from The Paris Review, my Sunday-afternoon laundromat boyfriend.
from The Paris Review, my Sunday-afternoon laundromat boyfriend.
“My heart, the reason I play the way I play, just everything. Just knowing about the days when I didn’t feel like I wanted to practice, having all the hard times, waking me up, going to work and just making sure I’m all right and making sure the family’s all right. Those are hard days.” What a freaking champ. I love him. I do. Unfortunately, Kanye will be bandwagoning the fuck outta Derrick in approximately 19 minutes.
The Chi-Lites – “Are You My Woman.” Because they rep Chicago with love, pride, and horns.
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”
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.)
“President-elect Barack Obama was about to walk out to take the oath of office. Backstage at the U.S. Capitol, he took one last look at his appearance in the mirror.” (Official White House photo, Pete Souza)
Obamic Accomplishments lauded in apt. 302: Economic stimuli of varying sorts, health care (pre-Massachusetts straight fucking it all up), the Nobel, tax credits to offset the cost of tuition, more health insurance for more kids. And, of course: BO! Also, the Muslim world hates us a teeny bit less these days. Yes dear, of course he could be doing better. We all could. But basically, enjoy the man’s feats thus far and stop throwing salt in my game. I’m looking at you, people who frequently email me to call me out on my “crush on the President.” Barry O is the truth!, even if it takes you a little longer than me to see it.
I am the bard and I am the last one/I am the king and this is my castle.
I’d also like to add And you can bet your ass.
. . .
Ultramagnetic MCs, minus a conspicuously absent Kool Keith, also hit the stage towards the show’s end. After giving Starks props, the hip-hop icons fired off a diss aimed Joe Budden to the surprise of everyone—seemingly Ghost, too. “Fuck Joe Budden!” yelled Ced Gee. “Tell that nigga Joe Budden come see me. I’m in Jersey City all day!”
Poppa Large was gone, gone, gone from the proceedings.
Poppa Large has already done been explored and worshiped by this web log.
Since producing Criminal Minded.
1. Halloween at the White House: Swoon/delicious/yes please/I love you, President Dreamboat/participating in Halloween is corny unless you’re the leader of the planet/sometimes I am cranky but really all I need is to be greeted by an image like this on the Yahoo! home page on Sunday morning and everything in life is better, all better:
There’s that Ed Norton documentary on HBO that I need to see*; I hear it’s all sugar and gloss and bathes the Prez in heartwarming golden light and fairy-tale charm, but that’s because dude, we totally fucking have a President who’s not a rich old white man and that right there used to only happen in fairy tales so, hey, let’s celebrate with a fluffy pro-Hope, pro-Change documentary.
Sometimes I get emails from people asking me to be more critical of Prez Dreamboat. Aw damn, see, I find that doing so would be an inappropriate use of my wit, intelligence, and comedy skills, so these critical posts of the President will probably not be happening. Haters to the left, now and forever.
I’m almost fainting re: Barry O., backstage lookin like James Brown about to take the Apollo stage in ’73 – but it’s not because of any similarities in ethnic background between the 2 of them, mind you. It’s because James was a god on the mic beloved by his followers, and the Prez is a god on the mic and beloved by his followers and because he also stays on the scene/like a sex machine. (in my head)
Also, every time I see Ed Norton I remember that Ed Norton used to do naked things with Salma Hayek. I believe they were lovers for several years. You guys, you’ve seen Ed Norton, right? This provides conclusive evidence that ladies blessed in the womanly-body department love smart leftist dudes, no matter what the dudes look like. On a related note, I’ve recently discovered that the leftist, brilliant, but rather unfortunate-looking Bill Maher has a comely ladyfriend. I am hereby officially announcing my official ladycrush on Bill Maher’s official ladyfriend.
3. Michelle Obama is a fucking G, I mean a real bona fide power hitter. She’ll take your seat at the Yankee game, Rudy Giuliani!, and then turn and smile at you with grace and decency, and you love her cashmere twinset so much, you just sigh and realize you really wanted to sit in the upper deck behind left field. The seats just to the right of the Yankees’ dugout are overrated. OH MICHELLE, you’re always right.
“I’m the New York power hitter.” – Juju.
No you’re not, Juju. Michelle is. Thanks for providing me with a half-assed excuse to post this song and relive ’01, though. 8 years later, the average cat still don’t even know his fate. Crazy.
King Ad Whammy, it’s the anniversary of your birth and despite the years we’ve known each other, words have yet to express my hot throbbing love for you and the way you make my heart soar up up and AWAYYY, and not only because of the way you have rendered your hegemony within the world of Nasal Caucasoid Rap or because you’re in the pocket just like Grady Tate, you’re fuel injected/rhyme connected/running things, and you got more bounce to the fucking bumpin. What’s happened is that everyone in rap-ery these days is either a lunatic, in jail, Canadian and dumb, getting punched in the face by a ’90s god, or making Jimmy Fallon way doper than he deserves. There’s only a handful of good dudes – Doom, Masta Ace, Black Milk, Guilty, Mos, and mayyybe like 3 others and they’re all on Duck Down. So I think I love/appreciate you now more than ever.
And here’s the update on my list of OG Hot Older Judaic Man Crushes: you’re still way high up there, right between your dad and Rahm Emanuel; congrats.
PS, Licensed to Ill is 23 years old tomorrow! Nov. ’86! And no, dudes at the bar aged 24-40, you and your boys still can’t make something like it just by “fuckin around in the studio with 3 Zeppelin records and some 808.”
“I mix business with pleasure way too much
I mean wine, and women, and song and such
I don’t get blue; I got a mean red streak
You don’t pay the band your friends and that’s weak
Get even like Steven like pulling a Rambo
Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego.
Steal from the rich and I’m out robbing banks
Give to the poor and I always give thanks
Because I’ve got more stories than J.D.’s got Salinger
I hold the title and you are the challenger
I’ve got money like Charles Dickens
I got the girlies in the Coupe like the Colonel’s got the chickens
Always go out dapper like Harry S. Truman
I’m madder than Mad’s Alfred E. Newman.”
My boyfriends Barnes & Noble and I have a lovely relationship in which I visit them and use their stuff and they don’t ask me for anything in return (not even to take my top off!; I’m pretty sure they’re gay). So I go to their place and read things for free without buying them – lady magazines that try to teach me how to hide my hips with the magic of clothing, only I do the opposite of what the mags say because why would I want to hide the source of all my power in life? That would be foolish. I always get Harper’s and Mother Jones and The Nation too, so that my brain does not stop working from too much dumb overload from the content of lady magazines. Urb is OK; I’ll read it if I have to, but ever since Ray Roker stopped being so hands-on my heart’s just not in it. And just today, my eyeballs got assaulted by Kid Cudi on the cover. He was making a funny, sort of squinty face and doing a hand gesture that he couldn’t even think up on his own (it’s called “The DeBeers,” and it was appropriated from Shawn Carter and/or Diamond Dallas Page).
The related feature inside is about all of the retail stores he worked at while pursuing a music career, with associated pictures (Amer Apparel, Dean & DeLuca, BAPE). It’s a cute idea but its one tragic flaw is that it stars Kid Cudi. It has been therefore been filed under “Nobody Cares” in my life. (In the upcoming issue that I edit, we’ll find out where Pete Rock, Brian Eno, Hi-Tek, and Brian Wilson worked in their youth; it will win awards).
The issue gets saved by that picture of ?uestlove above (there’s a feature on the photographer who snapped it). My day has been excellent ever since I saw it, and it’s been making me think of musical pleasures from Philadelphia all afternoon because, how many times do I have to tell you, this is me and this is just how my brain is. Love me, love my nerdery.
I’ve never been to Philly but it probably can’t compete with apt. 302 anyway – I already have all the sons of the city, Gamble & Huff and Hall & Oates and like 50 of my favorite rappers and the Delfonics and the Stylistics, right here with me in my record collection (plus I got Nutella and Red Stripe here, as much as you want until you pass out from satisfaction). And I’ve never met Ahmir Thompson but that doesn’t mean we’re not meant to be special friends, the kind that record shop together while trying to calm all the sexual tension between us. I steal glances when we go get a cheesesteak and visit the Rocky steps together.
Some damn tightly-woven metaphors for love have come from the Philly music scene over the years, and 2 of the greats are right here – boxing and traffic – speaking right to me about my feelings: the Soul Survivors talkin bout my love car getting caught amongst all the other cars on the way to ?uestlove’s heart, and Teddy P describing that punched-in-the-face feeling that being in love with a large-haired percussionist will give you. It really does look like another love TKO; Teddy’s right. Plus I wanted to use the song and I’m never gonna do a “Back in the Day” post, so it worked out perfectly.
Teddy Pendergrass – “Love TKO”
Look at these dudes. Now go get 1/10 of that level of style. Then come see me when you’re ready.