Category Archives: Politickin’

“Just as the habit does not make the monk, the sceptre does not make the king” and other news (Sara, Manute, Fender, Shider, Lakeshow, the Sipp)

Quote above courtesy of writer, communist, and champion of the people Jose Saramago, who died this week. Once you go Marxist, your name is forever dirt among the small-minded; what more is there to say. And I loved Blindness; what more can I say.

The masses get excited for Drake and his cringe-inducing lyrical non-prowess (“What am I doing? What am I doing?/Oh yeah, that’s right: I’m doing me”), when it’s Saramago, a real man of letters, who should be celebrated–and not just in his native Portugal.
Behold the beauty below. Obrigado, senhor.

Beautiful-facial-featured Spanish WAG Sara Carbonero is my new girlfriend with whom I’ll be running away to a land where we can marry and lounge around nakedly and read Neruda poems to each other all day long. With that skin tone and those Arab eyes–her face is like the illustrated history of the Moors fornicating their way through Europe–she rules my heart, yes, but is still only my second-favorite Spaniard, behind this gorgeous specimen:

Quantic – “Juanita Bonita.”


God bless the freaks, went one of the more prominent bumper stickers I’d see at Dead shows when I was little. Amen, brother.

Manute Bol, my brother in unnatural-body-type-ism (his unnaturalness was height and lank; mine is scrawny legs and fat hips), was a good guy. He was able to withstand the vast difficulties and rude stares incurred as a result of being 7’7″ (that’s like a head taller than Garnett, yikes) and used his fame and money to the benefit of causes in his home country, the Sudan. He was also so smart that he really was somewhat a nerd, which makes me love him even more.

When he played for Philadelphia, Bol became friends with Charles Barkley, who shares this:

You know, a lot of people feel sorry for him, because he’s so tall and awkward, but I’ll tell you this — if everyone in the world was a Manute Bol, it’s a world I’d want to live in. He’s smart. He reads The New York Times. He knows what’s going on in a lot of subjects. He’s not one of these just-basketball guys. Basketball’s just one percent of it. You know what he was talking about the other day? Milk. He was saying that he grew up on milk straight from the cow. Squeezed it himself. Milk. He says, ‘Charlie, what’s this lo-fat milk, this two percent milk, all of this other milk? Cows don’t give lo-fat milk, two percent milk. We shouldn’t drink it.’ I don’t know. Maybe he’s got something. Ain’t no maybe about it, Charles. Except maybe he’d tell you to stop doing those T-Mobile commercials because they’re not funny, and do you really need the money at this point, unless you’re giving it to charitable causes in the Sudan? Good lord.

Please get me this book, out later in June: Fender: The Golden Age 1946-1970. Guitars are perfect because the sounds they emit fill our lives with joy, and because they are shaped like women. Ain’t no maybe about that, neither.

Gary Shider, Diaperman, Starchild, has left this place and joined the big cosmic slop up there above the clouds. He was proficient in gospel and goddammit if that’s not what this music is, below.

Coke & headphones are necessary here, after you press play. C’mon, a little won’t kill you.

In the role-playing game of Funk Gods If They Were Clan Gods,

Bernie Worrell is RZA (song constructor),
Eddie Hazel is GZA (space cowboy in tune with the cycles of the moon; not of this earth),
George is Mef (charisma, voice),
Bigfoot Brailey is Rae (the anchor, consistent, unflashy),
Bootsy is Ghosty (often high-pitched voice),
and Shider, of course, is ODB. Because he wore a diaper on stage, people.

Lakeshow necessities:

“Drake Brings Out Kobe at Powerhouse” is a headline which could also just as accurately say “2 Wack Rappers on Stage at Powerhouse.” My strong sense of integrity means that I simply cannot overlook bad music, which explains my snark here, but #24 is still the greatest. And hey, what happened to all those people who were making fun of the LA Times magazine spread? So weird, how they’re not really running their yaps right now. You oughta be ashamed, e-thugs. It’s like the liquor store owner in Menace said: I feel sorry for your mother.

Ron-Ron has a song called “Champion” that is, let’s be honest, not very good, but the best part about following this link is that you’ll see various commenters on Rap Radar correctly ascertaining that it’s far superior to anything on Drake’s album. I find comfort in this, being understood by my brothers in hip-hop, even though I dislike the fact that Ron had to do it over that goddamn Beamer Benz beat. WHYYYY in the name of Long Island City his verses were not done over “The Bridge” instrumental is beyond me, but I love Ronald always and forever. If things don’t work out with Sara C. and me, he’s definitely my next conquest.

Most of the team (sorry, Luke) and a spectacular pair of Harlequin pants were guests on Jimmy Kimmel. Update: even if things do work out between Sara and me, I’m setting my sights on Ron. He’s my density.

Haley Barbour is the Republican governor of Mississippi, deflector of criticism aimed at BP, and brand-new Dude Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked. Welcome, Haley! Pull up a seat next to Sean Hannity, just behind all the dudes in that goddamn Grown-Ups movie who bored me to death with their courtside appearances and half-assed takes on NBA rivalries during the finals (even you, Chris Rock, who disappointed me most of all because you should know better).

Barbour is going to be trouble, I can feel it already. “A self-described ‘fat redneck,’ he speaks in a marble-mouthed Mississippi drawl, loves Maker’s Mark bourbon, resembles an adult version of Spanky from the Little Rascals and fits no one’s ideal of a sleek new political model: squat, big-bellied and pink-jowled, he looks as if he should have a cigar in his mouth at all times (and occasionally does),” and makes it clear he’d be none too pleased if his daughter were to bring home a young man of color. Oops, I may have added that last part.

“A bunch of liberal elites were hoping this would be the Three Mile Island of offshore drilling,” said Mr. Barbour, who earns over $120,000 annually but is in no way a dreaded elite. This was in response to the BP spill, which Barbour insists was not very consequential–I mean, oil won’t affect the ecosystem just offshore from his state, which he knows for a fact based on his scientific research that consists of walking along the Mississippi coastline and seeing that very few tar balls have washed up. Offshore drilling employs a lot of people in Mississippi, and it’s nice that he’s defending that; however, I believe he has an even stronger sense of obligation to defend the oil companies that gave him $1.8 billion toward his gubernatorial campaign.

“I appreciate him promoting tourism,” said Diane Peranich, a Democratic state representative from the coast in response to Barbour’s public statements of delusion, “but not to the detriment of reality.”

Home to this guy and birthplace of Elvis, plus that whole Chaney-Goodman-Schwerner unpleasantness, Mississippi needs a miraculous turnaround if it hopes to redeem itself after all these years. David Banner and Bo Diddley can’t carry the whole state, you guys.

America is broke/its backbone was built off of dope, oil and false hope.
David Banner – “When You Hear What I Got to Say.” I sure do love this song, especially right around the second minute. Like me, David’s got a dirty mouth but a pristine soul.



When Steele cooks beef/The smoke’ll never clear.

The head of the Republican Party criticized Senate candidate Rand Paul on Sunday for questioning the landmark Civil Rights Act and said the Kentucky libertarian’s views were out of step with the party and country. [Reuters]

Heaven! Oh, it’s heaven.

Republican in-fighting is a joyful, lovely thing, and it’s all this lady needs on a this particular Sunday to wash away the grime and escape the miasma of urban woe. Michael Steele called out Rand Paul for his criticism of the Civil Rights Act; this was the correct thing to do, which marks the first time I’ve approved of Michael Steele’s behavior. Rand Paul’s already done a quick side-step, turn-around, backpedal, “nevermind” dance following the fallout from his remarks, because that’s what shit-talkers always do. He also says he does, after all, support the Act, make no mistake about it, because shit-talkers are also liars. Anyway, the whole thing is fun, plus, YOU GUYS, this is just like Jimmy vs. Cam, only the Huffington Post is the arena instead of Kay Slay’s show!

Unfortunately, this is unlikely to affect Mr. Paul’s political trajectory, as people just do not give even a little bit of a fuck about Michael Steele and what he says. I bet even he knows it. This is not cause to feel sorry for him, since E-40 teaches that if you live by the dirt, you die by the shovel.

Mos Def – “Johnny Too Beef.” Because I must’ve posted BDP’s “Beef” in a previous post. I must have.



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.”


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.


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.


“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)



On some teleprompter shit I got you watching your words.

“Cognitive Dissonance”: a Blog Post in Two Acts.

I. “Little Brother’s Retirement Party” in the Village Voice. The article is good because Brandon Soderberg wrote it, even though he did that thing in music articles that I hate and that is just so popular right now – “(Musical artist) is _____ (doing something seemingly unrelated to music, present continuous tense); ______ (location and mood are established, musical artist shows human/humble side while maintaining artistic sheen and allure).” Soderberg is my OG imaginary writing/nerding-out buddy from way way back; he does a fine job with this piece. Additionally, the picture that accompanies the article is dreamy, I’m introduced to the category “John Kerry hip-hop” and shall henceforth use the term whenever possible, and for everybody who makes fun of me for singing along with J. Biebs on Power 106, Phonte would like to punch you in the mouth! We’re part of the unapologetically-liking-bad-music army. Join us or perish.

Dude, if you like Gucci Mane’s music, he says, like it! Rock with us because you like us, not because of what you think it represents or whatever ideology you pulled out your ass and put on us.


Then the article reveals that Drake calls Phonte his favorite MC, which casts a dreary shadow upon an article dedicated to the greatness of Little Brother. “Phonte is my favorite MC,” I imagine he yelled, in that loud, LOUD fucking monotone. By the way, how odd that I like Bieber the Canadian Elf extensively more than a semi-attractive rapper who does songs with Bun B. Hm. Never thought I’d see the day. Turn and face the strange. Ch-ch-changes.

II. Montgomery C. Burns and his sideways smirky face and sideways smug talk, quoted in Time.

Boastful braggery is a tough one to pull off without a bag of rhymes and an amazing producer; Dick Cheney has neither, so he never stood a chance with that quote above. When I first read those words, it sounded self-congratulatory and obnoxious. That’s sort of the best thing I ever did, telling another grown man to fuck off. I RULE. Bow in the presence of greatness. It’s not that simple, though, because when you think about it, the words he said are true. It is the best thing he ever did, mostly because it was a rare moment in which he did not increase Halliburton’s profits or send 19-year-olds to the desert. In my soft and girly moments, I think that maybe Dick’s acknowledging what a ghastly job his administration did, and how evil permeated the landscape between the years 2001 and 2008 in America. Maybe he’s trying to apologize. This throws me, because Cheney scary bad man! My head hurts.

“Worldwide trunk funk, no jazz on the East.” A Kool Keith + Doom tag-team rap song, possibly one day? Alas, the Music Gods have not yet made it so. My heart and mind couldn’t sustain the libidinous energy flowing through my slender body upon first listen. Plus I’m sure there’s beef somewhere in their history. Boys and their feelings, you know?


There is simply no situation in life that cannot be described by an existing Ghostface song.

Health care is a right, not a privilege. I’d like to thank Bart Stupak from the great state of Michigan for rescinding his bitchy move at the last minute, and I’d like to remind John Boehner that he is an OG member of the Dudes Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked Club.

Peace to Nancy Pelosi.


A year and a day.

Jan. 20, 2009:

“President-elect Barack Obama was about to walk out to take the oath of office. Backstage at the U.S. Capitol, he took one last look at his appearance in the mirror.” (Official White House photo, Pete Souza)

Obamic Accomplishments lauded in apt. 302: Economic stimuli of varying sorts, health care (pre-Massachusetts straight fucking it all up), the Nobel, tax credits to offset the cost of tuition, more health insurance for more kids. And, of course: BO! Also, the Muslim world hates us a teeny bit less these days. Yes dear, of course he could be doing better. We all could. But basically, enjoy the man’s feats thus far and stop throwing salt in my game. I’m looking at you, people who frequently email me to call me out on my “crush on the President.” Barry O is the truth!, even if it takes you a little longer than me to see it.

I am the bard and I am the last one/I am the king and this is my castle.
I’d also like to add And you can bet your ass.

. . .

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 5 best/dumbest items in the George W. Bush time capsule

The pain in apt. 302 continues to fade as he gets farther and farther from the Oval Office, but on occasion he resurfaces to do his little monkey dance. The audacity of dumb, y’all.

Bush memorabilia waiting to go on display

Documents, photographs, cowboy boots, jewelry and other items from the former administration, now housed in a warehouse in Texas, will eventually fill the George W. Bush Presidential Library.

Lewisville, Texas – Eight years of American history is meticulously cataloged, wrapped, stored and guarded in a climate-controlled warehouse.

Sixty-eight million pages of documents, a surfboard, 175 million e-mails, countless cowboy hats, 3,845,912 photographs, Stan “The Man” Musial’s autograph, gold and silver swords, handmade quilts, diamond jewelry, cowboy boots, classified files, a gift from the pope and the 9-millimeter Glock Saddam Hussein was armed with when he was rooted out of his spider hole in Iraq.

a gift from the pope. Hmm.

“We’ve got gifts from “American Idol” winners and the Jonas Brothers.” The apocalyptic Jesus freaks, and not in a sweet, harmless LA way like the ones Elton John sings about.

a gold replica of the Temple of Heaven from the Chinese minister of foreign affairs, with the five figurines from the Beijing Olympics accented with Swarovski crystals. Fuck off, Georgia rappers.

the Black Ink Test, and third all-time on the Gray Ink Test

Related: “When you’re the president, you don’t get cubic zirconia,” Schulle said. I read this as he doesn’t get cubic zirconia, because I’m sure this is true. It confuses him. Fish in a barrel, my dude.

Welcome to the Bush White House, now in storage in Lewisville, where there’s even wood flooring from the Oval Office and chairs from the press room.

It all eventually will move to the $300-million George W. Bush Presidential Library, opening at Southern Methodist University in Dallas in 2013. But for now, archivists are trying to get their arms around the massive collection of documents and “museum objects” stored in the 60,000-square-foot facility managed by the National Archives and Records Administration.

Lavish personal gifts — such as diamond and sapphire jewelry given to First Lady Laura Bush by the king of Saudi Arabia and custom cowboy boots with the large “GWB” monogram from Houston boot-maker Rocky Carroll — are attention grabbers.

“I like to think of [the collection] as a good time capsule that reveals everything that is going on during his eight years in office,” said Jennifer Schulle, the library’s registrar.

“You get to see not only things going on politically, but you see things going on in terms of fashion, social customs, culture,” she said. “We’ve got gifts from “American Idol” winners and the Jonas Brothers.”

Art objects include a mosaic of St. Peter’s Square given to President Bush by Pope Benedict XVI and a gold replica of the Temple of Heaven from the Chinese minister of foreign affairs, with the five figurines from the Beijing Olympics accented with Swarovski crystals.

“When you’re the president, you don’t get cubic zirconia,” Schulle said.

Some of Bush’s favorites are more all-American, she said, adding that “the president truly prized a baseball bat signed by all the living members of the Baseball Hall of Fame in 2001.”

But it is the historic documents — from events such as the Sept. 11 attacks and the wars with Iraq and Afghanistan — that will prove to be of more lasting value and interest, said Alan Lowe, director of the library.

“The Bushes are very much involved in the library,” Lowe said. “President Bush has been here looking through photographs. He has been very engaged.”

Eleven people are on staff at the Bush library, Lowe said, with 10 new archivists slated to start by mid-January. Eventually, the staff will number about 35.

And they’ll have their work cut out for them as they prepare for the first release of Bush documents on Jan. 20, 2013 — five years after he left office — as called for under the 1978 Presidential Records Act. Documents involving national defense and other sensitive issues can be withheld longer. Classified documents are stored in a sealed area of the warehouse.

The library eventually will include materials from Bush’s post-White House years.

Willie Nelson, Scarface, Buddy Holly, ATDI, Lightnin Hopkins, the UnderFuckingGround Kaaangs. Texas, you’ve successfully redeemed yourself. But barely.

Not really that great, but the forces joining together on this one! Make um say…random? Also: trill. And nahmean/wordlife. Email me if you’d like to hear my Lord Jamar for President rant (circa ’92).

Every day is Christmas, and every night is New Year’s Eeeeeeve

1. Crybaby Report, November ’09: Former George W. Bush aides are sad and mad that President Dreamypants uses the word “unprecedented” in his press conferences and speeches.

“The new guy uses that word too much,” they say, “Our guy did important things too! Also!: Wah, wahwahwahhhh.”

Next up: “You can’t tell me what to do; you’re not my real dad” and “Ew, that’s your new boyfriend? OMG I am sooooo much stronger and more handsome than him.”

Even in absentia, W. is annoying as all hell since his droogs will just not stop saying words that end up quoted on newsy websites. No matter; I predict that Barry O. will soon turn all of this into a positive by wielding these unprecedented critiques in a spectacular and unprecedented display of making one’s haters one’s motivators.

First new Sade album in 10 years to be released February 8; comes packaged with a set of 400-count sheets, jojoba oil, and several prophylactics.

“The Sweetest Taboo.” Because it just never gets old; it really doesn’t. And because rain at the beginning of a song means you and your pants will soon be separated (please see above).



“Trouble Man.”

“Is It a Crime.”


James Brown, Bob Marley added to Grammy Hall of Fame.

Still waiting to hear about Pele’s status with the Soccer HOF and to find out if Jay-Z has crossed the million-album-sales mark yet. Fingers crossed!

4. Help Me Reconcile My Feelings About a Current Global Aid Crisis, episode 27:

Should the US send aid to Uganda, a nation with lots of hunger and sickness but also a lot of fear of the gays and a contentious relationship with its homosexual citizens, even going so far as to make homosexuality a crime punishable by death?

Wait, do I love any producers, rappers, politicians, or comedians from Uganda? Have I even heard of anyone from Uganda other than Idi Amin? No? Then fuck ’em. (sorry, Mom. Also, just kidding, Mom and everybody reading this.)

This debate kinda reminds me of how I love my gays yet I love Buju Banton, ’cause I’m kind of a bad person. Conveniently, this debate also provides a good segue into me posting some Buju.
(My love of the Conquering Lion aside, I am confused by and distrustful of a people whose belief system somehow equates homosexuality with oral sex, even when the sexuality experienced is of the hetero kind – which, for those following along at home, means no sex with the mouth. Because Selassie or Marcus Garvey or somebody, uh, disapproves? Spell it out for me, please.)

“Walk Like a Battyboy.” Somebody turned Buju gay!


Taxi riddim. ‘Cause I’m not about to post “Boom Bye Bye.” (love my gays, remember? pay attention)


A little Obama-ry to kick off November.

1. Halloween at the White House: Swoon/delicious/yes please/I love you, President Dreamboat/participating in Halloween is corny unless you’re the leader of the planet/sometimes I am cranky but really all I need is to be greeted by an image like this on the Yahoo! home page on Sunday morning and everything in life is better, all better:


There’s that Ed Norton documentary on HBO that I need to see*; I hear it’s all sugar and gloss and bathes the Prez in heartwarming golden light and fairy-tale charm, but that’s because dude, we totally fucking have a President who’s not a rich old white man and that right there used to only happen in fairy tales so, hey, let’s celebrate with a fluffy pro-Hope, pro-Change documentary.

Sometimes I get emails from people asking me to be more critical of Prez Dreamboat. Aw damn, see, I find that doing so would be an inappropriate use of my wit, intelligence, and comedy skills, so these critical posts of the President will probably not be happening. Haters to the left, now and forever.


I’m almost fainting re: Barry O., backstage lookin like James Brown about to take the Apollo stage in ’73 – but it’s not because of any similarities in ethnic background between the 2 of them, mind you. It’s because James was a god on the mic beloved by his followers, and the Prez is a god on the mic and beloved by his followers and because he also stays on the scene/like a sex machine. (in my head)

Also, every time I see Ed Norton I remember that Ed Norton used to do naked things with Salma Hayek. I believe they were lovers for several years. You guys, you’ve seen Ed Norton, right? This provides conclusive evidence that ladies blessed in the womanly-body department love smart leftist dudes, no matter what the dudes look like. On a related note, I’ve recently discovered that the leftist, brilliant, but rather unfortunate-looking Bill Maher has a comely ladyfriend. I am hereby officially announcing my official ladycrush on Bill Maher’s official ladyfriend.

See? Foxy.
(the one on the left)

3. Michelle Obama is a fucking G, I mean a real bona fide power hitter. She’ll take your seat at the Yankee game, Rudy Giuliani!, and then turn and smile at you with grace and decency, and you love her cashmere twinset so much, you just sigh and realize you really wanted to sit in the upper deck behind left field. The seats just to the right of the Yankees’ dugout are overrated. OH MICHELLE, you’re always right.

“I’m the New York power hitter.” – Juju.
No you’re not, Juju. Michelle is. Thanks for providing me with a half-assed excuse to post this song and relive ’01, though. 8 years later, the average cat still don’t even know his fate. Crazy.