Category Archives: I’m a dork

Let the inappropriate emotional attachment to my fantasy football team begin!

Why yes, Hank Williams, jr. – I am ready for some football. SQUAD UP:

QB: Mark Sanchez, NY Jets
Pros: USC! Not Matt Leinart! Had pretty good numbers last season, and will maybe keep improving? Maybe? I’m also told that “with a few lucky bounces he could have a good (year),” which applies to me as well as every other human being in the universe. 
Con: He’s from Mission Viejo, and people from Orange County cannot be trusted. People from East Orange, however, can always be trusted (to provide the world with at least 1 life-is-wonderful heartrate-increasing soundtrack banger). 
Team’s best rap nods:  Aw, pumpkin! I’m so glad you asked!   
“JETLIFEJETLIFEJETLIFEJETLIFE, jet set/nothing less, jets fool, EAH, where haven’t we been, lames catch feelings/we catch flights, jet life/it sucks to be you…” (fade out). “New York City respects my game like Mark Sanchez Joe Namath” – Monch. A quick Internet search also tells me that Bad Meets Evil has an actual Mark Sanchez line; however, I find all those songs so boring and therefore offensive to my ear canal that I cannot verify this information.

Backup QB, although who knows, I might start him: Eli Manning, NY Giants
Pros: 4,000 passing yards last year! Also, with Steve Smith gone, Eli will have the firm-yet-flexible hands of Hakeem Nicks, even more ready and willing to catch for him. teehee.
Cons: 4,000 25 interceptions last year! Just super goofy looking. At least he commits to it, though – Eli’s not changing his style for anybody, which makes him the Danny “50 didn’t like my pants” Brown of my fantasy team Personality boring like peanut butter & jelly on Wonder bread, Kanye’s women issues, an Ikea couch, grown men Twit-scrapping, Jay Elec’s voice. (I let these gentlemen into my heart and psyche every fall; a little charisma would be nice.)
Team’s best rap nod: “I slam tracks like quarterback sacks from LT” – Deck. (Reference circa 1981-9, but it still counts) 

WR: Brandon Lloyd, Denver Broncos 

Pros: Pro Bowl-er; NFL’s reception yards leader last year (1448). He and Kyle Orton are in sync like Curren$y and…Alc? (Spitta calls him “Al.” AWW.)

Con: Glamour shots.

Team’s best rap nod(s): In a few sex raps over the years, there have been mentions of individuals “throwing” the “P” or the “D” “like Elway” (you’ll have to figure it out, as I am a lady and I CAN’T TYPE THOSE WORDS, teehee! Hi Mom!) “Ice cubes in my pocket; too many drive Elway style. I got this.” – Curren$y. “I keep it real dirty, dirty, you know how I do/Purple and gold with the Lakers, the Broncos – the orange and blue” – “Air Force Ones” (click, grin, chair dance. 2002 pop radio magic.) I have it on good authority that Denver is just like Compton. 

WR: Dwayne Bowe, KC Chiefs

Pros: Pro Bowl-er Spells his first name correctly. Every time he’s in Miami and sees D.Wade, Bowe’s like What’s up DwYYYYane, hahahaha. I like that. (Seems like Wade needs to be taken down a notch ego-wise, I’m just saying.)
Con: I’m an IRL Raider fan, and I fear that my IRL hatred of the Chiefs will result in me self-sabotaging when it comes to fantasy, purposely putting Bowe in some no-win situations. Why do I do the things that I do? What’s going on in this head of mine? More complex than an almanac, that’s me.
Team’s best rap nod: “Watching the Chiefs blow ’em out/In between Arrowhead and Suave House, no doubt” – Andre Rison (ha) on an Eightball song. I should call this “team’s only rap nod, outside of ‘Queen’s Gambit’ (too easy), something by Tech N9ne (nope), or a fucking Mac Miller song (which I refuse to post on here, for ethical reasons).” And because the mourning of Jerry Lieber continues in apt. 680, “Kansas City” is appropriate for the listening in this case too. It’s not-rap but it’s got bass and movement, and that makes it perfect for the chopping and looping. I have daydreams of its future appearance as a rap break; won’t somebody please use it?   
Quotable: This one girl was talking to me like she’d known me for years. ‘Hey, D-Bowe, how’s Grandma?’ I’m like, ‘How do you know my grandma?’on ladies who are big, big NFL fans.

WR: Jeremy Maclin, Philadelphia Eagles

Pro: NO CANCER! Fuck outta here, death!
Cons: Mysterious vomiting and night sweats not due to cancer or any other ailment; this man appears to be a bit of a delicate flower. Maclin’s teammates must call him “J Mac,” yes? Sigh. Of course they do. And I’m sure he’s fine with it. Points deducted for lack of creativity and overall predictability.
Team’s rap nod(s): Well, Wayne’s from Eagle Street of course. “My city is New Orleans/Baby, my street is Eagle.” Tons of McNabb and Vick mentions – “Stay running the rock just like I play quarterback for the Eagles – Randall, Donovan, to Michael” – Gibbs.

Backup WR: Plaxico Burress, Jets

Pros: • Built like PlasticMan (6’5″, 232!!) like all receivers should be. Possibly has a Dwayne-Carter-esque just-out-the-pen hunger which would result in some prolific output. 
Cons: Will maybe have a Prodigy-esque just-out-the-pen hunger to overcompensate out of desperation which would result in some underwhelming performances (aw Prod. Sorry, buddy).

Rap nod(s): Oh Jesus Christ, too many. So many. (Game n’ Weezers) 

Backup backup WR: Jordy Nelson, Green Bay Packers

Pros: “EHH” during the regular season, but “OOH” in the playoffs. Showed some fancy footwork in the Super Bowl too.
Con: I find it difficult to respect a grown man named “Jordy.” I might be able to reconcile this as the season progresses if he performs well…however:

in a shocking turn of events, it’s possible that ownership could go with Chicago’s Johnny Knox as a Possible Backup WR instead! He might get lost in the shuffle on a team that has Roy Williams and Devin Hester, but at least his name’s not Jordy. It’s an odd and powerful feeling, being a woman in LA with no team-ownership experience who suddenly finds herself able to put these guys in or take them out in a giant game of Fate, Destiny, and Met/Unmet Expectations. This must be what it’s like to be Jerry Jones! Or RZA and GZA on the giant Clock of Life, taking breaks to play chess. 

Team’s best rap nods (NO, not that Wayne song about being a cheesehead): “With a knapsack of green Supreme hats/Like I was sponsored up by the fucking PackersTy. “My belt got G’s on it like a Packers helmet” – not-Nicki and not-Wayne so who cares, “Pass the Dutch.”



Pros: • Best running back ever to exist in the universe (1600 yards last season!). Here to save the world, or at least help a certain bathing-suited ladyblogger get the (fake) win every Sunday.
Con: Say his first name out loud.
Quotable: Understand the universe, you’ll understand me.” Oh good lord. 
Team’s best rap nod(s): None for the team specifically; I’m pretty sure the Texans have only existed in the league for like 6 months. For the city of Houston’s rap nods, though, I suggest you visit the rap- and bathing-suit-appreciation blog HeightFiveSeven. Understand bass, you’ll understand me. Understand hips, you’ll understand me. 


RB: Shonnnnnnnn Greene, NY Jets

Pros: He’s from a place called Sicklerville, so how could he not be a sick fucking overachiever on the field? (Logic’s not my strong suit. Hips are.) Plus Tomlinson’s getting old, so Greene will be able to shine like sunlight, like gold, like my wit and charm.
Connnnns: Obvious mom and dad issues, since they decided to spell his name that way. I see this manifesting itself as some distractedness on the field.

Backup RB: BenJarvus Green-Ellis, New England Patriots

Pros: 13 touchdown carries last season! Nickname: “The Law Firm.” LOVE IT.
Cons: The epic name “BenJarvus” carries no weight, no special meaning. It’s not a family name or anything! – his mom just liked it. I can respect that, Mrs. Green, but it’s still disappointing.

Team’s best rap nod(s): Does this count? (It’s my blog, so it counts):

TE: Owen Daniels, Texans

Pros: When healthy, he’s good. When healthy (this hasn’t happened since ’08, though that season he did have over 800 yards). This stupid league makes me play a tight end every week instead of a fourth receiver (which would make me much happier), but Daniels is one of the best available.
Cons: See below.

Quotable: “That shuttle launch was pretty sweet.” He also enjoys reruns of Rob and Big, going to the gym, and staying positive – all important parts of his training regimen for the 2011 Boring-Personality-Off between himself and Eli Manning.

Backup TE: Aaron Hernandez, Patriots

Pros: Decent numbers last year, and he’s so young that I believe he’ll only improve from this point. Handles it like a grown man (“I’ll get better”) when random dudes criticize him electronically. This type of maturity and non-bitchery is so unusual in the world as I know it; feels like dreamland.
Con: Fantasy football sites have informed me that, due to the Patriots having another good tight end in Rob Gronkowski, Aaron’s stats will suffer “because the ball is spread around so much.” TEE HEE. 

Team’s best rap nod, since, OK fine, “Patriotism” was kind of cheating: “I got the bomb; call me Tom Brady” – Ghosty, in that horrendous Rae song that makes me yell HOWWW does Khalil keep getting production jobs? Is it blackmail? He must have overtly homosexual photos of Dre or something. (And for the record, Ghost: I’m not going to call you anything but “sir,” “god,” “darling,” “dear,” “darling dear,” “Ironman,” “king,” or “Tony.” xoxo.)


K: Nate Kaeding, San Diego Chargers

Pros: Can consistently and adeptly use his foot to make a football sail through the air and land square between two goal posts. (I get this guy almost every year in fantasy. He’s solid if unspectacular, much like his rap equivalent…umm, Elzhi? Skyzoo? Royce? I don’t know. Somebody help me here.)
Cons: Has the unfortunate appearance of a weakling. Is Nate anemic? He just looks super feeble; I kind of feel like I could black his eye out even though I have arms like Mr. Burns’.

Team’s best rap nod: “I might charge through San Diego with the bolts on my shoulder/Rock the Trailblazer warm-up, ’cause Portland gets colder” – Fabolous. Nice to hear a song from Loso about menswear rather than yet another one about ladies’ shoes and purses.

DEF: NY Giants

Pros: Lawrence “I breaks it down to the bone gristle” Taylor has a fondness for powdery stimulants and sex professionals, but nobody can dispute his skill as a player. His competitive spirit still permeates the Giants’ defensive line to this day (in my head), though he hasn’t played since the ’90s. As far as the current roster goes, all I feel the need to say is PRINCE AMUKAMARA. Nigerians are good at everything.

Backup DEF: Detroit Lions

Pros: Other than Ndamukong Suh, I’m not sure. But Baltimore, Green Bay, Pittsburgh, Philly, and Chicago are all taken – what am I supposed to do, other than back this defense with love, affection, and a few prayers to the NFL gods on Saturday night before I lay my head down and go to sleep?
Team’s best rap nods: “Looking like Barry Sanders/So Icey flex game” – Waka “A city full of Tommy Hearns thumpers/Grant Hill hoopers, Barry Sanders runners, stunners” – Royce. At first I was mad at various other Michigan rappers (ahem, GUILTY S.) for not mentioning their home team in verse, but then I realized that the Lions were terrrrrrrible during most of those guys’ young-man-hood. You’re forgiven, gentlemen. “Like chocolate candy you will break/Running back, Detroit Lions, with an ill fake” – Keith, in Ultramag’s “Super Spellbound.”


Oh word: I am qualified and would very much like to do a song with Curren$y, please.

“How come the things that make us happy make us sad?” asked golden-voiced philosopher Frankie Beverly. His question was in response to unstoppable rap machine Curren$y putting out song after song with Wiz Khalifa. “Well, it seems to me,” Frankie said, “that joy and pain are like sunshine and rain.”

Sigh. Yes, Frankie. YES. It seems that way to me, too. Like every young lady with a computer and a working pair of ears, I love Curren$y. I hate Wiz. They keep doing songs together, and that’s a zig-zag-y journey through the joy and pain regions of my brain. (It’s also a Zig Zag journey, of course! teehee.) I’m not an MC, but since I can stand upright and speak basic English, I am pleased to announce my impending fame, including but not limited to being on the cover of Smooth! and getting a fake naked girlfriend for promo purposes. I’m told I should also have a likeable personality, which, OK, done, and get close with some cheesy Nordic producers which, oh dear, will take a little bit of work. Have faith, though – in a month or two I’ll be skyping Curren$y while Antwerp-bound which sounds dirty but it’s not.

1. “Rooftops,” from Rolling Papers (produced by Big Jerm)

Wiz, signed and rich (richer than me, anyway, and to me that’s rich): And they say they ballin’, but I do it how the pros do/Where we goin’ next week I let my hoes choose/No socks and my boat shoes/Guess a n—a eatin’ good like Whole Foods.



Wiz’s butter lyrics over, uh, word cloud grits?

Do, choose, shoes, Foods. Seuss raps. When done correctly, in a New York accent (AUDIO TWO) or in a Louisiana accent (White carpet in my Scarface house/No undergarments on my Scarface spouse), it’s rap perfection. Rapfection. When not done well, it’s Wiz. I simply cannot explain this phenomenon, nor do I care to try, because then I’d sound like a Pitchfork writer and they never post pictures of themselves in bathing suits so they are losers.

Logan, unsigned/poor, Moleskine full of rhymes: Somethingsomething much- ballyhooed/Don’t know what I like more – devil’s pie or devil’s food/Blah blah, Premier’s a porn fiend, plus he got hops & barley ’cause it’s home brewed/uhhhhTell the driver to fire up that Marley, I wanna hear some “Mellow Mood”-?

I’m sure many of you out there could get loose over the beat, go in a completely different direction than me, use that sad horn as punctuation for a tale of a break-up or a death instead of this lowest-common-denominator drivel I have presented here (porn, beer, cake, A/A rhyme scheme). But this is a copy-Wiz exercise and it therefore needs to be as mindless as possible. Other than the part where I made Premier into a craft-beer specialist, what?, I promise you that no creative juices flowed in the composing of this verse (which took me about 14 seconds). Everybody likes being high? Well then, put it in your verse! Everybody knows fresh-faced mid-’60s Studio One rocksteady Marley was the best Marley? It goes in the fuckin verse! Also, you’ll notice that the term “Marley” works in 2 ways here, which just shows that when I really apply myself for 14 seconds I can come up with some lyrical blasts to your freaking head. Oh my lorrrrd, I am absolutely killing it. Wiz, you ain’t got no job security.

Curren$y, diminutive rapstar millionaire:  You n—s ain’t help us – on second thought, you did/The hatin’ was the fuel for this shit.

JETLIFEFOOOOOLLLLAHTEIHIQ#N+*HMM7LLFH9Y%ILEH5NFU*^7WEHR. I get excited and my fingers get all quivery! CAN’T TYPE! TOO EXCITED. Anyway, it’s JET LIFE, now, tomorrow, always, goddamn you if you’re not on board with this, jet life forever and ever amen, so “fuel” works 2 ways here. His verse is unremarkable, but that’s ok; you’ve heard his voice, right? (This might be a girly thing; forgive me). Plus he’s got that accent, the star of every damn one of his songs (even when it’s not a song, it sounds like a song ’cause his way of speaking is so sing-songy. Conversationally, he’s a musical genius.) He sneaks in a “whoadie,” which he rarely does and that is so weird to me, because if I were from N.O. I’d say it all the time just because I could. The hell do people from Pittsburgh say? NOTHING. They have no slang because nobody cares what they say, or what they do, or the shoes they wear, or how they feel about things.

2. “Dot Dot Dot,” from some upcoming mysterious mixtape creation, with Big Sean (produced by Big Jerm)

Wiz:  King size papers, king size bed/N—s blow money but I’d rather keep mine instead/Roll something n—a, blow something/Say you’re ballin out of control/Let a n—a hold something.

Logan, better than Wiz: Earl Stevens calls it gouda, I was raised to call it ‘bread’/got so much I retired, hired Doom to read me the phone book, somethingsomething… Rosebud the sled/Butterflies in my tummy, drinking tea, lying in bed/…uhhhhhm, fuck this is rather difficult. You must be outta your head if your system ain’t up to the red (?).

I don’t know, maybe I’m not as good at this as I thought. I start to plagiarize, my brain just pulling out random lines I remember and love from the rap years ’97 or ’03, and then Citizen Kane was on AMC the other night. I’m easily influenced. And those drums, so pretty and Black-Milk-esque!, they cloud my thoughts. I can’t focus on telling the story. But go easy on me, please. Be nice. I’m just starting. You’ll note, however, that even though I’m no good I’m still a heavier hitter, lyrically speaking, than Wiz. I’m also a heavier hitter in literal terms, because even though my hip bones stick out a little, I probably outweigh WK, rap’s Skeletor, by about 15 lbs. I thought weed was supposed to be an appetite stimulant.

Curren$y: It has been said I keep one rolled up like LL’s pants leg/Full of life in this bitch, though I may seem half-dead/Trust me, I’m cool/I just ain’t talking to you.  

Critical bias on the part of the blogger: this man’s words speak to me. He’s looking right at me as he says this. Except for the pant leg part, it’s a summary of me interacting with every LAPD officer at Starbucks downtown (2nd and Central; COPS LOVE ME and it is a terrible burden with which I have been saddled). Trust me, officer; I’m cool. I’m way cool. Thanks for holding the door for me but I’m not interested in chatting and I never ever talk like this because I am a lady but I’d just like you to know I don’t fuck with pigs, dog (Muslim), you have a great day now.

3. Flowers (that mixtape with Big Sean; Big Jerm)

Wiz: How the fuck could you hate this/Half of these people aint real, n—s shape shift/That’s why I’m smoking OG til I’m weightless/Yeah and my homies are Taylor Gang/We rolling up papers and yeah of course they gon hate/But fuck what they say, ’cause we gon stay the same.

Logan, making a fool of Wiz like this is the parking lot at Osborn High: I knew it had went off. I saw the fire, like, come through my jeans/I took a couple more steps and my jeans were like — my jeans are wet/And I looked down. I had some Chuck Taylors on/and they were — the white was all red/I’m in trouble. 

This isn’t my own composition; this is just a quote from Plax regarding shooting himself while in the club. But be honest, wouldn’t you rather listen to this description of Chucks over a beat than to Wiz’s sad little flow? BE HONEST, I SAID.

Curren$y:  Now pan on them lenses and focus on the dopest/In the Mitchell & Ness Marino, see how far back I done throwed it.

It’s a throwback, darling. A throw-back. Marino was a QB (he threw back). This verse coming right after mine is genius, because we’re both making reference to the NFL. So for the sake of the song it doesn’t really matter that Marino is dullsville, as is the entire Dolphins squad except for the fact that Trick is a fan, but Marino was in Ace Ventura and that was kind of cool and unexpected of him. So now I really really want Curren$y to throw in something Ace Ventura-related, maybe on Verde Terrace? (update, after I just listened to it: nope). Ace Ventura‘s kind of a stoner movie, right? No? A little? Am I out of touch here? Anyway, the ultimate would be Curren$y coming out with a song called “Laces Out,” a duet about footwear with fellow shoe whore Bun B. Or maybe a mixtape called If I’m Not Back in 5 Minutes, Just Wait Longer.

4. Fly N—s Do Fly Things (the How Fly mixtape;  Sledgren)

Wiz: Influenced by the reefer but I’m still positively speaking/Heading down to New Orleans, fuck with Spitta for a weekend/Exotic bitches freakin, minks on the rug/I’m living Clicquot dreams, pouring drinks in the tub/One life to live, so I’ma live it up.

That beat is pretty all right with me but that’s probably because I’m a sucker for echo-y handclaps and because I have “Bass Boost” checked off in my laptop’s Speaker Enhancements tab (which makes everything sound fantastic). Yeahhh, bitch, Wiz says to start the song, and that’s funny because that’s exactly what I say to myself every time I hear a Wiz-less Curren$y song. Yayyy and Thank God are also what runs through my head. I don’t give a fuck, Wiz says a little later, which describes both his attitude about the world as well as my attitude about Wiz making another song for as long as we both shall live. Heading down to N.O., fuck with Spitta, Wiz adds. I am aware of the transactional nature of rap friendships – the potential to earn revenue trumps all, yes? – but clearly, Curren$y’s not being up front with Wiz. Come to my city, hang out with me, Spitta says, but this is only possible because Wiz has a friend named “Chevy,” and Curren$y’s bowtied til he dies.

Logan (my primary goal here is to get the keys to the jet and I will spend my entire verse trying to convince Curren$y to hand them over): Eatin gumbo with a Neville; it’s Cyril, he doesn’t have a DeVille/So Spitta, I have a request (you don’t ask, you don’t get)/Don’t need your spaceship, your Francesca, your Eldorado, your Corvette/Escort with the paint messed up from that accident at Kohl’s/Please lemme get keys to the jet; headed overseas, seein’ Dumile n’ Dennis Coles. 

Ha, nobody thought I had any NOLA raps. Shame on you. I’m not upset with Wiz for wanting to hang out down there; he and I both have this fantasy about “accidentally” running into Mannie at Winn-Dixie after stalking him for several weeks and getting a feel for his shopping patterns. The air is thick with the spirit of good MCs who’ve walked the streets of the city, and also thick with suffocating swamp air. Every cab driver looks like Professor Longhair, and I see Chris Paul in the car next to me at every stoplight. We don’t even mind the mosquitoes, me and Wiz, since we get it how we live and hug the block, lalalalaaa, les bon temps are rouler-ing left and right, life is wonderful, geaux Saints, I’m IN. Game feels it, too – wanting to join Cash Money and all. Oh, hey, guess what, Game? Me too, Game! ME TOO. Probably not happening for either of us, though. Sorry, Game. We must all know our limitations*. 

*(I can’t get away with using beasting” as a verb in conversations about the performances of NBA players, or the word jawn in any context, nor will I ever have the pale-skinned, hip-less steezyness of Leigh Lezark. I’ll also never have a name as rad as Jason Goldwatch’s. But accepting the things we cannot change allows us to conserve our energy and focus on the things we can.)

This look is foxy and it is just not possible for me. It’s not in the cards. Not ever. (Sigh.)

Curren$y: Would it be cliche to start my verse saying something that I always say?/The planes got it, I perfected my roll in the sunset/Aeronautics, I swear on my soul I would never co-sign some nonsense/Muscle car auction, I just cop it and then go ride it/Wait for the night to set, then really pop it and drive it/Bitches run on the side of it like those little Jamaican kids.

META RAPS! Critical bias on the part of the blogger: META RAPS are the alpha and the omega. Take the first letter out of each word in this joint, for example (Mt. Vernon fresh). Verse number 2, do the damn thing (guilty-pleasure/Nitti fresh). Last time on a Khaled remix/Now I’m on the original version (guilty-pleasure/Luda fresh). I know they gonna criticize the hook on this song (“can I live?” fresh). The violin on Knowledge God sounded ill (gods-in-the-Wu-pantheon fresh). Also, META GEORGIAN FUNK (50% of James Brown songs – him discussing the song breaking down while it’s breaking down. Breakdown fresh), and let’s not forget META TEXAN FUNK. “Come on and tighten up that bass,” Archie Bell said, “Oh yeah. Now look here – I want that guitar to fall in on there. Tighten it up now. Oh. Yeah. Now tighten it up, organ. Yeah.” (KCRW with the assist here, for being fresh and playing “Tighten Up” while I was out driving for my government job yesterday morning).
5. “O.T.T.R. (that mixtape with Big Sean; Big Jerm)

Wiz: I’m moving at top speed, my engine is foreign/I travel across seas where women are gorgeous/And ni—s know it’s us, we make it tough to mistake it/Just let me roll it up and when it’s stuffed, we blaze it/Then we Off To The Races.

Logan, embarrassing Wiz: I’m still working on it, but I do know the hook will be something about how I’m off to my new Caprice/since I’m bowtied til I die (“O.T.M.N.C.S.I.B.T.I.D.). And it’ll embarrass Wiz, of course, yayyyy, because Wiz and I have to keep it theatrical whenever we meet up for a freestyle skirmish in the parking lot,” AKA my daydream-y brain while I’m at work. It’s like that Murs/Eyedea smiley throwdown except I am both Murs and Eyedea, and Wiz isn’t qualified to be my adversary – he’s just there to give me fresh Aquafina bottles as needed.

Curren$y: And I’ma Pimp, see (C!), leaning in my ride like how Bun be (B!)/Sittin’ tall on my chrome, see, but I’m low in the seat/My girl in the sheet fast asleep, I’m in the street after the cheddar/Peddlin’ melodies, purchasin’ better things/On the road to the riches I done drove over n—-s. 
Critical bias on the part of the blogger: UGK raps fill up all the empty places inside me, as do musician-name-pun raps, and this one’s so freaking fine, it’s like the 2011 version of Andre Ben’s I’m so like a pimp, I’m glad it’s night. I also devour raps about girls doing nothing, girls lounging, girls sleeping – especially raps that also include the beautiful, surprisingly un-corny phrase “peddling melodies.” Women need more sleep than men (it’s science), and I greatly appreciate the kindness of someone who lets me stay curled up in bed, the queen of dreamland, while he goes out and handles it. That’s a good man, no two ways about it. (No two ways BOUT IT, neither, since at this point I am an honorary Louisianan). I can’t wait til we get married and I get some South infused in my speech and start referring to him as my huzzzbin. When we come to California to visit my family on holidays, we stop in LA to hang out with Nick Dahhhhmond. And at this point I’d like to provide a shout from the bottom of my tender heart to all the ladies out there who, like me, Karen Hill, and Amber Rose, realized long ago they’d never make good cops’ or teachers’ wives. Sorry, Mom.


White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #6 (“industry dinner with Curren$y” edition)


I would add “Whothefuck is that bitch,” à la Joi in Friday, but I don’t talk like that in real life so I don’t want Curren$y to see this post and think I’m foul-mouthed. It’s unladylike.

Aw, censorship. I had to do it, this being a sweet and innocent blog.

(you gotta buy the Blu-Ray edition if you want the director’s cut)
I know there’s more to him as a man but you can’t fault me for thinking that all Curren$y cares about is his X-box, V-12 engines, the greatest strains this season, and a whole lot of commas on his checks. He also says things like Dead stock tissue in the box, elephant print/On my Flint 13’s no retro 3M reflective, which is either about cars or shoes – either way, I’m fucked. Not a lot for me to work with there, conversation-wise.
But I bet you I can elicit a smile across the dinner table by engaging him in a debate about Sean Payton’s visor (stylish or no?) and which is the superior walking-in-slow-motion-out-to-your-Caprice-in-the-driveway song (“Easin’ In” or “Only One Can Win”?). Then I can just babble on, ask him what he thinks about the pumpkin-colored 328 on that Frank O cover, and try to repeat some of my favorite lyrics of his – Something you n—as ain’t never been: boss/Can’t find your mom and your dad/In the grocery store, panicking: lost – til the champagne hits me and I lose my focus. I start to get all critical like I’m composing a blog post (“I didn’t much care for your lyrical content being so firearm-heavy a few years ago, you sounded silly”; “How come I was not notified of the audition for the ‘White Girl Jumping into Pool’ character in the ‘Address’ video?”). It turns into a huge foot-in-mouth extravaganza. So I just resort to giggling, playing with my hair, saying “I FEEL THE JETNESS, LALALAAA” and just when I’m about to ask him to start reading the phone book to me, the DJ plays my funtimes girly song that I have no choice but to love due to the estrogen flowing through me, or maybe it’s that funtimes girly song, so I scream THISMYSONNNG, then excuse myself from the table to go work it out on the floor. It’s a good plan, yes? I’m ready. I am. I’ve lotioned myself up, I got my white tank on and I’m ready for my meal at the table, the human obstruction known as “Dame Dash” be damned. I want to be that lady at that table. Time to get it crackin like lobsters.
“Run Dat Shit.” The part about having advance access to fashion designers’ sketch pads for next season is lame; it could be straight from Rawss’ playbook and that’s the most devastating criticism I can give a lyric. But the description of him on the red carpet in shorts makes up for it. (He was just at the premier ’cause his homeboy was in the movie!). Also: My style straight like 9:15 and Marlo on the screen, yeah bitch we on The Wire/You talking too much, bitch – go sit up there with the driver. (things I like)


Things from that Pusha T & Tyler song that can be worked into conversations for fun.

4th of July backyard wrasslin went a little too far.

Terrence n’ Ty’s “Trouble On My Mind” is this year’s “Lo Sweatas” – songs whose hooks you could hear even before you heard them the first time, because they both have titles consisting of classic rap lines.

Ohh! Lo sweaters!, I said a couple years ago when I got a link to that Project Mayhem song but hadn’t yet seen the video (then, when I saw it, what I said was: chandeliers on the Eldorado, oh my god how beautiful!). Ohhh, the big booming voice of Chuck! is immediately what I knew I’d be faced with when I heard the title of the Pusha/Tyler song. Welcome to the Terrordome, Chuck said in that voice many years ago, and he was not fucking around. Rap is NFL Films and he’s John Facenda. Pusha and Tyler’s rap voices aren’t quite as big and booming, but just like Chuck they are immensely quotable in song. Plus, like Chuck, they simply refuse to lose and can appreciate the wickedness of a drummer. DEAL WITH IT.

1. “Runnin’ like the Rebels, UNLV” – Pusha.

Pusha follows this up with “sport shoe on a pedal,” because he’s contractually obligated to mention his car every eighth bar, but if you’re in my tax bracket and you talk like that to me you’re going to sound like an asshole. So let’s just keep it classic and simple, please, and stick with the collegiate associations when making your point. It dresses things up. You simply cannot go wrong with a cute NCAA nickname reference! Like before sex you could make prediction about “Freakin like a demon deacon,” for example, or if someone won’t quit asking you questions you could say “We ain’t in Wisconsin so stop badgering me.”

2. “Pharrell said ‘get em,’ so I got em” – Ty.

(for when you reach the name-dropping part of the conversation, and for humbly describing a recent accomplishment)

It’s not appropriate to throw in the Pharrell part during a chat, unless of course you really know him [in which case you are my new best friend because he is painfully beautiful to look at; I’d like to meet him, if only briefly, then avert my gaze. Solar eclipses and Pharrell both have that potential to damage a girl’s retinas. (retinae?)]. Or you can replace his name with anyone famous who’s given you solid career advice. “Khalifa said get em, so goddammit I got em (made a lot of money via the combo of getting introduced to the right producer at the right time and tapping into teenage boys’ love of weed).” But I’d recommend just shortening it to Get em for potency. This one’s my favorite on the list because I swear to god I SAY THIS ALREADY, IN REAL LIFE. (ISTA/IRL!).

Mom: “Yes, I will drive to Los Angeles just to hem apt. 680’s curtains for you, adult daughter, because you make your way through the world in a state of perpetual adolescence. I will then give you $10 and insist you get some asada tacos at Tacos Arizas – at least 3 tacos, young lady, because why do you look skinnier every time I see you? (furrowed brow).” Me: “GET EMMMM, Mommm! Thanks.” Listen, it’s no secret Ty would not kick an underweight blonde-haired lady out of bed. The fact that we use the same phrases just solidifies the undisputed truth that we are destined to have a brief, doomed love affair.

3. “You coming shorter than a Bushwick Billy costume on sale during Christmas in Philly” – Ty.

(for the “heated” portion of the conversation)

I’ve stopped making the rounds in the freestyle circuit, but if I were still active I’d totally use this line in a cipher. And my hands would get higher and higher the madder I get. Ty’s not from Houston, but he raps a lot, and he’s really pretty good with the insults when he’s not working on his 13-Point Program to Destroy America. He’s not all fellatio/fuck off, Mom/paranoia raps, people. Please. And I’m happy to hear Ty’s voice hasn’t lost its calculatedly ominous restraint; even though it’s being used to talk about pills and fucking the world and costumes in this verse instead of things that bother easily-startled types, it’s still fun for me. It was entertaining to hear people get freaked out about Chuck Berry Body Count 2 Live Crew Tyler & crew, but in the end I really am enjoying them shutting up so I can think again.

The Philly reference is also useful to throw into a conversation, as it provides a nice jump-off point for a discussion of Oyola’s Epicly Laterd episode. (Rick is cranky and a good storyteller, so of course I love him. I believe commenter “dfrank” said it best: “Best recognize a real man when you see one”).

4. “The feeling is neutral, the gang is youthful/And fuckin’ tighter than Chad Hugo’s pupils” – Ty.

(for when you need to describe something really, really fresh to your friend)

Just like people wearing The Hundreds, the fact that the use of “tight” in popular speech has lasted this long totally shocks me. But then, I always get stuff like that wrong. If you had asked me in ’05, I would’ve predicted that “tight” would soon die but Swishahouse would have the industry in a sales chokehold for at least 10 years. OOPSIE. Anyway, is Tyler saying here that Chad is an intense individual? A person insanely dedicated to his craft? Or does this line mean that Chad doesn’t ingest any chemicals? If so, that’s something I just added to my musicnerdfacts cache. I also just learned that Alfonso Ribeiro’s charater in The Fresh Prince (Carlton Banks) was named in tribute to the frontman of Public Enemy (Carlton Ridenhour). IT’S TRUE; I heard it on HeightFiveSeven.

5. “This is for the critics who doubted the chemistry/Two different worlds, same symmetry – Pusha.

(To be used when the conversation needs some spice, so you just make something up and throw it in)

These critics who doubted the chemistry between Terrence and Ty; do they have names? Nope, they sure don’t, because NOBODY DOUBTED A TYLER X CLIPSE EFFORT WOULD BE ANYTHING LESS THAN TIGHT(er than Chad Hugo’s pupils). Stop being fake-hated, Mr. Thornton; everybody loves you and we all know it and we all know that you know it. Later today we can go to H&M, where you’ll tell me how cute I am and how everything looks good on me because I’m skinny. And when I emerge from the dressing room in an XS shirt, I’ll obnoxiously point to myself and say “This is for the people who said I’m too fat to fit in this! WE DID IT, BROOKLYN (or something similarly triumphant).” On the way home, we’ll meet up with my mom at Tacos Arizas; I’ll eat 3 tacos and say “Why’d you say I couldn’t eat 3 tacos?” Then I’ll stab her and Ty will write a song about it and rap it to me during coitus. Or when we’re shopping at Whole Foods.



Everything named Watts is wonderful and a thing of quality.

Life is wonderful, fly living rooms, brass brooms
Catch me in the city of Watts, dusted out with Doc Doom

Ghostface, “Belt Holders”

Essentialism is ridiculous, I learned in Lit 101. Identities are always in flux, changing with the times. Nobody is bound by their socially-constructed religious or gender or skin-tone tribe; that’s ridiculous! Just pulling this random example out of thin air: you can be a woman feminist with a master’s degree who is also a part-time studio apartment swimsuit model; these are not opposing things. The notion of “false universalisms,” that there are attributes that all members of a particular group share, is dead. Canadian white women aged 18-24 are like this, and Black men who wear suits are like that; ridiculous. Really. All of that aside, the truest thing in apt. 15 today is that if a subject has Watts in its name, it is a wonderful, high-quality thing. Everything with Watts in its name is amazing! Everything.

(The exceptions, because of course there have to be some since blog posts never go as smoothly as you’d like, is former Republican Congressman J.C. Watts, and the Watts uprising of 1965. Neither of those things is wonderful, and neither did any good for anybody.)

Alan Watts, philosopher, radio host, friend of John Cage and Gary Snyder and other sensitive white men of whom my parents are fond. Known for his radio show, for making Buddhist tenets easily digestible by white kids In Search of Meaning (my parents, ca. 1974), and for such snippets of genius as “No work or love will flourish out of guilt, fear, or hollowness of heart,” and “Saints need sinners,” and, regarding the use of psychedelics, “When you get the message, hang up the phone.” Oh. Word.

Hating ass individuals come in droves with this guy, like they always do with popular people; Watts was often criticized by fellow Buddhists for not interpreting Buddhist texts accurately. Russell Simmons relieving himself in his solid gold toilet before he goes to yoga knows a little something about that. But how can you fault somebody for wanting to spread some kindness and free us all from the rotten cycle of samsara? Get a grip, people. Watts saw a basic human alienation among Westerners that he felt the need to soothe, and his radio broadcasts are quite pleasant to listen to. I think Watts did more good than harm, and his place on this list is well-earned.

Charles Wright & the Watts 103rd St. Rhythm Band. They’re the reason this whole idea sprouted in my brain, and the first Watts-related thing I wrote on the list. Charles Wright got his start playing in clubs where ladies took their clothes off, which is so funny because, years later, this lady enjoys taking her clothes off to Charles Wright! I’m sad to say Express Yourself is the only record from Watts 103rd in my collection; the reissues aren’t hard to find at Amoeba, so there hasn’t been that panic I usually feel when I’m missing an endorphin-swirling funk classic among my records. I could go get In the Jungle, Babe tomorrow if I wanted to, and if I had any money left over, You’re So Beautiful (with the superfine “What Can You Bring Me?”* that punks jumped up and got beat down to in ’93). Express Yourself was released in 1970, but even in 2010 it hasn’t lost its sweaty power. You put it on and Charles and his boys are still bumpin & grindin like a slow jam, and Cali is still where they put they mack down; gimme love.

The Echo Park Eagles are currently 0 and 1. Opening week (last Sunday) I dressed in a cozy sweater, loungey underpants, and socks to watch various football games you can see on basic cable, and waited for someone, my pretend boyfriend like Pharaohe Monch, to join me. Nobody came. Evidently you people hate a skinny girl who can make good baked chicken and who has 10,000 records and a backyard weed farm. So I hugged Charles Wright (in 12″ form) and documented my ridiculous pouty face to show the Internet, my actual boyfriend. Nobody gets me like he does.

“I’m Aware.”



Michael Watts, producer, label owner, deuce chunk-er, Screwston work put-er in-er. Texans from his neighborhood swear he invented the chopped and screwed term; since I have no reason to dispute that, I’m posting it here like it’s the truth. Back in ’05, I thought I was real cute and funny when I wrote in my “Music” section on my MySpace page, “anything as long as it’s chopped and screwed.” 5 years down the road, ain’t shit changed; I still represent Swishahouse* (*2005-2006). Michael gets a place here mostly because of all the one-liners in “Still Tippin‘”

Boss Hog on candy.
It takes grindin to be a king.
I got the Internet goin nuts.

Another thing I like about him is that instead of “5000 Watts,” his nickname could be “5 Kilowatts.”

Reggie Watts, 21st Century Schizoid Man. Included here because he’s post-comedy, post-weird, has a nice thick head of hair, and is probably deeply depressed—everything I need in a man. He’s the smartest guy in the room and I always tag along behind the smartest guy in the room, hoping he notices me. And everything in his act sounds like something out of a Doom song.

Wattstax, 1972 concert. Just…oh god, it’s the most amazing thing, I can’t believe I even have to describe it here. Go watch the movie, motherfucker. Rufus, Isaac, Carla, the Staple Singers, the Bar-Kays, and numerous others lift ev’ry voice and sing at the mighty Coliseum. And it only cost $1 to get in!

Sweat plus bass plus absorbing the crowd’s collective high from Jesse Jackson’s call-and-response means I surely would’ve gotten pregnant at this event. “In Watts, we have shifted from ‘Burn, baby burn’ to ‘Learn, baby learn’,” Jesse says, without a trace of corniness. Later, Rufus Thomas comes on stage to do “The Breakdown”; “Ain’t I’m clean?” he rhetorically asks, 30 years ahead of Kanye’s whole Dear audience, please tell me how great I am and how fucking fresh my Junya Watanabe dunks are act. WATCH IT, I said.

The Watts Towers, tall, spindly, metal/glass/mosaic/mesh/mortar/porcelain creatures rising from south Los Angeles concrete, built by immigrant hands. Simon Rodia was a construction worker from Italy who built the thing over the course of 33 years and called it Nuestro Puebloour town.”

(Rodia) constructed a dream-like complex of openwork towers . . . and encrusted them with a sparkling mosaic, composed mainly of what had once been refuse,” said Calvin Trillin in The New Yorker, in 1965. Like the architectural, tangible version of the Dust Brothers and Paul’s Boutique, kids! Soon there’ll be a skatepark there, too.

“Watts Riot,” Kam feat. Ice Cube. Fightin the police with my peers/With head & shoulders, and no more tears. Shampoo raps! Love some shampoo raps. DJ Pooh produced this in ’93, and the place and time from which it came is clear when you hear that beat, so crowded and filled with sirens. Kam had that serious voice like a university professor, making everything sound important. Cornel West in a clean white tee and Chucks.

Do people in Brooklyn actually say “What it look like”? I’ve heard that in song but I just don’t know. I can tell you that when Roger Troutman sings “In the cityyyy of good ol’ Watts,” like that’s something that locals say, he’s just repeating what Ronnie Hudson sang in West Coast Poplock. Ronnie himself made that up. Good ol’ Watts. Nobody actually says that in LA. I mean, nobody used to say that; now they do. It’s been added to our lexicon because it was stated over a catchy melody, like Inglewood always up to no good. I’ve heard people say these things. Such is the power of song.

Naomi Watts. Straight men, you’ve seen Mulholland Drive, right? That’s what I thought! Hi, straight men! She’s on the list because everyone, everyone loves a blonde fake lesbian. Additionally, she makes good film choices, and her man is Liev Schreiber, San Fran-raised offspring of superleftists and foxy tall artistic strong-facial-featured man of Judaic extraction. She and Liev do it in sweaty and intense fashion every night, I’m certain. For the revolution.

Honorable mention: the Watts Prophets. Semi-honorable mention: Charlie Watts (meh), drummer for the Rolling Stones. He’s so very meh (I’m not really a Stones girl), although the first 10 seconds of “Paint It Black” succeeds in its goal of making me feel like I’m surfing in the great blue ocean while also pointing a rifle out of a helicopter above the jungles of Saigon.


Risky business.

It’s risky to invite Chris Brown to your charity event no matter what, but more specifically, it’s risky to invite a whiny, blame-dodging batterer to do it real hard in the paint for charity just a couple years after you made a schmaltzy song about teenage girls getting battered. Explain yourself, Luda.

Chris is a free man, he has a right to be at events of his (PR people’s) choosing, and he did have to take some legal/financial/karmic punishment for what he did, but it’ll take me a while to forget The Incident and I have the right to keep bringing it up for as long as I want to. “Hop in the game knowing the risk,” the mighty Dante said once. The risk, in this case, is incurring the wrath of a nerdy blogger in her tiny Los Angeles apartment by daring to show up at a charity game with a goofy grin and some stylish no-look passes.

The event looked fun, though. And in some feel-good news, David Banner was there, and Nelly is still alive.

DJ A-Trak doing one of the final performances at Fat Beats NY. A-Trak is ok, but he is just ok. He was the best option we had available? No Caz? 9th Wonder? BOBBITO? Maybe a Beat Junkie or two? Everyone else was out of town, apparently. A-Track was a risky choice because it brings Fat Beats’ management dangerously close to alienating its fan base. Luckily, the new fan base with its mp3s and childish computer games far out-influences and out-spends me and all my crotchety old friends.

Using the word “motherfucker” after finding out its disgusting history is risky, because everyone might hate you. Yesterday Toure linked to a review of HBO’s Boardwalk Empire describing the origins of the word, and the entire Internet shook its fist in anger and said We’re never using that word again. My darling offended masses: before you knew its history, the fact that the word refers to someone fucking a mother was not enough to make it deplorable? We had to discover its connection to our history of slavery in order for everybody to pause? I’ll still use it (on the Internet, not in real life; I’m a lady) because I’ll need some more information before I believe its history as told by some producer of some TV show, and because nothing else comes close to the purity of the term motherfucker. So I will clutch it hard and won’t give it up easily. It is just so beautiful in its accuracy. Muhfuckaaa. Bulls-eye! Motherfucker. The thought of “Method Man” without it hurts me a little, right in my gut.

(The C-word is still never ever OK, though. I mean, it is, just not if you are ever hoping to see me without my top on.)

Record companies putting out deceased rappers’ music is risky. Album sales aside, this usually has tragic results, soiling a good man’s legacy by flooding the market with every vocal snippet, every answering machine message left. I said usually, though. (RapRadar)

On the last episode of Mad Men, Peggy said, “I can’t tell the difference anymore between something that’s good and something that’s awful.” That about sums it up for me too, sweetie. But right now I’m leaning toward this being gooooood since I cannot stop playing it. My ears hardly ever make bad choices.

Big E makes another beat suitable for snapping your fingers to. Pimp C says shit like sheeeit. Something called Gator Mane ends his verse with the words “tabernacle, holy water” and it makes perfect sense. E-40 coins the term “yay-per trail.” Feels like I’m driving a ’73 Cutty when I hear this, even though it’s really a late-’90s Japanese compact. Yes. It is good.

Black Mountain, “The Hair Song.” Risky: being a rootsy woodsy earthy Canadian band with catchy hooks and beards. This band already existed once, and it was called The Band. THEEEE BAND, motherfucker (!). The name says it all.

(I love Black Mountain, though. “Lucy Brown” was my walking-down-the-street theme song 2 summers ago!)

Also risky: me, trying in vain to join the rag-tag girl gang introduced at the beginning of the video, a group of ladies armed with their thrifted-leather-cross-body-bags and old Dolly Parton records as shields (that’s what they’re looking at in the record store–I recognize that album cover! My darling nerd brain, you never let me down).

Becoming a member requires straight brown locks past the shoulders and a straight brown curtain of bangs. Girls with highlighted long unruly Celtic hair cannot make this look happen–some of us are cursed to look our best only with thick Farrah waves (please refer to the photo at the top of this post). I’d rather hang out with the boy, anyway–he almost landed that kickflip and he’s way prettier than any of the girls.

“Black & White Rag,” Maino and DJ Paul cutting loose over a Buck Buckley Band sample.

It’s risky to use a slice of country music to build your rap song around. It doesn’t translate well. The exceptions to this rule are Johnny Cash at the end of “The Magic Number,” Johnny Cash at the end of the Helloooo Brooklyn part in “B-Boy Bouillabaisse,” and the not-yet-made Swishahouse musical beast that you’ll play in your vehicle (is “slab” still the term, or do I need to update from ’05?) which will get its melodic backing from “Houston” by the Gatlin Brothers.

Gibbs plus Auerbach, Bun B, Chuck Inglish for some reason, and Chip tha Ripper, “Oil Money.” Here we have Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Texas–representatives from the Big 10 and the Big 12–meeting somewhere other than a college football field/basketball court. Oh dear! Regional beefery could ensue! It’s a Big Risk (ha). But then you remember that all of these guys are making money, and you see Bun B with his Undefeated hat and big ass wedding ring and just overall foxy demeanor, and you can’t help but SWOON. Don Cheadle will star in the Gibbs biopic coming in a few years, mark my words.

(I can’t keep up with the changing standards for rap video girls–are the pale black-haired ladies on display here the new attractive? My own standard for female beauty was set by the “Next Episode” video–beautiful shiny skin, pole acrobatics, round body parts both real and fake, sequins, thighs, cherry-vanilla scented everything. Straight males, please advise as to whether this, below, is still the hottest thing in the world)


Odds are my Fantasy team will render all others broken and battered and winless this season.

It’s early September so here comes the NFL. In the springtime, Ronald Artest has the power to make me forget that football even exists–but when fall begins and Chris Berman starts bellowing on the TV and all the stores start carrying boots and trenchcoats even though it’s too hot in LA for any of that, I realize how much I’ve missed it.

I love and participate in Fantasy Football. I go at with my signature no-holds-barred style, I take no prisoners, I leave it all out on the field and I give it slightly more than 100% on any given Sunday. The fact that I always make fun of fake things should be disregarded. I hate fake rappers and fake nerds, fake NYC accents, fake rappers, fake producers, fake producers. The only good fake things are Biggie’s Twitter and fake football, and so I’m jumping into this season’s fakery with a full heart and a clear head. I just got my Fantasy roster, assigned to me by the robotic, soulless machine that is Yahoo! Fantasy Football automated system (I tried drafting my own guys last year, and it turns out I’m no good at it). I care about each of the randomly-assigned men below so much, but only to the degree that they remind me of a musical figure with a similar name or back story.

E-40’s still rapping, Funk Flex still hasn’t learned voice modulation. I’m still underdressed on the Internet. Rae’s still rapping. Scarface, Ghostface, Metal Face: still rapping. People do what they’re used to. The familiar is easy, comfortable, like they say on commercials for Wrangler jeans. Brett Favre, with his familiar face and his arthritic joints, is suiting up again this year, because Brett Favre still plays football. He retired a couple years ago. I remember, because Jay-Z was on his farewell tour at the time. But, you know. People just do things they’re used to. It’s hard to walk away.

Upon seeing my Fantasy roster, I started a spirited text conversation with my mom (also in my Fantasy league). “I got Bretty for QB!” I wrote on my tiny keyboard. “OMG, did you know he is old?” she sent back. Then I stopped playing. It started out as such a fun thing, and then somebody had to go and hurt my feelings. Fuck off, Mom. (sorry, Mom!) The concept of a (nearly) 41-year-old QB is the kind of thing everyone laughs at until everyone sees that it’s just crazy enough to work. I have a strong feeling that Brett Favre, sometime subject in Weezy* and Jeezy** songs, shall lead my squad to victory.

Brett Favre’s middle name is, like every good ol’ boy from Mississippi, Lorenzo. Odd and fascinating, that’s what that is. I’d like the story behind it, please. Brett Lorenzo has a 73-year-old body. He wears Wranglers, drives a truck, can’t handle his booze–a real live walking stereotype, except lovable. He continues to be worn and creaky, but still very very clutch—the E-40 of the NFL, rather than the grouchy, bloated old KRS, thank the lord.

(KRS has no current NFL equivalent…if it were the ’70s, maybe sad, elderly Namath when he played for the Rams? I don’t know; let me work out the analogy some more in my head).

* And I never miss a game, no Shaq O’Neal/More like Brett Favre, just like Brett Favre
(“Get High, Screw the World”).

** Watch for goonies when you got it, n—as wanna rob/And pull a staff and quarterback ’em like Brett Favre (“Trap or Die”).

Santana Moss. In terms of music, who does his name evoke? Well, Carlos Santana of course, and that hideous creature who calls himself Juelz. But there’s also Now for 10 years, we’ve been on our own/And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone (“American Pie,” Don McLean). Don really enunciates that F–ffffffat. It’s unnecessary and wonderfully stylish. Anyway, a rolling stone gathers no something something; Santana, roll it back to ’05 and let’s have a thousand-plus-receiving-yards season, buddy.

Brandon Marshall. NO, not Marshall Mathers. The Marshall Tucker Band! The beautiful “Can’t You See” was on the Blow soundtrack, but I was already familiar with it due to childhood time spent frolicking in my parents’ record collection. It was released by Capricorn (of course) in ’73 and it therefore sounds like weed, Jim Beam, big belt buckles, and getting hugged by my dad. And it’s got a flute solo!

Ronnie Brown. Ronnie from New Edition, sure, but since I am a California girl dipped in honey and bronzed by the sunshine, I instantly think Ronnie Hudson and his “West Coast Poplock.” Worldwide, let ’em recognize from Long Beach to Rosecrans.

Owen Daniels. Owen Pallett, that weirdo who’s obsessed with Final Fantasy. Charlie Daniels, that guy who used to be SO hip hop on account of his storytelling technique but then started showing up on Fox News to weigh in on foreign wars and the reasons Obama is leading us all down the big global toilet. On a side “everything’s connected” note, however, Charlie Daniels did a lot of collaborating with the Marshall Tucker Band in the ’70s. Let’s hope that Owen Daniels does some collaborating with Brandon Marshall when the EP Eagles take the field–mostly I just want Owen to let Brandon get all the touches, since tight ends are worthless in Fantasy Football but the system forces you to play one anyway.

Devin Aromashodu. First of all: Who? Second: based on his name, I believe that he is of Nigerian descent. And third: NIGERIA!, now and forever. I don’t understand how such a small county is so fertile in terms of epic humans, but I’ve worked out the analogy in my head that Nigeria is to countries what Georgia is to American states–unfairly, disproportionately rich in musical geniuses (Fela, Sade, + a hundred more from Nigeria; Ray Charles + a thousand more from Georgia), writers (Achebe, Wole Solinka; Alice Walker, Carson McCullers), and physically stunning people (Oluchi; T.I.). I’ve never heard of this Aromashodu fellow but the signs tell me that he will surely kill it every week.

Austin Collie. Barrington Levy, “Collie Weed.” Horace Andy, “Collie Herb.”

Jabar Gaffney. It’s painful to admit, but the little elves that run around inside my brain piecing together music trivia and rap lyric ephemera came up with nothing when I saw his name. It evokes nothing music-related. Luckily, all’s not lost because Jabar Gaffney is just a great-sounding name for a man. It’s got an adequate amount of syllables, and the stresses fall in all the right places. Quentin Jammer is the current holder of the best name in the NFL (Earthwind Moreland had the honor until ’05), and Black Milk is the current champ in terms of names on rappers’ birth certificates that now only the DMV and their grandmas call them by (Curtis Cross). But Jabar. That’s a nice goddamn name. Solid, with all those consonants. It makes me think of Kareem, and that’s nice. And if I’m to believe what some man on the Internet whom I’ve never met says, Mr. Gaffney is likely to be a sleeper Fantasy point-getter this season. Denver’s offense needs to make up for Brandon Marshall being gone (a real workhorse, Marshall now splits his time between the Dolphins and the Echo Park Eagles) and maybe Gaffney will get something thrown to him now and then. He’s got seniority among the team’s receivers and he’s supposed to do things, big things, this year.

Cedric Benson. Also a great name. It’s cinematic and comic-book-hero-sounding. Makes me think of George Benson. And Cedric Brooks, I think, was a Jamaican musician (?).

New Orleans’ defense. Everything about New Orleans reminds me of music, I love the Saints, and their defensive squad is ranked around #8 or 9 at the moment, so I’m happy I got ’em. “Football is violence and cold weather and sex and college rye,” said the great sports writer Roger Kahn. Football is also, let’s hope, teams from battered and beaten-down cities rising triumphantly in consecutive seasons.

No need to impede The High and Mighty mystique/That shit would be as ignorant as Jimmy the Greek. Soundbombing II hardly ever shows up on those stupid best-of album lists that clog up the Internet every 10 years. I think everyone’s still mad at Rawkus and we’re being babies by not giving it accolades. But we should. It’s a great compilation and I wore the CD out that summer (’99). It’s ranked in my personal stupid best-of album list that I carry around in my head. What/What, what, whaaaat.


And all the suckers get pushed back.

RONDO! was the chant in apartment 15 yesterday. I’ll always always hate this team due to the entire decade of the ’80s and the mispronunciation of the word Celtics, but just look at the love up there! (You ever tell anyone I did a post in small tribute to them, by the way, and you’re out of my RSS feed for life.)

PS –

The New York Times’ “Style Map” featured Boston this week–and called it, of course, Mass Appeal. So subtle of a Guru tribute, I bet most of its readers didn’t even notice; they thought it was merely a reference to the state of Massachusetts. Step up your Gangstarr, NYT subscribers. Good lord.

“I Got to Have It.” Don’t make me act like where I come from ’cause it’s bru-tal. Ed OG had a boring voice and okay verses, but this fucking song, sweet Jesus.



Today in smuggery, 04/25/10

Birds flyin high, you know how I feel! Sun in the sky, you know how I feel!

You wake up on a Sunday, you remember that the Lakers lost and you’re sad, but then the clouds part. You read the Sunday paper. Your mom calls. The day improves. Things happen to make you feel pretty damn good about the hand you were dealt in life.

My mom never taught me to be smug; it’s not ladylike. But still. It cheers me up sometimes. I never claimed that I could fuck with your Dougie, and you should see what passes for wood grain in my Civic, but at this moment I’m ruling because of all this:

– Curtis Mayfield and me, sartorial equals. People, you must respect this.

Sorry to prance around and revel in it, but you’d do the same if you were wearing your trench right now. You’d do the same.

– I swear I just read in this interview, right there in black and white, that Scarface didn’t know Ced Gee produced Criminal Minded. Scarface also loved Guru, of course, but Scarface thought Guru was from Brooklyn. He never thought about the Boston accent? The dropped r’s? “He might be loose in the pahhhhk, or lurkin at the train station”?

Guru was from Boston, actually
, the interviewer tells him.
No shit?, says Scarface, and in my apartment I reply, No shit. Smugly.

The logical conclusion, of course, is that I know more about hiphop than ‘Face (!!!). I’m not sure how this is possible, since I’m not from Houston and I definitely don’t rap-a-lot. It doesn’t matter how this is possible. It just matters that it’s true. Recognize a real don when you see one. (she’ll probably be wearing a trenchcoat)

[I also appreciate his beautiful humble simple existential take on the end of human life, from the same interview:

If you don’t know anything else about life, and life’s promise, you know that at the end of the day you have to say goodbye… No one is gonna live forever, and to be able to accept and respect the order is a sign of a good person. We have to respect the order.

And there it is. Since ’91, Scarface has owned my heart and mind. He possesses that lovely combination of wordplay skill, booming voice, humor, and humbleness that most ladies require, gentlemen, in order to get them to take their dresses off in your presence. Plus he gave Devin the Dude his name! Girls love that.]

Jayceon has never made me feel compelled to brag that he is from the same part of the globe as me. Producer Scoop Deville, however, makes me proud that he is from the same part of the globe as me. I’m a sucker for a nicely-placed Eazy vocal fragment.

This cheerful and melodic ray of sunshine (thank you so very much, RapRadar) is Episode 18,000 of The Producer Matters More Than the Words That Are Being Said Over the Beat. (And I have a degree in English, so that statement is especially meaningful.)

OMG, can’t wait til I find the mp3 of this. Can you even imagine?? It’s dangerous to rush the natural progression of things, though. You’re supposed to hear a poor quality/tagged version on YouTube first, then you get emailed an mp3 link and hear a bad digital no-tags version of it, then you find the instrumental at Amoeba on a glorious piece of round black vinyl. And then you’re smug that you have it. Not to rap over it–just to have it. But you do it all in good time.

It’s like my good friend ‘Face says, Respect the order.


The Capo pledges the United States’ undying support of Israel and other news.

Obama’s national security adviser, Jim Jones, urges bold steps to revive long-stalled Middle East negotiations. [NY Times]


His intimate familiarity with beef and all its detrimental effects makes him uniquely qualified to speak on this topic.

PS, hey Jimmy! If Iran is so good at exploiting the Arab-Israeli conflict and we’d like to stop Iran from furthering its nuclear program, perhaps we could transfer some of our sympathy and funding from the nuclear power known as Israel and apply it to the residents of caged plots of land who are bound by checkpoints on the West Bank so that they will stop blowing humans up in protest. Iran might calm down about the threat of the Zionist entity if the Zionist entity allows Palestinians to live as dignified citizens. Call me for more info.

Malcolm McLaren’s hearse, pulled through London today. How rebellious is rebellion if it’s perfectly calculated? Is fame for fame’s sake kind of pornographic and stupid, or awesome and postmodern? These are the questions I wish my friend Kanye would ask himself. Remember that slogan above, too; it’ll be the name of my next mixtape.

I can’t ever be too haterish if I know the dude is in on the joke. Oh Malcolm! An affectionate goodbye (see you later?) from me and all the other westside riders.

Adam Yauch is summoning all the Buddhist mojo in Rick Rubin’s beard and encouraging people across the land to join him twice a day in order to meditate against cancer.

“We are visualizing taking the energy away from the cancer,” he says, “and then sending it back at the cancer as lightning bolts that will break apart the DNA and RNA of the cells.”

Meditation, bass guitar, gray hair and hippie shit. Dad??

Got a. Freaky. Freaky. Freakyfreaky flow.

XXL uses “Mostly tha Voice” as a starting point in compiling a list of the best MC voices. Bun B and Scarface and Biggie are on there; I approve. And then those space cadets mention Shyne (?) and some dude who had a bar on a Busta Rhymes mixtape in ’98. Look, now they’ve gone and gotten me all upset.

Back on terra firma, we’re a little more level-headed. Big fat shiny glaring omissions that deserve mention include ODB, Jeru, Doom, Kool Keith, Adrock, Ricky Walters, Sadat X, RA, Masta Ace, and an entire Cali cohort consisting of two-fourths of the Pharcyde, B-Real, Quik, MC Eiht, E FUCKING FAWTY, Del!, the DOC!, and Kurupt (I know it’s a longshot, but I just love his voice), all the best Wu gods (except Meth, who’s mentioned), Hector Lavoe, Ian Curtis, Anthony Hamilton—oh sorry!

I am generally easygoing but this kind of debate makes me opinionated and feverish. The lack of Rakim mention made me throw my laptop across the room, for example.