Thursday, December 31, 2009

Get low, Bus.



Even though I’m just a woman, a woman with a small brain (it’s science*), dainty lady-ness has a wonderful advantage when it comes to tactile sensations:

Women have a finer sense of touch than men due to smaller finger size, according to my boyfriend Science Daily. The facts of this discovery are described in sexy detail in the story - the central nervous system, for example, is stimulated by information sent by vibration receptors in the smaller fingertips of females. So because I'm a woman, when I feel it, you know, I really really
feel it - whether it's the flesh of a human male, a fluffy kitten, or the sexy sexy curve of the hole inside a 45. DOWN, BOY.

Next up, science, please explain the benefits of our smaller paychecks 'cause I've been struggling with that one for a minute now. Thanks, chief.




Of course, of courrrrse this story makes me think of that Busta song about French robots, ladies undressing, and echo-chamber handclaps. Touch it bring it pay it watch it turn it leave it stop format it. And then, once more with feeling: Touch it bring it pay it watch it turn it leave it stop format it.

First time I heard it, my brain rattled against my skull a tiny bit courtesy of Swizzy. I'm fine now, with medication and regular MRIs. '05, nice to see you again, old friend.


mp3.





* The Eiffel Tower = metal + brawn.






.
.
.
.

Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Risin' up to the challenge of our rival


“Liars go to hell” - Manny Pacquiao, shouted in the general vicinity of Floyd Mayweather.

Snitches and something about stitches, bros before hoes, ain't no such things as halfway crooks, yeah yeah. Boys and their little sayings, so cute.

I would've gone with “Quit your bitchin, or get BLAOW in your babble-box,” copyright Mother Fucking DOOM!*, due to the fact that my Doom obsession knows no bounds as well as the fact that it's fun to say babble box.


Back to the matter at hand (heh, it's a story about boxing): Floyd told the world he's suspicious that Manny is doping because he's from the Philippines, allegedly a major producer of performance-enhancing drugs. I'm part Irish, so Floyd says I have a potato farm and I like to set off car bombs.

Manny and his people became so angered by this accusation that they promptly sued Floyd for defamation. Shit-talking is highly important in boxing, a way of displaying your manhood that's right up there with quick fists and the ability to mean-mug and pose standing sideways on a poster. Tough-guy reputations need constant tending in the public arena, I get it. But this is really some next-levels crybaby behavior, getting the justice system involved. Everybody just calm down! FOCUS, people, I need to see focus! So many times it happens so fast/You trade your passion for glory! These gentlemen need to at least take it to Twitter first, then maybe call into Rosenberg's show when one of them is an in-studio guest for some scripted bickering, then an abrupt phone hang-up, and then a week or so of each claiming victory in the verbal sparring match.

I wish that Manny would ignore the taunts until fight day, when everything culminates in the ring, fists meeting faces. This new bitchiness in the form of litigation is unappealing. Protesting too hard means his ego's bruised. Also, there's
the fedora. I don't approve. He's losing his luster. There are no good Filipino rappers (name one), so he's got to keep boxing on lock if he wants to hold my interest.


Survivor - “Eye of the Tiger.” I'm sorry, this is totally Journey. I'm not an idiot.

mp3.




*





. . .

Gone til probably June or July, with credit for time served.



It finally hit me today that the tiny Hero of Hollygrove is going away on some weapons charge! Mixtapes and the coke market, prepare to feel the pain.

I literally
got sad sitting here in apt. 302 in response to hearing about Wayne's performance at the New Orleans Arena days before he gets sentenced, which is ridiculous proof that the Internet's constant information flow about everybody's life causes me to feel like I'm best friends with every rapper. This sadness is obviously related to my newly-found allegiance to the Saints as the Greatest Football Team In the History of Televisions Watched in Apt. 302, and my affection for the city of New Orleans in general going way back to when I was a kid (Dr. John & the Meters, plus that Randy Newman song about the flood. Thanks, Mom). It's also related to the fact that I can't deny my feelings that Wayne is sincere in everything he does. I'm naïve, I can't help it, but I feel like there's no pretense with him. So when he screams, "I'm nothing without you" to the hometown crowd, it's this combination of sweet and sad mixed with his uncut gratitude that makes me shed a little tear. A primal response to male vulnerability, that's all it is; suddenly, boom, I'm reminded that I'm not so evolved after all. I change shapes just to hide in this place but I’m still, I’m still an animal!/Nobody knows it but me.

Additional sadness:

Wayne leaving that awful Drake to pinch-hit for him during his absence (ugh), and Wayne missing our mighty Lakers making their impression felt this season by cutting a destructive path through the jungle infested with inferior NBA teams. Dr. Carter, while you're locked up I'll be sending you updates on division standings and Ron-Ron's latest batch of crazy. Also: naked pics of myself. For now, I left a half a hundred in your commissary. Stay strong, buddy.






An obvious choice, but orchestral ear candy trumps obscurity every time. And the fact remains that '98 trumps '09 every time. Go Clef!




. . .


*You're a bad person, Mark Ronson, for making me like your remixes even though you're a derivative wanker who probably has bad teeth. Anyway: Miike Snow, plus horns.

mp3.




.
.
.
.

Sunday, December 27, 2009

FlyLo. Miles. 9th.


Yay for boys who make music.



1. As a frequent live show audience member, I can tell you that it's heaven when people who make music are very clearly fans of music and when you can very clearly read this on their faces during performance. Flying Lotus, every picture I see of you live and in action makes me smile with delight because I can very clearly see the enthusiasm you possess for your work. I could learn something from you, sir.


Looka here, the soundtrack to a futuristic sexualized wilderness. It's a decade of Flying Lotus, mixed by GLK, and it makes me feel warm all over. I'm pretty sure that's like ten years, you guys. (Courtesy of my boyfriends at Crate Kings who have yet to recognize that I'm the Crate Queen. Still my boyfriends, though.)

mp3.





2. The Guardian has a feature about Miles Davis' love affair with the city of Paris that made me snap my fingers, say oh shit, and sit at attention.




He first traveled there in 1949 at the age of 22, where he and his music were treated with respect and he met Picasso and Jean-Paul Sartre--"the group would sit together in hotels, cafes and clubs in the Saint-Germain district, using a mixture of broken French, broken English and sign language to communicate." Um, swoon and whatnot. Plus the Parisian women weren't bad. Ladies loved him, girrrrrls adored him. I mean even the ones who never saw him like. He had various dalliances with ladies more beautiful and French than me no doubt, and then, as is the case with most of my jazz-god paramours, heroin took over and blazed a destructive path.

"In the US, Davis was already a rising star in the jazz world, but while he was highly respected among his peers, in mainstream America he was seen as a second-class citizen. It was a time when segregation and discrimination were rife, and most US states enforced anti-miscegenation laws. But France was a different story, and nothing could have prepared Davis for the reception he would receive in Paris. 'This was my first trip out of the country,' recalled Davis. 'It changed the way I looked at things forever ..."


(The article also says that, beginning in the mid-'60s, Miles Davis began printing “Directions in Music by Miles Davis” on his albums, rather than just his name. I see you, Kanye.)


We Want Miles – Miles Davis: Jazz Face to Face with Its Legend is at the Musée de la Musique, Paris, until 17 January, and in Montreal from April to August. Ha, like I'm really gonna go. But putting the information on my blog gives me hope that I might be able to swing it somehow.





3. Reasons I want to hug 9th Wonder:



1) He makes it so I'm not the only underweight '90s hiphop dork in the room (so thin, that one! "Eat something, dear" say the grandmothers of the world to people with our metabolism speed).

2) All those Mighty Diamonds loop flips. All the Little Brother stuff. Skyzoo. Not using a Mac, STILL. (Not that I have anything against Macs; I just like stubbornness in a talented dude.)

3) On production:
"Wails and moans, I learned from RZA." Didn't we all, 9th.

4) On production again: "I don’t really get into the technicalities of it. I just get that feeling in my chest." Why hello there, Logan's Life Motto.






.
.
.
.

Sunday, December 20, 2009

Being a boy seems like it's fun, episode 1,537.



“Ran into Sadat X yesterday on Fulton. He told me he feels track bikes.”




Massan's Tumblr is a new fun thing in apt. 302. Scroll through and you get some Sadat X, a funny pic of Premier*, shiny bike chain rings, a mixtape (mixtape!) for free while supplies last, photographic evidence of secret boy adventures on wheels in SF, plus an old video of Massan's mommy on Soul Train (page 3). Darling Internet, the way you are and the things you do make me high. Don'tcha know that I'm still in love with you (sho nuff in love with you, haayyy).


In my dreams, by the way, I live in SF, surrounded by gay men who adore me and nice old bearded guys with great record collections just like my dad. Everybody has a Nancy Pelosi story ("She's so nice!"). And when the weather gets too cold I still have the option of returning to bikini-land in apt. 302 'cause I've kept it on retainer (I'm rich in my dream so it's not a problem). Hit it, Cellski.







*Because I've lived a life of intrigue I can tell you with authority that Premier is quite the porn aficionado. Dude loves porn, I mean it. DJ Premier is the DJ Premier of producing hip-hop, and he's also the DJ Premier of consuming porn.







.
.
.
.

Friday, December 18, 2009

Corey Woods, you are my density. Uh, destiny.



I’m supposed to be in a long-term relationship with a funny asshole with a great music collection, either Jack Black in High Fidelity or Mr. Blonde in Reservoir Dogs*. SORRY MOM.

FunnyAsshole has yet to approach me, however, because we all know that Dudes Talk to Me on the Internets but Not in Real Life. So I'm hedging my bets by continuing to pursue Rae, whom I have not been able to quit since '93 (and who no doubt also has a great music collection, yay).




I missed his show on Wednesday night, because it was in NYC and I am not. Turns out the performance was “the one where Rae makes Logan fall in love with him all over again with a steezy '93 vengeance.”


Highlights included
:

- A huge cake shaped like the Purple Tape!

'The fuck?,
YES,
???,
!!!!!!!, etc.


- An hour and a damn half of songs comin fast, Wu and solo songs, without the fancy tricks of stagecraft or pacing. No tricks, no tricks baby! HATE TRICKS. Enough tricks. Thanks, Rae.

“The set went back to early tracks by his old collective, the Wu-Tang Clan, touched on Cuban Linx Part 1 and settled in for stretches of the new album, including the scabrous, seedy ‘Gihad’ and the imagistic, violent ‘Surgical Gloves.’”

Gihad,’ by the way, still needs to be stripped of its vocals and lovingly placed into my vinyl collection. OH SANTA, spoil me whydontyou.


- Appearance by Cherry Jones!, who receives epic human status for giving life to one Russell Jones.

“She and Raekwon hugged, without speaking, for nearly a minute. Raekwon praised Dirty and his mother and then performed ‘Ason Jones,’ a tribute to Dirty on the new CD, with some emotional difficulty, his movements creaky, as if he needed oil. (He stopped the song at one point, shaking his head in sorrow, swearing and then collecting himself.)”

[Round here we say cussing and then collecting himself, but the feeling inherent in the description above transcends regional dialect barriers. Also, “his movements creaky, as if he needed oil?” Love this. Rae as the Tin Man. Rap-show reviewers, more of this please.]


- Appearance by CNN! Nore's large and in charge, both physically due to the body's natural weight gain that comes with age, as well as lyrically because he entertains on the mic like it's still '96.


- Raekwon slumped against the opposite wall, looking humble, grateful and worn out. This, a description of our hero while Busta appeared on stage and then went on and on with praise about him. Love it. So evocative, can't you just see it? Rae as Jimmy Conway, fatigued by life, hair turned gray and sporting a tracksuit at the end of Goodfellas.



I'm just a girl who hopes with a '93 vengeance that Rae and I will end up together, doing the NYT crossword on Sundays and bickering adorably about which NFL game to watch (our NFL Sunday Ticket hasn't been set up yet). He and I can surmount geographic separation but there's still the matter of him looking for ass on the side. I wanna love him...but WHAT IF he hurts me?



. . .
.

* I have no proof; I can just feel in my heart that he does.




.
.

Thursday, December 17, 2009

Almost time for the annual “Christmas in Hollis” video post.

.


Except I'm skipping it this year. Instead, I have chosen to use this space to promote the fact that Global Giving and Tony Hawk have partnered to raise money for a skatepark at the Watts Towers (Watts is way wayyyy south of apt. 302 but in the same city).



The total funding goal is $20,000, and as of this writing, about $1,500 has been pledged. This annoys me, because Tony Hawk made $18,000 in the time it took me to type this sentence, yet he's asking ME for money even though I have RECORDS to BUY. Poor form, Tony. Poor form.



But still - this park should be built and the Watts Towers are wondrous; next time you come to LA I'll take you, and I'll casually point out the 1 square foot of concrete at the skate park that my paltry donation money paid for (money that was supposed to buy some more old Masta Ace 12"s. Goddamn kids and their goddamn hobbies and their cute faces.) If I said 92% of my motivation to donate was based on the face of the boy in blue, second from left in the picture above of those Watts kids, would you say I'm corny? (the other 8%: a combination of Sheffey, Jason Lee even though he's a Scientologist now, the dudes at FTC always being super nice, and the Mouse soundtrack).

PS, trivia: the towers were built by epic Italian man Simon Rodia, who also appeared on the cover of Sgt. Pepper's (upper right corner, next to Bob Dylan). Cash Cab, here I come.



Ain't I'm clean? Rufus Thomas, Wattstax 1972, stopping time with his sheer virile man-force, despite the pink shorts. A much more original musical accompaniment to this post than citing that tired old “California Love” (in the citayyyy/of good ol' Watts). Sorry Pac.



.
.
.
.

Life is a Chappelle's Show sketch.




Shaolin Temple's kung fu monks prepare IPO.







The 1,500-year-old Shaolin Temple, the birthplace of kung fu, is preparing for an initial public offering (IPO), government sources have confirmed.

‘The joint venture will promote tourism in the region,’ said the source.

According to legend, the destruction of the temple by its enemies in the 17th century helped to spread martial arts across China as five fugitive monks carried their kung fu with them. And then there were tigers and a bunch of chambers, and porno flick bitches, and that part when the little kid's dad cuts off all those heads of lords for the shogun and then leaves his samurai life and becomes a demon.
(Gary Grice obsession, '93 - present.)




.
.
.
.

Tuesday, December 15, 2009

Things that make Boston great other than Guru and the fact that they have an airport named after me.


A Hindu woman devotee offers prayers after taking a holy dip in the waters of river Ganga in the northern Indian city of Allahabad May 4, 2009.
(REUTERS/Jitendra Prakash)






"The Big Picture," The Boston Globe's annual best-of photo feature, AKA its annual playing-with-my-emotions feature.
Deadspin, I'm nothing without you. Thanks for the link.






Rows of 7.62 mm bullets are shown, ready to be shot by Afghan National Army recruits as part of their daily training at the Kabul Military Training Center in Kabul, Afghanistan on July 19, 2009. A massive effort is underway to train thousands of new troops to join the fight against the vicious Taliban-led insurgency. But the task is hobbled by the lack of mentors and high levels of illiteracy among the recruits.
(AP Photo/Emilio Morenatti)









Military and forensic experts inspect the body of a man who was killed outside a nightclub in the border city of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico on August 31, 2009. A man was handcuffed to a fence and shot several times by drug hitmen outside a nightclub, according to local media. The assailants also left a warning message, known as narco mensaje, at the site of the shooting.
(REUTERS/Alejandro Bringas)









Supporters of ousted Honduras' President Manuel Zelaya clash with soldiers near the presidential residency Tegucigalpa, Monday, June 29. 2009. Police fired tear gas to hold back thousands of Hondurans outside the occupied presidential residency as world leaders from Barack Obama to Hugo Chavez appealed to Honduras to reinstate Zelaya as president.
(AP Photo/Esteban Felix)









An empty wheelchair belonging to quadriplegic Patrick Ivison, 15, sits idle on the beach while Ivison, his mother, and friends prepare for another surf ride at the Cardiff State Beach in San Diego, California on October 6th, 2009.
(AP Photo/Lenny Ignelzi)








An Israeli boy takes cover under a desk in a bomb shelter at a school in Jerusalem June 2, 2009, after a siren was sounded during a nationwide civil defense drill simulating a rocket attack.
(REUTERS/Ronen Zvulun)









U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer Bill Mesta replaces an official picture of outgoing President George W. Bush with that of newly-sworn-in U.S. President Barack Obama, in the lobby of the headquarters of the U.S. Naval Base January 20, 2009 in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
(Brennan Linsley-Pool/Getty Images)









Wadee Daoud, a five-year-old visually impaired Palestinian boy, reacts to light after a teacher opened the window blinds in his classroom at the Helen Keller Center for blind and visually impaired children in the East Jerusalem neighborhood of Beit Hanina September 10, 2009. The Center was founded as a home for blind girls by English missionary, Mary Lovell, in the 1890s.
(REUTERS/Yannis Behrakis)



I'm guessing this one hits you especially hard, since it hit me especially hard and we agree on most things. You are some kind of beast if it didn't...maybe not quite a rabid animal, but certainly not human.







Gangstarr - “Zonin'.” Look around, leaves are brown, and the sky is a hazy shade of winter. It's cold out (62°F in my city), and this warms me up. Plus DMX's voice is always comforting.

Additionally: Guru likes to bone. He's similar to many other rappers, and Tiger Woods, and every dude ever, in this way.


mp3.




.
.
.
.

Monday, December 14, 2009

I'm nervous 'cause Kanye and Budden have been awful quiet lately.


Until the next e-storm breaks,

join me, won't you, in gazing upon a Lansing, MSU, pre-Association Earvin Johnson, young n' fine in '79. All the dudes say damn, all the ladies say swoon, all the people of both genders say Pro Keds.
Courtesy of SI.









If I weren't from here I'd probably hate the Lakers and every last one of their courageous, handsome, and upstoppable point guards.
If I weren't from my dad and mom I probably wouldn't be a lady musicnerd and wouldn't have the hips that I do.
If a frog had wings it wouldn't bump its ass a-hoppin.
So let's stop talking in hypotheticals, people, and just enjoy it all.


I listen to everything at inappropriate volume in my headphones and this, I think, is why I seem to get so much more excited about songs than everybody else in my life. Billy Joel - “Big Shot.” A big fucking beast of a song, courtesy of Long Island and the year 1979, that will always always bang. Just always.

mp3.




.
.
.

Saturday, December 12, 2009

To Me You Are a Work of Art.



The Gibson, LA, 12/10.


I want you, I need you, I love you, Morrissey - woman's shout from the audience.


It will pass,he replied.







“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.

mp3.


.
.
.
.

Friday, December 11, 2009

Now usually I don't do this but uhhhh



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 36, "still Fuck Brooklyn; Go Chi!"

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.



via Hypebeast.

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?








.
.
.

Thursday, December 10, 2009

I'ma rub your ass in the moonshine.



Let's take it back to seventyniiiiine. - Russell Jones, 1997




Found these pictures from Magic's rookie year. The obvious next step was to do some extensive research into music of the day.
(the day = 1979)



Best point guard in history of The Association? Debatable. Best smile in the history of The Association? COME ON NOW. Never believe it's not so! (©1974)

mp3.
















Instant Funk - “I Got My Mind Made Up.” YES x 1,000. 5 days you work, 1 whole day to play.

mp3.



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.

mp3.



Chuck Brown - “Bustin' Loose.” I feel warm all over, like the temperature of the room is slowly increasing.

mp3.



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.

mp3.




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.











PS:






.
.
.
.

Wednesday, December 9, 2009

White horses n' magic dragons.


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 really meant 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.








. . .


. .

Oh Word? (North Carolina epic human edition)

.

.
A comprehensible work is the product of a journalist. We need works that are strong, straight, precise, and forever beyond understanding.

Kenneth Tynan.


Elation. Elegance. Exaltation. All from God. Thank you God. Amen.

A Love Supreme was recorded on this date in 1964, in one take.




SUPREME:

1523, from M.Fr. suprême, from L. supremus “highest,” superlative of superus “situated above,” from super, “above.”

Super:
from L. adverb and preposition super “above, over, on the top (of), beyond, besides, in addition to,” from PIE base *uper “over (cf. Skt. upari, Avestan upairi “over, above, beyond,” Gk. hyper...Goth. ufaro over, across...)




Or, you know, just listen to Beans' verse in “What We Do.”






.
.
.

Tuesday, December 8, 2009

"Sgt. Pet Sounds & the Spiders from Aja."

“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.”



via The Presurfer




.
.
.

Robert F. Diggs: notes on a theme.

Venn diagram of everything I need in life:





! !!!! !!!!!! !


(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.)








. . .

Monday, December 7, 2009

Heaven is the Chevron station at 3rd & Vermont after a long day.

.
Perhaps all pleasure is only relief.
- William S. Burroughs




The Gods of Los Angeles (no, not the Pharcyde, and no, not the old
Menace squad; 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.





.
. . .
.