Category Archives: Ay ma

Ridin through the city lights, Monday Magic City night

“My relationship to groceries is directly related to how much I earn as a street musician,” says the man profiled in a Wall Street Journal piece from a couple months ago.

Well yes, sir, but

anybody’s relationship to anything purchase-able is directly related to how much that person earns as a ______ (occupation).

The article is called Ten Rules for Street Musicians, but it could just as easily be 10 Rules for Strippers, or 10 rules for anybody with any type of hustle, anybody who uses what they have to get what they need. 10 Rules for the Cardboard Sign Wearer on the Corner. 10 Rules for Those of Us who Expect Payment for Services Rendered. 10 Rules for People who Need to Eat. 10 Rules for Humans.

The street musician’s list of rules came about after he “explored the ideal circumstances for generating the funds to feed (his) food habit.” That’s a universal exploration, though. My food habit is a beast, as is my rent habit and my Amoeba habit. And goddammit if I’m about to let something prevent me from generating funds to satisfy all my habits even if it means I need to take it to the Magic City stage. The street musician’s primary means of securing ends to feed himself has been playing the cello on the streets, but for the girls in the club, just as it is for any professional, the advice on how to succeed is no different.

1. (Take Into Account) Day of Week / Time of Day.

“I make two or three times more money on Friday mornings than Monday mornings,” the street musician says. “Friday afternoons are second best. Tuesday morning is better than Wednesday morning although Wednesday afternoon is better than Tuesday afternoon. Thursday mornings aren’t so good but Thursday afternoons are.”

In a free market economy, people can choose the things on which they spend their disposable income and you better adjust accordingly, mama. The tightness and rightness of your game should be a given, but there are variables you need to consider. Stock market crashes, the latest with the Libya situation, a major sporting event on TV–try to predict the factors that will decrease or distract your audience so you don’t waste your time putting time and effort into something that won’t reach your best-paying customers. But then come extra hard when your audience returns so you can recoup your losses. They’ll return, luckily. “It’s like dope,” Frank Lucas said about money but it applies to anything pleasurable, “they always want more.”

I could never get hired as a stripper due to my innocent face and sassy mouth but I think Tuesdays and Wednesdays in the club would be deadsville. Thursday nights would be pretty lucrative, though–everybody psyched because the week’s practically over. Fridays and Saturdays would be good too, but it seems like the club might be full of too many dudes being rowdy for the sake of rowdy (i.e., weekend warrior types coming to gawk with their crew rather that to tip the performers). No day shift, ever. The day shift is for the ugly girls, we know this.

2. How to Prepare for the Job.

“I get up about 6:00 a.m., eat a solid breakfast and listen to the Market Place Morning Report on National Public Radio while I drink a cup of coffee,” says the street musician.

Other than a Teflon psychological shield and vanilla cherry perfume oil, it’s autopilot time for me at the club. There’s nothing to prepare for or think about. The shield one is exhausting, though. And dude we all listen to NPR, so stop.

3. What to Wear.

“I dress respectably but not too nice – somewhere between grungy and preppy. I wear brown leather suede shoes and dark pants. If it’s cold, I wear a sweater but t-shirts are fine. People don’t need to see a collar.”

I could never be a stripper because I am terribly shy; however, I’m not an idiot so I know that if I were a fantasy fulfillment professional I would dress accordingly. I’d dress respectably but not too nice – somewhere between librarian and hooker. And no, people really don’t need to see a collar.

4. Eye Contact.

“Eye contact is essential. I don’t wear sunglasses or a large brimmed hat.”

YEP. This one definitely applies to the seduction-arts specialist. People never talk about the importance of eye contact (music and outfits get more discussion time) but it’s of the utmost. I could never be a stripper because I’d get tired of people asking me Ha, yeah, so what’s your real name? when I tell them my name’s Logan, but if I were, I would master the “I enjoy pleasing you” direct gaze. At first I thought it would feel gross to fake such a thing–the “I’m thrilled to be here” thing that a girl at the club has to put on, like a jacket or a hat, except worse even than a heavy, hot and itchy jacket or a hat because it fucks with you psychologically. Then I remembered everybody at work is doing this constantly no matter what the job is, including me at my government job, except at my job I don’t get to hear any new Brick Squad or Grand Hustle stuff. Really, I’m thrilled to be here. Honest.

5. Location.

“The Charles/MGH Station is best for me as a solo cellist. It’s big, open and glassy, kind of like a greenhouse. I feel happy there so my music is probably better.”

Other than east of the LA River, south of the 10, or anywhere in the valley, I think I’d be fine with any club location. Obviously the ideal place would be next to the Starbucks at 2nd and Central downtown, so all my LAPD admirers could finally have their dreams come true. GROSS. Now I’m thinking about them! Moving on –

6. Competition.

“Once I showed up at the Harvard Square stop before 7:00 a.m. and wasn’t able to get a spot because other musicians were already set up. I came back another day and found an empty spot. I start to play and another street musician with a guitar comes up and said, ‘Did you guys do the lottery this morning?” I said, “There was space. I started playing.’ He said, ‘Usually we show up before 7 and flip a coin to see who goes first.’ I don’t know what’s true. Street musicians talk a lot of shit. I don’t go Harvard Square anymore because people who play there are so territorial. And the money isn’t as good for me.”

The original meaning of hustle was “to shake, to toss.” And if it’s stripping we’re referring to here as the hustle of note, there is no competition for me if I do say so. Have we just met? Shaking it and nerding it up are the 2 things at which I am most skilled. I get my fondness for logic from Dad; hips from Mom. I have excellent balance and I did ballet for 8 years. Combine these qualities and you get pure practicality – I heard that people will pay me if I do this thing and that thing with my body, so I’ll go get a job at a place that will hire me to do this thing/that thing. Makes sense. I’d probably hold back a tiny bit on stage, though, so that my coworker with the young child would still be able to make a decent amount. We all need to get ours and the nature of the free market means that the girl with the most hips will get the most cash, but that doesn’t make it right. Women get stereotyped as being competitive and catty, the whole crabs-in-a-bucket thing, but that’s just a by-product of our culture’s fear of female sexuality. What can you do.

7. Selection of music / Weather.

N/A regarding that second thing, but oh yes, the first one is definitely important – Toomp, Nitti, Mannie, Lex, Collipark, Shawty Redd, Neptunes ’98-02, Rick Rock, DJ Paul who never gets any accolades but whose compositions are just amazing, 80% of David Banner’s catalog, 100% of Nickatina’s, that Minaj instro, the “Ha” instro, oh fuck it, really any rap instro from the states of Georgia, Florida, or Louisiana between ’96 and ’03, and in a surprising twist, some Jake One instros. The DJ might try to drive the particularly nerdy musicdork bassline-loving ladies who were raised on the Stax catalog out of their minds by playing something from Black Caesar or maybe some Cymande or something. Please, no. It reminds such ladies of their parents’ record collection, and therefore it reminds them of being a kid. Kid stuff doesn’t belong in the club.

Mr. DJ might also try to play “The Next Episode,” since it’s burned into our collective psyche as that song with that stripper video and it’s the perfect BPM, plus it has provided the image to open this post. That one blonde girl at the club with the hips who you came specifically to see and who you’re pretty sure would go on a date with you would not enjoy this coming out of the speakers, however. She would be thinking about David McCallum and it would distract her too much. She’s also thinking about the unadulterated epicness of the name “Kurt Vile” for a musical human, the catchy/sad accuracy of the words You only want me when I’m gone/You only want me when I’m fever dreaming, and how she just figured out that the “All of the Lights” drums sound like Hanna Barbera characters when they’re running in place. “Xxplosive” is perfect, though, a slow swangin one to balance out all the frenetic Waka stuff. Anything by him or Weezy I would refuse to dance to, just based on the triteness of such a scene; girls getting money to the sweet sounds of “Bingo,” ooh. Groundbreaking. I refuse to take part. (If “No Hands” is played, though, all bets are off.)

8. Bad situations.

“One day, two guys come up,” the street musician says. “They keep giving me a hard time. I say to them, ‘Can you please just leave me alone? This is my workplace. Don’t bother me. I’m just trying to do my job.’”

I wouldn’t get hired as a stripper unless I gained 7-10 lbs, but if I ever did, I bet I’d think about the possibility of bad situations pretty frequently. Getting followed after my shift is the scariest thing that could happen, I suppose. Bad tippers, although not scary, are a bad situation too. Dudes being visibly uncomfortable, resulting in me feeling sorry for them. Dudes bringing their girlfriends in to get cool points. (No cool points awarded, dumb dumb; you’re a cliche). I could never be a stripper and sometimes I feel inadequate because of that, but then I remind myself about the pitfalls of such a job and I’m fine.

9. Customer / audience demographics.

“Race and gender make no difference if someone is going to stop, listen and/or give me money,” the street musician says.

WORDEMUP, buddy. We speak the same language. Stripper Logan fully concurs with street musician’s assessment, as does Nerd Logan, Lazy Saturday Afternoon Logan, Bookstore Logan, Bikini Logan, Record Hoarder Logan and Grocery Shopping Logan.

10. How to measure success.

“One day was a bad day,” says the street musician. Everybody was unhappy. I didn’t get much money. But when I got home, there was an email from a woman. She wrote, ‘Every time I see you, it brightens my day.’”

Is this one a trick? The answer to this is “REVENUE RETRIEVIN–money, in rolls or stacks, even though that’s impractical and we only store it that way because that’s how Gs and Henry Hill do it and it looks dope.”

There’s a reason an E-40 synonym for “hustling” is “grittin & grindin.” If I’m a stripper, I don’t make an hourly wage. I don’t get medical or dental. I have to pay the house at the end of every shift. My legs hurt. I felt on your private parts with my soft ladyparts but neither of us got any intimacy or connection to each other as humans. And nobody ever emails me afterward to tell me I brightened his day : (



And my jewels blue and yellow/The type of shit that make ’em call you Carmelo*. (*2003-2011; “blue and orange” hasn’t been rhymed with anything yet)

1. Long hair she don’t care, when she walk she get stares. All Waka songs are about pretty white girls, I just realized. This is one of the Top 10 things about being a white girl this week. And I know for certain that “6’7” is, in turn, about gigantic, beautifully-cheekboned Waka who happens to be just that many feet and inches tall. (Wayne’s got a crush on him, along with almost all white girls in my neighborhood).

That’s how you do the blonde-lady lounge: in black and white or muted tones, and thigh-highs holding tight to your milky skin of course.
Amanda in Interview.

YES. Yes. Yep. Oh god. Blonde lady with skinny legs, gazing toward the future. You can’t deny it.
Lily in London.

Jeisa in Marie Claire. She is, sadly, not blonde, though we must still accept her as one of our own. The brown-haired are welcome at our board meetings and conventions but their powers will always be limited.
(even if they have beautiful curvy shapes on their bodies; please refer to photo immediately above)

Looking pretty and thoughtful at the same time is my overall goal in life (now that I have my master’s degree).

2. Today we are pouty that we didn’t get cast in that Gucci/Soulja/Gotti video and I will have to report this matter to the union, but white girls? We’re still doing all right for ourselves this week, looking fine and doing important stuff. We’re waiting for that Curren$y mixtape, posing in front of mirrors, wearing our red trenches on dreary days, lounging hard, wondering why a perfectly lovely Dilla beat was wasted by some jackass on a song called “Man Purses.” And we’re doing laundry and grocery shopping, of course, because we’re kind of boring during the week.

3. The tomboyish among us are discussing the ‘Melo trade at work and with our brother because we want to keep up with the world, but we’re really not that interested. Snoozeville. Besides, our favorite headband-wearer is Baron Davis, and we are sad he got shipped away so it’s hard to get excited about the stupid NBA right now. Plus we only care about the Knicks when they turn up in lyrics by the residents of various NYC boroughs. We can endlessly talk about that condition Blake Griffin has that makes his eyes so close together, though. An unfortunate face, that one’s got. And we love Charles Woodson and his solidarity with the nonwealthy working class (which, despite our Alexander Wang bag, we are still a proud part of).

4. We like that new PJ Harvey but not as much as the old, and we were reminded by witchy godmother Stevie Nicks on the radio today that Players only love you when they’re play-innnnnn. That’s some wisdom, mama – right up there with It’s OK to eat fish cuz they don’t have any feelings and Write down blog ideas during boring meetings at work (sit in the back and lay low, dummy).

5. We love that “The Pot” came on LA radio today when we were driving!; oh god, it turned the inside of the Civic into something cinematic and cool, thanks Justin Chancellor’s swampy bass–“the midrange cut and punch for which he is known,” a quote boosted from Wikipedia but only because it’s so dope. Midrange cut and punch, like a fighter. And we’re still high from the four-plus minutes of Metallica we heard the other day, which was rivaled by Today’s Other Best Song Heard While Out and About, “A Pair of Brown Eyes,” at the gas station (????!!?). The tune just hangs out in a girl’s head hours after she hears it, and we were curious about the lyrics so we looked up both “Where the Water-Lilies Grow” and Ray and Philomena when we got home. We want to do well in music nerdery when we finally make it to Jeopardy! It’s not about impressing Ken Jennings, though–he’s not our type; we’re more into the computer.

(We loved the Pogues when we were 16, having successfully completed our Beatles phase at 15. It was a perfect fit because we liked feeling that life was tragic but we still loved melody and Elvis Costello. We also believed that if it were 1983-88 and we were of age, we could’ve gotten into their shows for free based simply on the fact of being named Logan–the Gaelic discount).

6. Back at HQ, we liked that Kurupt kameo in that Snoop video. WE LOVE KURUPT. We also liked that a song called Gangbang Rookie” turned out to not be about what we first thought it was going to be about based on its title. That was a close one.

7. Then, taking it to the eastern seaboard, we liked two-thirds of that Rae/Ghosty/Rawss song; one-third of it we hated. (We don’t like the fattest one’s verse, or his voice.)

What we really liked, specifically: a) Rae bragging about “swimmin through life,” because that’s what we’re doing too only we never thought to put it that way; b) Ghosty saying “We in the back roastin marshmallows, bottles of Cru” (not the kind of roasting a marshmallow on Urban Dictionary, perv; is that even a real thing?); and c) this, from Rae:

Holdin my girl wedding ring,
She Medellín, name is Beretta King
Live in Alpharetta, and she never leave me”

We know from a thousand songs by males that the perfect woman is, alas, not a white girl. We hate that. How disappointing. The perfect woman is either an American- or Italian-made car, or a firearm (a loyal firearm, in Rae’s case). She’s also Colombian and lives in Georgia. Sigh. We’ve always been pretty fucking down when it comes to supporting our dude, we’re willing to hold weight, but we have been humbled here. We simply cannot compete with this girl. We are too hard on ourselves sometimes, trying to be all things to all people. We should remember we have our own gifts, our strong suits–Kanye will always love us, we can always get knocked up in someone’s suite after the All-Star Game and get fucking PAID dog, and we have the power and smarts to make invisibility cloaks happen! We’re also thinking of becoming architects, while still doing our makeup in glittery pinks and purples like we’re about to go to our night job at Magic City.

8. Abbey Clancey. We like this look and we’re confident we can replicate it since we are also a skinny-legged glasses-wearing blonde with too much eyeliner. We’ll never be mistaken for a member of Warpaint but that’s OK.

Abbey’s famous for being hot (British standards, though–not American hot) and for entrapping an athlete with her vagina. We respect this. Ha ha, gentlemen; you’re just mad because you fear female sexuality and your physical limitations prevent you from taking part in this particular hustle.

9. Even our mailman and the OG white lady fox (Mom) are geeked about Odd Future at this point. This is annoying but not at all surprising. You can try to stop a freight truck but then you just give up ’cause you have weak Mr. Burns arms and it goes whooshing by, delivering LA rap to the midwest and the east. We hate that the fucking Spin article about them ended with “the future is going to be very Odd”; it literally made us go UGGHHH. OH GODDDD at the bookstore and we tossed the magazine aside in a mini-tantrum. Oh but the newest and best thing about the Fairfax boys is their affiliate Frank. We love Frank and we’d never play Drake* if Frank were in the Civic with us (since we HATE DRAKE).

* verse 2, “Songs for Women.”


The Pogues – “Maidrín Rua” (Little Fox)


10. Annnnnd we liked this.

We really liked this a lot! Thanks, Tumblr.


Holy Ghost! mixtape. Cuba. Science letdowns. Sexy: men vs. women edition.

1. DFA sneaks up from time to time and reminds me of its rather Ninja-Tune-ish/Def-Jux-y consistency and longevity. (Other than that song with the screaming about the jealous lovers that everyone freaked out about because it was…white dudes playing diluted disco?)

This here is the Holy Ghost! mixtape, which in apt. 302 is a clear reference to that song “Holy Ghost” by the Bar-Kays that was later lovingly molded into the Beastie Boys’ “Hey Ladies and Tupac’s “Trapped.” There’s some KRS in here, a lot of that bass-and-sirens combo that I thought I would’ve tired of by now, and something called “Greetings from Ghostface” that are some pretty sweet words where I come from (next to “Up next, another episode of Law & Order: SVU”).





After a decades-long period of admiration for the island’s health care and education policies, Black activists are being more critical of Cuba regarding racism. [LA Times]

What about Jesse here looking like life cannot possibly get any better? That pic of Malcolm and Fidel is kinda played out, and you’re a damn liar if you say you don’t want in on the scene above.

“A group of 60 African-American artists and thinkers have launched a rare (and) unprecedented attack on Cuba’s human rights record, with a particular focus on the treatment of black political dissidents.” They’ve noted increased violations of civil and human rights for those Black activists in Cuba who dare raise their voices against the island’s racial system, and signed an official statement calling for changes.

“What has changed (since the ’60s and ’70s) is a heightened understanding outside Cuba of the plight of the island’s large Black population, which remains increasingly marginalized economically and underrepresented in the highest echelons of government.” I believe that these critics are now catching up to those who have been outraged at Cuba’s treatment of my friends The Gays for years now. My boyfriend Cornel West is part of this group that created the official statement (also: Ruby Dee, of course! So dope) and probably, dare I say, the brains behind it. And I bet you he did it all while wearing a nice suit and spectacles.

’90s rap song tie-in time! Regarding the nation of Cuba:
you still haven’t freed Assata, so until that happens I’ll be borrachada de Bacardi. Tony G produced this, along with DJ Pooh’s “Whoop Whoop,” an anthem which descended from heaven to emanate specifically from ’94 Nissan Maxima speakers, is about some crucial Cube vs. Kam & Pooh beef that tore this city apart in the late ’90s (it’s ok, they’re friends again now!), and has lyrics you would be legally required to know by heart if you lived within a 50-mile radius of LA County.

3. “Top 10 Science Letdowns” [Scientific American] is rather amusing because it’s basically a bunch of grown-ups whining about things we dreamed of as kids that haven’t come true yet even though it’s THE FUTURE RIGHT NOW.

Dumb science is not working fast enough, clearly.
We don’t have flying cars and we can’t live forever. No hoverboards. Mental illness is still a mystery. The planet is sweltering and will probably blow up soon. What this amounts to is basically a Stack of questions with no answers/Cure for cancer, cure for AIDS. This make me wanna stay on tour for days! Heee.

4. “Men’s bodies and minds agree on what’s sexy almost always. Women’s bodies and minds? Less so.” – Science Daily, openly discussing sexual arousal under the guise of “important science nerdery.”

In studies, researchers found that “men’s subjective and physiological measures of sexual arousal showed a greater degree of agreement than women’s. For the male participants, the subjective ratings more closely matched the physiological readings indicating that men’s minds and genitals were in agreement. For the women, however, the responses of the mind and genitals were not as closely matched as men’s, suggesting a split between women’s bodies and minds.”

So: what women want to think of as sexy is not really what our cells and hormones and bloodflow respond to*. This, of course, explains my troubling shamelust for Kim K. Because I’m gross. So gross you probably shouldn’t talk to me anymore. Gross.

Basically, even though we ladies really really want to think of smarties and nontraditional beauties as hot, our physical responses betray us. I, for example, want to think Rachel Maddow is pretty, because this would mean I’m defying that American thing of manufactured hotness. Instead, I like gorgeous dummies like Padma, that Bar Refaeli and her waist-hip situation, and various other glossy blank types on my TV screen. In the grand tradition of Things Women Have Always Done, this results in a lot of tiresome mental anguish. We try to psych ourselves out continuously and it’s dumb. Get a grip, ladies. Knock it off. (This includes myself.)

*Except for Joan from Mad Men, because at the Women Conference last year we all agreed that it’s OK to pine away for her. She’s like sexy kryptonite, that one.

. . .

The best songs about flowers* *now with more bathing suit!


My life my life my life my life! In the sun-shiiiine!
Santa laced me with affordable designer swimwear from the chain store, it’s got a dainty floral print, and now life is wonderful. Just bees & things & flowers!

The title of the photo collection above is “me in a bathing suit as it relates to consumable pop music.” What can we glean from this?

1. That when you put something on the Internet, it’s there forever so you better be damn sure your future friends and boyfriends and progeny will be cool with it. Good thing I’m not running for President (sorry, gang!).

2. There are many great songs about flowers, as evidenced by the classics(?) culled from my very own record collection below*. There’s no Kanye or Outkast “Roses,” and no “Sugar Mag” or “Scarlet Begonias.” That’s amateur hour, you guys.

3. My English degree courses emphasized the deconstruction of literature and culture through a postmodern feminist lens. That’s great and all, but sometimes a girl is conflicted and likes to document her earthly body via digital media. Fun with hegemonic masculinity!

* The best of the best:

Dudley Perkins, “Flowers.” I’m hungry, filled with happiness all over, and my mouth is dry.


Ghostface, “Wildflower.” Ghosty fucked my friend then had the nerve to write a whole song about it!

Sonic Youth, “Wildflower Soul.” Sing yr child lights. Lights are gold. Sing yr child life. Wildflower soul. Kim & Thurston have a daughter and I’m not her even though I should be. Sperm Lotto, you suck.

The Carter Family, “Wildwood Flower.” Reminds me of my tumultuous, love-filled marriage to Johnny Cash.

The Pharcyde, “Soul Flower.” Had to mention it, otherwise I would’ve gotten my Cali ID revoked.

Janelle Monae, “Come Alive (The War of the Roses).” In my spare time I get funny haircuts, I’m friends with Big Boi, I sing like a bird, everyone in LA brags about knowing me because I’m such a badass, I surprise everybody by signing with Bad Boy, and I don’t pull weak-ass moves like putting pictures of myself in a bikini on the Internet. Get ’em, Miss Monae.


Patrice Rushen, “Forget Me Nots.” Handclaps. Bass. Handclaps.

Little Brother, “Passion Flower.” Tired of these hoes talkin shit. Also: 9th Wonder.

Barrington Levy, “Black Roses.” Wail.

De La Soul, “D.A.I.S.Y. Age.” (no link because there are NO YOUTUBE UPLOADS??). Rebel. Renegade. Renegade reaching only top flight, can’t find your new height. Think you need a raise. PS, De La Soul means “From The Soul.”

Dr. Octagon – “Blue Flowers.” Nobody else repped Bellevue so hard.

The Avett Brothers, “Famous Flower of Manhattan.” Posted because it’s a good song and also because I feel that somehow it will lead me directly to Rick Rubin.


Johnny Hodges and his Orchestra – “Passion Flower.” ‘Cause I’m classy.

Doom, “Passion Flower.” It’s Doom. Have you and I just met? If you need to ask me about this, leave this place and don’t you ever show your face ’round here again.


Wilt the Stilt got more Mack than Craig (c.1970)

Throw your hands in the ayurr if yous a true player, and other things of that nature, ’cause it’s time to visit Wilt Chamberlain’s big hetero den of ’70s lovemaking in Bel Air! The LA Times decided to roll out its standard every-few-years feature on Wilt’s manse, but I don’t mind the repetition of this because it helps me satisfy my ’70s NBA groupie pretend-life fantasy while remaining wonderfully disease- and pregnancy-free! 3 cheers for imagination. Also, Hi Mom, please be aware that any hypothetical naked times I would’ve participated in would only have been so that I could raid Wilt’s record collection. Can you imagine the gems in there? You understand.

High on a big sexy hill, Wilt called the place Ursa Major because he was super classy and astrological, y’all. And once upon a time the place throbbed from unadulterated sexual energy. But because it was the ’70s and because God is punishing me, I never had a chance to be Jumpoff Number 16,320 and then stagger my way through its halls trying to remember where I left my underpants. (Oh wait! Wilt did not allow such oppressive garments on his ladies and had us check ’em at the door. Doubtful I would be looking for underwear, then. Maybe car keys?)

Wilt’s gone and the people who live there now clearly have no sense of joy or sexuality, as they have gotten rid of many of the home’s “kinky details”- a mirrored ceiling in the master bedroom that retracted to reveal open sky, a sunken bathtub that sat at the foot of the bed, and a wall-to-wall water bed floor in the downstairs, uhmm, “playroom.” Praise the lord that the moat swimming pool is still intact and accessible. Some things are classics, you see.

Additional details on the estate: 2 1/2 acres, 6 bedrooms, 5-foot-thick front door (?), 5-story living room, many leather-bound books, smells of rich mahogany. Meanwhile, Bill Walton is sweeping out the front of
his teepee and waiting for Edie Brickell to come by for pita chips and tahini.

Chakachas “Jungle Fever”

. . .

Sunday morning with Miss November, The Hollies, Aaron Neville, Paul Huston, and me.

Miss November 1966, you are what all my favorite mic-wielders would disparagingly refer to as a biter. I have much better manners than that, so I will call you a swagger-jacker under my breath while acknowledging that you look pretty sexpot-ish here. But Sinatra?, EW, NO. All the cool kids were listening to Buffalo Springfield and Wilson Pickett and Donovan and James Brown and Bobby Hebb that year, missy. Go getchaself some Motown and leave the old-man music to the old men.

I hear that “Bus Stop” by The Hollies was huge in ’66 too, and would, many years later, become a driving-around-on-Sunday-listening-to-oldies-radio jammy that I fell in love with ’cause of the chords and harmonies and the “by August she was mine” part; umbrellas can be so sexy!

Also in ’66–Aaron Neville’s “Tell It Like It Is,” AKA the song we slow-dance to at the party in the heartbreaking scene in the movie version of our life together. Life is too short to have sorrow; you may be here today and gone tomorrow/You might as well get what you want, so go on and live, baby go on and live.” OH AARON. Swoon.



I’m posted up in K-Town, Miss Every Month from January through December, once again lookin a little shiny and missing my pants, but who cares ’cause

I got my apple (one per day) to keep the doctor away,
I’m all psyched on myself for getting
that shirt I said I would get goddammit,
I have essential bloggy tools like the Crackberry and my beloved Stet troop ’88 on vinyl,

I got condos in Queens, indo for weeks, I’m blowin up like you thought I would,
my whole crew is loungin.

Plug Four, far left.

And when you lie, and you talk a lot/People tell you to step off a lot


Sharon. St. Pauli. John Dawson. Wu. Pause.

From the I Don’t Need No “Via” ‘Cause I Find Things My Gotdamn Self file…

1. Sharon Jones & the Dap-Kings do Janet!

“What Have You Done For Me Lately” (no question mark, even though as a grammar nerd I really want one there. OH GOD, it’s killing me.)

Miss Sharon Jones’s guitarist introduces her as “110 pounds of soul” when she’s coming on stage, even though umm, hello, that would be ME. Also, I normally do not care for songs in which a lady singer sounds shrill and bossy, but the dude who is the object of her disdain sounds like a realll jackass so go ‘head Sharon (“Miss Jones” if you’re nasty).


“You should be the St. Pauli girl for Halloween!” – several 35-50 year old intoxicated white men, when I used to tend bar.

The brand derives its name from the fact that the original brewery was built upon St Paul’s Monastery. However, the name choice also seems to be an allusion to Hamburg’s famous red light district, St. Pauli, which is somewhat reflected in the advertising slogans. (the never-wrong Wikipedia)

Well then. My future Halloween costume is basically a cleavage-y whore holding beer for your pleasure. But, dude, the red choker, the flared skirt, the corseted top? I’m in. That outfit is so sexy and fierce, I could probably be talked into it.

John “Marmaduke” Dawson
, 1945 – 2009. He was a founder of New Riders of the Purple Sage, yet another band whose albums are an integral part of the “Baby Logan Raised By Weed-Smoking Leftists” soundtrack.

John ‘Marmaduke’ Dawson had original tunes in his pocket and a guitar in his hand in 1969 when a buddy just learning to play pedal steel guitar often joined his weekly gig at the Underground, a Bay Area hofbrau house.

The friend was Jerry Garcia of the Grateful Dead, and those sessions set the stage for the New Riders of the Purple Sage, a group they considered ‘the original psychedelic cowboy band.’

The New Riders initially gave Garcia and two other members of the Grateful Dead — Mickey Hart on drums and Phil Lesh on bass guitar — a way to further indulge their taste for country music. But Dawson’s songwriting skills quickly helped the offshoot band develop an independent country-rock identity.

Dawson (far right), with Dave Torbert, David Nelson, Mickey Hart, and Jerry.
I’m pretty sure my pop is somewhere in this photo too.

The New Riders have all kinds of their own musical goodness that I could have posted, but since Dawson co-wrote the music of “Friend of the Devil” with Jerry (Robert Hunter lyrics, obvs) I was legally obligated to post it. I thumbed past the album cover below so many times when I was little and looking through my dad’s records; no doubt, the influence that the image of the sexy lady body had on me is the reason why I have no problem putting photographic documentation of my bikini-clad self on my web log.

Grateful Dead – “Friend of the Devil”


Wu – “Windmill.” Laugh Out Loud, or something to that effect.

I’m the wittiest
Most talented
rap muhhfucka you ever listened to. – Meth, reminding me of something I did not need to be reminded of.

5. “PAUSE.”

Stop saying this, please, people of the blogosphere. It’s almost at the level of “No homo” in the category of Ridiculous Things People Are Saying That Are Slowly Killing My Spirit.

Thank you; that is all.


Stop-motion fantasticalness. Bond girl accessory game fierceness. Good-girl-ness is lame.

1. Please watch, pretty please. It’s not like I’ve ever led you astray before.

El Gremio – Dame otro papel

2. I do not care for firearms so this would for certain be my Bond Girl accessory.

Minuses about being a Bond Girl: fornicating with James Bond.

Pluses about being a Bond Girl: kick-ass/mysterious name (ummm not Holly Goodhead), spy gear, cute outfits, being foxy.

Poses I would recreate if I weren’t such a goddamn good girl, part deux.

By contrast, I’m sort of boring and lame, but I don’t see myself changing anytime soon.

Knock ’em out the box, ladies.