I received a ton of supportive emails from you guys in response to my last post – a sampling of the comments posted to my IG feed that contained helpful instructions on Record Collecting for Persons with Vaginas (“1. Don’t have a vagina. 2. OK fine you can have a vagina, but don’t be semi-attractive, creative, or full of joy.”) Thank you for your kind words, everyone. I love you. Let’s always be friends.
I haven’t received any troll-y comments since my last post. But this morning, MamaFiveSeven reminded me of that time I got trolled during my very first days on Instagram, back when I was using the X-Pro II filter a little too much and I hadn’t yet tightened up my hashtag game. So in tribute, I’d now like to give some attention to the originator of the HeightFiveSeven Hate movement: my man Troy, who got his Krylon cap all bent out of shape when I posted a recreation of Dr. Dooom’s First Come, First Served. Troy immediately went in on me because of all the hugs MamaTroy withheld when he was a child. Let’s get into it, bro!:
(D-Nice posted a nice thing about me on his feed, because he is dumb and thinks that people with vaginas collect records haha bro. The next time he and Troy hung out, they had a good laugh about it)
I blocked Troy for being an adult male who uses winky emoticons. And for being a shit-stirring troll.
What’s the best way to deal with an adult female with whom you disagree about a topic? Go to her blog, then type words threatening to put your boy parts in her.
And who in the fuck still uses AIM? Haha bro.
Please email me pictures of kittens now, guys. Thank you.
Mac Premo, Number Two, He Doesn’t Have the Pants, 2008, mixed-media assemblage with animation, 19 ½” x 18 ½” x 9 ½”
1. A photo of Mr. Premo’s work was in the Paris Review I was reading last night in apt. 680, in between taking tasteful erotic photographs of myself to send to Lil B, baking a pie, and peeking out of my blinds to see when Lil B’s going to come walking up the stairs to my door. It’s the spring 2011 edition, and Édouard Levé’s piece is great. It’s really really good, you guys (“I do not consider myself handsome just because a woman thinks so. I prefer desire to pleasure. My death will change nothing”) and not just because it’s titled, beautifully, When I Look at a Strawberry, I Think of a Tongue.
Even though the only (visual) art worth my time is Kruger’s stuff and Baldessari and oh Pettibone I suppose and THAT FUCKING RAMMELLZEE ROOM AT MOCA (an experience from which I still have not recovered), I like Mac Premo’s work, and I like the fact that “Mac Premo” sounds like the name of the producer of Jeru’s next album (he’s Premier’s cousin).
2.Hindi is how you say “NO”in Tagalog. Now we all know what to scream at our televisions during Pacquiao’s walk to the ring while accompanied by a corrections officer.
If I were in charge, things would be different; Rawss would not exist of course, but let’s say I was feeling generous and allowed him both to continue living and to escort a boxer into the ring prior to a huge televised match. I would insist that Rawss escort the other guy–not Pacquiao. Ricky Rose Hey should definitely be walking next to “Sugar” Shane just based on pure similiarity, as they have both co-opted the names of historically successful individuals in order to enhance their own myths/reputations. This is a lazy, sorry move, the kind that bitchy dudes make. Boxing is so lame, I’ve addressed that fact and provided supporting evidence on this blog before – unless we’re talking about the boxer Zab Judah, which is a really fucking dope name for a human.
3. Does anyone recognize that sweatsuited side-leg?
If I were going to the show and could somehow get backstage without using sex, I would look him square in the face and say, First of all: nice warm-ups on that promo flyer. They weren’t Champion, but still. Very nice.
Then I’d get down to business. Hey, remember when you or one of your colleagues blacked-out Budden’s eye socket? I blogged about it like crazy that week, as did everyone else with a computer and an opinion! I was so happy it happened! Thank you! I heard Joe said you asked for an apology, and he obliged – “only because he was outnumbered”! What a fuckin dummy! Why’d you have to make up with him, though? There’s not enough beef in 2011 rap. And how did you and Randy Spelling meet?*
* Rae’s working with Randy Spelling, a thing that has been added to 2011’s Mysteries List. “How did Rae link with Spelling’s kid” is now in there, right at the top, along with “Why does everyone like The Weeknd,” “Who keeps downloading Rawss’ shit and making him successful,” and “How come the first sip of iced coffee is always the best.”
Rae also has a rapper in his stable named “Polite,” a person from whom I am telling you right now I will never buy or download product.
4.“Tattoo Artist Who Owns Mike Tyson’s Face Sues The Hangover Studio for Copyright Infringement” (Gawker). Click the link and you’ll find a story about some loser who has trademarked the sorta-ethnic-but-not-sure-which-part-of-Samoa-it’s-from “tribal” design on Tyson’s face. That loser is suing the losers who made The Hangover, an unfunny major-studio production that everyone loved because everyone’s an idiot.
Tribal anything on your flesh is ridiculous; I come from a coastal city in Southern California so I am a certified expert in this matter. (I also know about chain wallets, putting huge tires on your white Chevy truck, and yelling at your girlfriend in public). But in a post about pugilism you know Tyson’s gonna show up so I had to include this story. These days everyone loves soft, repentant Mike – playing with his birds, taking his kids to the park. Dullsville Mike, in other words. The Mike who gets glorified in apt. 680 is the Mike who said, “I don’t try to intimidate anybody before a fight. That’s nonsense. I intimidate people by hitting them.” Mike Tyson, Brooklyn-bred unsubtle face-hitter ALL DAY.
5. Yes yes of course the Lakers need to come stronger in this next series, I don’t wanna talk about it but yes they really need to perform as more of a cohesive unit, 110%, fewer mistakes, hard in the paint, Pau needs to show up, lalalalaaaa yeah yeah. I don’t want to talk about Nowitski or Butler or Terry. I don’t wanna discuss what we are going to do about my Moscato addiction, or when I will stop stripping and settle down, etc. I just want to talk about how great Chappelle’s Show reruns are, always coming on at just the right time. I was still pouty this week because every skinny white girl in the world except me was doing some bikini-clad cooking in Lil B’s audience in the desert a little while ago but they were doing it wrong, 94% of white girls do it wrong. Then good ol’ Comedy Central comes through in the clutch, showing some TV perfection from 2004.
Random Tribute: DMX’s jabs and left hook between 1:11 and 1:18. DMX was terrific in his prime and I loved him; people think I’m kidding when I say that because how could I like DMX, that’s crazy!, since I like little girls in glasses and I’m polite and soft-spoken, but I’m not kidding. That voice, dragged through gravel! That cadence! I’m not-a. nice. person/I mean, I’d smack the shit out you twice dog, and that’s before I start cursin. (I also really like the name Spider Loc and people think I’m kidding about that too. Um, I’m not kidding. They all think it’s a game. They think it’s a fuckinnnn gaaaaame.) To put the performance below in context and remind you of the levels of perfection: this ep also had Negrodamus, the Niggar Family, and WacArnold’s. Fucking perfection, I said.
Directly-related additional Random Tributes: 1. that “UH OH” just erupting outta DMX when “What’s My Name” starts. The smile, the genuine excitement. So sweet. 2. Swizz Beatz in ’98/9 and ’03/4: the party-starter. Those beats/z he crafted made me want to be a boy and throw a punch, kinda; I settled for car-dancing ferociously whenever somebody put It’s Dark and Hell is Hot in the car’s CD changer. Grand Champ was, um, grand when it emanated from the stereos of Japanese compacts as well. GITITONTHEFLOOR, git it git it on the floor! Who didn’t want to get it on the floor when DMX yelled it over those drums? Alas, he has softened with age, which is typical of producers. It’s 2011 and things aren’t the same. Now he’s got the terrible beats of an old and feeble man, and let’s not forget the Shep Fairey tattoo. OH SWIZZY.
Judgement Day – “Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out (Training Song).”
Aside from the ones that are so obvious we stop even noticing—Glenn Beck, Andy Breitbart, Shark Week, CNN, the design of all Trader Joe’s parking lots—there are many stupid things that surround us, and I need to call ’em out. When people exaggerate they use the adjective “countless”; there are countless stupid things in this world, one might say. I was able to quantify all the stupidity from last week, though, and then I placed my findings in a handy list for you.
– This news that Fat Beats is closing in NY and LA. What’s so stupid is not just the punch in rap history’s stomach here, but additionally: WHERE ELSE can I go to purchase Living Legends 12”s while dressed like a stripper librarian and being overly self-conscious with my heels clicking on the wooden floor? As is always the case in my times of stress and heartache, I only want a member or close ally of CoFlow to provide me with consolation; Mr. Len, thank God, stepped up. His eulogy is about 2 sentences long, but he deserves a break because he’s writing from a place of stress and heartache. And he manages to work in “Internet you crafty son of a bitch you win again,” a little ray of comic sunshine in an otherwise sad news story (Atlantic Monthly).
– Madlib x overpriced coffee, courtesy of Intelligentsia. No way in hell could Madlib ever be stupid, or say or do one stupid thing, so this gimmicky nonsense is clearly Chris Manak’s doing. Gimmicks are stupid, especially when they are tie-ins with crowded and sense-overloading coffee depots that frighten hip-blessed nerdy girls with social anxiety disorder. And OH THE IRONY, since Madlib has no need for stimulants of the caffeinated sort–he is holed up in his bunker most of the time with his 12″s and subsides only on Nitrogen atoms from the sky above and acai extract that he got from a shaman atop Corcovado.
PS, Monchie’s been telling his bros about Madlib because Monchie, I guess, thinks that his bros haven’t heard of Madlib? It appears that Monchie believes it is currently 1996. (I do too, though, so it’s ok. The Score is a great CD! Can’t wait for the Fugees‘ next 3 or 4 albums).
Asked about the appeal of the look to the opposite sex, Mr. Hunter said, “It just gets a dirty idea in your head. Like, ‘This girl is wild,’ or it’s just very sexual, like, ‘Let’s degrade this person.’”
– Mark Hunter, on the appeal of the “dirty girl” look to the opposite sex
– “Dirty Girls.” The NY Observer’s story on them is about 4 years too late (they interviewed the Cobrasnake), but the siren call of the unwashed ladymuse does not appear to be waning in its power. The quote above is outrageously stupid, but I approve of the trend because it expands the definition of female beauty–physical imperfections show up in V mag and we realize they are lovely, not unlike ourselves and our own numerous imperfections. It’s like the Rawss phenomenon among suburban kids—you listen to him and you’re like Hey! I could do that! Makes you feel pretty good. It’s too bad we need imperfections to show up in V in order to realize our own imperfections are lovely, and it’s too bad that you’re only allowed to pull off this look if you are a thin girl and a white girl, but that’s a topic too vast and wide for me to cover here. I’d like to point you in the direction of a Naomi Wolf or bell hooks essay, thank you.
– Fabulous’ “Body Count”? So stupid! These “dead people” of which he speaks are former US presidents and statesmen whose faces adorn the currency in his pocket. This is a cute concept, and I’m surprised nobody thought of it before (go Brooklyn!) The stupid part (aside from his monotonous voice and complete lack of microphone-related charisma) is the line where he describes unworthy adversaries as such: The competition is a skinny bitch: no body. This is not so much “Loso, you’re stupid” as it is “Loso, you hurt my feelings”; as a skinny bitch with hips and a soft pillowy bosom like pow, I am particularly qualified to point out that there are outliers among us bony featherweight types. Even if we account for the fact that 98% of us who are skinny do lack body, we should remember that lacking body is not a bad thing according to a thousand Tumblrs. Fabolous clearly has not seen those photoblogs in which underweight white ladies are presented as silent, topless, bird-like creatures that you are supposed to want to make vigorous love to. Worship her until her beautiful smooth-skinned shell cracks and she transfers her magical life elixir into your breath and bloodstream. Then give her a sandwich and encourage her to stop smoking, ’cause it’s just not ladylike. Also, Loso, failing to mention of Ice-T even once in a song called “Body Count” is stupid.
Many moons ago, before the Clan got torn asunder on account of death and bickering, Meth was the biggest and the toughest, a real ladykiller with that charisma and sense of humor. Dudes had a crush on him, too. But years of record industry foolishness has apparently taken its toll, for now he is a bitter old man who does not realize how foolish he looks, nor the comedy gold inherent in a chubby 19-year-old in Iowa being able to brag to his boys, “Method Man sued me!” The least possible G thing you can do is sue somebody, followed closely by “make up a criminal past just to see if people believe you” and “hustle for followerz.” Lawsuits are for cranky old men and celebrities afraid of being called gay. The hardheaded never learn. Stop actin stupid, Mef.
(there I am on the left, pretending to make out with Robert Fripp. OMG, look at my prepster chic ensemble and new espadrilles! Cuuuuuute.)
– The “Power” remix is stupid. No, not Swizz’s ridiculous and pointless part where they just let him yammer on for a while, loudly shouting annoying hypeman platitudes to Kanye from the booth—although that part is really stupid. What I’m referring to is Kayne Omari rapping about sex, in the least-convincing collection of rhymes since Rawss talked about kilos and work and gunplay. Aw Jesus. It’s so stupid because WE DON’T BELIEVE YOU, SIR. Nobody thinks you actually return home from the club with something to poke on! (sorry Mom). Murakami and Jeremy Scott raps are where you excel and nobody can take that away from you. Let’s stick with what we know. I don’t think that’s actually you on Twitter, neither, but that intern does a mean impression of you.
These delicious and dreamy MiuMiu stripper-librarian oxblood ankle-strap 5-inch penny loafer platforms are called Amarena colored in the store (amarenas are Italian cherries). In apt. 15, I prance around in ‘em and feel so smug that they match my ox blood Porsche, which of course match my rims–and those, in turn, remind me of blood hitting his Timbs. Still, my intellect will win out, I’m afraid. Paying September’s rent is smart; buying a pair of shoes that are equivalent to September’s rent is stupid. I’m too fiscally responsible to buy these at full price so the prance-around-the-apartment scene will remain a fantasy. But I have exceedingly good breeding and knowledge of social graces, so I’ll curtsy and say “Thank you, kind sir” if/when you present them to me. Then I’ll put ‘em on so I can keep it sleazy while in the stacks, returning books to their proper home according to the Dewey Decimal System.
– Everyone please calm down about that tragic Biebs/Rae/Kanye thing that appears to be actually happening, maybe; you’re being stupid. (I’m posting this from my bunker with my Living Legends 12”s where I’m writing letters in blood to Daniel Dumile, begging him to impregnate me so that something good and pure and real will emerge out of my body and remind me that there’s still beauty in this cold, dead world. And yet, it’s you all that I’m telling to calm down. Heh. Stupid.)
– People tell me that there is a hiphop fest called Rock the Bells. What’s stupid about that? Everyone loves hundred-degree heat, expensive bottles of water, and rappers past their prime. The stupid thing here is that there is a hiphop fest called Rock the Bells, and LL has never performed at this fest, which is called Rock the Bells. This seems impossible, but I did some fact-checking and it’s really true. I wasn’t there but believe me, here’s what it looked like yesterday when the Remnants of the Wu took the stage.
Ha! Thanks for indulging me. I’m being stupid.
– Raekwon’sGold SuperfantasticEdish of OB4CL2 has a Travis Barker remix on it, and that’s stupid. Mr. Barker has some kind of odd stranglehold over the rap collab and remix world, and I really feel out of it, like I missed the boat entirely. I’m lost. Crawling back into my bunker soon. But at least there’s no Biebs on the album, and at least it’s more Rae being released into the universe, and at least there’s this song, which turned me into a weed smoker after years of remaining abstinent, even though I went to college at UC Santa Cruz! It’s called “Rockstars,” featuring GZA, the production work of GZA’s cousin, and Inspectah Deck doing a dopeish Bun B impression, and I need to know from whence that guitar snippet came, before it got chopped n’ looped n’ caressed into this.
Mac Dre – “Get Stupid.” It was either this or any one of E-40’s songs–but I feel like this site already heartily supports E-40’s songs. The women like me—I’m dipped in butter/I’ll rob your brother, pimp the blood out your mother. This is where the definition of “stupid” suddenly changes. “Stupid” is now “great” and “knocking,” because this song is fucking stupid. I mean, really really dumb. Nearly retarded. mp3.
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 likeYou 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.
“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:
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.
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.
“Austin Sendek, a 20-year-old UC Davis student, is trying to get scientists from Boise to Beijing to use the term ‘hella’ to denote the unimaginably huge, seldom-cited quantity of 10 to the 27th power”[LA Times]
E-40, in my most private, staring-out-the-window-in-a-fabulous-daydream moments, is my secret English professor (Paul Barman and Doomsy are the tag-teaming TAs). And outside the classroom (still in my daydream; try to follow along) 40 is reconstructing the Tower of Babel, attempting to unite all citizens of Earth in niche Greater Yay Region slanguage.
You understand, then, that I am sad and confused that there is an E-40-shaped hole in a newspaper article that is about both the state of California and linguistic units of meaning. 40’s next mixtape will be called “Signifiers and the Signified,” a Saussurian conceptual piece about weight and work and baking soda and whether Glenn Beck is secretly a left-wing comic who’s doing great satire. Since he is a state treasure both for his linguistic strength and the fact that he is a rapper over the age of 38, E-40 should be consulted regarding anything added to the lexicon. Flamboastin and gangsterous didn’t really take off, but still. Respect this. (I wish you no ill will, science nerds, since I am one of you, but please! Leave “hella” back in 1997, science nerds, and call 40 to come up with the word for “1000000000000000000000000000,” which, with a dollar sign in front of it, is already what he has retrieved in revenue during the fiscal year 2011.)
I needed an E-40, uh, knocker, and luckily THIS ONE NEVER GETS OLD. Rick Rawk, marry me and lovingly insert your bassline into my body every night. Thank youuu.
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.
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 ChaCha last night.
2. “Electro Wars,” via my Cratekings boyfriends. It’s true, Lil Jon–Muhfuckasdon’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.
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.)
1.Skateboards are a Cali art form! No fucking way.
Skateboard: Evolution and Art in California is the seven-thousandth retrospective of skate-related photos presented at an LA-area gallery since 2004. Dope!, because I for one cannot get enough of tanned and beachy young blond men being glorified again and again for their originality, adorable scofflaw antics, and free-wheeling whimsy.
Whatever, dude. I might go to this thing, if I’m promised that there will be snacks. Just point me to the Sheffey and Jovontae areas and I’m straight.
My qualifications for commenting on skateboard issues:
2.The whole idea of semiotics, while amazing and dope, is not something that I found my parents wanted to talk about at the dinner table when I came home from college on break. This was disappointing and enthusiasm-killing for the early-20s version of me. Pass the salad dressing.
Alas, Roland Barthes, my command of your ideas is as tight as the day I turned in that last Literary Theory 101 paper! Can’t nothin keep us apart! As I recall, a sign stands for something, to someone, in some way, right? It’s a discrete unit of meaning, nothing more than a vessel through which information is communicated, a message from one mind to another. The meaning in the message is expressed through words, images, sound. (Like how the Real Rock riddim says to me, clear as day, “Buy another bathing suit and douse yourself in cocoa butter, love.”)
What we have here, semiotically speaking, is the World of Film informing us through imagery that Buttoning Your Shirt All The Way Up is a protagonist’s way of saying “I’m Retarded.”
a) Yup, sounds about right.
b)Fuckinghell, I never think of obvious things like this until I’m looking at it on someone else’s site.Ah well. Nice work, Slate; ‘least I still got the whole socially-awkward-bikini-nerd-with-leftist-politics-at-the-record-store perspective covered on my site. We all have our strengths.
3. YouTube’s useful for when you have guests over and they want to know why Travis Barker incurs your wrath like few other humans before him or since. If you have difficulty articulating exactly why, just press play and watch everybody in the room go, “AH YES! There it is.”
. It takes a nation of tens, hundreds even, to hold ’em back!
AYO CHUCK, The Washington Post is read by Presidents and is based out of Chocolate City; alas, this does not necessarily mean that they have a tight PE game. (Please refer to boo-boo above).
While stopping short of claiming that they Fear a Black Plant, the Post does wholeheartedly endorse superproducer Harv Shocklee.
Willie Hutch – “Brother’s Gonna Work It Out.” ‘Cause he is. He really is. And ’cause even though hiphop is my main source of sustenance other than air and water, old R&B is ruling the wintertime in apt. 302 and because the PE version doesn’t have a flute intro like this. (Ayo Chuck! Sorry, buddy.)
getting up, getting down, hitting it, quitting it, putting a glide in my stride and a dip in my hip, going beyond merely knee deep, figuring out why I must feel like that and why I must chase the cat, and doing things to the roof – including but not limited to raising it and tearing it off the sucker.
Funkadelic – “Cosmic Slop.” Because it’s what we’re all wallowing in at this very moment. And because even though it rules I just can’t bring myself to post that MC Hammer song.