It was a lovely weekend. Special shout to Stories, the good people at Urban Outfitters who make consistently pretty dresses for girls with hips, the “Ha Ha” instrumental, Bruce Haack, Nutella always, Bob Power for being named Bob Power and for ruling, KCRW for playing Little Willie John’s “My Love Is” at the exact perfect moment on Sunday afternoon, and Mr. Tompkins, of course. Even in a perfect world, where everyone was equal, Dave would most likely own the film rights and be working on the sequel.
But don’t take my word for it.
“Reading Rainbow” theme. Horrendous sound quality, but kindly disregard that.
Joe Tex – “Buying a Book.”
(Thank you, Pitchfork)
1. Ronn–dohhh, we all yelled. Rondo Rondo! And it worked!
Sorry, Ohio! You had to know it was curtains for you when you played a team with Tony Allen on it. Tony Allen. Aw Ohio, your love’s still like a rollercoaster baby baby, I still wanna ride, and you still got Hi-Tek, Bone Thugs, Bootsy, and The Pretenders, plus the Geto Boys used this, below. Get yourself an affirmation + “God is Love” intervention from Rev Run and chin up, buddy.
The Ohio Players – “Skin Tight.”
2. LeBron’s crew team chic in the photo above is from a GQ feature about NBA press conference style that I saw and promptly devoured.
Ice Cube, if you didn’t know, got drama hoes. Jackin for beats, steady mobbin, and this week, his episode of “30 for 30” premiered. He’s a busy guy. Cube interviews Al Davis (you must see this, you must), and delves into the history of the LA Raiders vis-a-vis the emergence of NWA. Everyone hated the Raiders for playing dirty and being too violent and for having too many brown young men south of Wilshire as fans (yeah I said it), but when their gear started to sell, everyone was a fan and everyone wanted a piece. The LA Kings changed their colors as a direct result of the Raiders’ success, and immediately saw their popularity swell. Violence is a bad and awful thing, except when the kids get into it and start buying shit. This is so clearly a metaphor for ’80s hip-hop, O’Shea says it without needing to directly say it.
“Straight Outta LA” will repeat on ESPN all this weekend and next week. Howie Long comes out the gate with an anecdote about being told Al Davis wasted a draft pick on him because he was, although quite large and talented, white. Howie laughs it off, like all white men should in situations like that. Good job, Howie. And thanks for being nice to me when I was a little kid.
NYC continues its plea for the guy with the tatted forearms to just give it a chance. New York is convulsing with desperation to get LeBron, and I keep seeing examples of how much New York is dumbing it down in its desperation–offering free lap dances to LeBron if he’ll sign with the Knicks and telling him that such luminaries as, uh, John Leguizamo, Martha Stewart, and Tommy Hil (??) want to see him at MSG. New York is like a tough guy who suddenly decides that begging is an effective tactic instead of maintaining the stoic mystery that’s always made him so appealing. LL did “I Need Love,” and it worked, but that’s because it was preceded by tough-guy stuff like “Rock the Bells” and followed up by tough-guy stuff like “Going Back to Cali” and “The Boomin‘ System.” It was just enough vulnerability that it didn’t cross the line into simping territory.
I think it’s also important to note that LeBron already fucking gets free lap dances, dummy, and he probably gets ’em in places with strip clubs superior to New York’s (Atlanta, Miami. Or so I’m told). I feel embarrassed for New York, so sprung and willing to grovel during these times. Act like you don’t care, New York, and Bron’ll come running to you. (See, I flipped and bounced Leykis 101.)
“It’s not clear what would happen if a player did refuse to go (play the Diamondbacks in Arizona), and perhaps no one will. The players’ union would be obligated to represent a player if he did refuse, but, since there’s nothing in baseball’s Collective Bargaining Agreement about players refusing to travel because of laws they don’t like–or in political protest–the player may not have much of a case. Consequently, the union is unlikely to go out of its way, despite its opposition to the law, to encourage a player to take a doomed stand against his contract and to begin a formal grievance process when, or if, he is fined.“
6. I alternate between somber and flippant in this section; you’ve been warned.
The inner workings of LT’s psyche are being bandied about and discursively examined everywhere I look, but this angle from the Huffington Post is one that should probably be more in the forefront. I don’t know what happened in the hotel room and neither do you, and there’s all this talk of condoms and sex acts and fluids, but the one thing that’s not disputed is the fact that the girl was 16. When she’s 18, it’s prostitution; when she’s not yet 18, it’s human trafficking.
LT’s likely sense of entitlement to buy sex is a sad and gross thing, and it’s “yet another example of the most powerful, respected and privileged among us demonstrating the normalization of the sexual exploitation of women and girls. Mr. Taylor is part of what (those) in the anti-trafficking movement call ‘the demand that fuels sex trafficking.’ Without the demand for commercial sexual exploitation there would be no 16-year-olds or 26-year-olds for that matter, being offered for sale, to Johns by traffickers.“
I remain, as always, deeply conflicted when I think about this story–LT has frequently been rewarded professionally for not giving a fuck, so why would we expect a sudden moral trepidation from him when it comes to sex acts? And sure, LT is replete with demons and had it rough growing up, but you know what, I’m guessing this is equally true of the 16-year-old girl whose body he tried to purchase. In the end, unfortunately, there probably isn’t an end, a tidy answer or explanation. That tossing of the discursive ball, back and forth, will just have to continue. Men are complicated beings and the socioeconomic/environmental/cultural forces at play in shaping them will always interest me. Also, don’t underestimate the redemptive powers of talent. I mean, Ike Turner was an awful guy, but DUDE. HE PRODUCED “PROUD MARY.”
The New York Times found a sports-lovin underweight whitegirl and decided it was such a novelty that they wrote a whole piece about her. SI Swimsuit model Brooklyn Decker, who tries unsuccessfully to murder me on my own shit, got the “30 Seconds” treatment a few weeks back to plug a movie and talk about her love of the Tar Heels and Panthers. No disrespect, but I am clearly the superior Girl in Bathing Suit in this arena, and if I wanted to look at a sports dork in a 2-piece, I’d visit my own website* instead of an esteemed publication like the New York Times. TAKE IT ELSEWHERE, MRS. RODDICK.
JC Brooks & the Uptown Sound, “Baltimore is the New Brooklyn.” I needed a song with the word Brooklyn in it, obviously. Ha, you thought I was gonna post something by the Boot Camp Clik.
Here’s my list of reasons why this rules:
– A dude named Sedrick. Defensive Tackle. Sedrick with an “S.” Freaking dope.
– The black and gold color scheme, so crisp and pleasing to the eye.
– The Saints aren’t perfect and this makes me like them more. Specifically, the team gives me a compelling reason to hate it in that Drew Brees looks like a fair-haired Trent Reznor circa oh-nine, and that’s not a good thing, you see, because Trent Reznor circa oh-nine is tired and bloated, both physically and verbally. Stop it, Trent. Ew. Anyway, if I ever meet you at a bar, please be aware that I will bring this up at some point in conversation, probably with a lot of excitement and hand gestures. Just nod and agree with me, please.
– The fleur-de-lys logo! Classic, royal, and super dope, always…
just ask Weezy’s face and my black onesie that I never wear because it exposes me to a degree that makes me uncomfortable.
(I’m not dope enough to have haters, but if I were, and if I did, they’d call me out for posting a picture like this.
Also: Sorry, Mom. Sorrysorry.)
– Their god-awful defense, which makes me feel all smug since annoying football analysts always insist that the best offense is a good defense. Um, NO, and the Saints’ 9-0 record proves it. You know what the best offense really is? SCORING POINTS. So shut yer trap, Cris Collinsworth.
I can’t think of any other reasons but oh, who cares. New Orleans has been so sad for so long, and now there’s some greatness there (except for that awful Bobby Jindal). Let’s celebrate that. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must go and laissez les bon temps roulez and post some pretty songs.
The Meters – “Handclapping Song.” Um, ’cause it’s a post about New Orleans. And ’cause I can’t think of any Mannie Fresh-related songs that you haven’t already heard nine thousand times. And ’cause of this*. And ’cause if you wanted to hear “Born on the Bayou” you’d turn on the classic rock station right about now. Side note: “Born on the Bayou” is a certified banger and I love it so, so much.
Mos Def – “Katrina Clap.” Illions & killions to waste on a war. Tell ’em, Dante.
Fats Domino – “Walking to New Orleans.” Because the piano is loud and gorgeous, and because he’ll probably always be cooler than me, even with the name Fats Domino.
The boys seem to love this whole Megan situation. She says the f word, sometimes kisses other ladies, and smokes weed! (How this makes her different from most somewhat attractive ladies with fierce eyebrows in major metro areas: unclear. “She is truly, unabashedly EDGY,” everyone says, in Iowa in 1954. But continue to enjoy, gentlemen. I have no problem with this. Buy the ticket, take the ride.)
I like Meg. Here’s why:
“Meg says she likes comic books and anime and gaming but come the fuck on. Fronting. Trying too hard.” – ladies (and some dudes) in the comments section of a thousand websites.
“You say you like records and breaks but I don’t know, it seems like you’re just trying too hard.” – dudes in MySpace messages, to this writer, starting around ’05. (Kids, there used to be this thing called “MySpace.” It died.)
Other than her totally biting my lounging-with-records-for-the-camera aesthetic*, I like Meg. I do not care for her physical form that has a lot of fakery and plastic parts, plus she has no hips and no exoticness like the beautiful ladies I take showers with (in my head) Irina and Sarah S, but Meg, like all girls, is an expert at being watched while pretending she doesn’t know she’s being watched. That’s a skill, my dude. She talks a lot about being insecure, and I believe her, and I think it’s good if 12-year-old girls believe her (why hello there, Myself in 6th Grade Who Is Super Gawky). People always say her claims of insecurity are BS – there’s no way she could be insecure, girl’s just trying to seem modest – but these people are usually dudes who think being a girl in life is like a walk in the park on a sunny day with the breeze blowing, people buying you things and putting your Ikea bookshelf together for you just because.
(that’s only true like 3 days out of the year)
So other than the pose above (Mark Seliger, Rolling Stone), Meg isn’t hurting my feelings. I have to deduct points from her overall score for having plastic bags surgically inserted in her chest and some sort of fat injected into her lips but that is because, you see, I am a hater. And as an expert in posing while looking bored for photos, I can tell you that her right leg side-calf muscle is killing her in that picture up there. Aw Meg. Crouch or stand* with the record; the leg-sprawl is the hardest pose to master! Crouch or stand, sweetie.
At this point in our relationship, you should know:
1. I take my tea with a lot of sugar and a little milk,
2. It is imfuckingpossible to give me too many compliments about my brain, and
3. I LOVE songs with kids on the hook. And I love songs about pretty girls. Oh look, here come some now:
Dead Man’s Bones – “My Body’s a Zombie for You,” AKA “Ryan Gosling Can Evidently Make a Big Retarded Banger of a Song; Who Knew.”
Tribe – “Electric Relaxation”
Ronnie Foster – “Mystic Brew”
“High-spiritedness, wit, a love of repartee and wordplay and allusion and jokes–in other words, an English major.”
– Vanity Fair
Whispered in my ear that she’s celibate.”
Not so sure about the intelligent and pretty eyes part but my glasses and English degree kinda make the boys weak. Quit jockin.
Also, your discussion of Cappa’s “celibate” line and whether or not it pertains to me is making me uncomfortable. Don’t act like I’m not sitting right here, please.
Miss November 1966, you are what all my favorite mic-wielders would disparagingly refer to as a biter. I have much better manners than that, so I will call you a swagger-jacker under my breath while acknowledging that you look pretty sexpot-ish here. But Sinatra?, EW, NO. All the cool kids were listening to Buffalo Springfield and Wilson Pickett and Donovan and James Brown and Bobby Hebb that year, missy. Go getchaself some Motown and leave the old-man music to the old men.
I hear that “Bus Stop” by The Hollies was huge in ’66 too, and would, many years later, become a driving-around-on-Sunday-listening-to-oldies-radio jammy that I fell in love with ’cause of the chords and harmonies and the “by August she was mine” part; umbrellas can be so sexy!
Also in ’66–Aaron Neville’s “Tell It Like It Is,” AKA the song we slow-dance to at the party in the heartbreaking scene in the movie version of our life together. “Life is too short to have sorrow; you may be here today and gone tomorrow/You might as well get what you want, so go on and live, baby go on and live.” OH AARON. Swoon.
I’m posted up in K-Town, Miss Every Month from January through December, once again lookin a little shiny and missing my pants, but who cares ’cause
I got my apple (one per day) to keep the doctor away,
I’m all psyched on myself for getting that shirt I said I would get goddammit,
I have essential bloggy tools like the Crackberry and my beloved Stet troop ’88 on vinyl,
I got condos in Queens, indo for weeks, I’m blowin up like you thought I would,
OH AAAND my whole crew is loungin.
And when you lie, and you talk a lot/People tell you to step off a lot
“How bout just a simple picture of you, in your pretty new dress for Sean’s party? And maybe you could clean up the records off your floor, please.” – Mom.
“I get biz with the skit, I DJ like Quik.” – Reggie Noble
Isaac Hayes, “Hyperbolicsyllabicsesquedalymistic”
2. Kobe and Ron-Ron had some kind of special times in the shower that has remained under wraps until now. Ron offered to help Kobe, to come to LA to be with him and give him what he needs...
“Kobe said that after the Lakers lost game six of the ’08 NBA Finals in Boston by 39 points, he was alone in the shower, just fuming. He heard somebody walk in and assumed it was one of his teammates, or maybe a staff member. Instead, he looked up, and it was Ron Artest (to this day, Kobe has no idea how Artest got into the locker room).
‘I want to come help you,’ Artest said. ‘If I can, I’m going to find a way to come to LA and give you the help you need to win a title.’
Kobe didn’t think much of it, especially since Artest still had a year left on his deal with the Rockets, and that the Lakers were returning an entire team that had just won the Western Conference. Plus, players talk like that a lot, and it’s just talk. But it struck Kobe as a nice gesture, especially since he had just been hammered by the Celtics and nobody was saying much of anything. Kobe told me that the perception a lot of people have of Artest is wrong.“
3. Oh the hilariousness! In this episode, our heroes discuss sailboats, cookies, and layin it down in the booth. I have watched this approx. 37 times and I’m showing no signs of fatigue yet.
“I love you! I love you.”
“You don’t know what love is, man. You better shut your mouth.”
4. And, to wrap things up….me, circa June ’09, watching the finals in my Showtime purple/white socks and looking a little bit retarded in the face. I mean, just slightly, but still. Pic by Super Laker Hater George M.
I read in Nylon that not brushing your hair is the hotness right now.
Instant MC, producer, and DJ…
That Jaylib album is a great soundtrack for lounging around on Sunday, making cupcakes, and drinking Red Stripe with your little brother when he comes to El Lay to visit (just an excuse for him to go to HUF and Alife, I’m pretty sure).
PS, Is it wrong to be nostalgic for a year that wasn’t so long ago?
I MISS 2003, gang.
Me and Otis.
I’m feelin realllll smug here ’cause damn son!, I got the bikini/Stones Throw poster game* in a headlock.