pretty fresh name for a band and I’m surprised it wasn’t already taken. Still, I’m a little mad they didn’t name the album Skyyway. How bout some consistency, please.

Entered my life: In August ’07, at Amoeba for $5.99.

Produced by: Randy Muller, keyboardist, disco architect, member of Brass Construction (!).

Life lessons, important messages contained:

– Handclaps. Just handclaps. They are, in fact, somehow a lesson. I learned at age 3; I think it hit me when my dad played Look-Ka PyPy in the living room.

– If you’re going to copy someone, really put some thought into it and copy the best (Chic).

– Oh and perhaps I forgot to mention that Apt. 15 favorite Skyzoo was named for the song “Skyy Zoo” on this very album! CIRCLE OF LIFE.

Suitable activities while listening: Uh, clapping your hands. But also: Getting down on it. Getting out of speeding tickets, maybe, if it’s really your day. And y’know, just doin your thing and hoping nobody tries to stifle it.

Breaks contained? YES. Yesyes, God yes. Too $hort, “Short But Funky.” Master Ace, “Postin’ High.”

Best YouTube comment: “Turn ’em ’round an’ kick ’em in the ass…..youngsters just don’t know!!” (re: old music being better than new music. And NO, I didn’t write it but it really sounds like something I would).

Sartorial accompaniment: Skyy blue cardigan, black skirt that I MADE because I happen to be learning HOW TO SEW, NO BIG DEAL, kneesocks & heelz. The look I was going for was “librarian crossed with a hooker going to church who is pleased and amazed by B.o.B.’s enjoyable and bouncy flow on the ‘Teach Me How to Dougie’ remix,” but really it is my lunch outfit for playing hooky from work, feeling relieved that it’s finally not 95 degrees out, and going to that hideous expensive place with the delicious caffeine IV drip.

What pictures of myself posing in this outfit has to do with the record is, really, nothing and that’s that. But darling, life is performance. You are straight bugging if you pretend otherwise.

Other notable things about today:

– That Merle Haggard special was on PBS. What’s this about Merle being in the audience during Johnny Cash’s San Quentin shows (not the celebrated ones of ’69 – Merle was there for the 1958 shows) and why was I not alerted to this fact earlier. This is not as much a question as it is a statement–an indignant and annoyed statement. The LA Times writeup mentions that the special leaves out a lot about the “Bakersfield sound,” which my noble and goodhearted father tried to teach me about when I was a surly teenager and that I only appreciated years later. I could be kind of a jerk when I was 14. I returned to him solemn and humbled as a grown-up, my head hanging low. Anyway, electric guitar innovations were happening at the same time that the sound was emerging, thanks to Leo (Clarence Leonidas) Fender. Of course, this leads a girl to wonder who designed that curvy Fender logo that all the post-1966 models have. Have the report on my desk Monday morning. No excuses.

– Back in Black turned 30! I’ll give you black sensations up and down your spine. If you’re into evil you’re a friend of mine. (Also, if you enjoy going to get overpriced coffee and talking about Merle Haggard! Let’s hang out.)

– “Cassini Sees Moon Building Giant Snowballs in Saturn Ring.” – Science Daily. Mind blown in front of laptop today. Oh how I do love science. There’s no way I can try to rework this report into humanspeak, so a direct quote is in order:

New images from Cassini show icy particles in Saturn’s F ring clumping into giant snowballs as the moon Prometheus makes multiple swings by the ring.

This concept mixtape is coming. It’s coming, people. It’s called F Ring Clumping, but when it leaks a month early the kids commenting at NahRight get it wrong and think its name is Multiple Swings By the Ring. No matter. It’s hosted by Sun Ra and Captain Beefheart. Liner notes by Kool Keith (they have those for mixtapes now).

Fantasy thing(s) that happened today: Kells was glad he had an attorney on retainer ever since the jailbait unpleasantness because that made it super easy to sue Trey Songz for voice infringement, song structure infringement, and overall swagger-jack.


À bout de souffle.

A few things that make me choke up a little
(for reasons that I explain in probably too much detail):

Bon anniversaire, “Breathless”!

Jump cuts, natural lighting, and improvised plotting; the French New Wave, I see now, has clearly provided the template for me as I blog my way through life and attempt to tell stories in an entertaining fashion.

Truffaut vs. Godard is yet another battle within the heads of nerds that seems terribly important if it’s your head or the head of someone in your nerd crew, but it’s a battle that most outsiders yawn at. This-thing-vs-that-thing, clash-of-the-titans bickering by members of each titan’s respective fans is too emotion-laden to ever be a grown-up debate. I’ve seen this before, many times. Innervisions or Talking Book? Hathaway or Cooke? Champion or Polo (in ’93)? Shut up, yawn, and nobody cares—unless of course you want to discuss these things with me, in which case please be at apt. 15 by 6 pm sharp for drinks & bickering.

Jean Seberg is adorable, bien sûr. I could never pull off that haircut, which requires finely textured, pin-straight hair like that of a tomboyish French girl, since I have the thick, unruly hair of my Celtic forepeople. My kind of hair looks great if you’re a Kennedy on a yacht, the sun bleaching it at the tips and the saltwater boosting its natural curl. But if you live in present-day Los Angeles and don’t make it to Cape Cod much because you’re just blogging and daydreaming all the time, it’s just a high-maintenance thing in your life that takes an hour to blow dry and looks best at about 2 1/2 feet in length. Why so much talk about hair? Oh my. I appear to have lost control of this post.

Alas, I’m not now nor will I ever be classified as “gamine,” and you people will just have to deal with that. You probably wife up Seberg; she just looks like the type–skinny pants, ballet flats, Camus novels and dainty facial features. Your mom would approve. You kick it, however, with the full-lipped, long-haired girl in the fur hat*. She’s more fun. Cherchez les hips. (I see you, Belmondo).


Fuck a Mixtape, says T.I.
OK, pumpkin.
Easy now.

If he’ll just keep giving me that bouncy, playful flow in that Geougiah accent, T.I. can say fuck this and fuck everything, fuck the NBA salary cap, fuck BP and fuck Rand Paul, fuck fuck all day long. What do I care. He’s adorable and diminutive and has a wonderful smile (sometimes my estrogen gets in the way of true music fandom).

The mixtape is not worth all that download time so don’t bother with it–the song below is the only one of quality, and since I can’t tolerate an entire DJ Drama anything (including mixtapes), I left the rest of the thing alone. Skip right to the part where my ex-boyfriend Killer Mike comes in, snappin and trappin and takin my breath away.

The song with Lil Wayne (“Yeah”) is noteworthy only because of its intro. “For those of you who care,” T.I. says–except in Atlantan, it’s Cyeah. Cyeaugh. (I’ll get it eventually). I gave it a couple listens just because it’s been a while since I’ve had any Wayne fodder. My new thing is wishing hard that Wayne takes a meeting with BP execs upon his release from jail to yell at them, or that he at least calls his next mixtape Top Kill. This is because I am not very reality-based. (I also hope that Nicki Minaj writes her own stuff and that Blu and Redman will do a mixtape with Green Lantern, but those things are probably not happening either.)

T.I. feat. Killer Mike, who will never be successful in getting me to refer to him as Mike Bigga – “Ready Set Go.” (produced by No I.D.!)


I’m breathless when I think of all the things an LA-Boston series means to me (which is mostly misty childhood memories of really good televised matches of sport), and when I consider the beauty of this photograph.

That’s right, Green Jacket. You fucking get Mr. Worthy a beverage.

The Celtics and the people who love them clearly need an uplifting series of moments, an injection of mirth and energy, to make up for all the Guru melancholy weighing their city down. I believe a championship would provide this. However, to paraphrase my good friend T.I.: fuck a Boston team. Also, they do know it’s not pronounced “selltics,” right? I’ve been whining about this since I was a know-it-all 10-year-old. I’m assuming people have just been too polite to inform them all these years.

Dosh & Andrew Bird – “Number 41.” Because it’s only 1 digit away from Big Game James, and because they haven’t made a “Number 24” yet. YET.


This one’s a holdover from Sunday, and it’s so good that I still haven’t been able to catch my breath. NYC, fresh from begging and whimpering for LeBron, makes a strong comeback with this story in the Times about the origins of the metal rims in all the public basketball courts. They’re made by blacksmiths–referred to as a team in the article, since there are 6 of them, of course–who cut, weld, and paint each one, by hand, from a hand-drawn blueprint, “using a century-old method that has long since vanished elsewhere.” Woody Guthrie should do a song about these guys and the related difficulties of the perimeter shot.

The finished product is a remnant of an earlier era of the sport, somewhere on the evolutionary chain between the original wooden peach baskets and the modern spring-loaded breakaway rims used by the National Basketball Association

Other cities, including those with their own share of contributions to basketball lore like Boston, Chicago, Los Angeles and Newark, buy modern, factory-made rims. New York is among the few places, and possibly the only one, where municipal rims used at more than 700 public parks are still made by hand.

And the opener! That first paragraph is so inspiring, I may have to copy it and hope the writer never notices:

The old steel rim that presides over this public basketball court absorbs missed shots with an angry clank, sending the ball careening upward and the wood and metal backboard into a rickety seizure. Sending the backboard into a rickety seizure is the particularly nice language moment for me.

Gasp! Look how stunning!

Lightleafs are illuminated OLED bookmarks that are as thin as a book’s page and provide just enough light for reading in the dark. I’d like one of these, and maybe several more, as only then will I be sufficiently pleased and distracted enough to overlook the incorrect use of language on display here (light leaves) the likes of which I have not seen since the travesty that was the 2010 Rock the Bells poster.

The bookmark runs wirelessly, and the light is rechargeable with brightness controls to turn it down so that it won’t bother others nearby. Courtesy of DesignBoom.

Are the rims big? Do it ride good? Lean back, right hand on the pinewood.

The god Craig Sager and I agree that the most flattering colors on one’s person are those adopted from the Dreyer’s* palette. The playoffs arrived right around the time my mother announced to me that all of my clothing is pastel, “which makes sense because you like ice cream so much.” Why yes, Mom. It does make sense. And yes, I am ignoring the subtext of your observation (that I’m a big girl now, too old to be wearing chocolate- and lavender-hued things).

I’m resisting the urge to say French vanilla, butter pecan, chocolate deluxe at this time, and will instead just give you all a Cream on the inside/Clean on the outside. Yeah buddy.

6 12’s in the trunk, 4 screens in the deck. And yes, the outside frame in the trunk is wide.

* Edy’s, for my NY cohort.

Butterfly in the sky/I can go twice as hiiiiiigh. Plus new Mos Def!

Me and my precious new rectangular baby, How to Wreck a Nice Beach!

It was a lovely weekend. Special shout to Stories, the good people at Urban Outfitters who make consistently pretty dresses for girls with hips, the “Ha Ha” instrumental, Bruce Haack, Nutella always, Bob Power for being named Bob Power and for ruling, KCRW for playing Little Willie John’s “My Love Is” at the exact perfect moment on Sunday afternoon, and Mr. Tompkins, of course. Even in a perfect world, where everyone was equal, Dave would most likely own the film rights and be working on the sequel.

But don’t take my word for it.

“Reading Rainbow” theme. Horrendous sound quality, but kindly disregard that.


Joe Tex – “Buying a Book.”


Gil Scott-Heron featuring Mos Def – “New York is Killing Me.” Mos added his verse, cleaned up the BP oil spill, then rode off into the sunset.


(Thank you, Pitchfork)