Category Archives: Everyone loves an English major

Reppin hard for that LA Chamber of Commerce (also, there is a human named Spanky DeBrest, and audio from that CoFlow show).


Goodness, my dear, of course apartment 680 is still the finest place in Los Angeles to spend time – the Rawkus and Stax stacks, the many Wax Po issues that you may hold and look at after you’ve washed your hands (please), the infamous big blue couch, an afghan made by my grandma’s own two hands (hi Bill!), a bag of cherries from Vons. 680’s been able to maintain its relevance in a time of newly-opened bookstores downtown and sunny days that make the sidewalk sparkle, ready for me to walk down it in a sundress while the “Hyperbolicsylablahblah” instro plays in my head. You simply must stop by apartment 680 during a trip to my city, Los Angeles, as it is the best place in town second-best place in town after the Battle Station recreation a lovely place to visit, third-best place in town once you’ve been to the recreated Battle Station and this fantastic new bookstore at 4th and Spring with 1000-ft. high ceilings and some sort of dead animal’s head on the wall.

Everybody knows you have to be stompin if you’re born and raised in Compton, Big Sean keeps claiming West LA, of course you got the Fairfax contingency, there’s scary stuff in some places but you ain’t gotta worry if you stayin north of Wilshire, and half my almost-famous rap ex-boyfriends have falsely claimed Nickerson Gardens, but let’s not forget downtown, a noisy paradise, tribute to masonry – it’s tall and cool and well-built, much like myself. And The Last Bookstore is there. They didn’t have the Robb Report, but I made it through, and nothing I bought was more than $4! Lovely! Then I wrote a post about it in which I listed the books I bought in order of how excited I am to read them.

7. Alice McDermott, Charming Billy. Our protagonist Billy was charming, of course – but the back cover tells me he was also a guy from Queens who loved poems and had a bit of a drinking problem, which is a slam-dunk in terms of getting me to take my dress off (sorry, Mom).

Would this book’s title make a good mixtape name? Yes indeed! This is obviously what Danze was talking about when he started dropping hints a few months ago.

6. Alice Munro, Hateship, Courtship, Friendship, Loveship, Marriage. You can’t really go wrong with Alice’s stuff, and I liked The Love of a Good Woman. Short story collections are my weakness, as are stories set to music and told by masked, monotoned big-boned gentlemen from New York.


His face contained for me all possibilities of fierceness and sweetness, pride and submissiveness, violence, self-containment. I never saw more in it than I had when I saw it first, because I saw everything then. The whole thing in him that I was going to love, and never catch or explain.

— Munro, speaking for me when asked to describe my feelings about Daniel Dumile. Thanks, mama.
Would this book’s title make a good mixtape name? No, it would not; it’s too long and a bit of a mouthful – and that, coincidentally, is what she said.

5. TIE:

Jonathan Lethem, Motherless Brooklyn. While its title is the same as that Ghosty/ODB buddy-cop soundtrack album that nobody ever heard (Rifkind shelved it in ’94), I would have bought this book anyway because Lethem seems to be a good dude who would probably forgive my shameless posting of pics from the bathing suit gallery. Motherless Brooklyn also won something called the “Gold Dagger” award for crime fiction, thereby making it the book with the most tangential Wu associations currently in my collection. (Gold Dagger is that Rae mixtape from ’03). And Lethem’s first book was called Gun, with Occasional Music, a name that is just begging to become a mixtape title.

Edward P. Jones, The Known World. If I paid better attention to Zinn I’d probably have known that there were days when free black men owned slaves. But who has time to read some wacky liberal’s version of history. Who has the tiiiiime. I am a busy lady. Those bathing suits and records aren’t gonna buy themselves, you know. I’m curious to see whether this one’s any good, because at first glance it seems like it must be pretty bad, just a terrrrrrible concept for a story – like, oh goodness, I don’t know, Tarantino’s latest move of cinema stuntery, making a feature about slavery? Just off the dome, you know, that’s what hit me: QT’s future film, the apex to be reached in the realm of bad ideas. However, Jones’ book has gotten great reviews and it does sound like an interesting tale (former slaveowner leaves his human “property” to his widow; it is unclear whether she will free them; narrative tension ensues). It’s been called “a sprawling story built around a morally bankrupt social institution,” which is not about the music industry but about slavery (that’s the same thing!, Prince would argue, because he’s turned into somebody old and cranky).

4. James Agee and Walker Evans, Let Us Now Praise Famous Men. That title would fit in nicely at the top of this blog, directly under the header, to prepare my readers for the massive amounts of MC groin-area-riding that I do so lovingly in my posts. The phrase is from the Bible, a fact I was unaware of due to being raised by heathens in a southern California weed den. (I loved this upbringing, but that doesn’t mean I can’t be a tiny bit wistful for my non-childhood of going to church and hearing all those fantastical tales and beautiful phrases in the Bible).

This one was an instant purchase once I held it and turned a few pages, because the book’s just nice looking, beautifully laid out – a mix of straight narrative form with some poetry and photos, which is what happens when you get a professional photographer (Evans) and writer with an unfair level of skill (Agee – poet, film critic, journalist, etc.) to collaborate. These 2 wrote about poor white people before Yelawolf made it the hot new thing; it’s a classic and I’ve never read it, so I’ll read it now because it’s the morally appropriate thing to do. Also I am vain and don’t want to appear foolish; if someone asks me if I’ve read it but I have to say no, I’ll be embarrassed, like what happened with Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance until I finally cracked it open at age 16. “The test of the machine is the satisfaction it gives you,” Pirsig informs us – the machine, of course, being your motorcycle, your earthly human body, your old Rawkus records, or any number of breaks you have in your collection. “There isn’t any other test. If the machine produces tranquility it’s right. If it disturbs you it’s wrong until either the machine or your mind is changed.” Amen, brother.

Would or would not be a good mixtape name? Would! It sounds like a ’90s-rap-music-homage mix that someone would do, then email me about to try to get me to post it. Let Us Now Praise Famous Men, hosted by JuJu and Craig Mack. Valiant effort, sirs, but the only ’90s-homage mix I will ever recognize is that time 9th Wonder was at the Do-Over. It was perfect. I’m writing this from my spaceship that orbits Saturn. Earth had nothing more to offer me after I heard his set. 

3. James Campbell, Talking at the Gates: A Life of James Baldwin. Chosen because James Baldwin managed to be dignified, all the time, goddammit, despite living in a country with hostility toward gayness and blackness, and despite having to listen to contemporary Norman Mailer yammer on about the coolness of blackness (and generally thinking about coolness way too much to ever be cool). I salute you, James Baldwin: professional dignified person, excellent writer, and, most importantly, ideological road-paver for Lil B.


Talking at the Gates would be a good mixtape title, though only in the right hands (Monch, Scarface, Banner); Chris Brown would try to get away with it as a theme tape (songs about his relationship with Jesus; “the gates” being those of Heaven) and then I would be forced to hire someone to assassinate him for being such a bratty, pretentious moron. It would be the morally appropriate thing to do.

2. Q: The Autobiography of Quincy Jones. At #2 because I’m told Mr. Jones had some type of career as a music producer, and I enjoy reading about such men. He also had a fondness for, shall we say, ladies of a certain… look. Tupac hated that, but I happen to think it’s pretty OK since I have this particular look! I win! Oh – except that being a blonde-haired nubile female beginning a romance with Quincy with the hope that he will treasure you even as you age and your body becomes less than stunning is some pretty fierce delusion. He makes babies at a rate only rivaled by Rod Stewart, or maybe Shawn Kemp? Or no, wait – Cromartie? But you can’t fault Peggy Lipton or Nastassja Kinski or ______ (blonde nubile female, take your pick) for wanting to be near the dude, or at least I can’t; like Chappelle said when they asked him to justify his claim that Michael Jackson was innocent of any crime: “He made Thriller. HE MADE THRILLER.” Who doesn’t want to sit at the kitchen table and eat eggs and toast with such a human, even if you know there’s heartache coming up when you are inevitably replaced by the next lady in his life?

1! Graham Marsh and Glyn Callingham, The Cover Art of Blue Note Records. Nothing in it is as stunning as the image on that new Adrian Younge album, but still! It’s Blue Note covers! Of course it’s #1 on the list. Random page I flipped to that happened to seal the deal: Dexter Gordon, Our Man in Paris. I mean, c’mon. How could I pass it by. “You’re coming home with me, darling baby,” I said to the book, clutching it to my (very attractive) bosom.

Another Hit It and Quit It jazz edition just feels right to listen to after a bookstore adventure. It’s just really beautiful, plus I learned about the existence of one Spanky DeBrest. Baddest name in all of jazz-cat-ery.

Part 1.

Part 2.

Joe Tex – “Buying a Book.”

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COMPANY FREAKING FLOW. Ten steps Eight steps ONE STEP to Perfection. (that step is clicking the link, silly). I believe a certain concertgoer put it best on the evening of July 16, 2011 A.D.:

The Last Bookstore
453 S. Spring St.
Los Angeles, CA 90013
(213) 488-0599

Pros: Good books; cheap books; AC; it’s about 2 miles from apt. 680; staff leave you alone when you’re walking and browsing; “You Are the Sunshine of My Life” started to play on their sound system right when I walked in. This really happened.
Cons: None. It’s heaven.





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Wait a motherfucking minute, true facts presented.


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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.

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).

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5 great things about today, besides the fact that “Soldier” will be in my head all day in honor of our nation’s veterans.

Bandana tied, so mami join my troop/ Now every time she hear my name, she salute.” SIGH. Understated, ’05-’06 Wayne was the greatest of all the Waynes.

Better be street if he lookin at me. Yep. Every good girl wants this. And somehow the fact that the line is sung over a Rich Harrison beat makes it 100 times more true. Unfortunately, if he is street he’s probably not looking at me (I think it’s my librarian/schoolteacher aura). It’s more like “If he’s married he’s looking at me” and “If he wants to see me without my top off but doesn’t want to talk about the production finery on Two Sevens Clash, he’s definitely looking at me.” On the other hand, I sometimes like it when boys disregard my brain and talk to me all bossy (“Roll somethin/you ain’t here just to be a bad bitch”*) so I am totally asking for this frustration and trouble. Can’t have it both ways, Logan.


1. Lagerfeld’s living room, as shot by Todd Selby. Kanye’s got his own Beautiful Dark Twisted Fantasy, and I’ve got mine, and here it is. Porn for an English major.

Karl’s a hideous bitch of a man and doesn’t like to touch or make out with girls, but oh goddd. The books. The couch, 5 miles long. I would offer increasingly degrading sexual favors to be able to lounge there.

2. Cee-Lo on Colbert, “Fox News.”


(“Didn’t see one politician that wasn’t corrupt
On the Fox News
And I got the blues
The poor get poorer, the rich get richer
Ain’t that some shit
I’m having pains in my chest because I’m so stressed
From the Fox News”)


3. Touchy-feely NBA teams are more likely to win. Touchy-feely NBA teams who are currently 8-0 and who show up in Curren$y verses are guaranteed to win.

Goose died tryin to fly a jet, word to Maverick/Doobie passes like Magic, lit the Forum up/’80s status*. LAKER RAPS.

* Wiz & Curren$y (but you can skip Wiz’s verse, and ignore the fact that the beat is that stupid Toto song), “Huey Newton.” Everybody in the room know/Rabies flow, dog, trill, Cujo.

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4. Racial comedy! Harmless, and always hilarious.

“African-American Community Calls For New Black Nerd Archetype”

Hollywood Blasted For Failure To Portray Modern Dorks Of Color.


5. Afro Soul Descarga mix, via Sofrito UK.

Polyrhythmic percussion, Beatles covers, and ass shaking (TRACK #2–Sir Victor Uwaifo).

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This machine kills fascists and 11 other language moments that are important.

Wilson Pickett, my favorite Alabaman (it’ll make sense when you scroll down), with guitarist.

1. Woody Guthrie is the original Rakim in my heart, and today would’ve been his 98th birthday.


Since the foundation of male attractiveness is established for a girl during her childhood, Woody’s a big part of why I like boys who amplify their voices and pour their respective hearts out over beats. The rhymes from the microphone soloist Mr. Guthrie were revered in my household. So, yes, Woody was like Rakim to the little-girl version of me, only in my heart Woody’s mixed in a little with my dad for some nice Electra complex sprinkled on top. Years later, me listening to lots and lots of The Coup can be directly traced back to lines like You won’t never see an outlaw/Drive a family from their home.

2. “Every sin is the result of a collaboration.” – Stephen Crane

Rick Rawss and Gordon Gekko both know that greed is good and both of them think they’re doper than they actually are and neither of them will ever have the pleasure of seeing what color my undergarments are. I like Gordon better, though, because he doesn’t clog up my RSS feed with a new rap collaboration every 12 hours. Noted overweight Floridian Rick does, though. And I know it’s because he’s got good shit on a lot of dudes, since otherwise what the fuck is happening here. This Maybach Music takeover cannot be explained any other way.

I’m familiar with the concept of blackmail, which is different from extortion in that extortion involves the added distress of a crime being committed against you, and also one time Havoc said Extortion is the key I got the key for extortion. Havoc never wrote a rap about plain old blackmail, a bad thing that you can do to somebody which is slightly less sinister than extortion because it just involves psychological distress, like when a big fat MC with a weak voice gets superb talent to appear on his album or else he will reveal their secrets. Enter, sinful collaborations.

Jay did a song with RAWWWWSSSSS called “Free Mason,” which, in a super bitchy move, doesn’t even mention Behold a Pale Horse. The only redeeming part of it really is Jay’s line “I’m on my third 6 but a devil I’m not.” (Har, Sean.) Then Curren$y and Wiz did a song with him. Then Rae did. Then Erykah Badu agreed to direct a video for him. Then I opened up my eyes real wide and took a look around at this strange new world, like Alice in that Tom Petty video. I pray it’s all just a bad dream.

The Ross domination has been going on since right around “B.M.F.” started getting played on the radio. I have many problems with “B.M.F.,” the most obvious one being that it’s by a rapper who can’t rap but there’s also the fact that nothing in that chorus rhymes (Hoover/hallelujah, God/start) and that nobody actually says whippin’ work and anyway what does that even mean? Must be a regional thing, Florida and Alabama and such. Styles P also stipulates (as most of ’em have over the years in coke raps, so it’s not necessarily him I can blame) that there are 36 o’s in a kilogram. This is untrue, and he’s therefore training a whole bunch of suburban 16-year-olds through repeat listenings how to weigh it out sloppily. It’s just over 35 ounces (35 and a third). So your customer who buys in bulk is getting almost 20 grams for free and that’s just bad business practice, daddy. Sixteen ounces to a pound, twenty more to a ki. Nope. Unless you’re Mos Def. Then it just adds up, for some reason.

3. Paul Wall just made an awful song called “Live It” in which he holds a gun to Rae’s head and forces him to join in lyrically (blackmail tactics boosted from Ross, no doubt). It is a song I will not be linking to at this time due to the fact that I have good taste in music and cannot allow my stock to plummet. The only reason it gets a mention here is that Paul name checks Nickatina! “People in Texas have heard of Nickatina?” went the response in apt. 15. “I thought that was a regional thing.” The conclusion is either that Paul reads the Slap message boards or he used to get loose at Embarcadero and I just never knew. The 14-year-old in me is mad that he likes something only I’m allowed to like. If Mac Dre starts showing up in verses we’re going to need to have a little chat.

4. To Kill a Mockingbird turns 50 this week. I love smart dudes in glasses who know something about the legal system and who hold back a little emotionally. Sooooo basically, Atticus Finch, get at me.

(Introducing my newest tag, Fantasy Mixtape Titles. First up: Just One Kind of Folks, hosted by some great combo like, I don’t know, Wolfman Jack and Mister Cee. Also, Scarlett Jo in some of the skits in between, because I love her speaking voice.)

It was hard to choose just one string of words to pull from the text. I always liked this one, though: “She seemed glad to see me when I appeared in the kitchen, and by watching her I began to think there was some skill involved in being a girl.” You goddamn right, Jean Louise Finch. Every time I start to bitch about something, like if I have to go somewhere I don’t want to or if I want to go somewhere but I can’t get there, I try to remind myself I’m lucky not to be an 11-year-old girl during the Depression in Maycomb, Alabama, with a pretty great father but a father who has a deep kind of melancholy due to being a widower. That usually clears it right up, the bitching.

Wilson Pickett – “Mini Skirt Minnie.” That voice and those HUH!s come courtesy of Prattville, Alabama.

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“You got all the men chasin after you, baby/you got the women cryin and carryin on,” AKA Logan goes to Trader Joe’s.

5. We are the ever-living ghost of what once was.

Cee-Lo covering Band of Horses is somehow able to supersede an unnecessarily glitchy beat and a tired old video concept (boring thin white people freaking out) mostly just by using his vocal chords, as they can do no wrong. I’d like this song in my record collection, please, even though I’d never listen to it because of the pain exacted in my heart region as a result of its lyrical content. I still can’t listen to side A of Cease to Begin unless I’m being cuddled and I’m confident in that moment that the cuddling will only stop when I want it to. Otherwise, I get pangs in my soft girly heart and I start to worry that the moment will end. I’ve only listened to this version below once and yeah I got misty a little and that’s about all I can take, as there is currently no one present to cuddle me.

Anyway, Cee-Lo’s voice is going into the Smithsonian someday for being a thing of impossible note-hitting smoky high-pitched beauty.

Rae, Capone, Sean P. (I stepped out of the hug so I could take the pic)

6. CNN are back in a not-so-big way, based on everything I’ve heard from The War Report 2. How sad, since Queens is otherwise doing so undeniably well these days! “With Me” is the best example of the album’s dreariness, as it features a plodding beat that makes me want to take a nap, and a corny feel-good chorus by Nas that is so highly feel-good that I believe Em was offered it for Recovery but turned it down because it was too saccharine. Capone slightly redeems the song with his line Frequently I like to Buck shot(s) like Evil Dee, because “frequently” is terribly underused in songs, because everything Black Moon related is valuable, and because ME TOO, CAPONE! I like to buck shots too, you dreamy son of a gun.

Let the record reflect that “T.O.N.Y.” is a shining, perfect example of a sing-along, feel-good chorus. Me and you/You got beef? I got beef. Solidarity, you guys! I don’t have beef with anyone, really, and even I sing along with that part. (I also love the old-timey use of “jakes” for “police officers.” It feels so ‘20s, like I just bobbed my hair and I’m giddy ’cause I just got the right to vote even though I have breasts)

7. Grease is, in fact, the word, as well as the time, the place, and the motion.

It is also the title of a joyful, bouncy song that a kind man on FM radio was playing during my extended time on the 101 the other day. The rule in determining whether a song is quality is that you picture Stevie Wonder either having composed it or singing it, and then you listen to it through that filter. Just ignore everything else. “Grease,” with that bassline, the way it’s structured melodically, that moment around 2:30 when the horns pass the baton to the drums, surely passes this test. I know it, ’cause I tried it, and wouldn’t you know, I solved my problems and I saw the light. I went home and I looked up its history, and I found out that Barry Gibb wrote it (and “Islands in the Stream” too!). And then, ’cause it was Saturday, I went to the roller rink.

8. “Madre mia.” – my newest paramour Sara, below, after her boyfriend Iker Casillas, the captain and goalie of the Spanish soccer team who has a classy Basque first name, cries and is overcome with emotion and kisses her. I keep watching this and automatically taking my dress off in a quick and obedient manner, a pure Pavlovian example of “Ladies like to be grabbed and kissed in a sudden and surprising way.” Genuine emotion has been getting ladies out of their clothes ever since I can remember and it’s not going anywhere. Live it, be it, achieve it.

9. Aubrey Graham won’t leave me be. We’re just two lost souls swimmin in a fish bowl, year after year. The latest in the story of us is that he showed up in one of my lady mags with no warning. (“Warning,” by the way, is a song by slain rapper Biggie Smalls that Drake hadn’t heard until last week since it was made in olden times, before ’06. Drake’s good now, though; Wayne played it for him and he thought it was uhmayyyyzing, so authentic, the way Biggie nailed in the narrative all that talk of clips and Rolexes)

It happened yesterday, in Elle mag (do not judge me, please), in my hands, on the couch in apt. 15. I read this quote from Drake, in response to being asked which rappers influence him:

“intelligent, clean-cut, nonviolent, non-drug-oriented (MCs).” (!! !!!!)

THIS GUYYYYYY. Groan, cringe, groan, groan, CRINGE. When you give the same answer to a question about rap music that Bill O’Reilly and the nation’s grandmothers would give, you are performing at a sub-par level and you should stop it. He is an awful person. Drake is just so awful. I mean it. I wish bad things would happen to him. My mother would say Logan! That’s not very nice because she’s a real sweetheart, but she would also say There are far too many kids around today getting record deals because they are good-looking, know the right people, and do not challenge the dominant paradigm. And then my buddy Steve P. Morrissey would add Sing your life/Any fool can think of words that rhyme, which kind of sums up that record deal thing that my mom was just talking about. And then Affion Crockett would show up and give me exactly what I need.

10. Curren$y n’ Devin the Dude!, “Chilled Coughee.” It’s Devin the Dude; obviously this was going to show up on here. I don’t need to explain the hows and whys to you. Last week I did a post that was a link to a video taken on a cell phone of him reading the phone book. But for today, just this:

GPS loaded with the coordinates
of this bitch crib to receive love and nourishment

In the form of joints rolled, drinks poured
Her in nothin but a robe, playin her role.

Aw, that’s all that men really want, isn’t it? It just hit me. Love and nourishment, and a girl to greet you at the door, clad in nothing but a robe. Even Rawss wants that, I bet. Even Rawss.

I know, right? You just look at this and right away you think “boning.”

11. Christina Hendricks discusses boning in the LA Times magazine; I feel good and validated inside now because like any foxy lady, I, of course, am well-versed in boning.

As a woman, I have to say the retro underwear on Mad Men actresses looks like utter torture. Am I wrong?

No, you’re not wrong…(Those) undergarments really aren’t made for relaxing.
(If) I have to wait a few hours for my next scene, I have to learn how to position myself, otherwise the boning presses into my guts.

As shown in the uncomfortable bodice of my dress above (that’s boning, you guys; it keeps everything in place up top) there’s work involved in being a girl. The narrator of To Kill a Mockingbird taught me that. And boning jokes are classic, hilarious since since oh-nine.

12. “Wrong guy.”

– A-Rod, when asked for his opinion on whether
the 2011 MLB All-Star Game
should be moved from Arizona.

Presenting A-Rod, my new Least Favorite Dominican (sorry, Juelz!).

“Rod,” by the way, is short for “Rodriguez.” And still, he has no opinion on xenophobic, illegal policies that affect people who look just like him. And so it was said, so it shall be done: 2010’s Most Superior Bitch Move, decided and awarded, swiftly and officially, to Alex, based on the 2-word snippet above. The year’s only halfway through, and he had to go up against LeBron’s self-fellating TV hour, and still–A-Rod came out on top! That’s some real skill.

Seu Jorge – “Queen Bitch.” My heart’s in the basement/My weekend’s at an all-time low, Bowie said. This song’s about A-Rod, you see. ‘Cause it’s about a bitch.

mp3.

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