Category Archives: I hate so you don’t have to

WTT: the The Car Test

Ha. This jerk.

I like to think I’m made of fairy dust, hips, pure love and 808, but in fact I am human. I’m only human. The jerk above and his friend made a record, and on it they flash and stunt, and cry a little, and overall they try to grip hard to that thing they’re losing, that Scorsesian ability to make jerks seem appealing. Watch the Throne is a ghost that has nothing to do with my life, like those awful Transformers movies – no real storyline, just a bunch of explosions and cars and slow, panning shots of ladies’ asses. But I’m only human. So I had to give this thing a listen. Here, then, is a song-by-song breakdown of exactly how long it’ll take me to jump out of your car when you put Watch the Throne on the Kenwood with me in the passenger seat:


1. “No Church in the Wild”63 seconds; I wanna hear an internal-struggle song about being torn between hedonism and a more meaningful life, I’ll listen to “Cadillac on 22s,” thankyouuuuu.

“You’re gonna put Frank Ocean on a song, and you waste that voice of his on this drivel?” I say out loud to you in my naggy voice (you’re a stand-in for the true object of my frustration, 88-Keys, who is no doubt the man behind the boards here. 2011 Kanye lacks the restraint required to make such an understated piece of music – 2003 Kanye had that restraint, but wishing for his return is not going to make it so.)

“What’s a mob to a king?,” Frank sings, “What’s a king to a God? What’s a God to a non-believer who don’t believe in anything?” Knock it off, Frank. Nobody cares. More importantly, I ask you, what’s a goon to a goblin??  I can only tolerate about 1 full minute of this, but still, it’s got some pluses: a) the presence of Frank’s voice, underused as it is, and b) an interesting beat. I can’t tell if I like it or not but goddammit I keep listening to it and that’s gotta mean something, right? Ooh and pitch it up and that BPM would make “That’s All” the perfect song to mix into it when you have your next BBQ. 

2. “Lift Off”22 seconds.

Oh hi Beyonce, glad you could join us. You’re beautiful but boring, a spinning, perfect ballerina inside a jewelry box. And oh my, what’s this? Looks like you brought some ascending, triumphant synth stabs with you! Nice. J and K are trying to appeal to the “persons with breasts” demographic with this one, I see. Except that J and K should stop insulting my intelligence and just call the song “Pandering to the Ladies (The Lady Song).” I mean, really; let’s just lay it all out on the table, gentlemen. I can hear this thing playing at Forever 21 already. (Rap they don’t play at Forever 21: Curren$y, Wacko n’ Skip, Keith Thornton, Terrence Thornton. Just like God intended.)

3. “N—s in Paris”42 seconds.

Margiela, hot bitches, Derrick Rose’s crotch getting some love (verbally – not in any other way. Goodness gracious.): this song sounds like the daily goings-on in apartment 680! That’s not enough to hold me, however. Aw damn. Once I hear the full hook, which is pretty great even though it has Michael Bay explosions and I’m already tired of hearing Aziz Ansari’s future rap song based on the phrase that shit cray, I open up the door and I’m gone, gone like the wind…if the wind wore jeans that are too tight and if the wind cared wayyyyy too much about jerks who make rap music.

4. “Otis”half a second. (no link; IT DOESN’T DESERVE A GODDAMN LINK)

“HOW BOUT WE JUST LISTEN TO THE ACTUAL ‘TRY A LITTLE TENDERNESS,’” I yell when I hear the opening strains of track 4. You had to know this was coming; I’ve been bitching about this song for a week now! And since I don’t know when to quit, I just keep going. HERE’S TODAY’S NEWSPAPER HEADLINE FOR THAT ASS: LOS ANGELES WOMAN GETS MIGRAINE UPON LEARNING OF CHICAGO MAN TAKING CREDIT FOR PRODUCING A SONG WHEN REALLY HE JUST ADDED FUZZINESS AND A DRUM TRACK OVER A CLASSIC. Then I feel bad; you kind of like this song – it is chopped-up very nicely, I’ll give you that – and I just yelled at you about it. I put my face in my hands. Yelling’s not normally my thing; I don’t know what came over me. I am truly sorry. You’re still reeling, though, so then I try to sing a funny little song or tell a joke to lighten the mood. If you’re still annoyed, which you probably won’t be because I’m adorable, and have you seen my hips?, I’ll put my hand on your hand – trying a little tenderness, if you will – as a sign of apology. The actual “Try a Little Tenderness” is playing at this point, since I always get what I want. Then we make out, and things get especially hot during the drums at 2:34! Yay.

5. “Gotta Have It” – initially, 12 seconds. Then I let it warm up, and boy am I glad, because if I had gone with my first instinct I would’ve missed the very, verrrrry Pharrellian spare-change-jingling-in-your-pocket breakdown just before the 2-minute mark.

The Whatchu need, WhatWhatchu need draws me in, and the Takeumonhome about halfway through convinces me to ride this thing out (thank you for keeping the James Brown fires burning, Mr. Williams!) Unfortunately, I’ll probably still pout all the way through because when you said you were putting on a song about needing to have it, I thought I was going to hear THISSSSS:

Even more unfortunately, once the thing comes to an end I return to my senses and remember that if I wanna hear some JB all chopped up, goddammit it’s gonna be one J.  Yancey who gives it to me.

6. “New Day”4:39. That’s the whole thing! (I like it; I want it to go on and on).

Nina Simone saying Breeze driftin on by, echoed coos, plus Robert Diggs, plus a narrative theme that cleanses me, kind of un-does all that gross consumerism I feel since I acted on impulse and bought that Alexander Wang bag. This song is wonderful, pretty, heavily-bottomed (ROBERT DIGGS; I just told you). “And if the day comes I only see him on the weekend,” J says about his pretend-son, “I just pray we was in love on the night that we conceived him.” Aw Shawn. It makes me get a little teary-eyed, probably because I have a mean case of melody-specific autism and because of my still-vulnerable emotional state after catching some very intense feelings over Mike Mills’ Beginners when I saw it Sunday.





7. “That’s My Bitch”3:22 [just because I’m curious to see if what every ex-boyfriend says about me is true (that I really do like every song with the word bitch in the title)].

Q-Tip’s drums doing an impression of Pharrell n’ Chad’s drums in ’01 sounds nice, and then the drums from “Apache” come in and they always sound nice. But even though the best advice I can always give myself about anything in any situation at any time is DON’T OVER-THINK IT, LOGAN, I always fail in doing so. Track 7 is no exception to this. J on non-white feminine beauty: “Picasso was alive he woulda made her/That’s right….Mona Lisa can’t fade her/I mean Marilyn Monroe, she’s quite nice/But why all the pretty icons always all white?” Oh J, I’m so glad you asked – it’s probably because of Madison Avenue, our special American kind of racism that has a mutually beneficial relationship with our special way of  commodifying women’s bodies within a free-market culture that convinces us to buy things we don’t need, and because your friend K raps constantly about pretty white icons as if they are the standard of beauty. (Beautiful ladies of color name-checked by Kanye in “Christian Dior Denim Flow”: 8. Beautiful ladies with my skin tone: 12. The defense rests, your honor.)

8. “Welcome to the Jungle”A solid 2 and a half minutes. Get ’em, Swizz!

That GODDAMMIT right after J’s verse will stay in my head for the foreseeable future. I like that. Your shoes are still are ugly, though.

9. “Who Gon Stop Me”4 minutes; almost the whole thing, because it’s produced by the “Man Down” guy and because the rhyme patterns keep changing and I want to hear what comes next.

Alas, it’s too slow and it’s got tense buildups and shuddery breakdowns for no reason, rhyme patterns that change for no reason, and that thing J does where he just makes labored breathing sounds into the microphone every third line is really on display here and I hate it. UH-HUH. UHH. AH. The one thing I’ll probably always remember about these 4 minutes in your car, though?  “Heard Yeezy was racist, well, I guess that’s on one basis: I only like green faces.” Cute.



10. “Murder to Excellence” – 2 minutes, 4 seconds. Too preachy, but people like it when kids sing on hooks, including me, so I let it play and play. And at 01:48 it sounds like the  “Make Me Wanna Holler” intro, so that’s nice.

11. “Made in America”17 seconds. Just enough time for me to realize the drums are never coming in, not ever. (I get hyped when I hear a drum roll. And I get un-hyped when I hear yet another song in 2011 that sounds like a video game.)

I’m reading a Spector bio and I’m pissed at this song as if it were an actual person. “Nailing the whole edifice to the ground like metal tent spikes in a storm were the drums,” says page 113, “A clean, hard backbeat was the cement in the Wall of Sound.” Riding in your car, I hear this drum-less demonstration in lameness that Kanye made on his SK-1 during the commercial break on a rerun of The Office last Thursday night, and I can’t stomach any conversation about the weather, the movies, the NBA lockout. I am that disheartened. I wanna hear some tinny melodic prettiness, I’ll put on something “Sleng Teng”-related. I wanna hear some drums that’ll give me a brain aneurysm, I’ll bypass J n’ K and go straight to Vietnam Sadler. (This one also includes Frank crooning “Sweet Father Joseph, Sweet Jesus/We made it in America/Sweet Baby Jesus, oh sweet baby Jesus.” I swear to Christ, and sweet baby Jesus, even, that I will never forgive Frank for this. Sold your soul for a paycheck, buddy.)



12. “Why I Love You” – UGH. A third of a second? A half-second? And can someone please tell me if it’s humanly possible to un-hear a song?

Brought to you by the good people at Red Bull and Edge Shaving Gel, when I hear this I feel like leaping off a mountaintop on my snowboard while Sal Masakela provides commentary over the slow-mo footage. When I hear this I do not, however, want to walk down the street, dance next to a parked car while someone films the whole thing, ride in a car at 12 MPH, take my dress off to lounge on the couch, take my dress off to make a baby, vote, punch someone in the face, sob, fly a kite, hug my mom, gun down Radames, take the stage at Magic City, or write a paper about Chomsky (things all good rap songs songs should make me want to do).

13. “ Boringest Illest MF Alive”zzzzzZZZZZZZ. Oh I’m sorry; I didn’t realize there was music coming from your speakers. Dullsville.

Obviously I love K’s “You in line behind Curren$y/Yeah you after money,” FUCK YES A CURREN$Y REFERENCE, but in the end, it’s not enough to save me from naptime when you put this song on. Anyway, if I wanna hear some female vocal operatical theatricals, I’ll listen to Xzibit’s “Paparazzi” (which, I must acknowledge, I first heard on an old 411 video shown to me by Jackson; thank you, little brother!). Cut it off; put on Jet Files or Jackie Moore or let’s see if Art Laboe is on. I’m feeling lucky, like maybe he’ll play some Flamingos.

14. “H.A.M.” skipped. In apt. 680 it’s called “J.K.W.C. (Japanese Kids Watching Cartoons)” because this stuttery thing gives me a seizure. On the other hand, it makes me feel like I just jumped into Tron and that’s pretty fresh.

15. “Primetime”exactly 2 minutes; no longer.

I don’t care what none of yall say; I still love em (“em” = Kanye’s HAHs). And out of respect for No ID, who produced it, I had to give it at least 2 minutes. But just 2 minutes. This was also the rule for my 808s and Heartbreak listening session, remember?

16. “The Joy”NO. 

This is the way the album ends; not with a bang but with a whimper. At this point in the evening, I’m outside your car, walking with my heels in my hand, and you’re driving next to me at 2 MPH, asking what the fuck my problem is. I wasn’t raised to have screaming fights in public, so I keep it classy. “For my thoughts on ‘The Joy,’ please refer to my dissertation on ‘Otis,’” I snap. Then I raise my fists to the night sky and yell PETER PHILLIPS OF MOUNT VERNON, NEW YORK, you oughta be ashamed of yourself. I gave this song 7 seconds, some precious moments of my life that I’ll never get back. I should’ve spent those seconds scrolling through your iPod to find the original that was copied and pasted all sloppy-like into this piece of hot garbage.

Anyway, through it all, I laughed; I cried; I learned to experience freedom through the power of purchasing luxury goods. But other than “Gotta Have It” and “New Day,” I wish I had just stayed in and listened to the Three Tough Guys soundtrack (while wearing my TAF Jorge Ben shirt and NAF bathing suit and LUAF sandals. 

(New As Fuck; Lace-Up As Fuck)

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“Bitch I’m ten toes in it” – Gibbs, in a song about, um, my toes?
HA, j/k. It’s about Isaac (“The Coldest”).

“Hung Up on My Baby.” SO MUCH MORE than just the moment at 00:29.

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THIS GUY: whatshisface in that Eli Porter doc.

Making fun of people in general and making fun of rappers specifically is a special talent given to me by God. And for balance, being a nice person is a part of my character cultivated in me by my mom since birth. I’m deferring to my upbringing in the case of People’s Champion – the story of sophomore Eli Porter, famous for being terrible in the ruthless rap freestyle arena known as “Chamblee High’s 4th-period broadcasting class back in ’03.” Obviously the young man has some deficits (physical definitely, cognitive probably), and you’re a jerk if you make fun of him. C’mon, my mom says. Act right. Most inadequate MCs are fair game for pointing and laughing at, especially Canadian ones who make odd hand motions and talk like they’re from Shreveport when they’re really from Canada. Eli, a teenage rapper who walks in a labored fashion because of an impairment he was born with, is not fair game. So that’s that. Glad we settled this as a family.

Watch for yourself, but please be advised: it’s impossible to get a handle on the tone of this short film. Is it a heartwarming tale of mic wielding? Is it a critique of our insatiable need to embarrass each other? I’ve watched it twice, and I have a master’s degree, and I still don’t know. I’m also annoyed that a thing called People’s Champion isn’t about Paul Wall. But most of all I’m annoyed that, while everyone’s discussing how the Internet giveth and the Internet taketh away when it comes to fame-based self-esteem, and discussing at what IQ level is it acceptable to make fun of a dude, I’m here in the cut (apt. 680) wondering why nobody’s discussing the 2 most discussion-worthy things about this film: a) Eli’s plastic spiral key-ring bracelet thingy (replicas of which Supreme will start selling next week for $42),

and b) the fact that one of the main players in this saga explains that the area in between white girls’ legs is used as some sort of heterosexuality trophy, a proving ground for a dude’s ability to exercise his masculine seduction powers. 


“Let me just go ahead and tell you guys: Marv-O fucked every white girl that he wanted to at Chamblee High School.” – Will, disputing claims that host Marv-O is gay just because a little touching and feeling between himself and battle judge J-Dub (male friends who have affection for one another, what you got a problem with that?) was caught on tape (at 07:35). Will’s not completely to blame for the comment – his purple RL with its sloppy collar and that huge bottle of Bud Light had this weird influence on his brain, making him feel invincible, like he could say such a thing on film without a blogging lady in LA catching it and calling him on it. Marv didn’t get every girl he wanted to naked; he got every pale-skinned one he wanted naked – a feat that gets Marv more points in the competition. And what does this say about white ladies and the value of their soft lady areas? What does it say about the value of non-white-ladies’ soft lady areas? I know what it says, and I do not like it. Will didn’t invent this value system, and I guess I could even argue he did me a favor by being so blunt about it, reminding me that some men still think this way. But still – it came from Will’s brain/mouth, so it’s Will who is the face of disgusting ideas about white-female-body privilege and notions of feminine beauty and value. Will’s comment is begging to be bandied and bickered about between us. He’s today’s THIS GUY.

(There is also an appearance by noted cultural critic Cornel West ANDY FUCKING MILONAKIS, tapped to put on his serious face and share his thoughts. He’s included in the doc strictly to make me throw my hands toward the heavens out of anger/disbelief and shout the F word. I do, however, approve of the copious Georgia accents throughout, the unstoppable freshness of the name Eli Porter, the appearances by my boyfriends Rafi and Dal, and the group-shaming due to Envy’s freestyle not really being a freestyle. I mean, show me the Blackberry, and then I’ll know it’s off the dome.)
Cee-Lo – “I’ll Be Around.” Because I needed something from the great state of Georgia, and obviously this one is so, so def even though it’s not So So Def. And please keep an eye out for How Could I Possibly Be Inconspicuous When My Flow is Fucking Ridiculous – my next mixtape, dropping fall 2003.

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Persons whom Rawss inaccurately believes himself to be.

other than the glaringly obvious “Rick Ross,” of course.

Everybody pads their resume in real life, so of course everybody’s going to pad their resume in rapdom. Wake up, sweetheart. But Ice Cube talking about things going bang bang or Akon describing moving packaged things across international lines to satisfy Americans’ insatiable appetite for narcotics is one thing; stubbornly believing your own myth is another. Rawss is hard-headed, and his outlandish-and-not-ever-based-in-reality brags are a constant part of pop music performance these days. It’s like my generation’s James Brown splits or the Townshend windmill.

1. The fuckin’ boss. Convertible Burt.

(“Hustlin”)

“I touch work like I’m Convertible Burt,” your man says, “I got distribution so I’m convertin’ the work.” Sounds good, except NO. He’s got a spinning wheel of coke kingpins (cokepins?) in his living room, and he writes entire songs around whichever name the arrow happens to fall on. He also made a funny song about being Big Meech and Larry Hoover, remember? Oh goodness, I laaaaughed and laughed when I heard such a wacky proclamation. Rawss has absolutely no dealings with rubber bands or work of any kind, let me assure you. I’m more of a Pyrex scholar than he is. He carries weight, yes, but that just means he’s walking from room to room in his house! HEY-O.

2. a G. Your Machiavelli, with a murder hit.

(“I’m a G”)

Um, Pac is our Machiavelli. But even that is a stupid boast – we get sentimental in retrospect, but everybody hated that weak Makaveli stuff when he came out with it. Rawss can’t win with me, though, because if he had said “I’m your Pac from the 2Pacalypse Now era, remember how good ‘Trapped’ was?,” I would have had an angry fit, outraged that he could compare himself to such a talented and foxy man.

3. “We Boys N the Hood, and n—a you lil’ Tré.”

(“Deeper Than Rap”)

Hmm. Analysis time. As I recall, Tre had sex with Nia Long, wore some fucking fresh gear from Chess King, and then went to get a college degree at esteemed Howard University, sooooo: Rick you should probably keep walkin down the street scratching that Lotto ticket ’cause Tre wins this round.

4. “Bitch I think I’m Nino. Bitch I think I’m Scarface. Bitch I’m Al Pacino.”

(“Oh Let’s Do It (remix)”)

Oh how bout we not do it, but just say we did? That saves everybody some time. Here we have Rawss bragging about being 2 characters of fiction, and 1 real-live person – an actor – whose specialty is playing characters of fiction. They say change makes you wanna hustle. I say Rawss needs to change and stop preaching to me about the rules of the hustle because he knows not of what he speaks. When it comes to the hustle, I’d go to Nino for turkey-pass-ing-out lessons, Pacino for advice on the acting hustle. Rawss would probably offer “Don’t get high off your own supply” regarding the businessman hustle, which of course he will have stolen from Robert Loggia, who was playing a character of fiction and whose words were not his own – they were written for him by Oliver Stone. I believe there is a pattern emerging here.


5. Mayor of Dade County.

(“For Da Low”)

Oh really? THE mayor of Miami-Dade County? Funny meeting you here, Carlos Gimenez! I had no idea you had a side hustle as a big fat rapper with an identity problem! Must be nice to have so much free time on your hands, but I’d like to remind you that he people of Miami elected you to get down to business. Now get the fuck to work on your promises to make public transportation more reliable and fix the financial woes at Jackson Health System. I mean it, mister.

6. “With the her-ion , n—a I’m Lebron/Quarter millie for my car, and thats on the Qu’ran.”

(“Finals”)

Lebron? The basketball player with no personality and the crazy mom?

You can’t possibly be referring to the dude who came up short in the “finals” and is currently “without a ring,” can you? Nice comparison, genius.

I, on the other hand, am a fierce combination of championship winners Dirk Nowitski (blond), Bill Laimbeer (prominent elbows; I’m too skinny), and Oscar Robertson (’cause I’m known for “scoring” both inside and outside; OH HI THERE, BOYS). Also Raquel Welch in 1971 if you stand 200 yards away and squint really hard.

7. “Bitch I’m MC Hammer, I’m about cream/I got 30 cars, whole lot of dancers/I take them everywhere/I’m MC Hammer.”

(“MC Hammer”)

In addition to being completely charisma-free and a terrible lyricist, Rawss is also a lazy human being who can’t take the time to read someone’s entire bio before starting to co-opt that person’s identity. MC Hammer had a bunch of money and a Saturday morning cartoon! That sounds like me! MC HAMMER BACK; UNHHH. This is like invoking the main character of the movie without watching it all the way through. Other people Rawss claims he is: JFK in October ’63 and Joe Theismann during the first quarter of that Monday Night game.

8. Albert Anastasia. Michael Corleone. Sole supplier for cocaine in southern states.

(“The Transporter”)

My mom could write a pretty passable verse about Albert Anastasia and Corleone, since, like Rick, she loves those A&E shows about organized crime. She doesn’t try to do it, though, because she has the good sense to know that she doesn’t have the skill for rhyming. Manners, that’s what that is.

Mike Corleone shows up on Rick’s “Bricks” too. I guess this is OK in the grand scheme of Rawss-ery because any Godfather mention reminds me of that baptism scene, with the priest’s voiceover in Latin. Fucking terrific filmmaking. And Sonny’s body getting laced up with bullet holes and such, remember? Aw damn. Poor Sonny.

9. Frank Lucas. Floyd Mayweather. Don King.

(“Perfectionist”)

I’ve been told that Rawss should not be the focus of my hate, and that I should instead delve into the reasons that he has a fan base. Maybe he’s just giving the people what they want, you know? Aha, but then I recall that Rawss’ success can be explained by a Mencken quote, which leaves me free to continue my crusade against him! Can’t knock the making-money hustle, but I can dang sure knock the making-terrible-music hustle. The kids today don’t know any better but this makes Rawss no less morally reprehensible. He should not be someone who gets paid for saying words into microphones; simple as that. Anyway, as a person who greatly enjoys driving and rapping along to Crack and I have a lot in common/We both come up in the 80’s and we keep that bas(s/e) pumping, I am well aware of the fun of temporarily adopting an identity other than my own for an intro-verse-verse-chorus-verse sequence. That’s just the seduction of melody, people. The song above, for example (I love it). Or like when you’re listening to pretty “Norwegian Wood” and then you realize, Hey wait a sec, this song’s about Lennon having sex with someone other than his wife.

Anyway, the Mayweather comparison is probably the least offensive thing to me here, since Floyd makes his money by 100% legal means, just like Rawss always has despite what he wants you to believe. If Rawss had compared himself to Zab Judah, though? Goddammit Zab Judah has the baddest name in all of pugilism so Rawss and I would’ve had a problem.

10. “Got the top down and I’m feelin like Steve Austin/You know the routine, rollin on, still movin a few things.”

(“Trilla,” w/Mannie Fresh)

This one’s harmless too – Rawss comparing himself to a wrestler, which means Rawss is comparing himself to a man who adopts the costume, mannerisms and language of a person selling narcotics fighting in the ring for real, but alas: it’s choreographed. There was never any real danger! It was the wizard behind the curtain the whole time, except in this case the wizard really pisses me off because he convinced Mannie Fresh to do a song with him. Unacceptable.

11. “Twitter thug, I’m the timeline strangler.”

(“Molasses,” w/Raekwon)

Rae’s one of the many who’ve disappointed me by collaborating with Rick (I’m looking at youuuu, Trick Daddy). Not much else to say here, other than: Twitter thug made the list of persons whom he inaccurately believes himself to be because a Twitter thug is not an actual thing that exists. Putting those 2 words together; that’s just gibberish. In the Four Tet remix he calls himself both a unicorn 808 and a Xanax burqa. For such crimes against English, Rawss should be allowed to work with Drake and Chris Brown, nobody else. In between stints being guest speakers at the annual Dudes Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked Conference, they hang out with each other in the yard at Twitter jail when they take thugging a little too far. Then they can get released, and, back like they never left, put out horrible mixtapes on their own social media sites and free up space on RapRadar for the good MCs (Corey Gunz, SWOON).

12. “Oh Lord, I’m a star down in St. Bart’s/The fat Tommy Lee, I made out with like 8 broads.”

(“Yacht Club”)

EW HE’S TALKING ABOUT HIS PENIS. I do like his brag circa-5th-grade brag, though (I made out with not just one girl, but several girls! I’m thinking of asking one of them to the dance!)

13. A Haitian vacationer.

(“Rich Off Cocaine”)

The only identity on this list that might actually be reality-based, I had to include it out of sheer anger. Embracing hatred gives me this nice burst of energy sometimes. Rawss’ morally repugnant display of rich-man guilt provides this for me, in a nice rhymey package. Vacation to Haiti, it nearly broke my heart/Seein’ kids starve, I thought about my Audemar/Sellin dope ain’t right, I put it on my life/Chickens put me in position to donate the rice. WHAT A FUCKING JERK, spending all that time on Twitter and remaining so disconnected with world events. Even before a recent natural disaster there, Haiti was a place of corruption and poverty – not the appropriate place for you to take a few days off, gaze at the sunset, slurp lobster juice and purchase time with sex professionals. And yet, Rawss had to go look into some skinny 5-year-old’s eyes and hear him say Ou Linèt solèy yo ovèrprisèd ak lèd, obèz nonm. tou mwen trè grangou in order for that fact to become real.

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Why be positive when you make fun of things: “This pic of Kanye and his smirk mob” edition.

(in order of ridiculousness)

I want everyone to get paid, and I want the music to be good. Otherwise, stop bothering me with PR monkey business. And um actually I do NOT HAVE TO respect your conglomerate, so stop trying to get me to do so.

G.O.O.D. is now part of Def Jam; without the foolish clothing choices above documented on film, this news would have no impact on my life. What exactly is the point of this venture, please? It appears to be a completely unnecessary partnership, since labels will be ghostville soon, very soon, probably by the end of this post, correct? Is this all just anticipatory PR for Watch the Throne, an album about which I cannot seem to care even a tiny bit? (Yes, probably). Will I ever tire of hearing about the time Russ bailed out Slick Rick? (NOPE). Will I always want to name a mixtape Rick Rubin’s Dorm Room? (I will). If a pirate had a Def Jam shirt, would I be hard on his tip? (No doubt). And which one of the gentlemen above has dressed himself in the most ridiculous fashion? (See below).

5th-most ridiculous: Barry Weiss, Chairman & CEO of Island/Def Jam, probable industry shyster. MacKaye and El-P are good guys, but a girl can’t trust anyone else who runs a label. (You know you gotta read the label. You gotta read the label. If you don’t read the label, you might get poisoned. Tommy ain’t my Boy, etc., etc.)

Jeans, button-up, blazer. Age-appropriate. There’s nothing interesting or threatening about Barry’s outfit. I mean, it’s boring, and that’s offensive, but he’s certainly not trying too hard and I can appreciate that. He was dressed by the costumer at Law & Order: SVU from the 2001 episode where the hip label executive gets murdered (in a twist, it was the mild-mannered assistant who did it! NOT the label’s star rapper with a history of petty crimes, like Benson and Stabler initially thought).

Chance that I would sleep with him based on his appearance in this photo: 1%. Barry and I don’t have any of the same records and he wouldn’t get my jokes. Plus he seems a little tightly wound. Barry’s the type to have weird fetishes, but not because he really enjoys them; it’s that he’s dead inside and he’s trying to use AB/DL to fill up the emptiness where feelings used to be. I am not the one to be used as a weekend sex pet for an older, pasty man with relationship baggage. Go home to your wife, Barry.

4. K. West, musical person, overall annoyance, attention-seeker. Good at his job but boring as fuck (see also: Kobe, Tiger, Dan Patrick, Beyonce, my mechanic).

Chance that I would let him see me naked based on his appearance in this photo: 6%. He’s pouting; it’s his signature face move and it does not make me want to take my clothes off. His priorities are fucked up; he spent more time selecting that jacket – Balmain? Comme des Garcons? – than he did selecting quality rappers for his label (please see #3, below). He’s a little too meticulous with the instructions he gives his barber; though I like that the hairdo is tight & right, the goatee is just a romance killer. And he would not care to see me naked, anyway. Kanye’s not gay or straight; he is truly so disinterested in anyone other than himself that he’s sexless. Asexual I guess is the better term. The Morrissey of bitchy insecure rap – whatever that is in one word, that’s what Kanye is. Still, I give him 6% rather than 0% because it would be cool to talk shop with him for a few minutes, maybe – the production stylings of Norman Whitfield, where is Teddy Riley, that sort of thing. Also, Kanye could really kind of do it to your ear canal back in the day, remember? When he first came out with his solo stuff? I listened to “Through the Wire” yesterday which was like self-punishment because I know it’s only going to make me whine for 2004 Kanye. And that is, in fact, exactly what happened.

3. Big Sean, G.O.O.D. signee, boring rapper who won’t be around next year, and person whose name appears to be misleading. Big Sean, he calls hisself. Kanye’s about 5’8″ (“Height can be anywhere from 5’4 – 5’9″ is part of his casting decree for ladies in his videos; he doesn’t want to look diminutive, ha), Swizz looks maybe 6’2″? 6’3”? Nice try with the moniker, Sean. Is this the kind of thing where really big guys get the nickname “Tiny”? And no, I haven’t overlooked the belt, jacket, pinky ring, or Morris Day facial expression/hand pose combo. It’s just that they speak for themselves. Analysis is unnecessary. (I tend to overdo it in posts, so I’m trying to calm down a little. This is me, evolving.)

Chance that I would eat a meal or get coffee with him based on his appearance in this photo: Initially? 14%. If he had worn that Red Wings hat like in the “My Last” video, because I love fans who actually wear the home team’s gear? 18%.

Unfortunately, I cannot un-see this photo. Final odds, then? 0%.

2. Swizz Beatz, producer with some type of confusing Reebok affiliation that I can’t get a handle on.

After winning the “most Zs in the game” contest back in ’98, deciding to sport a bun/tiny braid combo, then marrying a famous lady for some promo, Swizzy has of late begun dressing like a Diamond store customer circa ’07. This is still how most of the rad dudes in LA dress, making it impossible for me to respect them as people (even though they are rad). Some of them mix it up, throw in some tube socks or a nice button-up, but overall the simple beauty of a T and jeans combo has been foresaken by the gentlemen of this metropolis. Also hardly anybody can drive stick anymore; can you believe that? I will surely die celibate, my hips going to waste, clutching my precious records for warmth as I sit on my couch. ANYWAY, I know what you’re thinking: that hat! But it’s actually a plus for me. I did not care for the bobble-head look of 2002-2008 (this might’ve been a regional thing, however – not sure if other cities saw this trend). Swizzy’s ill-fitting Reebok snapback of 2011 that reminds a girl of the ill-fitting head pieces of rap ghosts? SO TITE. It’s also obviously a Len Bias tribute (super tight). But that shirt. EGAD. It’s the shirt that shoots him to the top of the list. Presented without further commentary: FASHION ART MUSIC. (JESUS IS MY HOMEBOY was in the laundry pile)

Chance that I would make eye contact with him across a crowded room based on his appearance in this photo: 7%. He’s married and chose to wear a shirt that says FASHION ART MUSIC by his own free will, but he has nice strong facial features. He’s got an interesting look. And you have heard Civic bangers “Get It On the Floor” and “Drink N My 2 Step,” have you not? Hell, for such achievements, Swizz gets a nice round 10%.

1. Kid Cooties, annoyance, recreational coke user who wants us to believe he’s one step away from John Belushing his career and has tried to fold this into his overall identity as an artist to detract from the fact that he is so, so dull. Also, like all these little boys today running around with the name “Cody,” time is not going to be kind to grown-ups who have “Kid” as part of their MC name.

Chance I would slZERO FUCKING PERCENT. The jeans are fine; nothing wrong with a pair of jeans. Classic, understated. But the blazer over the t-shirt is stupid; either wear a suit or keep your kit casual. Commit one way or another, please. The Stones t-shirt is boring, and oh and look, it’s the return of the fucking blond Jesus piece; if either of these items are worn in earnest, they are unacceptable. There is nothing acceptable about the notion that a pale-skinned Jesus actually existed, except for the fact that X-Clan and PRT made some good songs in response. And the only acceptable parts of the Rolling Stones are the Marianne Faithfull days (and the name Marianne Faithfull), Anita Pallenberg’s unstoppable white-girl steezyness, the Gram Parsons stuff, Peter Tosh in that video, Full Metal Jacket‘s closing credits, and the first 40 seconds of “Can’t You Hear Me Knocking.” Even if both of Cudi’s items are worn with ironic intentions they are unacceptable, as it is a fact that irony died in ’08. And oh lord, Cudi’s hat in the picture. I believe the god Mingus wrote a song suggesting that this trend die.

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Don’t start nothing, it won’t be nothing/You wanna start something, it’s gon be somethin (Scrappin: variations on a theme).

Mac Premo, Number Two, He Doesn’t Have the Pants, 2008,
mixed-media assemblage with animation, 19 ½” x 18 ½” x 9 ½”

1. A photo of Mr. Premo’s work was in the Paris Review I was reading last night in apt. 680, in between taking tasteful erotic photographs of myself to send to Lil B, baking a pie, and peeking out of my blinds to see when Lil B’s going to come walking up the stairs to my door. It’s the spring 2011 edition, and Édouard Levé’s piece is great. It’s really really good, you guys (“I do not consider myself handsome just because a woman thinks so. I prefer desire to pleasure. My death will change nothing”) and not just because it’s titled, beautifully, When I Look at a Strawberry, I Think of a Tongue.

Even though the only (visual) art worth my time is Kruger’s stuff and Baldessari and oh Pettibone I suppose and THAT FUCKING RAMMELLZEE ROOM AT MOCA (an experience from which I still have not recovered), I like Mac Premo’s work, and I like the fact that “Mac Premo” sounds like the name of the producer of Jeru’s next album (he’s Premier’s cousin).

2. Hindi is how you say “NO” in Tagalog. Now we all know what to scream at our televisions during Pacquiao’s walk to the ring while accompanied by a corrections officer.

The fuck/whyyyyyy/NO/hindi.



If I were in charge, things would be different; Rawss would not exist of course, but let’s say I was feeling generous and allowed him both to continue living and to escort a boxer into the ring prior to a huge televised match. I would insist that Rawss escort the other guy–not Pacquiao. Ricky Rose Hey should definitely be walking next to “Sugar” Shane just based on pure similiarity, as they have both co-opted the names of historically successful individuals in order to enhance their own myths/reputations. This is a lazy, sorry move, the kind that bitchy dudes make. Boxing is so lame, I’ve addressed that fact and provided supporting evidence on this blog before – unless we’re talking about the boxer Zab Judah, which is a really fucking dope name for a human.

3. Does anyone recognize that sweatsuited side-leg?


No? What if I said “Renegades, Escalades, all fly ladies in shades/Get the best of me, bless me on stage”? IT’S RAE! IT’S RAE AND HE’S IN MY TOWN ON THIS NIGHT.


If I were going to the show and could somehow get backstage without using sex, I would look him square in the face and say, First of all: nice warm-ups on that promo flyer. They weren’t Champion, but still. Very nice.

Then I’d get down to business. Hey, remember when you or one of your colleagues blacked-out Budden’s eye socket? I blogged about it like crazy that week, as did everyone else with a computer and an opinion! I was so happy it happened! Thank you! I heard Joe said you asked for an apology, and he obliged – “only because he was outnumbered”! What a fuckin dummy! Why’d you have to make up with him, though? There’s not enough beef in 2011 rap. And how did you and Randy Spelling meet?*


* Rae’s working with Randy Spelling, a thing that has been added to 2011’s Mysteries List. “How did Rae link with Spelling’s kid” is now in there, right at the top, along with “Why does everyone like The Weeknd,” “Who keeps downloading Rawss’ shit and making him successful,” and “How come the first sip of iced coffee is always the best.”

Rae also has a rapper in his stable named “Polite,” a person from whom I am telling you right now I will never buy or download product.

4. “Tattoo Artist Who Owns Mike Tyson’s Face Sues The Hangover Studio for Copyright Infringement” (Gawker). Click the link and you’ll find a story about some loser who has trademarked the sorta-ethnic-but-not-sure-which-part-of-Samoa-it’s-from “tribal” design on Tyson’s face. That loser is suing the losers who made The Hangover, an unfunny major-studio production that everyone loved because everyone’s an idiot.

Tribal anything on your flesh is ridiculous; I come from a coastal city in Southern California so I am a certified expert in this matter. (I also know about chain wallets, putting huge tires on your white Chevy truck, and yelling at your girlfriend in public). But in a post about pugilism you know Tyson’s gonna show up so I had to include this story. These days everyone loves soft, repentant Mike – playing with his birds, taking his kids to the park. Dullsville Mike, in other words. The Mike who gets glorified in apt. 680 is the Mike who said, “I don’t try to intimidate anybody before a fight. That’s nonsense. I intimidate people by hitting them.” Mike Tyson, Brooklyn-bred unsubtle face-hitter ALL DAY.

5. Yes yes of course the Lakers need to come stronger in this next series, I don’t wanna talk about it but yes they really need to perform as more of a cohesive unit, 110%, fewer mistakes, hard in the paint, Pau needs to show up, lalalalaaaa yeah yeah. I don’t want to talk about Nowitski or Butler or Terry. I don’t wanna discuss what we are going to do about my Moscato addiction, or when I will stop stripping and settle down, etc. I just want to talk about how great Chappelle’s Show reruns are, always coming on at just the right time. I was still pouty this week because every skinny white girl in the world except me was doing some bikini-clad cooking in Lil B’s audience in the desert a little while ago but they were doing it wrong, 94% of white girls do it wrong. Then good ol’ Comedy Central comes through in the clutch, showing some TV perfection from 2004.

Random Tribute: DMX’s jabs and left hook between 1:11 and 1:18. DMX was terrific in his prime and I loved him; people think I’m kidding when I say that because how could I like DMX, that’s crazy!, since I like little girls in glasses and I’m polite and soft-spoken, but I’m not kidding. That voice, dragged through gravel! That cadence! I’m not-a. nice. person/I mean, I’d smack the shit out you twice dog, and that’s before I start cursin. (I also really like the name Spider Loc and people think I’m kidding about that too. Um, I’m not kidding. They all think it’s a game. They think it’s a fuckinnnn gaaaaame.) To put the performance below in context and remind you of the levels of perfection: this ep also had Negrodamus, the Niggar Family, and WacArnold’s. Fucking perfection, I said.

Directly-related additional Random Tributes: 1. that “UH OH” just erupting outta DMX when “What’s My Name” starts. The smile, the genuine excitement. So sweet. 2. Swizz Beatz in ’98/9 and ’03/4: the party-starter. Those beats/z he crafted made me want to be a boy and throw a punch, kinda; I settled for car-dancing ferociously whenever somebody put It’s Dark and Hell is Hot in the car’s CD changer. Grand Champ was, um, grand when it emanated from the stereos of Japanese compacts as well. GITITONTHEFLOOR, git it git it on the floor! Who didn’t want to get it on the floor when DMX yelled it over those drums? Alas, he has softened with age, which is typical of producers. It’s 2011 and things aren’t the same. Now he’s got the terrible beats of an old and feeble man, and let’s not forget the Shep Fairey tattoo. OH SWIZZY.

Judgement Day – “Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out (Training Song).”

mp3.

DMX – “What’s My Name.” What y’all really wannnnnnt, what y’all really wannnnnt, etc.

mp3.

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D. Fish’s Isaac Hayes beard disappoints. USC. Rap underperformers. Drake’s stranglehold on the hearts of journalists. Goo.

That beard, my favorite beard on a human this side of Frederick Jay Rubin, could not out-play Shrek and Donkey. Sigh. That’s not how we practiced it, gentlemen. And now I’m going crazy, I’m sitting alone in my 4-cornered room, starin at candles. My mother’s always stressin I ain’t livin right. It’s fuckin messed up, you guys, this mind of mine.

Isaac Hayes – “Hung Up On My Baby.” (my baby = the Lakeshowww)

mp3.

(It was either this or Sam & Dave’s “Hold On, I’m Comin,” produced by Mr. Hayes but I would have failed you if I did not mention the sexual fervor that is Steve Cropper’s guitar, which you really should listen to like it’s the first time and take in that title, that chorus, like the promise that it is. Sweet Jesus, what a song. Makes my heart skip a beat, I tell you.)

Presenting, for one night only, in all its glory – Thank you, Barry Switzer: the story of a girl, her blog, and a pasty old football coach turned TV analyst who stood up for a scrappy LA team.

Everybody hates the popular/beautiful girl, even if she’s really nice. They dislike her success. Nobody could be blessed that much. No fair. Let’s be mean to her. Haters to the left, and then form an orderly line out the door and around the block. Such is the tale of the football squadron at the mighty University of Southern California, clearly the only school in NCAA history to have the thick, murky waters of cashmoney sin lapping up on the shores of pure and true academia/rah-rah sportsmanship. For shame, Mike Garrett and Pete Carroll! Reggie Bush was allowed to drive a car and live in a house?

OH WAIT. That’s only what we’re supposed to believe. I’m far from a Reggie Bush fan (he’s got a bitchy and Napoleonic air), but the shoulders of Reggie Bush are currently being burdened with blame and it’s not fair. If you see something, say something, right? Barry Switzer notes that Reggie Bush getting cars and cash is the norm rather than the anomaly, it’s been that way for years, and it’ll just keep happening when you have 19-year-olds padded up on TV, making cash registers sing for athletic departments across the land. Switzer’s comments are my most recent addition to the long, long list of things that people should just say out loud and stop omitting. Feel the power of truth. Rihanna’s voice is not good. Glen Davis’ eyes are too close together. Fucked-up Eminem was better than the sober version. Stop the charade already.

I have no reason to like Barry Switzer, since I’m ambivalent about the Sooners and I wish the Cowboys nothing but malice and a fiery end off a tall cliff, but credit has to be given here because it’s due. He is exactly right here. Agents and Escalades aren’t the problem but a symptom of a larger problem/issue and I wouldn’t even really call that issue a problem. The kids in uniforms play for free and they yield millions of dollars for their schools, millions of merch units sold, millions of viewers on TV, and make working-class girls like me want to go to those schools and walk in their halls. Although there are Division I coaches with better names (1. Izzo; 2. Stoops), Switzer’s on-point distillation of this issue renders him Today’s Winner. Nice one, Switzy.

O’Jays – “For the Love of Money.” Lookie, it’s a pun! Orenthal’s name! I RULE.

mp3.
Gamble plus Huff plus bass plus wah-wah. Pretend it’s your first time hearing this; demand the DJ put this on when you come into the club, and I’ll see you from across the room and swear you’re Nino Brown. I mean, the resemblance is really uncanny.


Things I wish were better, rap-wise:

Minaj—love her and the way she p-pushes it real good, and the ludicrous amount of fun she seems to be having on the microphone is only rivaled by Chris Bridges, but I thought she was above the “Look At My Ass” hustle (which is a hustle I strongly wish I had thought of, as it is highly successful). The debate of why we hold the “Look at my ass; I’m classy” girl (Beyonce, Rihanna) and the “Look at my ass because it’s Warholian” girl in higher regard than girls like Nicki shall be deferred at this time.

Why is everyone acting like those Big Boi songs are good? (These ones). They’re too busy, the beats are too crowded, the choruses are dumb. More Organized Noize, please. More playin tennis with Don Cornelius, please. We playin on the moon, bitch. PACE.
“General Patton” and “Shutterbugg” aside, I demand better. His record’s still .500 at this point. I swear, sometimes I think you guys only like stuff because your friends do.

Q-Tip is annoying me steadily. The 16-year-old me deep inside is pouting.

CNN’s “Let’s Get Money.” Let’s leave the throwaway tracks thrown away, Nore, mi querido. It’s called manners.

That J.Cole, not fantastic. It’s called “Higher” and while I admire its aspiration, it does not take me there. I mean, that title is simply not a reality. Are all biracial MCs on some sort of wackness kick? (please see next bullet point, below)

I know way too many Drake songs right now/That I didn’t know last year. I blame bloggers, the entire province of Ontario, and Jimmy Iovine. Drake is only useful as a plot device (heroine vs. antagonist whom she hates and would never sleep with, but what’s this? Sometimes she finds herself humming that pretty part in his hit song “Find Your Love” [the third find your heart in the chorus, with the key change], though this has less to do with Drake than it does with the production power of melodic princes No ID and K. West).

Caramanica’s piece about him was wonderful, of course, but did not succeed in what I believe was an attempt to make Drake a sympathetic character in the saga that is Pop Music. There’s talk of his emo mastery, of course, except that I’d like to mention that everyone signed to Rhymesayers is superior in this regard. His alleged handsomeness is cited, of course, but he just can’t compete with T.I., the true beauty queen of popular rap (those perfect white teeth!). The most memorable things I took away from the article are that Drake’s worldview is that Girls Are Mean (Rihanna) and he once leased a Phantom and parked it in front of the damn house even though his mom couldn’t pay the bills. OMG, you can’t handle it. The realness. It’s too real for you. There’s some foolishness of youth that we’ve all gone through, yes, but that’s just offensive. He sure was gauche for a rich kid.

And ha!, look at this, the end of this salacious story (last few lines)! Even Drake’s fans are the worst, lamest kind of criminals–Van Der Sloot, failed pro poker player and alleged girl-killer, loves Drizzy’s rhymes, his realness. Everybody knows having your music incite the killing of a Texas state trooper is true hiphop. I’m getting tired of spelling it out for you every time.

Goo is 20 this month, and Kim and Kim’s husband and Lee and Steve are still ten times more hiphop than everybody except Scott-Heron, Crazy Legs, the melodic backbone that holds up “Trans-Europe Express,” and Rick Rubin’s NYU dorm room. I don’t have any cool older cousins who introduced me to this record. I had to learn the shit all on my own. (I’m kind of bitter, but hey. It built character. Made me the woman I am today. Etc.)

“Dirty Boots.” I left this one out of my Best Opening Track rant of twentyten.

mp3.

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“Everything you did has already been done” – Lauryn, ’98.

This fucking song. This fucking guy.

Everyone knows I like to dance to the pop jams (“Gangsta Luv,” hello!; “My Chick Bad”–especially that part about milk–HELLOOOO). And everyone knows I miss OutKast. We all do. I know it hurts, I know. (Ssshhh. There, there.) But the widespread blog fellatio for this B.o.B.! All I see is a cute 3 Stacks cadence impression, a Chappelle face impression*, and a mean ability to pick a good chorus that distracts us from paying attention to the words coming out of the mouth during verses. He was great in ’08 so I’m not sure what happened, but if you’re not outraged you’re not paying attention.

*

1. “It’s hard being a professional rapper.” (That’s what he says between choruses, above). “My days are pressure-filled.” I know dude, and that’s why I didn’t become a rapper.

2. The only MC who can pull off complaining about money, industry pressure, sex with models, and identity crises is the fantastic Christopher Wallace.

3. That chorus is fun, obviously. I sing along with it in the car. There’s no fun anywhere else in the song, however, even though fun is supposed to be a key element in pop music. Ergo, my vitriol toward this slice of pop music.

4. OH SHIT, Devin & Andre already did this song and it’s called “What a Job.” How soon we forget.

“It’s hard being a professional rapper,” the skillful and engaging version:

PS, I still need an apology for that “Baby you the whole package/plus you pay your taxes” line. As a lady, I find dumb rhymes insulting. A handwritten note would be nice, and maybe some flowers.

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At the 40/40 club, ESPN on the screen.

NY lovehate.


1. “Jay-Z is my favorite MC.” – Rakim.

He added, “Well, except for ‘Forever Young.’ That song’s bullshit.


Which it is! Fuckin A, Kanye. Stop making bad things happen. Sloppy production work, my dear. Sloppy sloppy. And lazy. Very lazy.

(And yes, the song is awful drivel, but the video of Jay and his lovely wife dueting at Coachella made me teary-eyed. Of course. I mean, Jesus Christ, I’m not some kind of monster).

Hot damn though: being able to buy your mom whatever she wants? Moving units while maintaining the respect of nerdy ladybloggers? And now this, THE GOD Rakim proclaiming his affection for you to the world? Must be nice. Must be real nice. Jay-Z owns the universe and everything in it. He’s our new Oprah.


2. KRS still a crabby old guy, still needs a hobby.

He’s decided to boycott the newly-opened National Museum of Hip Hop located in the Bronx, citing Afrika Bambaataa’s claim that the event is “illegitimate.” [HipHopDX]

I can endorse this.

1. Any translation of hip hop into a museum display is impossible unless Bill Adler is the curator or all the Ego Trip boys do a version of it in my living room.

2. Like KRS, Afrika Bambaataa is my spiritual advisor. I obey him. If he says something is bad and wrong, I steer clear.

3. As the founder of a 1-woman crusade against Drake that has so far been unsuccessful in its attempt to prevent kids from downloading his music, I have sympathy for KRS as he puts out press releases about hip hop history as if people care. Also, KRS can be cranky, is always yelling about how elders must be respected, and he thinks old music is better than new music. KRS and I are twins.


3. I dislike the Yanquis more than you could possibly understand, I mean it’s a real fiery hot passion, but this story warmed my ice-cold heart. Like, the Yankees are Cindy Lou-Who and I’m the Grinch, maybe?

On Thursday, April 15, every MLB player wore #42 in honor of Jackie Robinson, who broke baseball’s color barrier on that date in 1947.

The Yankees were host to the Angels. Second baseman Robinson Cano was named in honor of Robinson. (That’s Rodriguez, Jeter, and Cano above.) He hit 2 home runs during the game, which the Yankees won. And before the game, Cano presented a bouquet of flowers to Rachel Robinson, Jackie’s widow, whose family was honored in ceremonies that day. 44,7-hundred-or-so persons were in attendance. It was 71 degrees outside. New babies were made. I got a puppy. Glenn Beck was in a tragic larynx-damaging accident resulting in his voice being rendered completely silent forever. Etc, etc.

We don’t want no problems, B! Crooklyn Dodgers for musical accompaniment, of course, because what else was I gonna post if not Masta Ace and his nasally voice? I know you wanna enter but I can’t let you in/My mind state’s the maddest; I’m gone with the wind.

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Tons of fun and brainwashed slime.

“California Bill Would Create Annual Ronald Reagan Day.” [Huffington Post]

Crack vials and junk bonds for everybody!

Thank you, face of Shawn, for wordlessly and accurately expressing my feelings about this. I’m frantically trying to reach Jello Biafra and Chuck D for comment.

You know the hammers’ll lose your cabbage, them dudes do damage/Send Zulu Nation through Reaganomics, we move them package. Love Mef and Styles P and the beat below; hate hatehatehate Fat Joe so much that even if I adopt an ironic stance I still can’t fool myself into not hating him. Similarly, LOVE Reaganomically produced hip-hop and punk fucking rock; haaaaate the fact that Reagan had to exist in order to make them so.

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Guiltlust. “Electro Wars.” Tastes like fruit when you hit it/gotta have bread to get it.


1. When you feel sucker-ish and manipulated by buying into mainstream cultural notions of what physical beauty is, even though you know logically that it’s all tied to capitalism and convincing women they should be happy with their second-class citizenship, but you still can’t help but think Amanda Seyfried looks superfoxy in Esquire: that, my friends, is what we refer to as guiltlust.

Lee Fields – “Ladies”

mp3.


See also:

Beyonce, who gets more inhumanly physically attractive with each passing minute, even with those bangs, yellow eyeliner, and a ridiculous cowboy hat while doing nothing to subvert the dominant paradigm and making Sony Music Entertainment, Inc., even more boatloads of money. But I tell you, all those Lady Gaga collabos look so good on her.


Related: feeling ashamed to find yourself attracted to a young, grizzled Phil Collins (!) when you come across a Genesis photo from the ’70s. This is proof that even if you make awful fake-prog rock with your band, and even if you’re a diminutive pasty Brit who wears a shearling coat, STYLE TRUMPS ALL. This is also proof that everything that was once fresh comes back ’round again, fashion-wise. If their pants were tighter I’d be almost positive I saw these dudes at the Cha Cha last night.


2. Electro Wars,” via my Cratekings boyfriends. It’s true, Lil Jon–Muhfuckas don’t even know what the fuck they’re talkin about.

Listen, I love synth and 808 as much as the next stunningly beautiful girlnerd music fan, but I am growing increasingly tired and frustrated with dudes who are “tired and frustrated with the hip hop scene,” whatever that is. So here we have a video collection of things that make me want to throw stuff across the room, including but not limited to: a predictable appearance by fucking Will.i.Am’s annoying ass, Pitbull’s annoying culo, a wholly inexplicable appearance by the god Premier (??!), pasty white men culture-poaching and boosting the best music Juan Atkins already made in the ’80s, and 1 of the LMFAO buffoons bragging that Kanye was unhappy when they covered “Love Lockdown.” (That’s quite a feat, you know. Kanye rarely gets upset.) Ugh.

Your attention please: I would like to hereby announce that my transformation into “grouchy old-timer at the party in the back of the room clutching her Mantronix and Kraftwerk records to her chest” is now complete.

3. Cough-wheeze-cough! HI SPIKE.

The latest in ESPN’s 30 for 30 series is Winning Time: Reggie Miller vs. the New York Knicks, premiering Sunday night at 9. In related news, please do not call me Sunday at 9 or during the 60 minutes directly following 9. Thanks.

Reggie Miller is annoying and gives off a real strong bitchy vibe. Also, he believes himself to be quite the comedian when he calls into Dan Patrick’s radio show that I listen to on the way to work; this belief is erroneous (he’s not amusing in the slightest). Dan always announces him as Reggie Aloysius Miller, though, which is funny, see, ’cause that’s Pat Ewing’s middle name.

Anyway, Reggie as a sports figure, it must be said, is pretty compelling–somewhat because of the fact that I like New York hiphop and every New York MC has mentioned the Knicks at some point in verse, but more so because of the fact that he’s mentioned in various southern-rap-odes-to-weed because Reggie Miller can be smoked, just ask 8 Ball, and also because he can be approvingly mentioned in rhyme by a New York MC, just ask Biggie (the understated “Play hard like Reggie Miller/Rapper-slash-dope dealer,” which was clearly written just ’cause Big needed something to rhyme with dealer. Oh Christopher.)

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