Le onnn me
when you’re not strong.
I’m told that this topless gentleman was an important figure in music; more importantly, I know for a fact that he put babies in women on 12 separate occasions, making him the music game Antonio Cromartie. I try not to post album covers that remind me of my home country’s gross insatiable hunger for firearms, but I’ll overlook it in favor of laziness. (I needed an album cover this week and I had the jeans and plastic gun required.)
I WANT TO GO TO WRESTLEMANIA. THIS IS NOT A DRILL. THIS MUST SHOCK YOU BUT I AM NOTHING IF NOT A COMPLEX WOMAN WITH A VARIETY OF INTERESTS.
Update: IT FUCKING WORKED. I AM GOING TO WRESTLEMANIA. Thank you for the tickets, Eric Perkins, whose uncle works for Vince McMahon. You are immortal in my eyes, sir.
Best thing outta Scotland after whisky, Groundskeeper Willie, cozy Fair Isle sweaters, Bon Scott and the Young brothers, David Byrne, the flute guy from Jethro Tull, Average White Band, and the exceedingly NON-Average White Lady known as my great-grandma, who puts her full support behind women mastering historically male-dominated activities and who also encourages me, somewhat pimp-like, to “Show em your nice shape, honey,” because these 2 things aren’t mutually exclusive for me as a woman, you see. (Sorry, @sexistdudesofinstagram! xo)
If this isn’t the best MLB/Parliament/Jimmy Buffett collab post you’ve seen today, please keep it to yourself and let me keep up the charade. Don’t hurt my feelings.
Citizens of the universe, recording angels, I have returned to claim the pyramids and also to remind you that Dave “The Cobra” Parker fucking ruled and I absolutely HAD to do a tribute post. (T-shirt courtesy of Homage – thanks, guys!; glide in my stride and dip in my hip courtesy of genetics – thanks, Mom and Dad!)
I have zero allegiance to the Pittsburgh baseball Pirates, but I know the importance of names like Stargell, Clemente, and McCutchen, and I damn sure know the importance of Dave and his shirt of interplanetary galactic radness made possible by the combined efforts of the cotton industry, the really pure coke of ’70s northeast America, and George Stanley Clinton, jr. I just watched the 30 for 30 about the ’89 World Series, during which I realized that Rickey Henderson isn’t the only Athletic I adore – Dave was also on that squad that swept SF, prompting me to remember the existence of this picture and then do a tribute to him.
[I didn’t have a Pirates uni to put behind me like Dave in his picture, but the A1A album by Jimmy Buffett will do, as it contains “A Pirate Looks at Forty” (the song that made me realize Buffett can write a great song and is more than just “the ‘Margaritaville’ guy who sometimes gets thrown out of Heat games”)].
I was going to parlay this post into a plea for Angels tickets – there are 15k of you following me on Instagram; surely ONE of you knows Moreno or Scioscia or Toriiiiiiii Hunter or some random Dominican scout who can provide the hookup-? Sadly, the team rolled over and played dead and now I’m focusing on trying to get Clippers tickets, which I just realized is the true purpose for which God created Instagram.
This cover has been a long time coming, and in doing a little research, I discovered that a 20-year-old Freddie was roommates with Eric Dolphy (!), making those dudes the Hutson-Hathaway, or perhaps the Love-Westbrook, of midcentury, hard bop NYC. The lazy sports journalists of the world will tell you that Westbrook “plays with a chip on his shoulder,” when really a more accurate description would be that he “’plays with a Tasmanian Devil pumping HGH and meth straight into his bloodstream while Stone Cold whispers angry motivational phrases in his ear’ on his shoulder.” I can relate to this, as when I bought 3 Blind Mice (Freddie in “Blue Moon” is gorgeous), a helpful gentleman at the store informed me that I had made a “good choice” and that “the bass player on here is a guy named Jymie Merritt.” First of all, yes, I KNOW it was a good choice, but thanks for your approval, and second, yes, I’m familiar with Mr. Merritt and how he got sick soon after this very fruitful recording period for Blakey’s band so he brought in Reggie Workman, and despite my estrogen and hips, sir, this little lady knows a ton of useless jazz history. I am unsure as to why I care so much about strangers knowing that I’m well aware of the timeline of Blakey’s bass personnel*, but you know how they say Russ plays with a chip on his shoulder? I DIG with a chip on mine.
*I’m petty and ridiculous
Way wayyyy back in the land of 1992, Erick Sermon was immersed in his Roger Troutman infatuation, my cousin was bummed ’cause Run-TMC was over, your uncle made disapproving comments when he saw those Michigan thugs in their black socks on TV, and a professional American sports franchise called the mother fucking REDSKINS (!!) won the Super Bowl. (Really – that was the name of the team. I’m not kidding. Can you imagine??!?!???)
Now it’s 2014 and a lot has changed – Jalen Rose is still super charismatic & likable, yes, and Tim Hardaway still plays except now there’s a “jr” after his name, but rap don’t sound like this no more and the horrendously racist “Redskins” name is no longer supported by idiotsOH WAIT NEVER MIND WHOOPS. Anyway, regardless of the passage of time and the world changing, the fact is “Time 4 Sum Aksion” will forever be the greatest high school basketball squad warm-up song ever made. Forever and ever amen.