Category Archives: Girlyness

Play your part. Play your part.

You know I

thug em, fuck em, love em, leave em,
’cause I don’t fuckin need em…

Just jokin – I do need ’em!
Ah love, sweet love! Happy Valentimes! Let’s all make out, sext each other, discuss the qualities in a lady that make you want to wife her (it’s hips and musical knowledge, silly) and listen to
“Let’s Do It Again” and every Stevie Wonder record pre-1981. Then maybe a special sex thing that we only bust out 3 or 4 times a year. Also, ice cream! It’s 76 beautiful degrees out today.

I do not care for fake holidays courtesy of Hallmark, Inc, but I do like sweet things and romantical things and I do like a fake holiday if that holiday provides a crucial link between Ralph Wiggum and the bawsses of the Gulf Coast, plus Andre Benjamin in a kilt talkin bout not wanting to be an old man sitting on his porch alone. Aw. Last summer I got so mad at Pitchfork when they didn’t put “Int’l Players Anthem” high enough on one of their many, many lists (so many lists, that site. Jesus.), then I realized, oh wait, fuck Pitchfork/who cares/sometimes I get too heated about things and it’s bad for my blood pressure. I’ve calmed down some. Hit it, Willie.

Willie Hutch – “I Choose You.”

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Tickley Feather – “Trashy Boys”

Make um say LO-FI! I have a crush on this song, its pure drum machine greatness, and its video full of rattails, Natty Ice, stalking, and streamers. Her name is Tickley Feather and she is bunkmates with An Collective so you should hurry and like her before she gets the Hipster Runoff treatment.

When this is the next instrumental that all the Lim Edish signature colorway collabo midnight drop Futura x Rothko fitted rappers do their respective hypebeasty thing over, I’ll remind you that I called it but I’ll do it in a manner as un-obnoxious as possible. PS, I’m pretty sure trashy means “pure Bolivian brick of” and boys means “white powdery substance.” This song is 100% about cocaina (she’s from Virginia, duh).


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You are foolish to underestimate the musical impact of ladies in their underwear


There are 50 ways to leave your lover,
Joe Pesci plays the little guy with the short fuse in that movie (every movie),

“Easy Lover” is the fucking jam*,

and women looking nice in their undergarments shall always inspire songs by straight men.


James Ingram on the inspiration for and crafting of “P.Y.T.”:

At the time, Quincy Jones was married to Peggy Lipton. And one day, Peggy came home with some lingerie called Pretty Young Things. Quincy got the concept from that, and he sent a lot of writers on the mission. [Rico Washington; Wax Poetics, Oct/Nov ’09]

Listen, it’s already been established that every song sung by a dude with She or You as the main pronoun is about us ladies in general and me if you’re going to get really specific. “PYT” is a perfect, shining example of this and you know it if you’ve ever seen the way I respond to it in the cluuuub or when it comes on the radio when tooling around LA in the Civic. You see, in the song, MJ explains that I can make it right, hit the city lights. Then tonight, he likes how I ease the lovin‘ pain and take it to the max. Lots of melody ensues. It makes me want to cry from happiness, it’s so pretty and perfect. I even like the Bratty Chicagoan’s boost of it, despite my attempts not to. And it all started with a skinny Caucasoid lady! BOW DOWN.


Since this somehow turned into a Peggy Lipton Random Tribute post, I might as well wrap it up with my main arguments:

– Had the long straight blonde hair & thick eyebrows combination! (so dope & foxy).
– Experienced the sexys with Quincy (sorta the Russ Simmons of his day; I maybe could’ve had a chance?); gave us Rashida and Kidada, 2 gorgeous members of the “Was your father a GI because you are quite exotic-looking” club.
– On The Mod Squad, got to fight crime in her long straight blonde hair/short dresses/knee-high boots, all while kickin it with Prince’s dad.

Quincy hearted Peggy in the ’70s. Nothing could stop his burning/Desire to be with her. On a totally unrelated note, look at how Prince’s dad had way better style before he moved to MPLS! Damn shame.

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Cher, Nick Gilder, Scarly.


As a gay man, Cher curating the world of Sexy Clothes for ladies is a bit dubious. And I am not at one with the romper due to its evil hip-hiding ways.


(I call this “’94 pornstar hair and whimsical accessory.”
My friends would call this “When will you stop dressing like a 7-year-old being forced to walk the track by Dov Charney”
)

However, this is what Cher is referring to. Even though it makes it look like she doesn’t have various womanly attributes, still so foxy. The romper is a deceitful garment; I’ve known this for years.

When she goes downtown the boys all stop and stare*. OH SCARLY.

*Nick Gilder “Hot Child in the City.” Remember how I was just missing summer like 2 posts ago?
If I used cliches I might say something like Listening to this is like salt in the wound.
Let me also add IF YOUR HEART DOES NOT SOAR TO THIS SONG YOU ARE MOST LIKELY A TERRIBLE PERSON.

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Packin a .38 snub and a razor blade.

Why would I stand for disappointed looks
Fully grown but I’m all on tender hooks
Camera Obscura

This, from the most recent issue of Esquire, is as true as the sun coming up in the morning. Things between us shouldn’t be any other way. Also, have you heard my thoughts about feminism and Guilty Simpson?


Might I add that you can do whatever you want to her soft physical frame, and probably get her to do your laundry and make you a grilled cheese, if “Baby” is playing. And if it’s the summer of ’06. And if you play it from start to finish on the hi-fi and don’t cut out the beginning, since it’s the Stylistics that make the ladies feel all warm and trusting, like it’s OK to take our pants off when we’re around you. I am still struggling with how to reconcile my need to be treated with care and respect and to hear tender musical hooks while enjoying that She got a mouth like a vacuum part* and not apologizing for it. WHY DO I DO THE THINGS I DO, WHYY am I the way that I am, etc.

Feminism hasn’t kept up with advancements and complexities in hip hop lyrical content. Such is the dilemma of a grownup lady rap fan.

Girls stop when they see the clique ridin by, on jock
They ain’t invited unless they gon‘ drop.
OH GUILTAYY. I will not be dropping, but the thick, white, fluffy towels you keep at your place sure make a girl think about it for a minute.


Dilla feat. Madlib & Guilty Simpson –
Baby.I know we all have it, we’ve all memorized it, we all live it and breathe it. But let’s revisit it, because the days are getting shorter right now. People’s (ahem) checking accounts are dwindling. USC lost. And everyone’s right about Drake. He’s corny. So I’m putting my head under my pillow and not coming out until it’s August ’06.

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*Honorable mention: Dilla’s sing-song part (Baby, take me home tonight/Baby, lay me downnnn) and the pretty and evocative every 5 minutes we untanglin em couplet. Nicely done, James. Just like with the ladies, the key to song construction is in the grip –

encompassing but not fierce.

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Street poetry is my every day, and I like Meg F. even though she’s a biter.

It has been said that a pretty face is a passport. But it’s not, it’s a visa, and it runs out fast.

– Julie Burchill

The boys seem to love this whole Megan situation. She says the f word, sometimes kisses other ladies, and smokes weed! (How this makes her different from most somewhat attractive ladies with fierce eyebrows in major metro areas: unclear. She is truly, unabashedly EDGY, everyone says, in Iowa in 1954. But continue to enjoy, gentlemen. I have no problem with this. Buy the ticket, take the ride.)

I like Meg. Here’s why:

Meg says she likes comic books and anime and gaming but come the fuck on. Fronting. Trying too hard. – ladies (and some dudes) in the comments section of a thousand websites.

You say you like records and breaks but I don’t know, it seems like you’re just trying too hard. – dudes in MySpace messages, to this writer, starting around ’05. (Kids, there used to be this thing called “MySpace.” It died.)

Other than her totally biting my lounging-with-records-for-the-camera aesthetic*, I like Meg. I do not care for her physical form that has a lot of fakery and plastic parts, plus she has no hips and no exoticness like the beautiful ladies I take showers with (in my head) Irina and Sarah S, but Meg, like all girls, is an expert at being watched while pretending she doesn’t know she’s being watched. That’s a skill, my dude. She talks a lot about being insecure, and I believe her, and I think it’s good if 12-year-old girls believe her (why hello there, Myself in 6th Grade Who Is Super Gawky). People always say her claims of insecurity are BS – there’s no way she could be insecure, girl’s just trying to seem modest – but these people are usually dudes who think being a girl in life is like a walk in the park on a sunny day with the breeze blowing, people buying you things and putting your Ikea bookshelf together for you just because.
(that’s only true like 3 days out of the year
)

So other than the pose above (Mark Seliger, Rolling Stone), Meg isn’t hurting my feelings. I have to deduct points from her overall score for having plastic bags surgically inserted in her chest and some sort of fat injected into her lips but that is because, you see, I am a hater. And as an expert in posing while looking bored for photos, I can tell you that her right leg side-calf muscle is killing her in that picture up there. Aw Meg. Crouch or stand* with the record; the leg-sprawl is the hardest pose to master! Crouch or stand, sweetie.

PS,
At this point in our relationship, you should know:
1. I take my tea with a lot of sugar and a little milk,
2. It is imfuckingpossible to give me too many compliments about my brain, and
3. I LOVE songs with kids on the hook. And I love songs about pretty girls. Oh look, here come some now:

Dead Man’s Bones – “My Body’s a Zombie for You,” AKA “Ryan Gosling Can Evidently Make a Big Retarded Banger of a Song; Who Knew.”

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Tribe – “Electric Relaxation”

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Ronnie Foster – “Mystic Brew”

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Maggot brain, skinny arms, heels suitable for walking the track.

See I’m not the type of kid to have my biz in the streets.
(But my biz on the Internet is fine, FYI)
Me and Ghetto Music just, you know, relaxing in apt. 302 on a summer day.

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At least 2 pair.

No Fendi bag or bad attitude, but still.
We got a lot of private jokes to share.

Everyone knows the greatest and most Kenwood-bumpable songs written about and named in honor of a beautiful human with breasts and hips and soft skin are “Rosanna” and “Bonita Applebum.”

(“Veronica” is good too, but it’s about Elvis’s grandma so it’s not appropriate. This post is about ladies of song who dudes want to see nekkid. And “So Long, Marianne” is a throbfest of songwriting skill in the form of tortured reclusive foxiness known as Legendary Human Leonard Cohen, but it’s too somber for the Kenwood, silly).

I know there are a million of ’em, named for pretty ladies Allison and dear Yvette and Sally and Jessica and Melissa and Iesha and Carolina (so good I had to link to it), but it’s done. The decision has been made. It’s these 2, at least for now. Only ’cause nobody ever wrote a song called “Logan.”
(Pouty face)

Meet.You.All.The.Way! Sometimes the vinyl of this plays in apt. 302, but it’s really more of a driving-around-in-the-Civic, end of summer knocker; if you get really lucky, you don’t hit any red lights during the chorus so you can sing it freely without being self-conscious that the dude in the car next to you is watching.

Ain’t no need to question the authority satisfies the “Boss me around” requirement I seek from an MC, but So far, I hope you like rap songs is the cutest line of all from the musical year of 1990. This girl has that mean physical geometry of 38-24-37, and it’s the 37 that displays to the boys her bum like an apple. OH BONITA. Even I have a crush on you.

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Things that please me, 09/03/09: Jamie T, Donald Fagen, Catholic sex, and ’63 lady style that moves all the boys

1. This Jamie T Buy My Album Please It’s Dropping on Sept. 8 promo video and all the Brit wackiness contained therein. I keep watching it but I do it in a really foxy, non-creepy way. Promise.

2. That the Cuervo gollllld part in “Hey Nineteen” and how it is impossibly dope and how it is the best and the perfect soundtrack to summer going bye-bye. Sometimes I forget about the magic of Fagen in 1980 and then I have to keep listening to Gaucho over and over (but in a really foxy, non-creepy way).

3. The Prayer Before Making Love, composed by church group the Catholic Truth Society.

I’m still waiting to hear what Jesus thinks of this. He has not yet returned my call.

… Place within us love that truly gives, tenderness that truly unites, self-offering that tells the truth and does not deceive, forgiveness that truly receives, loving physical union that welcomes …

The new prayer “is aimed at ‘purifying intentions’ so that the act is not about selfishness or hedonism,” the Daily Mail reports.

“How bout one or the other, then? Both would be ideal, but the name of the game is compromise,” HeightFiveSeven reports.


4. The fact that eating at night will help me gain weight, even though I already knew this and I thought scientists already knew this so, really, why are we still studying this, scientists? The news is still encouraging to me, though, because everybody knows I was actually supposed to be 10 lbs thicker than I am at this exact moment in time, like the Joan Holloway of K-Town, sonnn.
Ergo, pizza and ice cream for dinner. At 11 tonight.

I already have the body geometry (thx Mom); I just need more smoking, office sex, extra pounds on my frame, and that fierce gold pen in order for the transformation to be complete. I don’t care for my hair up, though. The hair stays down.


Attention everyone in my general vicinity, I no longer want you to hear “Hey Love” or the first 15 seconds of “Electric Relaxation” in your head when you see me enter the room. From now on, I insist that it’s this one:

Muddy Waters – “She Moves Me”

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“I take her to a funeral boy, the dead jumped up to run.”

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It’s a love that lasts forever/It’s a love that has no past.

Salman’s ex-wife again, and E trying to seduce me with his Rubin-esque rabbinical beard, glasses, and lovely voice.

My preliminary research tells me that sometimes boys sing songs to girls they like, and these songs contain messages like I think you are pretty and I want to be close to you and touch and kiss you. I‘m still gathering all the data, though, so I am hesitant to make this my formal hypothesis. Full report pending.

That look you give that guy, I wanna see
Looking right at me.
If I could be that guy, instead of me,
I’d never let you down. I’d never let you down.

And then I went and posted some Marcia Griffiths girlyness,
because I am a girl and that is wonderful,
(We get to wear dresses and David Byrne sings about it; have you heard?)



and because this version is extra wonderful even though it lacks the crucial
Billy Preston keys of the original. Also, Spector really should get his own tag on this blog. I need to act right and do it already.

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