“Sunny (live).” Even if you don't like him (why don't you like him?), everybody loves a song with pretty chords about opiate dependence. This explains Nirvana's success in the '90s and in apt. 302.
1. People, remove your underpants and gather round 'cause KELLS IS WRITING A MEMOIR.
Robert's bout to take his key and stick it in the ignition of the literary world! The book is reportedly to be published by SmileyBooks, Tavis Smiley's unfortunately- and boringly-named publishing company. Snippets from the advance copy below.
Page 1, "God. Mom. Michael Jackson. In that order."
Page 52, "1) The show. 2) The after party. 3) The hotel lobby. 4) Fuckin."
Interspersed throughout, bodily fluids like what, bad metaphors for lovemaking, and denials of latent homosexual tendencies.
I believe that this book is premature, as there is so much more love to be made. So, so much more! No matter; I'm celebrating its impending arrival. It's a good thing R. Kelly's sex life is completely my business since I never ever tire of hearing about R. Kelly's sex life which obviously makes R. Kelly the Tiger Woods of postmodern R&B.
Pretty close to what we dream of as the perfect pop song, circa '03. The only offensive things about its video are: a) Nick Cannon as the DJ, and b) the large amounts of Celtics jersey for someone who CLAIMS to be a Bulls fan. Dear boys of the world, I will never understand how colorways and style can trump allegiance to one's local sports squad. You're too worried about your outfit and not worried enough about division standings. Also, you could stand to care a tiny bit more about me and the things I need and how I like to be held.
2. The exotic and colorful beast known as "Virginia hiphop" was brought into your living room this week by a nerd on World News Tonight.
The offensive thing about this is that it's done by one Ian Cohen whose whole style, carriage, attempt to out-nerd me, and inefficiency with the English language completely fucking annoy me instead of it being done by a lanky-limbed, socially awkward, and appropriately-shaped female type with good manners and a master's degree. Media, you're sexist. Internet, you too.Get this, I have breasts, and guess what, they don't get in the way of me being able to articulate my feelings about the brothers Thornton in front of a camera in a studio. Girls can do it too. Call me for a gig like this next time. And stop staring at my rack.
Now I sit back and wait for the inevitable email from Ian, since I just know he's the type to Google himself.
3. Let's all watch Howard Zinn's The People Speak on the History Channel, k?
The offensive thing here is that there's a Matt Damon appearance; however, there's also a shot of the Brooklyn scene used for one of the Things Fall Apart covers*. Howard, you've out-hip-hop-ed me again! AGAIN.
*I bought the one with the little kid's face, but only because they were out of the one with the hand holding the ace of spades. It was a real pain in the ass to find.
Dear Howard, I hope this finds you well. I've had it bad for you for years now. If things don't work out between me and Larry David, Rick Rubin, Paul Barman, Nick Kroll, or Rahm Emanuel, please allow me to be your shiksa plaything. I hear Ambien sex is crazy; let's see what all the fuss is about, shall we?
Dire Straits - “Sultans of Swing.” Used to hate this song. Not no more, though I can't explain when the shift occurred. Funny how that happens sometimes.
Charlie Daniels, more hiphop than me since the '70s and I can hardly stand it - “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” (Respect and thanks to the person hosting this mp3 for deciding to make it the original “son of a bitch” version instead of the ultrawack “son of a gun” one.) That Charlie - such a storyteller! This jam's the “Trapped in the Closet” of the greater Atlanta area.
Ricky Lee Jones, “Chuck E's in Love”; Kenny Rogers, “The Gambler.” Fucking FIRE. Also, stop counting your money when you're sittin at the table! JESUS CHRIST WHAT'S THE MATTER WITH YOU.
The human body burns calories for energy, Human civilizations and trade routes spring up around bodies of water, Derek Jeter is not foxy, Judd Apatow's male characters are the opposite of what a dude should be, manufactured beef sells records, ambiguously ethnic-looking whitegirls in fur hats have it on lock, the sun came up today, and there are veiled references to drugs in popular speech and music.
My insatiable craving for coke n' Ls is often played out in music on pop radio, and so far the adults in my life have been wonderfully unaware of this fact. There's the world of family, and then there's the world of narcotics in song, and never the twain shall meet. My mom and Radric Davis both use Pyrex, for example, and they both incorporate the weight and measure of things in the process of cooking, but it ends there. She doesn't know her way around a Zshare link and she certainly does not Make the Trap Say anything. She is familiar with sociopolitical conditions in Atlanta but it's only 'cause Nas lives there now. (She loves Nas.)
So now The Awl is deep in the dope game. It wants us all to know how down it is with the kids' lingo and so it's explaining to everybody what Jay-Z reallymeant when he mentioned LeBron and Dwyane "Spellcheck" Wade in the Greatest Song Ever in the History of November 2009, "Empire State of Mind."I like a world in which Aunt Jean doesn't know what kind of stuff I'm singing along with on the radio. I like her believing that a brick really is a brick, that the purpose of rubber bands is keep a lady's hair back from her face, and that it absolutely does get cold enough to snow in Virginia (um, in August). You guys, the grownups totally know what we're talking about now! NEW SLANG, STAT.
“It's the year 3000 and archeologists have just discovered a group called The Beatles. One thousand years in the future, the legacy of John, Paul, Greg, and Scottie remains.”
On the heaviest of rotations in apt. 302, here's where science comedy, buffoonish white men in turtlenecks n' glasses, & music nerdery overlap. (Time for a new Vemm already!)
“1965, Shea Stadium: The Beatles. Win. The Super Bowl.”
(There's the corny requisite sea of pale arms waving to and fro at the beginning, and this is no doubt a commercial that is trying to sell me something, but honestly, if I bothered to get upset every time the Wu was commodified I'd be an unhappy young lady.)
a) I've watched the video, it stimulated me, and now I'm sufficiently amped enough to get through the next 3-4 days of work this week. The video cuts off just before the scene where Rizzy scoops up a crew of sensitive rappers Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked and drops them off at Ikea on a Saturday at 1:00 PM, AKA Hell, just 'cause I'd like to see something like that. (It's in the director's cut, that scene.)
b) On Christmas, I'm asking for this sound to follow me and start playing whenever I enter a room. THANKS, SANTA.
c) Weed might cause testicular cancer but it has no effect on fertility! SOON COME: me seducing Wu's head nerd in order to disperse our combined DNA across this beautiful, terrible land. Go forth and multiply, say the music gods to Robert and me. (resulting tiny humans with natural musical ability, a sarcastic streak, Rae for a godfather, an awkward side, and a mean waist-to-hip ratio pending.)
. “Perhaps all pleasure is only relief.”- William S. Burroughs
The Gods of Los Angeles (no, not the Pharcyde, and no, not the old Menacesquad; good guesses, though) decided to gimme a little Isleys this evening in the form of some dude pulling up behind my car at my regular gas station at approx. 5:12 PST, banging the living hell out of this song from his very fancy Toyota factory-stock speakers, hopping out to fill the tank, and never once adjusting the volume while going about his fueling-up business. Almost nobody witnessing it was amused in response to this act. Almost. Three guesses as to which of the gas station patrons was amused.
The Isleys: My Life/Ears After a Long Day :: Warm Hands : My Back After a Long Day.
I work with people for a living, people with lots of problems, and I like my job, but I am asking you all to understand that sometimes after work I am tired. Not like "My sports star, tightly-wound-or-so-I-thought husband is fucking around on me" tired, more like "I need a hug and a cup of tea" tired. So these kinds of generous acts by anonymous Angelenos like my Toyota dude (who may or may not have had olive skin and a shaved head and a last name ending in a vowel, YOU RACIST) are like little presents that make me say Damn, Universe: You've gone and soothed my soul and reminded me of the current musical decade ('70s) once again. The Isleys are the masters of the love-as-a-sailing-expedition metaphor; if we've ever gone on a date and then you parked your car at the end of my street so we could "talk" for a little while, you'll recall that "Voyage to Atlantis" is plainly the makeout jam of the current musical decade ('70s). "For the Love of You," however, has the Ras Kass and Masta Ace cred which makes it more bending-the-block appropriate and which means sooner or later it would end up on this web log.
I'm pretty sure sexytimes were better in the '70s, the current musical decade. They had to be. Grown-ups just don't make luhh-huuvv like they used to, which is why every time I see Kells I say Step aside, young buck. SLOW JAMS IS AN OLD MAN'S GAME. So: fewer Jeeps, please, and fewer closets. Less flying, flirting, bumping, grinding. More drifting on a memory, rays of sun, gentle breezes, paradise within, sheets, candlelight, and especially more handclaps and lots more Yeah/Well well well.
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:
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."
I just checked and yep, there's still an NFL team called the REDSKINS and yep, that's still like putting Aunt Jemima on a helmet. The good news is that they lost today because God seeks out and punishes evil in all its forms.
Sad ol' District of Columbia, between the racism of your local sports franchise and the ignorance of your local periodical that knows nothing about Public Enemy, you're slippin so hard right now and you won't even acknowledge it. I suggest you pack it in, take some time off, sit the next one out, perhaps give some thought to heading south for the winter. I hear Louisiana is lovely.
. I hear that Ironic '80s Jackets are doin it real big right about now, plus there's a new Jay-Z album out, a Democrat in office, and Brett Favre is putting all his heart and sweat into being an excellent QB. Ringin in '97 in style, kid!
Because I like Bass as well as Drum, I've decided to incorporate a little of both into this here post. Nine-seven, nine-seven. Swoon.
Ron-Ron's the mic-ripper, girl-stripper, Henny-sipper! (well...that last thing, at least)
Because any Lakers mention in the news instantly turns me into a defensive 13-year-old boy*, I had no choice but to address the Ronald W. Artest Hennessy Incident of December Oh-Nine.
The No Booze Association is upset with Ron-Ron for saying he used to spend private moments with his girl Henny during halftime when he played for the Bulls. After a couple days of tense waiting and breath-holding in apt. 302 regarding Ronald's fate, a decision's come down from the NBA administrative ranks: the basketball appropriateness cops have decided not to suspend him for his “inflammatory comments.” Wonderful, and the right move, but David Stern's still a little shaky about this and everybody on those awful sports talk radio shows I listen to won't shut up about it.
OK. First off, he played for the Bulls, who were awful at the time. Seems to me he was just trying to ease his pain and relax a little in the locker room. Back up off. Also, everybody's forgetting that a whole lot of good stuff was released around then, musically speaking. Things Fall Apart came out, Blackout! came out, Black on Both Sides came out, Internal Affairs came out, Supreme Clientele, Both Sides of the Brain, Fantastic vol. 2; people, it was a grand time to be alive and everybody was celebrating. David Stern, sir, I'm almost positive you listen to Billy Joel and that's why you'll never understand this. To wrap it up, let me add that Ronald's from the wonderful land of Queensbridge so of course that means I'm always gonna say Let him do what he wants.
Determination of Ron's overall score as follows:
- 16 points for honesty, comic value of this whole thing, and good taste. (MMM, Hennessssssyyyy. It's no Red Stripe, but delicious nonetheless.) - Plus 9 points for that “jersey number in honor of epic albums” thing he's mastered. - Minus 12 points for living the stereotype (rich black man + Henny), and for acting bitchy in putting a “positive spin” on his story once he realized there would be fallout (“I was going through a rough time; kids, don't be like me, and/or alcohol's not the answer to your problems” yeah yeah). Correct me if I'm wrong, but: Fuck a positive spin. The dirty truth will set us free, plus it's way funner. - Plus 3 points for this, and OH HOLD UP: - He's friends with Pacquiao!Plus 5 points.
Additionally, no points assigned but Extra Credit for sure due to Ron being married but not fucking around on his wife with hoes in different area codes (that we know of, at least). Well played, Ronald. Now 1) Win LA a follow-up championship, and 2) Do something about that hair.
Years later, that Tommy Hil line STILL pisses me off. STILLLLL. Oh Tip. Tsk tsk.
. 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.)
“If you had to go into a surgical procedure would you choose the doctor with the most experience or the one with the fancier car?
So why allow rap music to enter your brain when it isn’t being done by professionals? Rappers need to upgrade their lifestyles and rap fans need to demand more from themselves.”
– Dallas Penn, giving me an Oh worrrrd moment if there ever was one, even though I’d like to remind him of a man who straddles the worlds of materialism and paid-dues talent - the experience-haverand fancy-car driver, ladies and gentlemen, for one night only, make some noise, let's give a warm welcome, put your hands together and assorted other motions for the walking conglomerate:
HOV! Happy birthday.
Even though some of us are not in the Biggie camp and not in the Nas camp and not in your camp - some of us are in the G Rap/Rakim camp (we fluctuate) and even in the Slick Rick or Kool Keith camp when we feel like starting trouble - I'd like to take this opportunity to say
Thanks for everything; Glad you slowed down your flow from then* til now; Kinda hate in my heart that you're a walking Fortune 500 company even though in my head I know it's a positive thing; Is Rubin as wonderful a man as I imagine him to be? Wait, if the answer is no, don't tell me don't tell me; In My Lifetime, Vol. 1. Explain what happened there, please;
And PS - are you putting your penis in ladies other than your wife? I believe it is contractually obligated for you to do so if you are a straight man who has appeared on television more than 500 times and if my mailman has heard of you. I hope you're satisfied with being relegated to sleeping with a talented, pretty-eyed song goddess. (Unless you and B have an "arrangement." In which case, ew, you're gross and corny. But um, happy birthday nonetheless.)
“I'd like to think that when I sing a song, I can let you know all about the heartbreak, struggle, lies and kicks in the ass I've gotten over the years, for being black and everything else, without actually saying a word about it.” - Ray.
“A!” - Juelz, who apparently a) still exists and b) is still saying this-?
Today in 1965, Ray was convicted of possession of heroin and marijuana. He was given a five-year suspended sentence and fined $10,000. Drugs, you've done wonders for my life/heart/record collection (that's all the same place). “What'd I Say.” CADENCE.
“Bein' Green.” Truth about life as expressed in song: Trouble weighs a ton at first, then things start looking up. Green's big like an ocean, or important like a mountain, or tall like a tree. Let's all write it down and remember it always.
“Brain Scan Study Shows Cocaine Abusers Can Control Cravings” - ScienceDaily.
The craving response can be quelled, say scientists. The study provides the first evidence that cocaine abusers have some ability to cognitively inhibit their cravings, even in the face of drug-related cues. This news could help develop clinical interventions to prevent relapse.
Finally! part of me says, since Your little habit has been tearing this family apart, Yay no more Vice mag! and, more importantly, people who read Vice, Nas' whole Escobar phase is gone and I never ever want it back, We all hate how it ravages your skin, turns you bitchy and makes you barren; and NO, me and my friend do not want to come with you into the bathroom.
But Oh dear, that's terrible! another part of me says, since: Will 80% of my cultural references be obsolete now? Ki's opening doors, the trap and bricks and pots and cooking fish not really meaning that you're baking some nice salmon sorry Mom, John DeLorean and every day above ground is a good day and blah blah blahhhh, I can’t feel my face, fish scales in my veins like a pisces, "__________" - Biggie, Pato Banton, Eric Clapton, various Wu operatives, any MC from the state of Georgia, Louisiana or Florida. Or Texas or NY or California;
plus when you said you liked white girl I thought you meant you liked ME,
Shangri-Las - “Remember (Walking in the Sand).” Seagull sound effects! The handclap/fingersnap interlude! In 1964! Animal Collective and Every Current Fancy Music Producer: have a seat.
HeightFiveSeven@gmail. (emphasis on the love, please)
I'm So and So, I'm This, I'm That.
Logan
Apt. 302, 3rd/Vermont, Los Angeles.
Caramel complected/body like heaven (ummm no). Your favorite nerdy bikini-clad sarcasm peddler.
Tomboyish tendencies in a girly package.
Music nerd making my way in the world. The more emotion I put into it/the harder I rock.
I bow at the altar of Phil Spector, Rick Rubin, and Large Pro.
I find that I can amuse myself to no end. I got front & back, and side to side.
Nothin else to tell, really.
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