Category Archives: Oh word

Oh word: Edward Kennedy “Duke” Ellington’s birthday edition.

I never had much interest in the piano until I realized that every time I played, a girl would appear on the piano bench to my left and another to my right.

Duke understands me, clearly, based on his little piano anecdote. He understands most women, I guess. He also had a compulsive need to be around melody, so he understands me on that level too. Clearly.

Duke also said It don’t mean a thing if it ain’t got that swing, the sixth-greatest “ain’t”-related colloquialism after

Ain’t no thing but a chicken wing,

Ain’t that a bitch,

King Kong ain’t got shit on me,

It ain’t trickin if you got it, and

It ain’t no fun if the homies can’t haaaaaaave none. (sorry, Mom)

Ellington and Coltrane – “My Little Brown Book.” OH THIS ONE’S A KILLER, beautiful but sad and a killer, so let’s all remind ourselves about the joy of this one if it gets to be too much. You can feel it all over! (You can feel it all ohhhver, people.)

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Oh word: Blake and Prodigy/“being told what to do is no fun, dun” edition.


The tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.

– William Blake, Songs of Innocence And of Experience.

Prison is for losers and dumb fucks.

-Unstoppable beef cultivator and noted Lemieux fan Prodigy, on what he learned from his up north trip (NY Mag).

Gucci – “Up My Alley.” Because just like MLK, Gandhi, and Prod, he’s familiar with life behind steel bars. And because it’s a sparkly, cheery Zaytoven beat that makes me wanna sit on my front porch, drink lemonade, and savor my freedom.

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Skepticism: variations on a theme.

1. “Fishermen and members of the community listen to Ken Feinberg, administrator of the BP claims fund, on March 28 at a public meeting in Mathews, La.” (Julia Rendleman/The Houma Courier/AP)

The Big Picture’s latest collection of hi-res beauty focuses on the Gulf oil spill, one year later. No more problems, everyone’s back to work, says the Logan who lives in a fairy tale. Turns out the region’s delicate ecosystem thrives on oil. Birds and fish are making love, churning out new generations. A butterfly landed on a rock in an estuary, flapped its wings twice in the sunshine, then flew off to go make butterfly love.


2. The King of the Universe/Master of Puppets/Mr. Dynamite/HBIC in a NY Mag interview.

Other than turning up in those files on Biggie’s murder the FBI released, cutting off his own arm then chewing it up and swallowing it, or showing up on the doorstep of apt. 680 and announcing he’s moving in to base the hell outta me every night, nothing Brandon does should be able to surprise you. It’s April 2011, in this, the Year of Our Lord, and he’s been rearranging the pieces on the cosmic chess board for a couple years now. So I rolled my eyes when I heard about that upcoming album title because his “Look at me, listen to me” hustle is unrivaled. Seemed like a big ploy to make RSS feeds quiver, go dumb with excitement. It worked. (Please consult the Internet–maybe type in “Lil B” and “gay,” then stand back).

But then I remembered that, just like a dude isn’t necessarily gay because he’s grindin in his tiny pants, an artist isn’t necessarily thinking about selling product when he names his product a certain thing. I’m deferring to my hopes and dreams here, embracing my inner Pollyanna, and just going with the assumption that Lil B really means it when he says he’s a gay ally, a supporter of GLAAD. Lil B cleaned up all the oil in the Gulf, solved the Biggie murder, made love to a butterfly, showed up on American Idol and cut off his own arm and fed it to Mister Cee while Faces of Death 7 played behind them on a huge screen. Lil B has successfully introduced me to post-skepticism. I’m living in the Brandon Epoch and for that I am eternally glaad. Still waiting to hear what he thinks of the topless pics I sent him; I believe he and I would make a good duo, despite our one tiny difference – I do support putting other people down (as long as the people being put down are not me or anyone I care about, or a poor person or a disabled person, and as long as the putting-down is done with stylish flair, over a beat).

Harlem – “Gay Human Bones.”

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Oh Word: still draggin’ crates/SWAT/tanggolfwang/Bavitz/Reatard/Panda Bear/Queens/CMYMB/based/Rollins/Deitch edition


1. During the shootout, I was free.

“I was making a stand, and in that moment I was free. You can’t get in, and I can’t get out. But in my space, I’m free. I’m making the decision right now, and that decision is fuck you.

A little fetishizing of gunplay to start out my Top 10 Or So Oh Word moments of the week. I had some heavy emotions at the laundromat on Thursday night, thanks to the LA Times magazine and its article about the LA SWAT team using the Black Panther Party for target practice/political gain in late 1969. The whole affair is depressing and the article is hard to read in some places, with all the COINTELPRO nefariousness; fuckin cops I said softly to myself while reading it. Mixed in with that, though, was some emotional uplift courtesy of the quote from Wayne Pharr (above), and knowledge of the sheer existence of epically-named humans Geronimo (it says Elmer on his birth certificate, but I’m ignoring that) Pratt and Alprentice “Bunchy” Carter.

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Harpers mag, April 2011.

More heavy laundromat emotions (same visit as the SWAT team article), only this time it was humor tinged with irony. Pepe the architect was 2 machines down from me, being nice during the spin cycle. “Beautiful eyes; you are part Basque!” (nope. Sorry, Pepe.) I always fall for that stuff (nice words) because I figure everybody means everything they say, all the time. Then Pepe commented on my ass and I wanted to cry. I mean, I was asking for it in those jeans, but still. Anyway, the stat above is from Harpers index, the section I always flip to first.

And from the Logan Index:

Number of visitors to apt. 680 as of this writing: 6.

Times today the Time Warner tech verbally marveled at the number of records I have: 4.

Number of girls in the world who listen to Kool Keith, according to the Time Warner tech, upon seeing First Come First Served on my shelf: “not a lot.” PUMP YOUR BRAKES, homeboy. I didn’t ask for that kind of attention; I just wanted some Internet. The intimacy level he and I experienced during this, his first/last visit to my apartment, felt a little rushed for me. I handled it with grace, though. You guys would’ve been proud.


3. Aesey’s “Free hook” giveaways!

Get ’em, Don Rickles Aesey!

Get ’em,
Keith Thornton Aesey!

4. a) Greed, money, useless children, Reatard sang. No. It’s not for me. Yep, I say in reply. I mean nope, it’s not for me. Me too/me neither? Yes, it’s not for me. What Jay said, is what I’m trying to say.

He also b) had that cover where he’s in a tub with a bunch of 45s. And even though the act of being a white man screaming into a mic about being a white man with burning-hot emotional pain/numbness like death inside is nothing new, he c) somehow made it sound new.

If you slow down when you’re driving so you’re going the exact same speed as the cop car in the lane next to you, like you’re skeered to pass him, I am afraid your brain’s anti-fear device is faulty, you’re unabashedly wack, and therefore my naked body is not going to be yours for the taking/defiling. The “I’m scared to get a ticket” way of going through life is not something that will serve you well. Dudes don’t all need to be like Reatard but they do all need to have a little DGAF in order to make it in this crazy world and see girls naked. On the current things-to-GAF-about list: friends/fam, words in songs, being nice, and telling people how much you like em ’cause life’s too short.

5. Left Brain extract bitches minds and give ’em left brain
Soft synths, hard drums, give your bird chest pains.

Still listening to Dome and Hodge’s Tanggolf.” Still. Can’t let go. Can’t stop listening. Plus it gives me energy while moving from one tiny apartment to another. (I’m still draggin crates)

a) The spirit of Gary Grice guides these young men through their journey. And b) the raspy-voiced stuff, the mark of a good passionate rap song, starts around the 2-minute mark. Plus c) SOFT SYNTHS, HARD DRUMS means they check this blog from time to time and understand what this particular bird needs, even though they are probably fornicating their way through Los Angeles due to their fame and that does not bode well for our love affair. Dudes who give me everything I need but also make me cry are still worth it because they give me everything I need (wordplay, bass, hugs, kisses).

6. Yo, every gang, every hood’s in my veins
It’s my thing, it’s real, I’m in tune

I chill like the cold side of the moon

Silence you dudes like an empty room.

I heard the Kings of Queens (Prod, Hav, Nas) were linking/building, squashing USDA prime beef (wait, was that beef ever confirmed?), and I got excited…until I heard the song (“Dog Shit”) and listened to the cliched lyrics, and the sleepytime beat made me take a nap, and then when I woke up I remembered what I heard and I wanted to cry. I chill like the cold side of the moon. First, no you don’t. Second, that’s a stupid thing to say. The Wu one was terrible too. Listen, dun, I’ve had it. No more songs called “Dog You-Know-What.” You had your chance and you squandered it.

7. The realness, however, is foundation. STILL. And is shall remain so until I say otherwise. The realness is foundation; who else would think to say such a thing? You wouldn’t think that it works, but it does. Really, who else would think to put that particular string of words together. Who else. OH MY DEAR PROD, you are catnip to an English major.

8. I just bought a coupe, the roof is translucent
Pockets on etc., money talk, bullshit walk like George Jefferson.

Mack Maine on Baby’s “I Get Money.”

Money talks; bullshit walks. We all know and we’ve known for a long time. But my goodness what an awful song, mostly because of the presence of T-Pain and yet another verse by Wayne talking about his dominance of planet Earth (“I hold it in my hand” – although at least he’s not describing how he penetrates it like that one time and that other time). At first I hated those church bells laid on top of the beat but they’ve grown on me. And making a cliched phrase come alive by adding some ’70s sitcom flair is the best way to make my Oh Word awards for the week.

(Additionally: did Cash Money ever chop n loop “Cash money ain’t nevvvvver gonna play out” from “New Jack Hustler” in one of its releases? That would’ve been Fresh, super Fresh, so MANNIE – call me*! I got a million ideas!)

*before you left Cash Money, I mean.

9. One critique: 100% not buying Lil B’s heavily not-based claim that he does not go down on girls.

HA, Fader mag regarding Brandon’s new jam “Salute to the Bitch”! We’re all adults here so I figured it’s OK to mention grown-up stuff (sex stuff). Some of us are based, some of us not so much. Some of the more based individuals among us have scratch-offs, flat screens, pink bandannas, 65 bitches. Some of those same people lie about their sexual practices. That needs to stop.

10. Just hanging round with older boys
Oh big thighs
Creepy, creepy in the dark
Shiny, shiny Joan of Arc
When the moonlight starts its glow
Cold hard Helen, Queen of Troy
She’s got Christmas, got thunderstorms
Like a baby, never, never been balled
She’s got fat men, vermin in disguise
In the cold rooms of her eyes
Oh, Helen Of Troy.

Rollins has a radio show out here on Saturdays (not sure if it’s national or just a regional thing) and he plays some good stuff in between overly-enunciating everything and injuring his big toe with all the names he drops (“…So then Ginn and MacKaye took me to Olive Garden and I had the all-you-can-eat salad and breadsticks and blah blah blahblahBLAH“). He played John Cale’s “Helen of Troy” during his most recent show when I was driving, and I liked it (it’s an OG “Logan walking down the street” song, but during the walk I’m probably wearing short shorrrrt shorts like a little tease, instead of my usual sundress). And he played Eno’s “Blank Frank” and I liked that (the Bo Diddley beat). Then he went into some blah-blah tale about Here Come the Warm Jets and the best part of that was it made me wonder if Curren$y will ever do a funny take on that for a mixtape. PS, is it true that that title isn’t about actual jets that fly in the sky?

11. Sliding in the back screamin MMG
10 bitches and they dime so it’s Tennessee.

Meek Mill on RawssTupac Back.”

OK. Sigh. Oh kayyy. Not sure where to begin here.

Invoking the name of Tupac in your rap song title is sacrilege on the level of a Blink-182 member calling his record something that James Joseph Brown used to say regarding the god Clyde Stubblefield, or Leto trying to do Cobain (“Kurt debe estarse revolcando en su tumba!!” – YouTube commenter, whom I adore). Busta, you’re a member of this club too, with your “featuring Biggie” attempt to move units. Ugh.

Anyway, this makes Top Oh Word of the Week because the song’s concept and lyrical content is so awful, so tragic. It’s hard to believe it’s real. Meek Mill’s pun in particular – it’s awful. 10 I see. Tennessee. Here’s an example of a good pun, for future reference: Orion’s belt is a waist of space.

On the plus side, I like it when everything I hate is condensed into one, easily-hateable unit.

12. All these bitches is my sons
And I ain’t talking ’bout Phoenix
Bitch I get money so I do’s what I pleases
I live where the motherfucking pools and the trees is.

MINAJ, of course.

I DOOOO’S WHAT I PLEASES. This is like her version of my beloved “I’m grownnnn. I do what I wanna do,” which is appropriate for all situations in which people try to constrict me with rules and regs. Nicki says everything I want to say, only in a fiercer way and with a Queens accent. I mean, bitch I live up in some trees too but unlike Meek Mill I know when to shut up about such mundane things unless I can give it a colorful spin.

13. The medicine often given to Parkinson’s patients is L-dopa, which is converted into dopamine in the brain.

Gucci upset me just recently and that confuses me (just recently). Jimmy Jones did a good thing and that confuses me. And Ashley Judd makes me cringe, as her particular white girl hustle (“rap music is sexist and violent; buy my book”) is boring and misdirected. I also promised myself I wouldn’t read the RapRadar comments about Mister Cee’s arrest, but then I did, and now I feel disheartened.

And then it just takes one spectacularly fine grouping of words, like the quote above from that time-sucking science site I always look at, to make it all better. L-Dopa was ‘Clef’s original nickname for Lauryn. (In the end, L-Boogie won out.)

14. Whenever you call, baby I roll up, I roll up, I roll up
Whenever you call, baby I roll up, I roll up, I roll up
Whenever you call, baby I roll up.

No matter where I am, No matter where you are
I’ll be there when its over, baby
Cause I was there from the start
No matter if I’m near, don’t matter if you’re far.

What a goddamned fool. Khalifa is the worst and he’s all over my car radio. I roll up, I roll up, Irollupirolluppppp. Shawtyshawty, baby, weed, shawty, Taylor, rararah. Please save me. I’m trapped. Feels like in every song there’s a hidden message just for me – play it backwards and he says “Ha ha, Logan! I’m a terrible rapper and I’m RICH! WHEEE.” Just, I mean, what more can I say. C’mon, everybody. In your most secret places, in your heart’s tiny spaces, you know Khalifa’s a terrible rapper. Cornball city. But because this is the world in which we live, and its system of rewarding people is hideous and flawed, the fact that he is a terrible corny rapper means he’ll make a billion by next week.

15. Even before I wrote any songs, I had this idea of a triangle where the voice was at the top, some sort of guitar element on one side, and then some sort of really basic rhythm on the other side. That’s where I started from in the recording process. So having everything filter through this one brain, this box, seemed like a really good idea. It’s a hellish thing to mix live, but I liked how it would connect the dots in the songwriting sense, because everything has these weird little tongue licks of certain types of sound. There’s an effect matrix in the thing with five effects you can run through.

Panda Bear, on his Korg sampler thingy mod. I’m still writing my secret-admirer letter to the “Kurt’s Jag” guy from a couple weeks ago, and then I see this interview with PB, and now my heart is conflicted, tied up in knots. “Panda Bear, I like you; do you like me? Circle yes or no and pass this note back.” I’m in love with the Carl-Sagan-ish levels of detail/nerdery on display here, and the phrase tongue licks of sound, which describes nice things that, when placed in various combinations, give a young lady good feelings.

Oh wait! I like him, and his little speech about Dilla*, and he would probably suggest Reatard’s “Tiny Little Home” as the first song played in apt. 680 to christen it. That’s dope. But Panda seems sorta pretentious and would probably not like to discuss the skrip club with me. He also would not understand my appreciation for gigantic raspy-voiced ridiculously named Brick Squad representatives. Bye bye, Panda. Our love affair was fun while it lasted.

* “And then the last thing is J Dilla’s Donuts, just in terms of pacing. The first two times I listened to that album, I couldn’t wrap my head around it because it would go from piece to piece really fast. The rhythms really ground it, but I had no idea where everything else was coming from. It might have been alien music for all I knew. Nothing really waited around for very long. But after listening to it a couple of times, it was like a sea change– my mind just totally connected to it, and suddenly it was the best thing. After doing these songs that took their time going where they were going on Person Pitch, I wanted to take those songs and squeeze them down into your hand like a little ball.”

16. Feels like I’m doomed to dealing with women whose
Relationships with their fathers won’t allow us to bloom.

Pusha T, “Alone in Vegas.”

Probably the weakest song on terrence_thornton_mixtape.zip, but that fathers line right there is a good one.

I think the problem for Pusha is that he is not choosing the women who have/had good relationships with their fathers. Those are the ones who aren’t showy or hardboiled like Marlowe liked ’em. They are shy, but they’re good, solid, won’t run away when times are tough. He should talk to ’em at Vons sometime. (they are sweet)

17. Three piece band on the corner played ‘Nearer My God to Thee’
But Delia whistled a different tune, what tune could it be?
The song that woman sang was ‘Look Out Stagger Lee’
The song that Delia sang was ‘Look Out Stagger Lee.’

Please indulge me, pretty please, when I want to a) pick the songs on the radio during car rides and when I want to b) go on and on about Robert Hunter lyrics. In both cases, I do sort of an excited wiggly thing and open my mouth out of sheer joy.

OHSHIT THIS MY SONNNNNG.

(I’m guessing “Devil’s Pie” here, just based on the hand motions)

a) Like when I screamed with pleasure when I heard the opening bass of “Walk it Out” earlier tonight, Glendale and Montana, eastbound, sitting in traffic – it was, after all, not the stupid original but the remix! With Andre! I haven’t heard that version in, what, 2 years? “Real talk”! Cars – metal instead of plastic! Westside walk it ah-ah-out! (Aw, I’m not typing it right. You know the part I mean.)

b) As far as Hunter’s lyrics go, there’s “Stagger Lee,” which has been swimming round in my head ever since I saw that compilation of murder ballads (not Murda Muzik; that’s something else). I’d appreciate some new MC coming out the gate calling himself “Swagger Lee.” Anyway, then I read Tom Waits’ quote about murder ballads being “just a cut above graffiti…the oral tabloids of the day,” and speaking of –

18. Deitch said the word “cholo” and I wish I had been around to hear it. Him in his tiny fancy glasses. I bet it was funny. Oh and Risk has run off to join the Allman Brothers.

“Blue Sky.”

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Oh Word: Bavitz 2011 edition.

[end rap] is probably a thing Rawss writes in his notebook so he knows when to stop heaving cliches into the microphone. End rap, William!, he jots down. He underlines it for emphasis.

A slow-witted fellow whose skills include really capitalizing on the popularity of DePalma and really pushing my buttons, Rawss once tried to get away with the line Lookin straight in the eyes, they show vagina on a professional mixed tape. I heard his gmail password is “password,” too. Or “password1,” maybe, to try to throw people off.

When [end rap] is on an Aesey-related transcription, though, it is charming. And when Aesey discusses the cancer beast, it’s all heart and alienation*, that mix at which he is great. (The whole “masticated fuscia”/“baby teeth” thing, and the flow charts/beeping couplet are especially lovely)

* “what it is to be a fucking human being” (David Foster Wallace)

The verse is about Camu Tao and it’s on a new Kimya Dawson song called “Walk Like Thunder.” You’ll feel a little down after his verse because disease is a shattering thing, but then he swoops in and reminds you that you’re here, you’re not a robot, this is life, you’re breathing, and there’s pie! There’s pie.

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Oh word (Marlowe, Ghosty, Curren$y, 2 Thorntons, Ayler, Lethem, Monche & Radric edition)



Philip Marlowe’s thoughts on the sexy girl who’s not me:


Congrats, Marlowe! Best Use of Words to Make Logan Feel Bad about Herself! The problem is my greed, though. I want it all, identity-wise. It’s too hard to pick just one thing. Half the time I’m pleased being me, making my way through the world, even with all the affection from LAPD officers. But then half the time I want to be the not-me girl, smooth and shiny. Cops never try to talk to her, I bet.

And then I remember Ghosty said Nice girl that’s clean, that was raised to cook/On the couch chilling, shorts on, reading a book, and I’m like, Philip who? Such is the pleasure of language.

This week’s other awards, culled from the week’s collection of all the LA sign quotes, Harpers mag snippets, and rap lyrics that bounce around in my head while I’m at my government job (your tax dollars at work, people):

Still got a throwaway phone in my sock drawer.

Pusha T, “Raid”

Most Efficient Use of Words in Which our Narrator Tells a Saga of Where He Once Was and Where He is Currently. Pusha tells a better story in 1 line than Rawss can in 32 bars. Also when you download Fear of God your computer will save it under his DMV name (terrence_thornton_mixtape.zip), a thing I keep yelling about because it just amuses me so much! (sorry, everybody)


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This is tailor-made drug dealer theme music
Test it on your tongue or either watch a fiend do it
I got you hooked and I laugh as you lean to it.

“Raid” again. Best Use of Evil (that last line). Ooh he’s like Nino Brown except from Virginia.

It’s like Raaaaaaid, spraying on you roaches
The AK is an animal, it is ferocious
A n—a wanna sing but we is the dopest
Watch that n—a disappear, hocus pocus
Ring, ring the n—a won’t sing
Ring, ring, I keep that bitch clean
Ring, ring the n—a won’t sing
Unless he is an insomniac and dying to dream.

Pharrell, in, oh would you look at that–it’s “Raid,” a song by Pusha T of the rap duo the Clipse.

Best Tribute to a Household Item Other than Pyrex.
Best Use of Pharrell’s Weird Deep/High-Pitched Voice–there’s nothing else like it in music. I also love the cheerful, punchy piano, ’cause it’s nice “bitches-double-teaming” music as my grandma would say. The perfectly-placed ding in “Drop It Like It’s Hot” (you should think about it…take a second) is probably P’s finest moment (next to the almighty spy chord, which isn’t really a moment as much it is a ubiquitous thing from ’98-’02). Snoop’s exaggerated delivery gets tiresome in the song but that DING sounds like the call for a threesome to begin, oh god it’s like the very souuuuund of girls undressing. You got your willing ladies and your neck-tatted pretty-faced producer. “Annnnd places, everyone!” DING.

Hocus pocus, I just learned, comes from an old-timey Latin blessing in mass–Hoc est corpus meum, meaning “This is my body.” I am guessing that’s not the first time P has used such a phrase to his own ends, most likely while in the company of ladies. By the way, P, this is my body; you like? (I mean, that’s what I would say if I engaged in groupie antics which of course I do not. HI MOM.)


Sleeping with the finest
The thread count is bindless
Security blanket of cocaine, I am Linus

Pusha T, “I Still Wanna.” FUCKYES, Charles Schulz raps. Peanuts raps. Thumb-suckin, socially-anxious-children raps. Dumbest Line That Still Works Somehow.

Still push weight like my car broke down.

Genasis, “Jackie Chan”

Forgive me for this one, please. I can’t take it when you look at me that way; just hear me out.

Best Simile in a Catchy Dumb Power 106 Rush-Hour Banger with No Redeeming Value Other Than Pure Aural Pleasure. But see, that in itself is redeeming value–the pleasure. I realize that everybody’s quick with the bad music/junk food metaphor–“Potato chips are also SO SO GOOD, Logan, but they are bad for your body.” Jerk, listen: if they taste good, they are good for your body. You’re overthinking it.

PUSH WEIGHT LIKE MY CAR BROKE DOWN, by the way. Not sure if you heard it the first time. So crisp and clean, and it’s funny but I’ve never heard anybody say it like that before, even with the years and years of songs about how being a dopeboy is in the blood and it’ll always be with an MC despite shine/fame/money. Love it. He also says My car breakfast–745. Aha. Haha. Cute.

Bullshit convo, five minutes invested
Now she buck naked lying next to you via text message.

Curren$y, “Flight Briefing”

Best Use of QWERTY.
No getting around it; this is just pure poetry. So much is said here about menfolk and womenfolk, and in fewer than 20 words.

My family know–rarely seen, they know I’m married to my dream
So in love with that green that my bitch every day threatens to leave
The only thing that’s left for me is to suggest that she do what she please

Curren$y – “Frosty”


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Best Use of Manners by a Southern Gentleman. I could quote you a hundred GTFOH raps by some of the greatest lyricists this world has ever known (come by apt. 15 tomorrow night, around 7:30). I don’t mind screamin on em/“I’m mad at you, woman” raps. Passion is a good thing. But it’s a little guy from N-O who shows restraint that gets the award today. I suggest that you do what you please, my dear. I’m also thrilled to announce that the instro has hereby just been added to the “Logan Walking Down the Street on a Sunny Day” song canon.

We can share beginnings, walk before you run, but she so independent
And I could see us fly, the sky is the limit
We so real, got my own quarter mill
Counting money on the bed, watching Deal Or No Deal
In a perfect world, just my guns and my girl

Pusha T, “Feeling Myself.” This particular “Feeling Myself” has a hideous R&B hook and is not as good as the Mac Dre one, tragically (although Pusha could also get away with the line I treat my bitch like my ATM card). And it’s pretty unremarkable as far as lyrical creativity goes, but I just like the incorporation of boring game show. Best Use of Boring Game Show?

If people don’t like it now, they will.

Albert Ayler

The Joker’s henchmen break into the museum and empty the display cases; this occurs repeatedly, again and again: finally it can be reckoned upon beforehand and becomes a part of the exhibition.

Jonathan Lethem

a) Most Accurate Description by a Jazz Genius of Your Mom’s and Your Mailman’s Feelings about Odd Future 6 months ago.

b) Most Accurate Description of OF’s Current Stranglehold on Music-Consuming Human Beings.

Please, pretty please
I just wanna see you down on your pretty knees

(Sorry, Mom)

Pusha T feat. Kanye, “Touch It”

This is a love song to coke and that line is code for “I just wanna sit in a room and stare at you, pretty white lady, ’cause your value as determined by capitalism in the unregulated free market has made all my dreams come true.” Alas, this cannot totally make up for This Week’s Worst Use of Kanye (who insists on trying to do sex raps because he is delusional and doesn’t know how ridiculous he appears), and Worst Attempt at Disguising a Reference to Oral (You are such a champ, how you take it on the chin). This does, however, get Second-Best (after Curren$y) Use of Manners and Decorum. Please, pretty please. I figure if you’re a dude it’s hard to keep up with girls who sometimes like to be bossed around but who also appreciate dudes saying please and thank you. But I always say just rely on the context of the situation, you know? That should tell you which way to go.

Get off my elevator.

Best Use of Old Kool Keith to Soothe After a Hard Day at Work in a High-Rise Downtown.
Backrub please, pretty please.

I just brought a drop just recently
I killed the parking lot just recently
I just brought a whip just recently
I made another flip just recently
I just bust a check just recently
I bust a bad bitch just recently
I’m screaming out “who want a piece of me?!”
I just got a deal just recently

Gucci & 50, “Recently.”

I just got a bikini just recently! I just made an illegal left just recently! I can’t stop singing this hook just recently! I just had a birthday just recently! (oh wait, no. It’s tomorrow.) Best Use of Catchy. Best Use of the Word “Just” (Twice in the Same Line!)

Lambo round that Autobahn, 50 says in the not-hook (sometimes I manage to tear myself away from the hook). This reminds me of that Monch interview in the Voice, wherein he describes “Immigrant Song” as “sounding like someone either riding a horse through a snow forest or doing 120mph on the Autobahn,” fucking YES that’s exactly what it sounds like! And I’m not even a big Led Zep girl! MONCH YOU NAILED IT/WHERE THE FUCK IS QUEENS RAWRR RARRR RARARA. Monch. Goddammit I love him. (Even though he said Fuck you; pay me on “Assassins,” a cliche straight outta ’99, and that’s almost unforgivable.)

My people sleep in coffins, I miss em–I’m breaking down
In the face of a bad bitch that I’m ‘sposed to be taking down
Baby ride while I’m crying, I’m dying inside
‘Cause my pain is Poseidon or a giant leviathan that I’m hiding from the world
They hit me with everything but the kitchen sink
How ironic–same place I vomit when I lick a drink
Apparently I need to get a shrink
How can therapy take care of me when I don’t give a fuck what n—s think?

Crooked I, “Sober Up.”

Yet another song between the years of 2009 and 2011 that sounds like a video game. And JESUS CHRIST I think I just linked to a song with Budden on it. Crooked I’s good, though. He veers dangerously close to crybaby Eminem territory with those lyrics, but that last line redeems it. Best Way to Bring it Home with a Closing Line. Get ’em, Long Beach.

I speak of world peace, war, famine and flood
Watchin Pan’s Labyrinth while I’m unraveling bud

Pharoahe Monch, “Evolve.” Best Mention of the Mundane/Everyday. One day I’ll do a Random Tribute: Raps about Watching Movies While Rolling/Smoking Ls post, even though Ls is east coast slang and we don’t say it that way out here. He also says Please seize the moment in the struggle against Lucifer. K, Monchie! You got it. (If I have time today after doing laundry)

You gotta take it back to face the fact
These D’s look at us as just another case to crack
If I bust a gun in the hood I get Attica or the cat
I bang a gat in Iraq I get a pat on the back
Best believe I know better than that
This a lesson for all my listeners, this shit ain’t just regular rap
It’s the greatest story that ever been spat

Saigon, “The Greatest Story Never Told.” Best Use of “Spit” in Past Tense.
Most Success with Preachy Lyrical Content While Still Holding My Interest.
Regarding the beat: Best Just Blaze Doing an Impression of Just Blaze in ’01.
And aw, the Attica thing reminds me of this:

I just got this Archie Shepp just recently!
I just stared at the cover for 8 minutes straight just recently!
It’s almost my birthday just recently!

Willis, “Word Up.”

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I also believe there are some couplets on that new Big K.R.I.T. that will make next week’s Rap Lyric Awards.

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Oh word (Lil B and Hawking and 6 assorted others).

1. “I’m not gay. I like having sex with no condoms with women.” – Brandon, in a video explanation that VladTV has decided to call “Lil B Explains Threatening to Take Kanye’s Manhood.” (I did not realize that references to a sex act that may or may not be considered gay is the same thing as having your manhood stripped, nor did I realize that manhood is a fixed identity signifier that others may take away from you at any time, like your keys or wallet! Gosh thank you, Vlad.)

In happier news, the plan that I currently have in development is to elbow past the swarms of other ladies at Coachella for some grassy-field condomless based lovemaking with the HBIC of the Internet. I will be unstoppable. Just gotta work out the details. “Time to make a baby,” I’ll say to Lil B, and he will not protest because I am unstoppable. Afterward, we’ll smoke and talk about how 1) The best thing is a rapper/human in full control of his/her vision; the worst is one who takes to the Twitter pulpit and attempts to give life instructions, and 2) if Rae ever cooked on YouTube the universe would finally collapse in on itself. There would be nothing more for humans to aspire to. (Just shut it down at that point.)

2. “Excuse me little mama, if I may
Take this thought and send it your way
And if you don’t like that, then send it right back
But I just gotta say:
I wanna be on you (on you), I wanna be on you (on you)
And if you don’t like that, then send it right back.”

RON BURGUNDY, is that you?? Oh dear, no. It’s weird old-man-faced Flo Rida and whiny-voiced Ne-Yo, circa ’09 (but played on Power 106 on 01/19/11, 4:51 pm PST). The words are from Anchorman and I find it to be a lazy and terrible piece of music. I wanna be on youuuu, someone other than R. Kelly sang on my car radio today, and it upset me.

I rather feel that I have been giving Clear Channel and its subsidiaries too much love recently–so thank you, Ne-Yo and subsidiaries, for continuing to make musical rubbish which allows me to run on hatred (and the fumes of hatred when my tank is low).


3. “I wouldn’t mind fuckin’ with Cash Money.” – Beanie Sigel.

Dreams! Who doesn’t have a dream tucked away somewhere? There’s a 2 in 5 chance that an American believes Jesus will return to Earth by 2050. That’s a good one. We all spend a good portion of our day in dreamland. We are good at fantasy in America–only not like the porn industry, which we frown upon; our fantasies are pure, although they are also far-fetched.

“Right now, I wouldn’t mind fuckin’ with Baby,” is how he begins the entire quote, full of unicorns and Santa Claus and pots of gold at the end of rainbows. “Majors, nah. I’d rather go with independent*. As far as labels out there I wouldn’t mind fuckin’ with Cash Money. I wouldn’t mind fuckin’ with the Birdman.”

“I wouldn’t mind fuckin’ with Fifty right now. Doing some movies, some shit. But I definitely fucks with the Birdman. Shout out to Birdman, Lil Wayne.” I thought we no longer refer to fucks-ing with others in the industry. We still say co-sign and speaks on, which I hate. Anyway, good luck with your dream, but be careful if you bring in some outside producers, Beans! Everyone knows Cash Money don’t pay no royalties.

* ed. note: Cash Money = Universal Music Group. It’s not 1996, Beans.

And since we each get a turn at this: I wouldn’t mind having some condom-free (!) based sex (because of my self-destructive tendencies; Lord, protect me from myself) on the soft grassy Coachella meadow, and then being given a cubicle and name plate for my desk at Wax Poetics’ HQ the following morning. I wouldn’t mind getting a Leica camera. I would not hate very much for cherries to be in season right now (almost!), or to go to lunch with Daniel Dumile. Music-makers and dreamers of dreams; that’s what we are.

4. “It’s like seeing the nerd pope!” – Evan Hetland, 13, self-professed physics fan, on coming (with “the Shatkin family of Valencia,” no less) to see Stephen Hawking speak at Caltech.

No hate here; the kid is adorable and speaks the truth. I tried to think of a better nerd pope and I could not. Cornel West? No, he’s the nerd minister of culture.


5. Pettibon/Pettibone. That’s not a quote, but it’s on the list of today’s notable language moments because I found out it’s an actual surname, not just something made up and used by OC punkrock artsy great-uncle who probably found Rollins irritating but had to put up with him. Rollins is irritating and he’s got that weird way of over-enunciating everything on the radio but sometimes he plays something good, like that Black Eyes song about Haiti with the sexual bassline (Saturday night, KCRW, around 6:45 pm PST).


6. “You go to Tougaloo, but I know you still flip.” – Banner, on the well-rounded college girl, in “Like a Pimp.” Get out on the floor and girl get it how you live, touch your toes, shake something. It’s OK; Banner can shout out instructions like this because he’s conflicted about it and that kind of complexity is appealing. I listen to this song 2-3 times per month on my own already, but my body feels a rush of delight every time it comes on the radio (hardly ever anymore since it’s not 2003-4, but you know. Sometimes.) Real girls get down on the floor/on the floor. YEP. That’s me. I believe I am included in this group despite the fact that I am a grown-up lady. One of the finest songs to undress to while on the Magic City stage, it is the opposite of the dumb and mundane, the daily, all the tiresome chores and errands. It sounds like victory (and sex and molasses) as I pull into the Vons parking lot to buy sourdough bread and soymilk. Radio programmers have the uncanny ability to play the most pleasingly emotional stuff as I’m doing the most squaresville of tasks, like when “What U Gon Do” comes on when I’m in the drive-thru at In-N-Out. Hi! Knuck if you buck. And I’d also like a medium vanilla shake please.

This little moment of Banner was sponsored by the Mississippi Musicians Hall of Fame, into which he was just inducted. He’s now in the company of deities Sam Cooke, Willie Dixon, John Lee Hooker, and the God’s Son’s dad (which makes him God, I guess-?). Not sure yet which heading Banner’s going to be filed under, but I do love the fact that Ike Turner is in the Rock & Roll category and not Rhythm & Blues just because he’s black.

This was yielded during a “Trick Daddy” image search. It just seems to fit.

7. “We gon let the band deal with this.” – Trick, in one of the top 25 intros of all tiiiiiimes, which I was reminded of when I fucking heard “SHUT UP” the other day after many months of not having heard it. I used to listen to that song 5-6 times per month and my body trembled every time, but then of course I played it one time too many like always. That’s just my way, and I never learn. Oversaturation is a killer.

Nerd minister of culture Mr. Cornel West said love is the force that transcends death; “all the rest is sounding brass and tinkling cymbals.” Yes but to me, sounding brass and tinkling cymbals is love, ‘specially when it comes from marching bands who are brought in to assist MCs straight from Dade County:


Trick Daddy – “Shut Up”

8. “We are hardwired to find simple patterns pleasurable.”science, on music and the brain and why their lovemaking will never stop feeling good. Oh. Hello, science. Nice to see you’ve caught up with me. Please refer to songs by: Trick Daddy, David Banner, Lil Jon.

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Wait a motherfucking minute, true facts presented.


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5 facts:

1. Things I would die without: the snare drum, Sennheiser headphones, Doom’s lyrics, stripper/librarian heels. Or I could just say “Stimulation in various forms, stimulation all day and night, and yet somehow soothing at the same time” and you’d know what I mean, you’d clearly realize how that’s a list comprised of snares and headphones plus ten thousand other things too. Stripper/librarian heels are the focus today, though. The ones above are called “Peep Show,” and I needed them so I bought them. (I would have died without them.)

Lately my life has been a whole lot of driving around town listening to Power 106 and old Kool Keith, dealing with grouchy people, and this frequent uneasiness, this strong feeling like I need more impractical footwear. As illustrated by the photos above, all those radio plays of “Throw it in the Bag” had their intended effect–THANKS, LOSO–except in my life’s version I play the role of both the kept woman and the keeper of the woman since I buy my own heels, which is obviously what Steinem had in mind for me as a postpostpostfeminist human. Sorry, Gloria. I’m I-N-D-E-P-E-N-D-E-N-T, though, do you know what that means? DO YOU? I cook, I clean, I never smell like onion rings. Somethingsomething, flat-screen TV, good credit, blah blah.


That ankle strap is what sold me, lookin like one of Saturn’s rings. Just look at that ankle strap, darling. Phillip Lim, child of immigrants, Kanye-approved designer, yet somehow still Logan-approved designer, has crafted these for the discerning stripper/librarian in your life. They are 5-inch-heeled mary janes of Italian leather, a deep red shade that Barneys calls “bordeaux,” which recalls, I don’t know, the grapes in my backyard vineyard that I lovingly tend before I go to the library in the morning and that I lovingly tend when I return from Magic City at night?

Phillip thinks he disappointed his parents, who came from Cambodia and wanted him to be a doctor. They don’t understand fashion, because, really, what’s to understand. Frivolity and sex and overspending. Grand folly. Lack of practicality (teetering around on 5-inch spindles shortens calf muscles), but good-looking and well-crafted things for the body. Kanye-approved shoes on Barbie doll label princesses who have master’s degrees and nerdy blogs. “I’m shoppin right now, my ass off/You home writin some bullshit literature,” Kool Keith said. Dude I can do both, though. I can do both, Mr. Thornton. That ankle strap represents my life’s constant duality–the Dewey Decimal System and Toomp beats, new glasses (finally) and a thousand bathing suits. Before setting my alarm to wake me up to some Waka in the morning, I read every night in bed. There are Chanel and Diane von Furstenberg ads among the poems and essays in the Paris Review. Also contained therein is a story about Brazilian jiujitsu, an art form that teaches that a small and weak person can suddenly turn into something like a big and strong person using proper technique and leverage. The pleasures of duality, that’s the point I’m trying to make here. Oh and have I mentioned that ANKLE STRAP. Take another look and then tell me I shouldn’t have bought em.

Things I don’t believe in: shooting stars. Things I believe in: shoes, cars.

In daydreams my American Gangster character is Eva, Miss Puerto Rico, who loves Frank at the beginning, and she especially loves her idea of who Frank is (classic Logan), and then 2 months into their marriage she finds herself on her knees, scrubbing blood out of the alpaca rug* and he’s screaming at her and she’s thinking Fuck what did I get myself into. That’s probably my fate, given my taste for masculinity topped off with smarts and a strong commitment to hustlenomics and an adeptness at charming my pants off (or my dress off, as the case may be, or even my black-shorts-and-Boy-Scout-belt-and-stripper/librarian-heels get-up).

In life I am the good girl.
Even in daydreams I am the good girl. But these make me feel like I’m Ginger in Casino. At the beginning, you knowpre-haircut, pre-tailspin. Throwing the chips in the air, moving in slow motion. She wanted to stay hustling her little heart but Ace insisted on bribing her into wifehood and momhood. Wives and moms are boring, though. Remember how Malice said I even went by the book at first/Until I realized 9 to 5 wouldn’t quench my thirst. In response, I believe Ginger would say Sounds about right.

* “That’s $25,000 alpaca!” Frank yells, “You blot that shit!”
Yeah yeah, club soda. Sorry, Frank.

2. The ignition switch in our bodies helps spot and treat cancer. Fine, lovely, good job science and scientists, but my ignition switch can spot (and only responds to) honey-voiced Chicago singers with possible latent homosexual tendencies who are always struggling with that ol‘ divine v. secular tug of war. The demands of the heavenly v. those of the flesh. (Fleshly delights usually win; I hope I didn’t give that one away for you all.) There was this one time I met this dude, he was all up in my grill/tryna get me to a-ho a-tellll and I liked his honesty and especially the way he pronounced “hotel,” there was food everywhere; it was fantastic. My uh, engine revved. Except he wore Celtics gear, which was hard for me to wrap my head around.
3. Waka can really sometimes sound like an upper-register Rick Ross, voice-wise. By that I mean Rawwsss 15 years and 100 lbs ago, but they both have that raspy thing occurring in their vocal chords. “Knock Em Down” is this new song by something called Grafh featuring Waka but Grafh should know that when you put Waka on the hook all the girls are going to focus on Waka in their blog posts about that new Grafh song. Grafh’s only noteworthy moment is at 01:19–“I’m a rock chopper, with a straight razor/And I’m the type to kick your daddy in the pacemaker.” Cardiac-regulation-equipment raps are good, and they’re funny. But oh, Waka! He has power. He makes me claim FETTI GANG a couple times a day. Waka can end a verse by hollering his own name (03:48). And he’s somebody who can claim the states of both Georgia and New York, which is the rap equivalent of being a dually-skilled athlete. Brag rights.

4. “Oh Word” was my cutesy etymology feature that I used to do all the time on here. Bikini enthusiasts didn’t care for it, but I loved it. It’s back today, and the word is SNARE.

snare.
“noose for catching animals,” c.1100, from O.N. snara “noose, snare,” related to soenri, “twisted rope,” from P.Gmc. snarkho (cf. M.Du. snare, Du. snaar, O.H.G. snare, Ger. Schnur “noose, cord”).

snare (2).
“string across a drum,” 1680s, probably from Du. snaar “string,” from same source as snare, above.

The appropriateness of this word’s origin is startling and dope. Jabo Starks, Uriel Jones, Jimmy Diamond from the Ohio Players. Zigaboo from the Meters. They’ve caught me–ensnared me, really–in their respective drumkit nets.
5. I used to do my Lesbatronic Moment” feature a while ago too, which bikini enthusiasts really liked a lot. I should show you the emails. On a related note, fact #5 for today is: Claudia Cardinale. She exists. But is she the stripper or the librarian? Ginger or Eva? Or is she both, a perfect combination of the two, like the woman I hope to be one day? I like Claudia’s features, and I have fondness for her based on the similarities I imagine we share. If you have big brown eyes people treat you like the good girl; once they see you have those hips they start to make a playlist for you of Drumma Boy’s greatest hits so you can hand it to the DJ when you take Stage 2 at Magic City. Duality.

Bonus fact (6): “The only person who never got ejected from an NBA game was Jesus.”Ronald W. Artest, Jr., who would know, obviously. Ron the lovable badass is everywhere except inside the perimeter these days. Still love him, though. I love kittens and “6’7”” too, because I’m only human after all.

What can I do at this point other than say They try to Ron Artest me/They gon have to arrest me, in Gucci’s words (I had to quote him here due to my Brick Squad and Fetti Gang affiliations). I still keep it Berkeley too, though (I feel like Ron Artest/Championship swag).

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Oh Word, 12/12/10.


Language and boys and whiskers on kittens; these are a few of my favorite things, to paraphrase Rodgers and Hammerstein. It’s usually just a lyric snippet that makes me yell with pleasure (“‘Race cars and weed jars’! CURREN$Y YOU ARE A SUCCINCT GENIUS”), but sometimes the menfolk amaze me with fully-formed sentences too. Since all I wanna do is hang out with Paul Mooney and talk shit or just sit there and listen to him talk shit, and then listen to T.I. read the phone book in his Bankhead lilt, but I can’t do either of those things, here’s some word joy from the Internet/my record collection/my brain that I’m swooning over:

1.Zapp IV beneath the ashtray, woofers in the back
Water in the duals make loud glass packs.”

E-40 to start the list, obviously because he’s my personal John Keating but also because he teaches me things about worlds I am not a part of. I require this of all the men in my life. Water in the duals make loud glass pack is just gibberish to me; 40 might as well have said Cupcake zebra Pirellis on an airplane fold-down tray and I would feel frustrated, like oh shit, new coke slang I don’t know about yet. But then I found this. See, Curren$y, my dad, and UGK aren’t the only men I listen to when it comes to car engine stuff.

2. In response to a story on Gawker about an attractive and successful female getting caught up with a not-very-attractive and rather bitchy-looking young man from a wealthy family, and then that female winding up dead, a commenter makes his plea:

Switch the genders around and this paragraph still works. Foxy gentlemen, date (lady) nerds! They are charming, old-fashioned, sex crazy and will treat you like gold.

Alas, this is unlikely. Life’s not fair. Nerds don’t turn heads and everybody knows the head-turn is the first step toward getting involved in a love affair. Another good example of life not being fair is that that’s not my face on that shirt even though it clearly should be.

3. “He jumped out the Jeep like yo, what up chief
But I don’t eat pork, so I guess he wanted beef.”

D-Nice, “25 Ta Life.” Got started thinking about this song because: a) the deathless ubiquity of Vampire Weekend means that they are showing up on Best Of 2010 lists and this picture accompanied one such list:


b) Well would you look at this here, I said. I do believe I have seen a similar photo before that preceded it by about 20 years:


c) Thought about D-Nice and his jeep raps and scrap raps and culinary restriction raps and how great it is to hear what up, chief in a song. I don’t eat pork, so I guess he wanted beef. That’s really all it takes, you guys, for me to fall in lust, or at least really really strong like. Word-whore English majors for life.

4. Alec Sulkin, Family Guy writer, whose Twitter feed is a series of YES.




5. “I’m sitting in the house now that was built with the Wu-Tang money,” says Syl Johnson in the Voice. THE WU-TANG MONEY, he says, and then looks around at his granite countertops and crown moldings. Love Syl’s forthcoming ways and unashamed raking in of vocal-snippet payments. Everybody wanted Arab money a few years ago, remember? Now it’s Wu-Tang money, at least if you’re a beloved ’70s soulster. The real prize, though, is the pile of cash that the creator of all the Law & Orders is sitting on right at this moment. I need some of that Dick Wolf money, you guys.

“Different Strokes.” This UNNHHYYH! is only rivaled by the stupendous James Joseph Brown’s guttural explosions into microphones during the years 1967-73. Other than that, this is it, having been stretched and looped and lovingly manipulated by dudes from regions including but not limited to Compton and a certain NYC borough.

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6. Andrew Kuo, NY Times maker of graphs and sometime DJ at the Cha Cha (but who isn’t in this goddamn city, really)


7. “Got a yellow bone bitch rollin’ weed, servin’ grits
You know curly head Amanda, ain’t she from Atlanta?
Condo on Peachtree, roommate named Pamela
In love with her body, girl don’t sweat them lil’ love handles
That’s where I put my hands at when I snatch you up to ram you.”

Curren$y – “Daze of Thunder.”

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Chevys over Cadillacs. Body-confidence raps. Rust bucket; I spent fifteen huuuuunnid on that muhfucka. The Mac Dre reference (people from Louisiana listen to Mac Dre! I always thought he was a regional thing, but I’m happy his influence has spread–like how I freaked out when Paul Wall mentioned Nickatina). Ramming (sorry, Mom). Admiring the ass, I’ma smoke to that before I tell you get in the bed and arch your back (sorry, Mom). But most importantly: yellow bone girls, a group I proudly rep. I’m like a super super duuuper yellow bone. In summary, it’s still JET LIFE FOOL, and I’m still the #1 stewardess, as long stewardesses are employed by Pan Am circa ’72* or Pacific Southwest Airlines whatever year this was:

I also just found out about something called skullcap tincture, which helps with anxiety and is the plant equivalent of Curren$y’s voice. An anti-spasmodic, muscle relaxant, and pain killer, this substance will also provide inspiration when I name my next mixtape. Mannie Fresh x YellowBone Logan present: Skullcap Tincture.

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