Top 5 emotional girly moments in the video, Cuz! (my set affiliations will likely fluctuate throughout this post, and anyway it doesn’t matter because at this point green is the most important color in all our lives, yes?):
4. PUNS FROM JAYCEON. “One thing me and (Ken) got in COMPTON…” Teehee.
I just made a nice cotton dress with my own two hands and my sewing machine, and I decided to honor Pimp C with the title post. (Sorry, “Snitches Get Stitches”; you never had a chance)
Patti Jo – “Make Me Believe In You.” I thought about posting a song about sewing, or thread, or even completing a project. But in the end it came down, like always, to the old “walking down the street in a cotton dress” bass-drenched song with sassy female vocal, and this one probably has top 10 status in my heart. Not one note is sung ’til the first 2 and a half minutes go by, and it was written by Curtis Mayfield (you can tell when you hear those lyrics and get a feel for it, the whole vocal phrasing), and it makes me want to curl up in a ball because the universe is so wonderful sometimes I can’t take it. Don’t worry–I’ll delicately arrange my dress before curling up so nothing inappropriate is seen. Hi Mom!
I don’t kick it with no rappers; they be hustling backwards, the current (ha) king of my heart said. I’m a lone wolf (albeit a shy dorky lone wolf) so I hardly kick it with anybody anyway, but: I retreat within myself especially hard when there’s no news about Doom or anybody in the Wu pantheon and all the bad rappers just call radio shows and get booked for stupid things, or sometimes it’s the other way around, but in either case it keeps them in the 24-hour blogpost cycle but doesn’t contribute anything worthwhile to my psyche. Odd Future being on Jimmy Fallon gives me a funny feeling too–I need to reconcile my feelings about fame, like Cobain up until the very end. The 13-year-old in me hates that anybody except me and 3 other people have heard of Ty and Hodge and my beauuuuutiful underaged girlfriend Syd, but then I think Good for them, a ragtag bunch of young geniuses spreading the gospel. It’s all too much, can’t take the overload of unnecessary rapfacts and complicated emotions, so I just sew in apt. 15, cute outfits all day son, and mix in a record store trip sometimes. That thing about Luke running for mayor of Miami is rather amusing, though.
“Bambi Goes to Coachella” is the photo-inspiration file on my C drive (Bambi is a stripper/librarian with a master’s degree, an incredible record collection, and a Ghostface doll on her shelf, and cops always holler at her but she hates it). I have some version of each of the outfits below, but I have to proceed with caution when it comes to the real world–I am struck all the time by the fact that hips make everything a little sluttier. I got the skinny legs and that’s pretty OK when it comes to fashion rules, but anything round and soft as you move up the female frame is pushed aside by Elle. No fair. What if I don’t want to do Low Rider? (And you know, Curren$y has that song called “Fashionably Late,” so I kind of had to do this.)
my new retrobeautiful girlfriend whose style I intend to successfully jack, Jaimie Alexander (Vanity Fair, Dec. 2010, Don Flood)
Clemence Poesy (Marie Claire US, Feb. 2011, Tesh)
Constance Jablonski (Vogue Spain, Feb. 2011, Alex Cayley)
Mona Johanesson (JC Jeans, Norway)
Paolla Rahmeier (Marie Claire Brazil, Oct. 2010, Jacques Dequeker)
Bo Diddley – “Pretty Thing.”
(*you rack your brain for lyrics about ladies and half the songs are actually about cars.)
Georgia May Jagger proves that if you are 5’7” (model stats; it means she’s actually 5’5 1/2”) and blonde-highlighted, life is perfect. Lounge-y. Sunshiny. (like old OutKast instrumentals). If it weren’t for SWINE, that is.
I love it all, this whole spread. And I have versions of everything here in my closet, except for that button-up Dior up there, which I wish I had because I would certainly wear it, shoulder ties and all. It’s cop catnip, though. Cops love me. My style of dress. My good posture. My skinny body, I guess. Thus, How can I continue to dress like this while keeping cops away is the most important topic in my life right now. I need help with it, like understanding Talib getting a distribution assist from Duck Down (???!?) and how to get Doomsy on as a keynote speaker at the next TED conference. Cops, they love me and I do not care for it (unless he’s a cool cop, the ones that only exist in movies, a realllll loose cannon with a fucking sweet car and a King Kong-sized ego like detective Alonzo Harris–call me!–or one who gets caught up like Brasco–CALL ME–or even Mr. Orange ’cause he kind of had a good heart plus he was a great storyteller).
There has to be some answer here. I would like to continue to be a dress-up babydoll, but I do not want to be visually patted-down by police officers every day when I get my coffee. (I live in the Rampart division and I work downtown, so what do you expect–the Starbucks at 2nd and Central is particularly thick with them) This is not my most organized set of sentences but basically what I mean to say is that just because that lady in line behind you is wearing some nice white linen shorts and an oxford shirt doesn’t mean she doesn’t prowl the Internet daily for new Curren$y stuff and old Dilla stuff. You and your stereotypes, I swear.
“Spottieottie” instro. Ha, see, ’cause they’re from Georgia.
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 jiu–jitsu, 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.
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 know—pre-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.
Yeah yeah, club soda. Sorry, Frank.
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.
“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”).
“string across a drum,” 1680s, probably from Du. snaar “string,” from same source as snare, above.
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).
Televised competitions of sport and strategy can be a pretty incredible thing.
Above: Bob Huggins (affectionately called “Huggy” in apt. 15) dirties up his nice suit and crouches and consoles in front of millions, thereby making me tear up in my tiny Los Angeles home yesterday. Obviously it’s chic to hate Duke, so I was already a Huggins groupie, but uncalculated acts of care between men representing the fine state of West Virginia suddenly and without warning make me a proud, red-blooded Mountaineer. I gave myself a little hug and held my breath and didn’t once think of a Redman song (Da’Sean Butler is from New Jersey, I hear). PS, Da’Sean Butler. You’re 20 years old and your ACL has just painfully informed you your whole life trajectory will change. Just how deep can shit get, you know?
And thus I have created the first post in my life that can accurately be tagged with both “Girlyness” AND “A tomboy moment.”
Darron Cummings/ AP photo / April 3, 2010. West Virginia coach Bob Huggins consoles forward Da’Sean Butler after he injured his knee in the second half against Duke.
No dark sarcasm in the classroom with these kids ’cause they’re too busy making me bawl and clutch my hands together and cry out with joy over their vocal stylings. I got that familiar ol‘ lump in the throat that hasn’t been this intense since that week the Saints won, I first saw that Google commercial, and I realized all my favorite rappers are deceased. Oh dear.
I thought I had grown tired of Phoenix, so it’s quite a feat the way the PS 22 Chorus is punching me in my emotional center, appealing to my girly sensibilities and fondness for children and organized singing, and making me love this song even though Phoenix are dullsville and over-playedsville thanks to being on constant rotation at Forever 21 (where, coincidentally, there’s this butterfly dress I need to complete my life and make me feel like my time here hasn’t been a big waste. Size S. So girly and pretty. Gimme. Thanks in advance, baller.)
Anyway, press play! You’re not any less of a man if you get a little teary-eyed over this one, promise.
The future Jeopardy! champ in me also feels it’s important to add the tangential fact that the film Lisztomania was the first to use Dolby Sound (so says my sometimes-enjoyable-but-rarely-dependable boyfriend Wikipedia.)
and ME! of course, once I’ve moved into my tiny tiny apartment home. I dragged and lifted and packed and worked and I’m pretty sure that’s not the kind of work all the MCs from Georgia on my radio are talking about, but the shit was still work. Missed you; did you miss me?
The terms of my collective bargaining agreement stipulate that I may take a period of time off at specified intervals for rest and recuperation and reflection. I have just concluded one such interval, so: America, here I come! GAME FACE. Let me just jump right back into thangs with some music history nerdery that few apart from myself care about:
This day in 1967, The Supremes recorded “Reflections,” which was the greatest song about reflected imagery in popular music until Slick Rick looked at himself in the mirror in ’85 and asked Who is the top choice of them all?, then Soulja Boy did the same thing in ’08 only he said Wassup. (Then he got money. Then Jeezy made it stay in my brain for weeks after I heard it. You’re rude, Jeezy.)
Diana Ross and her unspectacular voice plus Holland Dozier Holland on the boards means happy times in apt. 15. “Stoned Love” is superior, obviously, I mean those horns, c’mon, but “Reflections” has oscillating sequined tambourine loveliness in go-go boots and is suitable for choreographed dance moves in your tiny apartment plus it means I can post a bunch of pictures of people looking into mirrors. Also, you should play this, loudly, in your motor vehicle. Roll up on dubs, I’m not impressed. Prowl the streets in your Maxima with a head tilt and an appreciation for the Funk Brothers, however, I would probably let you kiss me. On the cheek, since we barely know each other. Plus I’ll let you touch my booty (a little, then I’ll push your hand away ’cause I’m so demure).
*Musical assist courtesy of Andre Young; he’s sorta like my personal Max Weinberg. Thx, Dre.
The piano that’s so simple and so menacing, the way that I can make myself forget that Storch produced it, the fact that you can tell Jay-Z had a hand in writing it (this is not Dre’s cadence. Sorry, Dre)–I LOVE THIS SONG. And I love all those Training Day cops who I’d want to kick it with in real life probably (this only happens in fiction of the cinematic kind; otherwise cops and I will never ever kick it), I love Denzel’s Monte Carlo, I love Eva Mendes’ rust-colored wrap dress when she brings Salvadoran food out to Hoyt. I am still not loving that this song is from the album 2001 which was released in, um, 1999. (Oh, sorry. 95 plus 4 pennies.).