Category Archives: Now we sip champagne when we thirst-ayyy

I’ma die harder like my kid Bruce Willis

You wanna know why? Because I’m –
October 31, that is my date of birth/I got to the party, you know what I did? The Smurf.

King Ad Whammy, it’s the anniversary of your birth and despite the years we’ve known each other, words have yet to express my hot throbbing love for you and the way you make my heart soar up up and AWAYYY, and not only because of the way you have rendered your hegemony within the world of Nasal Caucasoid Rap or because you’re in the pocket just like Grady Tate, you’re fuel injected/rhyme connected/running things, and you got more bounce to the fucking bumpin. What’s happened is that everyone in rap-ery these days is either a lunatic, in jail, Canadian and dumb, getting punched in the face by a ’90s god, or making Jimmy Fallon way doper than he deserves. There’s only a handful of good dudes – Doom, Masta Ace, Black Milk, Guilty, Mos, and mayyybe like 3 others and they’re all on Duck Down. So I think I love/appreciate you now more than ever.

And here’s the update on my list of OG Hot Older Judaic Man Crushes: you’re still way high up there, right between your dad and Rahm Emanuel; congrats.

PS, Licensed to Ill is 23 years old tomorrow! Nov. ’86! And no, dudes at the bar aged 24-40, you and your boys still can’t make something like it just by “fuckin around in the studio with 3 Zeppelin records and some 808.”

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NYC cops still terrible, still hate gays. The W-Team. Otis Jackson, Jr. is my wonderwall.

1. AY MA. I lost my phone number. Can I have yours?”


NYPD acting extra unconstitutional (more so than normal), arresting people for cruising*” – Slate.

*cruising = not a crime

People hollering at other people in the cluuuub will not be tolerated by the NYPD, but only if those people doing the hollering happen to be dudes and the objects of their holleration attempts happen to be undercover straight male NYPD cops. Ask a cop for copulation and you might get arrested despite it being not against the law to ask a cop for a lil copulation – see, being hit on by strange men whom they wish would just walk away is a frightening and gross experience for officers of the law.

Aww, that must be just awful! Random dude at the bar saying he wants to see/touch your intimate areas in between Patron shots?! I can’t imagine,” said EVERY girl in every city at every bar, EVER. One day, perhaps I’ll grow to like law enforcement – like if they stop me from getting raped or robbed or assaulted in some way. Until then, fuck em. (I would throw in a Sorry, Mom at this point, but Mom agrees with me here)

2. “No,” I say, “NO. No no no,” in response to this, the first still from the new A-Team movie. [TotalFilm]

The A is for atrocious.

As I am the most predictable person on the Internet, I shall now go ahead and walk these dogs and represent Wu. Specifically, here’s how casting for the film would’ve gone in a perfect world.

4 members of a former commando outfit and current group of mercenaries.

Col. John “Hannibal” Smith, the group’s leader whose plans tend to be unorthodox but effective.
RZA.
Mainly because I heard Hannibal also insisted on getting 50% of all profits yielded in the Team’s various missions despite the tragic fact that there’s no I in team. So, you know, I just nailed that casting choice.

Lt. Templeton “Faceman” Peck/Face, the group’s smooth-talking con-man.
Meth. (It said
smooth-talking, did you not see it in the description?). Damn, I nailed that one too.

Capt. Murdock, the team’s pilot who has been declared insane and lives in a psych facility.
C’mon. Don’t play dumb. Stickin pins in your head like a fuckin nurse. Also, BLAOW.

Sgt. B.A. “Bad Attitude” Baracus, the team’s strong man and mechanic.
None of the Four Horsemen of the Wu above really has a bad attitude, so I’ll just say Rae on account of those shiny golden links.

3. It’s this dude’s birthday. 10/24/73. I don’t believe that anybody feels the way I do about him now. And all the roads we have to walk along are winding, and all the lights that lead us there are blinding. Sigh. There are many things that I would like to say to him, but I don’t know howww.

Jaylib feat. Talib – “Raw Shit.” I like it, I loves it, here we go.
Every time I see Drake’s dumb Canadian face I want to cry and punch something ’cause I feel like I hate him and his A&R handlers and his whole clueless persona, and songs like this are exactly why. Dear musical year twenty-oh-three: come back. Save the situation.


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Like a flashing laser and a rolling thunder.


Pete, I’m a day late (happy birthday yesterday! 10/18/44), but please note that the state of California has legalized it and the Prez is telling hating-ass baldheads to calm themselves.

Before he was co-opted by every dude named Chad and every girl named Jen in my dorm, Peter Tosh was known as being pretty fucking bad and he would smack you in the mouth. He’s the toughest, the bush doctor, like a stepping razor, he saw the sun/fucking dangerous, said fuck you Chris Columbus, got arrested with Prince Buster, and then he went and reminded us that we got to build our love/On one foundation. He was a better songwriter than Bob, but Pete would smack you in the mouth and that’s a little harder to market so he never had that global appeal for the Chads and Jens of the world. That deep voice with the beautiful tone. Really, the only thing he did that I can find fault with was that hideous Mick Jagger collab; and in a career spanning almost 30 years, it’s pretty amazing that there was just 1 misstep.

Bob was the sweet, stable one. Bob is the one my mom would’ve wanted me to bring home. He was so much gentler with his message. Unfortunately I have an immense amount of self-awareness in terms of my affection for dudes that’ll smack you in the mouth, so guess what, I know for a fact it would’ve been Peter on my front porch. SORRY MOM. He could come to pick me up for our date, walk in and meet my parents and start in on some things that Mom might find fault with – like he might talk about how homosexuality is an abomination ’cause the conquering Lion of the Tribe of Judah said so, and top it off with a rasclaat, and she’d still just trust my judgment and say My goodness Logan, that Peter is so tall and handsome! Where are you two kids going for dinner?

Sigh. What else can I do at this point but post a bunch of pictures and songs I like. I mean, honestly. If you’re not familiar with this man’s body of work you’ve got larger problems than I care to assist you with at this point.



“Brand New Second Hand,” baby, Wailers, Studio One version. Because I couldn’t find a “Burial” mp3 and I had to post something from Legalize It. I always loved this one, anyway – it’s about not whoring around, ladies.

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The 2 below are from a performance at The Record Plant in Sausalito, during the Burnin’ tour of 1973, on Halloween (!). Ryan Spaulding, you don’t know me and I don’t know you but your very kind posting of this set on the wondrous Internet is a clear sign that we should be dating exclusively or at least using each other for sex. Thank you, kind sir.

“Rastaman Chant.” Peter, Bob & Bunny harmonizing like Crosby Stills and Nash minus dreads and Chris Blackwell.
You asked for the greatest, most beautiful Selassie-tinged song to play at one’s future funeral? Well, here you go. One bright morning when man work is over/Man will fly away home. I sure hope so, guys. I want to believe you.

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“You Can’t Blame the Youth.” From back when you really couldn’t. These days, it’s pretty easy.

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Oscar. Coco. Rakim. Caterina.

1. Oscar Wilde, b. 10/16/54. Sorta the gay, Irish, non-daughter-poking Woody Allen of his day?

This suspense is terrible. I hope it will last.

It is what you read when you don’t have to that determines what you will be when you can’t help it.

If you are not too long, I will wait here for you all my life.

Women love us for our defects. If we have enough of them, they will forgive us everything, even our gigantic intellects.

Plus the Britt one.

I love a good pairing of witty men, so if you did not automatically assume I was going to do a little hop and skip from Wilde to Dumile in this post, I am afraid I’m not the person you thought I was.

Can you please pass the cocktail sauce?
You might as well know – hell is hot as hell, boss.

“Saliva.”

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2. Rakim hates biters.


Coco Chanel, on the other hand, finds that she can’t live without them.



Meanwhile, my whole awkward-Fantasy-Football-nerd-in-a-dress-or-skinny-jeans-plus-blonde-highlights stee has yet to take off among the ladies in this town. No biters as of yet. (2010, though! I just know it.)

3. Caterina Caselli does Bill Withers, to very pleasing effect. She know, she know, she know, she know, she know, she know she oughta leave the young thing alone, but it’s the allure that brings her back for more. We’ve all been there.

[Via Dante Ross, who continues to annoy yet enthrall after so many years.]

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Lenny. Jennifer. Yeezay.

1. Repost. But c’mon, it’s Lenny Bruce. And it’s his birthday. 10/13/25.

And basically I just like a dude who says fuck a lot.

I’ll die young,

but it’s like kissing God.

(Research tells me that his reported cause of death – morphine overdose – is in dispute. The truth, as my OG older-man-of-Judaic-persuasion crush Phil Spector called it, is that Lenny died from “an overdose of police”).

2.
Jennifer is a short film by a Stewart Copeland who isn’t in The Police, and they’ve been showing it on PBS to make me well up with tears and feelings of familial love.

I wasn’t really sure what to say about it, other than it makes me well up with tears and feelings of familial love, but Out 1 Film Journal uses words I never would and says it’s “beautifully rendered, quietly elegant, and subtly complex,” and that sounds about right:

Winner of Best Mini Doc at the 2009 Big Sky Documentary Festival and…part of PBS’s acclaimed POV Series, Jennifer explores director Stewart Copeland’s relationship with his mother in both actuality and memory. Using a conversation between his mother’s eighth-grade students and astronauts on the international space station, Copeland uses space as a purveyor of indescribable distance – both between the students and the astronauts, the living world and whatever else is out there, and Copeland and his mother.

Wonderfully including segments of stop-motion animation of astronauts in space, Copeland shows that, while some things cannot be seen, anyone who is looking closely can still hear, feel, and love some thing, or someone, who may not be physically present. Managing a dialectic between the audio and visual components, Jennifer plays with not only Copeland’s relationship to this personal film, but illustrates and challenges the spectator’s relationship with Copeland, the rest of the audience, and the film experience itself.

YES! Exactly!

I hate the police and I kinda hate The Police, but that doesn’t mean I can’t like some good ’80s dumb ear candy with little redeeming value: “Walking on the Moon.” Because I couldn’t find “Walking in Your Footsteps,” everybody’s favorite dinosaur-centric banger. And because every little thing I do is magic. (STILL.)

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3. The Kanye ride is far from over, but sometimes I get wistful thinking about the greatness of our early relationship.


Sept. ’03 – Warren Zevon dies, Rainier Wolfcastle is about to take over gubernatorial duties in my beloved state, and Kanye has his jaw wired shut. He’s all, They can’t stop me from rapping can they? Can they, huh? and I heard his epic sing-song-y cadence at the beginning of that second verse, and I thought No, Kanye! No, they can’t! And then the years passed, and I believed that his getting in front of the mic was just a trend…you know, a little experiment. All producers try it eventually. SIGH.

Goddammit, I love popular song. And Kanye, I’m really happy for you. Thank God you ain’t too cool for the safe belt. I will let you finish, of course, but in ’03 you had one of the best radio-appropriate rap songs of all time. Of ALL TIME.

“Through the Wire.”

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Chaka Khan – “Through the Fire.”

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Tariq & Talib love hand motions and fitteds. And they have a birthday in common.


Today’s urgent message is that it is the date of birth of 2 of the most conscious-y rappers in all of consciousness, 2 of the most all-star-ish Record Collection All-Stars in apt. 302,

Black Thought and Talib Kweli! (’72 and ‘ 75, respectively)

In celebration, free small-liberal-arts-school B.A.s in History or English (PolySci minors) and Whole Foods gift cards all around!

The Roots – “Double Trouble.” Tariq plus half of Black Star! (the wrong half, but still) and a little “Nautilus.” Yay. I always loved this one. All fly girls’ nipples and toes numb from it doesn’t sound fun but it’s somehow dope. Smurfette MCs is rather comical, too.

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Things that cheer me up, 10/01/09

Nashville, ’95. Jim Herrington photo.

Palin’s book is #1 at Amazon and Barnes & Noble and it is NOT OUT YET. I am still surprised by the stupidity of the citizens of my country even after all these years, because I’m naive and want people/times/circumstances to be better than they are. Ah well. At least I have lovely items like these to remind me that the world can still give without taking:

1. Wilco on A Prairie Home Companion this weekend! Like every Sunday evening when I was growing up, Mrs. Five Seven will be listening to it in the kitchen while making dinner, I’ll be at the kitchen table working on the crossword, and Mr. Five Seven will walk through periodically to hear what’s on the show, kiss my mom on the cheek, and tell me that the “book form that replaced the scroll,” 5 letters, is codex. It’s a lovely picture of Caucasoid familial warmth. You should stop by. My dad’ll share his weed with you (Humboldt County!), then we’ll all eat dinner and watch 60 Minutes.

Garrison Keillor luhs an English major and is determined to beat the living urban out of you. He also had a little thing called a stroke and came back to his hosting duties like an hour later. AND IT DON’T STOP.

Paste Mag:

Fans unable to catch Wilco’s midwest shows in October can catch a surprise performance Saturday, via St. Paul, Minn.’s Fitzgerald Theater and radio airwaves. Garrison Keillor’s A Prairie Home Companion broadcast marks Wilco’s second performance in a row this tour. The concert, also featuring country singer Patty Loveless, starts at 4:45 p.m. CST.

EL OH EL, application of the term “surprise” in this story. Good one, Paste writers. Surprise, I’m coming over Saturday at 2 in a surprising move!

Billy Bragg & Wilco – “Hesitating Beauty.” For your sparkling, cocky smile/I’ve walked a million miles is not at all trite when Woody Guthrie writes it. Swoon. It won’t stream, but I’m asking you to blindly trust me on this one and just grab it without listening to it first.
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2. Let’s Dance-era Bowie. Like me, he’s a fake blonde, weird and skinny, so talented it makes you want to kill yourself, and is never gonna fall for modern love. EVER. (Unless it involves Iman, of course. Bowie and I are only human, after all.)

Denis O’Regan photos.

Stevie Ray Vaughan played guitar on the record; Nile Rodgers produced it. And I, of course, was not around to see any of it go down because I was born in the wrong decade. I stuck “Modern Love” down there ’cause it has all that sing-along goodness, but as an understanding individual I realize that it might be too girly or shiny or pop-radio-friendly for you. Hey, guess what though, if you are not moved by the opening of the title track, you are no doubt a heartless individual who runs away from euphoria and has no appreciation for the arts. I suggest that you learn to love it if your dream of having intercourse with me is to be realized.
GOOD TIMES! These. Are. The. Good. Times. (PS, leave your cares behind)

“Modern Love”

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3. 10/01/45 – Donny Hathaway’s birthday. I can’t watch The Devil Wears Prada and see Anne without thinking of this man. Of course, I can’t bake cookies, fill the Civic’s gas tank, go to H&M, or brush my hair without thinking of this man either.


Everything is Everything came out in 1970, it’s the best of his albums and it’s like a warm blankie – that title track alone has powered many a pretentious “looking out the window at Los Angeles and thinking about humanity” session in apt. 302 (couldn’t find it to post below; sorry). Not discounting the fine work of Brand Nubes, but c’mon. His VOICE. That VOICE. “Someday We’ll All Be Free”? It kinda makes me believe in Jesus, even though have you met me? I’m a heathen.

The classic musicians’ 1-2 punch of mental illness plus the record industry led to his demise, but unlike a certain other talented Chicagoan, he held his troubles with a stillness and dignity that you can hear when you put his stuff on the turntable. I prefer that style of emoting from my music men. To each her own.

“The Ghetto.” Years later, Todd Shaw would throw some 808 over a fake version of it and get through an entire song without calling anyone a bitch. I swear.

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“Put Your Hand in the Hand.” When I’m feeling super Jesus-y I listen to “Spirit in the Sky” and this one…even though I’m in the process of converting for my hot older Judaic lover Rahm Emanuel.

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And there the sun burns crimson bright.

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Shel Silverstein’s birthday! 09/25/30.

His books + my childhood equals me being all grown up and majoring in English and loving/being headphone-seduced by dudes who have mastered that thing called wordplay.
TEAM SHEL FO LIFE.


Wrote “A Boy Named Sue.” And, AND, he’s from Logan Square in Chicago.

For thoughts I see hot like three meals with a cot included/Where the Sidewalk Ends and all your linear math gets diluted.
TEAM COFLOW (Rawkus era) FO LIFE.

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If I’m not back again this time tomorrow/Carry on, carry on.


Bed is the poor man’s opera, goes the Italian proverb.
And Queen is the semi-poor blogger’s opera on the Technics platter in apt. 302.
Oh, and (sorry Mom) bed too.


It’s Freddie Mercury’s birthday (’46) so of course I’m thinking about how the only significant contribution to my life that Vanilla Ice made was upsetting everybody when I was a baby hip-hop fan and introducing me to “Under Pressure.” (The
2 heathens did not have a tight Queen game while I was growing up, so I had to fend for myself when I reached record-buying age. I am now well-versed in Queen, especially
News of the World, oh my god don’t get me started. Also, listening to “Dragon Attack” is the Brit-rock version of brushing dirt off your shoulder.)


I’m spunky, I like my oatmeal lumpy, I got you stuck off the realness, I like puppies and rainbows, and I love the things that the human voice can do. But I wasn’t sure which song to pick for a Freddie post. “Bohemian Rhapsody” supersedes its association with any Mike-Myers-related cinema; that right there is the jam and you know it. John Deacon’s basslines share this quality with Bootsy Collins and Larry Graham, and that quality is that they make my head and other body parts throb from sheer greatness. And “Fat Bottomed Girls” is yet another Tecate-raiser at the bar (sorry, my Caucasian is showing) and part of the reason Queen is one of the greatest collection of musical humans ever in the history of the world and universe; who else would think to write a song about slutty girls with ass that makes all the girls at the bar want to be slutty girls with ass? GENIUS.

But I had to go with “Under Pressure,” a song about my emotions as I try to be all things to you at all times while hoping I’m good enough and pretty enough and smart enough (just jokin; I listen to Sly and the Jungle Brothers, so I know I’m perfection).

This song is so beautifully put together, highs and lows and pressure-building with sound and then releasing that pressure, so many twists and turns like a rollercoaster, probably not unlike life, but especially life as a gay man in an operatic British band in the ’70s and ’80s and being blessed with vocal gifts that make everybody want to look at you even though you’re shy. That’s what’s known as, how do you say, pressure. It is also impossible for me to believe that the studio did NOT implode from Music God Epicness during the recording of this piece. Mercury, May, Bowie. They did record it in Switzerland, though, so maybe that was because British equipment couldn’t handle it. But if it didn’t happen with “Verbal Intercourse,” I guess all other songs are safe.

Queen and David Bowie – “Under Pressure”

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I have listened to this song 816 times, and that was just this morning, so I will now tell you the parts that will make you want to hug your neighbor: “People on the streets.” “The terror of knowing what this world is about.” “Keep coming up with love but it’s so slashed and torn” (even though this is a Freddie post, OH DAVID BOWIE!, you are so skinny and brilliant and so oddly hot).
Right around 3:25, the culminating statement –

This is our last dance,

This.
is.
our.
selves.

under pressure.

And, best of all, the “Why can’t we give love, give love, give love, give love…,” fading into forever. If this does not move you, I must logically conclude that you are either a cyborg or not from Earth. What is your home planet like? And how have you survived without Queen? Or ice cream, or sunshine, or songs that Prince Paul produced?

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