Category Archives: No fucking way

Ambient 1: Music for Airports Moving

27 of my favorite things in one thing. This image is pure sex and the most pornographic thing I’ve seen ALL WEEK, cuddie.

Crates n’ crates n’ dresses n’ books bring me joy every day of the year, except for this particular day and the next few days that follow since I am moving. I am moving to a new apartment home in the city. I’m moving, again, just because I enjoy it so much. Soon there will be posts emerging from “apt. 680,” which I know, I knowwww doesn’t have the same catchy appeal as “apt. 15,” (Deck didn’t go to jail at the age of 680, sadly) but it’s a much better place, you guys! You’ll see. I’ll stand in my living room, probably holding a record and most definitely wearing something my mother would not approve of, take a picture of it, then post it. I know this girl with her own crib, in isolation, Keith said. That song’s about me. Sometimes I need to alter my surroundings. The background changes, but the overall themes of my life (bathing suits, ice cream, breaks, science stuff*, venom directed at bad/lazy rappers) never will. And yes, now I’ll be living up in the treez, but my heart’s still down at street level with all of you.

* The most powerful influence on women’s appreciation of their bodies is how they believe others view them, science says, to which I can only respond No fucking way/Yes, perhaps you have seen my blog.

Moving songs to give me energy while I drag crates and to, well, move me of course, include

1. V White and the Politician’s “Sixes on My Seven Deuce,” a song that’ll make you forget about the damage you’re doing to your car’s suspension with your heavy round chrome darlings. (Not to be too preachy. Sorry. They look tiiiiiight.)

Brilliant corners. The video was directed by Casual!

The sun is a-risin, most definitely. A new day is comin. (Ain’t it beautiful)
The beautiful bodies of ladies are fetishized in rap music/all music/America/HeightFiveSeven/the street when I walk down it. The bodies of cars: also fetishized. Players (the rims); players (the people) – fetishized (every gangster movie, every UGK song). The concept of things being “deeper than rap” (a statement which holds no meaning, it’s not real, since that’s like saying something is “deeper than everything” or “deeper than life,” which is to say that rap is a thing that can be quantified which of course it cannot). Of course that’s a fetish. Nearly everything I love is fetishized but I’ve mastered the ability to separate that from my enjoyment of those things. When I hit a relaxed mood and I’m just coasting on good feeling, I don’t mind so much that women and cars are usually described/beloved/criticized in the same way by straight men. I mean, who cares, because the beautiful paint-glisten in the pic up there resembles sweat, like that of a human female.

The Politician, whose heat is in the trunk along with that quad knock, also happens to have the face of Huey Newton on his tricep. (Black revolutionaries: also fetishized) I am listening to this song over and over, because that’s how my particular form of OCD (the flood of brain chemicals! fetishized) works.

2. I know nothing about these individuals other than a) fixies and b) drums. Warm-sounding drums. I don’t know if you’ll have the same love for it; I had to share, though.

(The greatness of an already-great song is slightly distorted, amplified, when I put on my precious expensive headphones. That’s the Sennheiser Effect. The sound is crystalline, booming and emotional. Hearty and fulfilling. My brain’s reward center needs it every few weeks – a song not about hookers and ki’s. This one’s like the musical version of steel-cut oats.)

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No Fucking Way (Zen Master edition) | Anita P. | Bad rap music | Guilty & me, on that midnight train


Phil Jackson is a bad person and a pretty substantial asshole? Nofuckingway.

Why you people never saw this before is beyond me.
(not to sound like a jerk. Sorry.)

Rappers have ghostwriters, my blonde highlights aren’t from the sun, and rich men like to hold onto their money. Phil Jackson’s salary is rumored to be around $12 million. Wake up from dreamworld at some point, babycakes.

Phil is, I’m guessing with so much certainty that it’s not even a guess anymore, a GOP supporter. There are some nefarious goings-on at play in the boardrooms of successful business organizations, including such businesses as national sports franchises, and shiny championship rings are so blinding that they prevent us from seeing it.

It is amazing how complete is the delusion that beauty is goodness, Tolstoy said. It’s also amazing that a tall, deep-voiced white man with a calming presence can throw around snippets of the teachings of Siddhartha and completely delude everyone into thinking he’s some kind of hippie. Phil’s got Buddhist mystique but he’s clearly hollow inside, driving his Boxster to Iyengar class, popping Viagra, going to sushi with Russ Simmons probably a couple times a year. Dude is just a jerk. A cold, hard, hollow man who is rich and who favors awful and unconstitutional immigration laws.

That said, LAKERS IN 2.

Steely Dan – “Bodhisattva.”

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El-P, on the other hand, is the good kind of asshole! The very best kind, in fact. “Whores: the Movie,” via the Village Voice.

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There’s all this talk of Exile on Main Street, everywhere, just all over, because it’s being reissued. The only redeeming thing about this is that it makes everyone fall in love again with Billy Preston’s piano wizard hands, and it provides me an opportunity to revisit my love of Anita Pallenberg and briefly summarize my feelings about the soft-skinned muses who put male frontmen in heat.

There is simply not enough love for music’s inspirational ladies, who often get the disrespectful “groupie” label by unknowing dolts who don’t understand the magic of lady power when it comes to good recorded sound. What’s that? What could I mean by this? OH NOTHING, just Prince’s ENTIRE CAREER. Tina so inspired Ike that he made her the focus, the one to belt out stuff that he had written. Quincy Jones was so inspired by Peggy Lipton’s undergarments that the song “PYT” just burst out of him. Then there was Ice-T and Darlene, of course. And Tawny Kitaen, obviously. And now Jay Elec is just murdering the game, slicing and dicing everything in his path, and it’s probably because of the sweet love he makes to Erykah.
(Amber Rose, we shall see what kind of production your influence has wrought when your “boyfriend”(?)’s next album hits the streets/Internet. I have my doubts but I’ll reserve judgment until I hear the finished product).

In sum: people of Earth, the root of the word music is muse. Give your girlfriend a smooch. Bloody hell, beauty is goodness! Fuck off, Tolstoy.

“Tumbling Dice.” If your parents did it right they raised you on Muddy Waters and Howlin Wolf instead of this drivel. That said, it’s hard to get mad at enthusiastic white kids wanting to be cool by copying the greats. I love this song in spite of myself; right around the 2:30 point I just give in to it. All of us women are low-down gamblers, and we’re lovable as hell. CLACKETY CLACK.

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“Hip-hop is the most important art form in my life, because it is the art of democracy.”

Ta-Nehesi at The Atlantic, back at it again with so much truth it kind of knocks you over: “Forever Young,” it must be said, is awful – especially in comparison with really great flipped/bounced loops in rap songs over the years.

People who agree with me about bad songs are the coolest and will obviously get linked to on this blog. Nice one, Mr. Coates.

It is clear to me that Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin'” is about me (small town girl, lonely world) and Guilty Simpson (city boy, south Detroit). I still haven’t gotten How to Wreck a Nice Beach but this whole “Journey/bearded Michigan MC” motif that came to me today provided a nice soul-soothing distraction during my workday.

“Drums.” Obviously I need the instrumental of this within the next 48 hours or I’ll throw a tantrum; however, I do love his vocal on here. He sounds sleepy but still like he could do a whole shift at the factory. Then the chorus comes in with various ways of praising the almighty DRUM! If you say you don’t want a part of this you’re lying. (Thank you kindly, Stones Throw)

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Tons of fun and brainwashed slime.

“California Bill Would Create Annual Ronald Reagan Day.” [Huffington Post]

Crack vials and junk bonds for everybody!

Thank you, face of Shawn, for wordlessly and accurately expressing my feelings about this. I’m frantically trying to reach Jello Biafra and Chuck D for comment.

You know the hammers’ll lose your cabbage, them dudes do damage/Send Zulu Nation through Reaganomics, we move them package. Love Mef and Styles P and the beat below; hate hatehatehate Fat Joe so much that even if I adopt an ironic stance I still can’t fool myself into not hating him. Similarly, LOVE Reaganomically produced hip-hop and punk fucking rock; haaaaate the fact that Reagan had to exist in order to make them so.

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SLAP. Button-ups. Stevie.

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Peralta, 1975, by Stecyk.

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:

a) that’s my name, not yours, on a board

and

b) I live right by Lockwood. LOCK-WUUUHD.

Plus there was that time I made blog love to that alluring Mouse soundtrack.

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.”

Hit it, Steveland. (Ha! Literally.)

a) You can feel it all ohh-ohhhh-verrrr.

b) You can feel it all over, people.

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Aww!: Krylon edition

JOEY WAS HERE. And he cares about the United Way.

In 1992 a professor performed an experiment in a public restroom and discovered a completely effective way to prevent people writing on public bathroom walls. See, what you do is you appeal to their desire to help provide funding to a network of community-based assistance agencies that serve kids and families! Science, you never cease to amaze!

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T. Steuart (yes, that’s really how he spells it) Watson, a professor at Miami University of Ohio, selected 3 fucked-up men’s bathrooms in which to carry out his experiment. They were covered in writing – “each room had a history writ large, and small, in many different hands” (the story is from The Guardian, and I just like that fancy Brit way of describing the bathroom landscape). Each of the walls had been repainted numerous times due to the amounts of graffiti during the months preceding the experiment; new tags popped up every day.

Over the next 50 days, Watson implemented his treatment to see how humans could be motivated to knock it off. It was completely effective, a total success.

The treatment was simple – taping a sign on the wall like this:


During the 3-month study period, no marking occurred on any of the walls. They remained graffiti-free, no markings, clean and untouched. That’s nice, right? “Aww, dudes in bathrooms with pens are kind-hearted!” is the appropriate response here. Watson then published a report about his method in the Journal of Applied Behavior Analysis, where professional science nerds saw it and discussed it and this is how it trickled down to amateur science nerds such as myself.

And he actually did donate the money – though it was a not-very-generous 5 cents per day, per bathroom. Nice one, professor. Thus, with three restrooms in play, the total payoff for charity was $2.50 per restroom – a combined $7.50 due to dudes quelling their itch to get up in the men’s room. I mean, you guys must have a need to really fucking bomb because it is exceedingly gangster to do so in the bathroom facility of a bar, but in this experiment the subjects managed to push that burning desire deep down inside. Dude, you had some ups in the men’s room at the Cha Cha! What’s your crew and/or are they well-respected? Skeme, is that you?

Why was the treatment so effective? Watson thinks that bathroom-goers seeing the sign indicating that somebody cared about the blank wall space was enough to compel them to leave it alone – especially given that somebody was willing to give money to a nice thing like the United Way. Prior to posting the signs, “bare walls appeared to function as discriminative stimuli for graffiti, perhaps because it was not apparent that anyone cared.” (Discriminative stimuli is the catch phrase of the day. Please use it in at least 3 of your social interactions by 4 PM today.)

Extra credit goes to the professor for not being all surprised that dudes who write on bathroom walls can be decent human beings. I was waiting for that stance to be taken – Shut up, nobody who uses a Krink on the men’s room wall cares about children or the agencies that assist them! – but it didn’t happen, much to my delight.

Deer Tick – “Art Isn’t Real.” I’m not saying I agree with this; in fact, art is very much real. I’m still hanging round and round/Sometimes it’s a racket, but lately not a sound/In the bowels of history and time/I have learned to stay back and never shine. Get ’em, Providence.

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No Fucking Way: NFL, poor people, and ladies’ fashions edition

1. It is not good for a woman’s foot to be in heels, says science (via the LA Times). It causes pain later in life and is just generally something a woman shouldn’t put herself through.

OHGOD why didn’t somebody tell me this sooner. It’s bad for my foot to be frozen at an ungodly 45-degree incline and for my whole 120 lbs to be carried by the ball of my foot and my 5 dainty toes so that my posture is thrown out of wack and my booty protrudes in a sexy fashion? ‘The fuck out!

Science, you treat me like I’m a dummy and I don’t like it.

On a positive note, have you seen girly legs/bottoms in heels? OF COURSE YOU HAVE, at the cluuuuhb. SWEET LORD, it’ll cause you pain! In your crotch area! But in a good way! You go with your boys and style/profile, ass-watch, and probably assign numerical value to each lady who walks by. Dude, I listen to Howard Stern and I’ve seen The Man Show. Do not front, please.


Sweden’s finest furniture, plus me showing the business section who’s boss while fully killing ’em (by myself, in apt. 302) via foot-destroyers.


Balance is not a problem for me (it’s ’cause of my extra on-point inner-ear game, sonnn) but being like 6 feet tall at the bar is so unpleasant for a shy girl such as myself who prefers to blend in, people-watch, and sing along with
“Ask” in my head that I just wear “I’d rather be at home reading” all over my little face. See, dudes talk to me on the computer but not in real life and that’s probably why. Shyness is nice, but listen, it can stop you from doing all the things in life you’d like to.

2. “Dementia risk vastly higher for former NFL players,” or “Getting hit in your skull repeatedly by large men is not good for your poor soft brain and might cause your brain to stop working,” says science (via the NY Times).


WHO CARES. I’m
still ready for some football.

3. “Poor people even poorer, sicker during recession. Also, there are too many poor people and not enough health care”Reuters, in its “Health News for You, Moron” section.

I believe I have already reported this information in my hard-hitting expose circa May ’09, complete with a Supreme Clientele tie-in. Shut up and stop clogging up my Internet with useless things I already know, Reuters and other newsy organizations in my RSS feed.

The Cool Kids – “Shut Up,” AKA “Swiff D channels Collipark in ’05 channeling Pharrell in ’97 channeling Rubin in ’87.”


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The sperm of Dwayne Carter is an unstoppable force unlike anything we have experienced thus far


Baaaasically just so I could post this picture.
(and the song below)

More Weezay DNA will soon be walking the earth, ensuring that another lucky child make me jealous by having Mannie Fresh as a godfather.
(It’s still ’97; clearly you did not get the memo).

Looks like Weezy does not believe in the use of condoms. Word on the block is that Weezy has once again poked some random chick raw and got her pregnant. Rumors are that the new baby is not Lauren London’s, Nivea’s, or Toya’s! All I know is that four different baby mama’s is not a good look.

Weezy is just out of control! At the same time we also have to blame those ignorant ladies out here who have allowed him to go in raw. Please pass homeboy a box of condoms before it’s too late. In the meantime we are just gonna sit back & sip our cough syrup until the new baby mama comes forward. If you see that hoe, please point her out!

“Poked some random chick raw” does not get enough play on HeightFiveSeven.

Also, “Poked some random chick raw”? I’m starting to think you bloggers are a judgmental bunch, talking about folks you don’t even know and making critiques and throwing around the term hoe like it’s nothing! Also, that cough syrup part made me cringe from sheer unfunny-ness. Stop it.

Ramsey Lewis (x The White Album) – “Cry Baby Cry”

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No Fucking Way: Up north trip edition

US Prisons too punitive, fail to rehabilitate.

I’m basically the Sasha Grey of the blogosphere (pretentious, Oscar Wilde fan, skinny) but this venture does not pay well. I do it for the love. In my spare time, then, I earn a living as a social scientist with a concentration in prison-industrial-complex superhaterism because I’m a patriot. I live in a wonderful yet infuriating country called America, where almost half of the prison population is made up of black males; however, I am now about to complete the only prison-related blog post you’ll see in ’09 that does not include a picture of Prodigy, Gucci Mane, or Chi-Ali. Please save your applause ’til the end.

Joel Dvorskin, a university professor and criminal justice expert, wanted to find out what social science reveals about preventing and reducing violent crime, and the specifics on how the prison system is a massive failure. He then did some research, and that was a sad time-waster for him since he could’ve just listened to some PRT or Dead Prez. Feeling all pleased about hisself, he would now like to announce that U.S. prisons provide instruction for inmates on how to commit crimes more successfully, and how to behave in an aggressive manner in order to get their needs met and dominate within the social hierarchy. Prisons, he says, are too punitive and fail to rehabilitate. Harsh punishment backfires. And you should probably provide some job skills training if you want prisoners to be less violent upon release and stop returning to the place with all the cages.

“No fucking way,” I said, sitting in the back of my 8th-grade US Gov’t class after having written 19 essays on this topic. Then I gave him a Mumia petition to sign and went back to being miserable and annoying as a middle-class Caucasoid girl from a loving, 2-parent household.

Dvorskin has a book coming out called Applying Social Science to Reduce Violent Offending, which I genuinely would like to read despite the hater-ish tone of this post, since my copy of No More Prisons has been in some box in my parents’ garage since ’99 and going to look for it would really cut into my lounging-around time. Dvorskin’s book examines why prisons are failing and what needs to change, from a psychologically informed perspective. Its main point is that we need to stop locking up every other black man and spend resources on violent lawbreakers rather than worrying so much about 20 sacks.

My hollerback book, Incarcerating Poor and/or Brown People Keeps America’s Financial Wheels Turning So Stop Being Naive, Joel Dvorskin, has no release date as of yet.

And because of this fucking downer of a story, things have gotten far too serious on HeightFiveSeven today. I need 2 of the most cheerful songs ever written about being on lockdown in order to feel better:


Give it to me/One time
. Hit it, Toots!

“54-46 (That’s My Number)”

mp3.

Boom-boom…BAP, boom, bam. Hit it, D-Nice!

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No Fucking Way: bangers & mash, trainers, pence, shillings, & Boxing Day edition


I got tickets, let’s roll to the Knicks game
You Teena Marie, and baby, I’m Rick James
Excuse me, where you going, mama?
I want a change, I voted for Obama.

Reggie

The average man will spend almost 43 minutes a day staring at 10 different women.


(The Telegraph UK)

“Gasp! That’s terrible,” I announced, adding, “Do you like my new bathing suit?”
Then I smiled demurely and went back to putting cocoa butter on while reading Backlash and making sure you don’t stare at my ass. See, ’cause I’m extra complex.

43 minutes a day of staring = 259 hours = almost 11 days each year, resulting in a total of 11 months and 11 days that men spend taking it alllll in during their lives. Whaddup ladies. How you doin.
When asked where they were staring, exactly (hi, creepy poll-takers), 40% of men said their eyes were immediately drawn to a woman’s figure.
(
“Girls have faces?” asked Luther Campbell)

Mark Ireland, spokesman for Kodak Lens Vision Centres (that’s a LensCrafters with a Union Jack flying out front, you guys), which carried out the poll, said: ‘Men are renowned for looking at women but it’s interesting to find out exactly how long they spend eyeing girls up.

‘A year of their life is a long time to spend with their eyes fixed on the opposite sex.’

The supermarket is the most popular location for staring, followed by a pub, a nightclub, work, and shops.

This was a poll of 3,000 British dudes, let’s keep in mind–and oh how those wacky lads like to ogle and verbally pounce and say cheeky things. However, this still gets the “No Fucking Way” treatment even in the U.S., since I hear that boys in this country also like to look at girls they have deemed pretty. Please note, however, if you live in a city called Los Angeles there has been a secret mass memo instructing adult male humans to willfully ignore that skinny girl in the dress shopping at Trader Joe’s even though she is very nice.
(53-year-old white dudes at Amoeba, however, apparently have a mandate to stroll up and attack her with some middle-aged-white-man verbal gamesmanship every time they see her in the aisles)

I would also like it noted that I have pre-approved the following British dudes to stare at me to all the livelong day and take camera phone pics if they want:

Donald Dumile,
Slick Rick,
Elvis Costello,
Eric Burdon in 1964,
and H.R.

Keep it movin, Phil Collins and Rod Stewart.

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