Category Archives: Cold hard facts


1 – Tote bag

2 – Car keys

3 – Money & Amoeba credits

4 – Cute lil Vaseline for lips

5 – Two phones – I need to get directions and text and look up prices on Discogs and take pics, what am I supposed to do.

6 – Vlog camera, in case I start doing that

7 – Hand wipes. This is dirty, dusty business.

8, 9 – Snacks!

10 – Mirror

11 – Purse

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.

  Oh dear. It appears that you are upset due to the fact that Otis is styling on you.

I’m the old guy in the back of the party grumbling about how old things are better than new things. Have you seen my hips, though? I can get away with behaving this way.

Stax, ‘66
Dawson, GA

part of my spiritual-practice laws, like how Muslims take their shoes off before praying.

One more episode down, just two to go in season four — and the dominoes keep tumbling. Rome is burning (oh, yes, that metaphor again!) in the offices of SCDP, and everything is changing. Fast. Right, Don? “Nothing should change,” says Don. “Nothing will change.” Yeah, thanks, Don.

we’ve been going on about this pleasure-punishment trope in recaps here all season long.

Otis Redding]
You won’t be ready, no, no
No, girl they won’t forget it
Love is their home..
Squeeze her, don’t tease her
Never leave her..

Sounds so soulful don’t you agree?
I invented: swag, poppin bottles
Putting supermodels in the cab
Proof: I guess I got my swagger back
Truth: new watch alert, Hublots
Or the big face Rollie? I got two of those
Arm out the window through the city
I’mma do it slow
Cock back, snap back
See my crack through the holes

[Kanye West]
Damn Weezy and Hov
Where the hell ya been?
Talking real reckless: stuntman
I adopted these niggas, drummin them
Now I’m about to make them tuck their whole summer in
They say I’m crazy, but I’m about to go dumb again
They ain’t seen me cause I pulled up in my other Benz
Last week I was in my other OTHER Benz
Throw your diamonds up
Cause we in this bitch and up again

Photo shoot fresh
Looking like wealth
I’m bout to call the paparazzi on myself
Live form the Mercer
Run up on Yeezy the wrong way
I might murk ya
Flee in the G450 I might surface
Politically refugee asylum can be purchased
Everything’s for sale, I got 5 passports
I’m never going to jail

[Kanye West]
I made Jesus Walks, so never going to hell
Couture level flow is never going on sale
Luxury rap, the Hermes of verses
Sophisticated ignorance
Write my curses in cursive
I get it custom, you a customer
You ain’t accustomed to going through customs
You ain’t been nowhere hah?
And all the ladies in the house got them showing off
I’m done I’ll hit you up manana!

Welcome to Havana
Smoking Cubana’s with Castro and Cabanna’s
Viva Mexico, Cubano, Dominicano
All the clubs that I know
Driving Benz’s with no benefits
Not bad huh, for some immigrants?
Build your fences, we digging tunnels
Can’t you see we gettin money up under you?

Can’t you see the private jets flying over you?
Maybach bumper sticker reads:
“What would Hova do?”
Jay is chillin, Ye is chillin
What more can I say?
We killing em
Hold up before we end this campaign
As you can see we bodied the damn lames
Lord please let them accept the things they can’t change
And pray that all of their pain be champagne

Cold hard facts: Reasons the OG “Try a Little Tenderness” is superior to Kanye’s.

1. A song’s title should reflect what that song is about or at least be tangentially related to what the song is about.

Written in 1932, “Try a Little Tenderness” is about Brave New World – it’s an analysis of Huxley’s vision of a dystopian future in which government uses technology to dominate a nation’s people. And the last verse is a tribute to Babe Ruth and the Yankees sweeping the Cubs in the World Series. OH WAIT–no. It’s not. It’s about trying some tenderness. “Otis,” however, is just a bunch of Cigar Aficionado stuntin and attempts to downplay the obvious homoerotic tension between two millionaires.

It’s an instruction. “Try the following: ______.” It’s helpful.

Fucking hell, the best thing we could do for him is stop looking in his direction. RE: this blog post, obviously I need to take my own advice. Listen to some new Nickatina instead. It’s called “Shark.” It’s about him being a shark. (and when you say Somebody ask Alice Walker bout the color purple” you automatically get a nod on the blog of lady English major)

2. Al Jackson jr. ALL DAY.

What is the expression? Something about a knife and a gunfight?

This is not an argument, of course, but a statement that we all know to be true and that we need to be reminded of from time to time. Ladies and gentlemen, we are floating in space. It’s nice to be important, but it’s more important to be nice. Do unto others. And AL JACKSON JUNIORRRR.

3. To get the listener to care what happens, a story’s protagonist should be a sympathetic figure (not a jerk).

“I’ll never go to jail!” – Jay-Z, “Otis.”

Whether you’re Casey Anthony (murder, allegedly) or Jay (murdering the game, factually, ’97-’05), if you say this, you’re referring to yourself as having some privilege that the rest of us should be so fortunate to be blessed with (being white and sorta[?] cute in Casey’s case; being rich in J and K’s case). It’s a jerk thing to say. Therefore, you’re a jerk. She has her grief and care aren’t Otis’ words but he really means them. I can tell. He’s a good dude. A 6’1″ good dude with his heart leaping outta his throat. If it weren’t for his tragic lack of substance abuse problem I would’ve definitely been prepared to be his side piece, or his other side piece. Or his other other side piece. Sorry, Mom!

4. Balance. (a song should have it)

Closing a door very gently, you pull with one hand, push with the other. – James Richardson.


Wait a motherfucking minute, true facts presented.


5 facts:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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