I got a love joooooones for your body and your skintone

Men and women get jealous over their romantic partners for different reasons, says science, and it's all because we're unevolved beasts ruled by our lizard brains, seeking pleasure, food, water, and another beast to make babies with that won't run off and make babies with every other beast in the village.


But men and women differ on what kind of cheating they think is the worst - women are bothered more by men's emotional infidelity and a soulful kind of connection with other females, whereas men find women's sexual infidelity more painful and difficult to forgive.

“The widespread evolutionary explanation posits that men rank sexual infidelity as the greater sin because over the eons they learned to be hyper-vigilant about sex, as they could never be absolutely certain that their children were actually theirs. Women, on the other hand, became more bothered by emotional infidelity, because they are concerned about having a partner to help raise their children.” [LiveScience]

All of us Wu babies are well-versed in this logic. The rule for girls in Loud/Rawkus/Def Jam-based relationships is that you can do whatever you want, just a) don't bring shame upon this family and b) wear clothes that cover your ass. And when Meth told me in '94 Never ever give my p---y away, I LISTENED. Ticaaaaaal.



(By the way, Meth is just fine with me giving my emotional intimacy, daily reports on the events of my life, requests for foot massages, and frequent music nerd discoveries away. Sigh. No more rappers for me in twentyten, you guys.)





I swear to god I hope we fuckin DIE together. This is, coincidentally, exactly what Marvin Gaye told Tammi Terrell back in '67. “You're All I Need to Get By.”

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You You're Awesome - “For the Queen.” An apt. 302 girly classic, discovered last year. Swoon.

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40 Water. | LA, Stop it. | Achebe.

1. Taking a brief hiatus from shouting GEAUX SAINTS in apt. 302 and listening to Dr. John and Eddie Bo and yeah, a little of Juvenile's "Ha" because I'm an idiot, in order to post this because it leaves me breathless and sweaty. It feels like we're all residents of this neighborhood where Drake is the little loudmouth kid braggin about his greatness to all the kids on the block, singing songs to girls, and then one day E-40 returns from his job driving a big rig cross-country, unpacks his bags, and picks him up by the scruff of his neck and drops him back off at the arcade. I do not care for Drake and I'm not too breathless and sweaty to point that out to you people.

Heavy on the Grind Entertainment is helllllla better than With Luck And Hard Work, You Might Have Success Entertainment. Presenting 40, who I still wanna go half on a sack with, POTNA, and Rick Rock, who emerges from his underground lair every 18 months with testosterone-laced bangers like this. I'm sweaty and breathless and therefore inarticulate, so in conclusion:

BASS. How low can you go. Also, don't get high off your own supply. C'mon, you guys.








2. The opposite of something that's "Illmatic," I think, is something that makes you feel physically ill.

Actress and socialite Paris Hilton (L) and reality tv star Doug Reinhardt attend a performance by rapper Nas during the 2010 Sundance Film Festival in Park City, Utah January 23, 2010. [REUTERS/Lucas Jackson]

3. “Being a Nigerian is abysmally frustrating and unbelievably exciting” - Chinua Achebe [The Guardian].

1967. Michael Neal photo.

(See also: Being an American, being a girl, living in LA, being a football fan, being human, trying to find "Exhibit C" on vinyl.)


“Nigerian nationality was for me and my generation an acquired taste – like cheese. Or better still, like ballroom dancing.

Not dancing per se, for that came naturally; but this titillating version of slow-slow-quick-quick-slow performed in close body contact with a female against a strange, elusive beat. I found, however, that once I had overcome my initial awkwardness I could do it pretty well.”

________________________

“Perhaps these irreverent analogies would only occur to someone like me, born into a strongly multiethnic, multi­lingual, multireligious, somewhat chaotic colonial situation. The first passport I ever carried described me as a 'British Protected Person', an unexciting identity embodied in a phrase that no one was likely to die for. I don't mean it was entirely devoid of emotive meaning. After all, 'British' meant you were located somewhere in the flaming red portion of the world map, a quarter of the entire globe in those days and called 'the British Empire, where the sun never sets'. It had a good ring to it in my childhood ears – a magical fraternity, vague but vicariously glorious.”




Fela Kuti & Ginger Baker - "Ye Ye De Smell"

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Dre understands me in a special auditory way.

The Guardian:

“‘[I did this] because it's sound. And I know a little bit about that,’ (Dr.) Dre chuckles, before explaining that an mp3 downloaded from the Internet, particularly illegally, can be as much as 10 times lower in quality than vinyl or even a CD. Coupled with the fact that many are listening to music on mobile phones or through tinny speakers, (the deterioration of music's sound quality) makes Dre disgruntled.

‘Once it gets to your computer, everything's compressed. It's like smashing sound,’ he explains.”

Nestled inside an article about Dre and his #1 Judaic industry buddy Jimmy Iovine* is this quote, used to justify Dre selling those stupid expensive headphones that are supposedly going to make computer music sound clear and large, just like turntable music. Not likely, Andre. But I still applaud your honesty regarding that patented crappy mp3 sound. Analog over digital, all day every day. There is a difference. My ears say so.

Now's the time in the post when I turn to address the city of Los Angeles and say, OH, I SEE QUITE CLEARLY NOW. EVIDENTLY JAY ELECTRONICA's "EXHIBIT C" IS UNAVAILABLE ON VINYL ANYWHERE WITHIN DRIVING RANGE. Amoeba, Fat Beats, Turntable Lab, Bagatelle, Rockaway: you are killing me steadily. Lord have mercy.




“Exhibit C.” SWOON. Still not sick of it, mostly because of that moment at the 28-second mark. It's all compressed n' smashed in this format, and yet lovely as all hell.

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*(I just found this out--don't tell anyone--but Jimmy Iovine produced “Edge of Seventeen,” “Don't Come Around Here No More,” “Alive and Kicking,” and a bunch of other Caucasoid classics that I hated until I turned 25, when I realized pop music is not the devil. Jimmy, you're amazing! He also produced Patti Smith, who I never hated and never will so there's no need for me to apologize. I'm full of manufactured edge, shopping at American Apparel and liking Red One's production work but way way deep down inside I'm fucking punk rock, you guys.)





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When we roll it's like we got the key to the city.

Time for me to gentrify another neighborhood, y'all! HeightFiveSeven Enterprises, All Rights Reserved, is moving its distribution center and headquarters from apartment 302, across Los Angeles, to the east my brother to the east since, after all, the sun rises in the east plus the east is in the house, Oh my god! DANGER!* Above: advance spotting of me hanging out on my new turf. (Image only slightly off-scale.)

Change is hard but through change comes growth, and also through change comes being closer to a good record store and saving $100/month on rent. Please send flowers, money, kittens, love letters, posters of a '70s Stevie Wonder, records of course, and a bearskin rug in primo condition to me, c/o Echo Park, CA. It's a lovely area, lake adjacent, which means I'll be able to do my Guru verse from "Above the Clouds" and point to the body of water outside my window for maximum effect. Like constellations reflect at night off the lake, I'll say, and I'll feel very pleased with myself. Lots of lines from "Lake of Fire" (Meat Puppets version) will probably also be tossed around in my new place (apt. 15) as well. Also, there's th-th-th-th-the bridge, which is so appealing to this girl who enjoys strolling in her sundress on a warm day, but then when me and my new place have a falling out, the bridge will of course be over. Aw.






*Ain't no need to act sheisty! Blahzay Blahzay - “Danger.”

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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.



. . .

I'm easily amused plus nothing of note on the Internet is happening right now

Jay-Z: “On Second Thought, I Like Orlando More”

[The Onion]

ORLANDO, FL—Though known for his personal homages to New York City in songs such as "Brooklyn's Finest" and "Empire State of Mind," hip-hop icon Jay-Z announced Monday that, upon closer reflection, he actually prefers the Greater Orlando area to the Big Apple.

"New York is gritty and real and helped shape both my music and my life, but Orlando—Orlando has it all," said the 40-year-old recording artist. "Plenty of shops, amazing restaurants, and you're only minutes away from Universal Studios. Plus, Orlando is just a really great place to raise a family."

Jay-Z went on to declare that if you could make it in Kissimmee–St. Cloud, you could probably make it anywhere.

Remember when Jay used to fund ladies' whole lifestyles while being so boastful about how he's not the one? OH HOV! All us ladies were laughing at you behind your back, darling. If I have to trade ladyparts in order to get you to pay my rent and light up my wrist? Dude. I still win.




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THIS GUY: Tim Tebow

Tebow lets the inferior sex touch him.

Pat Robertson in Cleats vs. my ladyparts!

Presenting the first THIS GUY of the new year, Tim Tebow, pointed out and shamed on this here weblog because of his adoption of the tiiiiiired old routine that Christ-y types have always used: volunteering to instruct you (and me) on how to live. Must we do this dance yet again?

Tim, Heisman-winning QB for the insufferable Florida Gators, soldier for Christ's army, and son of Evangelical missionaries, will appear with his mother in an antiabortion commercial during the "Super Bowl" (TM? All Rights Reserved? I should just call it The Big Game like on beer commercials). The Tebows will plead with ladies not to kill any tiny humans they may have growing inside them. Because it's the Tebows' fucking business, that's why.

The commercial has the creepily ambiguous title of "Celebrate Family, Celebrate Life," which, during the Super Bowl, means Celebrate Red Stripe, Celebrate the Saints' Victory, but which the Tebows will push as a catch phrase intended to make slutty ladies think twice about being slutty. As part of the deal, if every pregnant woman carries every pregnancy to term, Mrs. Tebow and Tim are going to offer to babysit, help us with the cost of raising a child, and make sure that all of the existing kids whose parents weren't equipped to care for them will swiftly move into the Tebow family home. Oh wait, no. That's not the case. [HuffPo]

Much to my amusement, Tim's major at Florida was Family, Youth and Community Sciences. How strange - I too have studied this very topic, and I do believe that the research-based science of families and communities tells us repeatedly that when women aren't trusted to make decisions about when they will give birth, Everything Gets Fucked Up. This includes Families, Youth, and Communities.

ANDANOTHERTHING: It's rather upsetting that someone native to Florida - the state geographically closest to the nation of Haiti and the state home to the highest number of Haitian-Americans - is concerned about unborn baby people who aren't here yet and who is starring in a multimillion-dollar commercial for Focus on the Family (ugh), when there are lots of people alive in Haiti right now who are dying and could use multi millions of dollars. YEAH I SAID IT.



Tim's just the latest in a string of dudes who have that killer cocktail of deep cluelessness and aggressive pushiness, presented under the guise of spreading the word of peacemonger and poverty-fighter Jesus Christ. My response to these people, distilled to its essence, is: I'm grown, dude. I'm grown. Kindly remove your Bible from my reproductive system. And although football is beloved in apt. 302, the only person round here I want flowing like Christ when he speaks the gospel is a) uh, Christ; and b) uh, Robert F. Diggs in '93. There are lots of ways to say back the fuck up (swoon, '93!), but in 2010 there's some growth occurring in apt. 302; sometimes cuss words are just so juvenile. Therefore, I'll simply offer the gently suggestive Cool Out, Son.

Really, Tim, REALLY. Cool out, son.






. . .

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Rien n'arrete nos esprits!

INDIANAPOLIS - JANUARY 16: Pierre Garcon, #85 of the Indianapolis Colts, holds up the Haitian flag after the Colts' 20-3 victory against the Baltimore Ravens in the AFC Divisional Playoff Game at Lucas Oli Stadium on January 16, 2010 in Indianapolis, Indiana. [Andy Lyons/Getty Images]

Everything went the way it was supposed to, football-wise, today in apt. 302:

1) Colts over Ravens, 2) Saints over Cardinals. Or as Marcus, who is 9 years old and lives across the hall says, "Both of the bird teams lost!" GODDAMN RIGHT, MARCUS. (Uhmm, darn right. Sorry. Nevertheless: high-five in the hallway between apt. 302 and 305!)

And at the end of his game, 3) Garcon held up the flag like we all knew he would and championed the cause of helping his beloved Haiti, which made me, of course,


4) think about this





and which made me, of course, 5) curious about the Haitian flag - the meaning of the blue & red, and the emblem in the white square. OCD, represent repre-zent-zent. So:

The first red and blue flag was sewn on May 18, 1803, under instructions of Jean-Jacques Dessalines, who played a prominent role in the Haitian revolution and was Toussaint L'Ouverture's principal lieutenant. Dessalines asked that the white of the French flag be removed, which led to the red and blue design. On the centered emblem, there's a trophy of weapons "ready to defend freedom," a royal palm for independence, and a Phrygian Cap of Liberty at the top of the palm (heavy with symbolism, as the Phrygian cap was worn by liberated slaves in ancient Rome and Greece). The coat of arms in the center carries the words: "L'Union fait la force" (Unity Makes Strong); the Kreyòl version is "Men anpil, chay pa lou" (Many Hands Lighten the Load).




Arcade Fire - “Haiti.”

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PS, quite a shift in tone so I had to sneak it in at the end of this post -

Even though I'm not up on my Indy rap like I'm up on my indie rap, I hear that the kids call Indianapolis Naptown, plus I really like this G-Fresh "On My Momma" song with its big dumb sing-along chorus. It's a good time, you guys; relax. Wait til you see me in the club, as I have successfully convinced myself that if this comes on I will be the only blonde girl in history to successfully pull off the blonde-girl-in-the-club-singing-along-with-a-rap-song-chorus-while-holding-her-rum-&-Coke-aloft, remaining cute and not the least bit obnoxious the whole time. Just you wait.


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2 from Brooklyn, 2 from Queens: rappers somehow the focal point of each of today's lead stories

1. Mos on Austin City Limits this Saturday! Watch Public Television, you guys; be more classy.

I'm secretly more excited about the Steve Earle and Allen Toussaint episodes since I have the same taste in music as a slightly hip, 59-year-old white man. HI DAD!



The Meters - "Hey! Last Minute."

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2. Playoffs this weekend! ALL HANDS ON DECK!


There will be lots of teary-eyed viewing in apt. 302 when CBS does the inevitable "Pierre Garcon's family is Haitian" story. We'll break out the sandwich platter from Costco and if you keep the Red Stripe flowing I'll probably do my version of "Queen's Gambit" while staggering around my living room. "I told her to stay strong, not to be ashamed!/You're a Ten I See, you just need to Titan your game." The only thing better than a pun? A football pun!











3. "Young people who commit crimes anticipate dying early" - Science Daily.

The overall theme here is You never know when you're gonna go. Although young criminals are aware of the risks of violent injury, death or punishment, the possibility of a shorter life span encourages them to focus more on the "here and now." Specific crimes noted include robbin foreigners and ripping green cards. Also, I happen to know for a fact that most of these dudes got their first piece of ass smokin blunts with hash.









4. James, this Lady Loves you 'cause you're so Cool. Wish it were '85 again, but time marches on. Happy birthday.




"Jingling Baby."

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Bartender, Chevalier Chateau at table three.

PS:




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I can't forget the day I shot that bad bitch down.

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Me and the weird old bearded dude who owns that record store in your town are having a music trivia nerd-off. He offers that today's the day Donny Hathaway killed himself in '79. I counter with the fact that on this day in 1968, Johnny Cash and the Tennessee Three performed at Folsom for some super-geeked inmates. Guess what? I WIN THIS ROUND. Almost exactly like the Geto Boys, I CAN'T BE STOPPED.

On heavy, heavvvy rotation in my childhood home, At Folsom Prison was my first foray into the terrible romantic beauty of the Up North Trip in lyric form. Here's to being raised on stories set to melody about prison and coke, then growing up, amassing a bikini collection, getting a master's, and being obsessed with stories set to melody about prison and coke (Happy birthday again, Rae!).


Bonus nerdage: Rick James, Timothy Leary, and Eldridge Cleaver? All former inmates at Folsom. And, coincidentally, all probably CRAZY, dirty-talkin, chemical-assisted, hair-pullin partners in bed. (Sorry Mom.)

“Hello, I'm Johnny Cash.”

“Cocaine Blues.” Wait, didn't I already mention Rick James in this post?

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“Folsom Prison Blues.”

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The 6 best things about the fact that it's Rae's birthday.

1. Baby Corey, of course (I pull it out every couple months or so; it just never gets old):





2. It provides an excuse to nerd out on U.S. history.
January 12, 1968: Jacques Cousteau's 1st undersea special on U.S. network TV. Related: Rae's influence is vast and wide, with a flow as choppy as a goddamn sea.




3. a) Slyly working lyrics into conversation at various points throughout the day, while still having it sound natural:

Like a 27-inch zenith, believe it.
Make 'em jump like Rod Strickland.
Everything realer than fuck!
(I'm less successful at this than I'd like.)


b) Really sitting back and appreciating songs about fresh death, good meals, the pharmaceutical industry, and expensive liquor that somehow aren't boring. Impossible, they said, and yet Rae continues to surpass performance measures.




4. It provides an excuse to nerd out on Billboard-charts history.
January 12, 1968: #1 R&B hit was "I Second That Emotion," by Smokey Robinson & the Miracles*. I kinda feel like giving Rae a lifetime of devotion, so this makes sense. The non-R&B hit that same week of that same year was "Judy in Disguise," with that jubilant bassline. If you can find a way to connect this to Rae, I'm eager to hear from you, New Best Friend.




5. Lots of celebrating through indulging our senses in apt. 302 - which really just means cuddling with the Ghostface doll, dialing 1-900-Raekwon, and drinking a Red Stripe (champagne: NO. Moet tastin like throw-up). Also: maybe taking a bath with a white woman.




6. Not being able to take the day off from work, but having a nice Breaks Interlude™ upon arrival back home and seeing once again that All Roads Lead to Smokey.


*







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Scene from my dream life: being a Blue Devil this semester (9th Wonder, Duke professor)

This semester at Duke, 9th Wonder will begin his new gig co-teaching an African-American Studies class called “Sampling Soul,” which will examine songs from the Civil Rights and Black Power Movements. In response, I don't think I'm being dramatic when I say, "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!."


WATCH ME NOW/FEEL THE GROOVE! Breaks + college coursework + hiphop producers + music nerdery + American history + American civil rights history + '70s everything + '70s music + '70s soul music in particular? I.E., EVERYTHING I LOVE AND EXCEL AT, COMBINED INTO ONE FANTASTIC THING? This news, and my related fantasy of attending this class and being star pupil and teacher's pet, got me feeling good, like Laettner vs. that buzzer, son. I've never really been a Duke basketball fan, but Coach K's epic army of consonants in his last name has always amused me. And now with the addition of 9th Wonder to the faculty? What's that term the kids use? "It's a wrap"?


“The class is studying soul music from the 60s, 70s, and 80s, the neighborhoods it came out of and where was the influence for this song to come out of,” 9th says.

“I’m excited man, it’s a new frontier for me. I’m always excited for new frontiers.” Me too, 9TH! ME TOOOOOO. See you at Cameron, my dude.











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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").



A.

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B.

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2. 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.

Outkast - "Bombs Over Baghdad"

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.








. . .

Willie Mitchell, record collection superhero (even without the Wu link)

“The synergy between Al Green’s magnificent vocals and Willie’s crisp & sophisticated production and arrangements became the soundtrack to the endless summer of the early seventies.” Willie Mitchell was born in Mississippi in 1928. He died today. Even so: that endless early '70s summer soundtrack goes on and on in apt. 302! Love you, Willie.

Memphis' Hi Records held Al Green, Syl Johnson, Ann Peebles, and O.V. Wright in its warm, enveloping bosom while Willie did the production. He had Al Green use the same dirty old RCA microphone during the recording of all his '70s songs; the 2 of them became so attached to it that they named the damn thing: "Number Nine." I find this so charming, words fail me. Love you, Willie.

I done told you 59 times: everything was better in the '70s. Just everything. Um, you ever heard an Al Green record? NOTHING FURTHER, YOUR HONOR.





















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LOL, Reuters.

A tourist poses next to Victoria’s Secret models following their appearance in New York’s Times Square, November 18, 2009. [REUTERS/Brendan McDermid]

That news ticker up there in blue behind the lanky girls!

“There are no accidents” - Elie Wiesel, et al.


This is just more propaganda being used to support the stereotype that fabulously successful swimsuit models such as myself are dumb. Public opinion continues to set my industry back tremendously, and I do not care for it one bit.







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Paging Boots Riley!

Rickey Henderson vs. umps/Brock's stolen-bases record/Brewers. 1982. [Heinz Kluetmeier/SI]

Baseball has always been the least popular spectator sport in apt. 302 (season's too long, steroid scandal is lame, Selig is creepy) but: MAYDAY! My (beloved?) Oakland A's are in danger!!

In the tradition of EVERYTHING IN AMERICA, EVER, rich people are trying to poach from the fertile grounds of the urban and poor in an attempt to increase a little thing called revenue. In the Bay Area, the latest episode of this is a campaign to move the Oakland A's to San Jose [NY Times]. The A's have the lowest attendance of home games in the league and they have to play in the creaky old Coliseum. San Jose seems appealing because it's 40 miles to the south, twice as big as Oakland, richer (Silicon Valley), and has, um, slightly different demographics. My rebuttal is that the A's are a classic franchise and represent more than its ticket sales would indicate in Oakland, a city of high unemployment and especially low morale these days since there have been all these budget cuts in California. Man, first they tie up Bobby Seale at the trial, then they wanna move the baseball team downstate. Too $hort is being asked to retroactively show his permit for tape sales out of his vehicle circa '82 now, too.

Bud Selig has a fetish for the sexy/almighty dollar sign, as any businessman should*. Unfortunately, it turns out there aren't a lot of dollar signs in Oakland, unless you look up in the hills where all the Cal professors live, so there's probably a good chance that this move could happen. The fight to keep the team in Oakland is helped, however, by the SF Giants claiming territorial rights to San Jose (whose fans are fancy and well-to-do, which Selig loves), the threat of a lawsuit against the league (which Selig does not love) since the move would “undermine the financial viability of the Giants,” and the efforts of Oakland resident Douglas Boxer, founder of Let’s Go Oakland, a coalition of business and community leaders seeking to keep the A’s in the city. Doug's being pretty persistent in this fight, oh and I should probably mention that Doug's mom is a lady named Barbara...Boxer. Get the Senate involved and, I don't know, it just seems like things could get especially interesting.

The ultimate decision on where the A’s will play lies with Mr. Selig and the other MLB team owners. Conspicuously absent from this debate? Del, the Luniz, Tower of Power, Raphael Saadiq, Ant Banks, MC Hammer. Step up, gentlemen. (Keyshia Cole, you're excused 'cause you live in Atlanta now. Also, that family of yours! You have bigger fish to fry, my dear.)





*

Todd Shaw could not be reached for comment. That don't mean I can't post this attractive photo, though. (808 not included.)

The Coup ft. Black Thought & Talib Kweli - “My Favorite Mutiny.” Up in the Bay like Huey P!


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The best songs about flowers* *now with more bathing suit!

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My life my life my life my life! In the sun-shiiiine! Santa laced me with affordable designer swimwear from the chain store, it's got a dainty floral print, and now life is wonderful. Just bees & things & flowers!


The title of the photo collection above is “me in a bathing suit as it relates to consumable pop music.” What can we glean from this?

1. That when you put something on the Internet, it's there forever so you better be damn sure your future friends and boyfriends and progeny will be cool with it. Good thing I'm not running for President (sorry, gang!).

2. There are many great songs about flowers, as evidenced by the classics(?) culled from my very own record collection below*. There's no Kanye or Outkast “Roses,” and no “Sugar Mag” or “Scarlet Begonias.” That's amateur hour, you guys.

3. My English degree courses emphasized the deconstruction of literature and culture through a postmodern feminist lens. That's great and all, but sometimes a girl is conflicted and likes to document her earthly body via digital media. Fun with hegemonic masculinity!




* The best of the best:

Dudley Perkins, “Flowers.” I'm hungry, filled with happiness all over, and my mouth is dry.

mp3.



Ghostface, “Wildflower.” Ghosty fucked my friend then had the nerve to write a whole song about it!



Sonic Youth, “Wildflower Soul.” Sing yr child lights. Lights are gold. Sing yr child life. Wildflower soul. Kim & Thurston have a daughter and I'm not her even though I should be. Sperm Lotto, you suck.



The Carter Family, “Wildwood Flower.” Reminds me of my tumultuous, love-filled marriage to Johnny Cash.



The Pharcyde, “Soul Flower.” Had to mention it, otherwise I would've gotten my Cali ID revoked.



Janelle Monae, “Come Alive (The War of the Roses).” In my spare time I get funny haircuts, I'm friends with Big Boi, I sing like a bird, everyone in LA brags about knowing me because I'm such a badass, I surprise everybody by signing with Bad Boy, and I don't pull weak-ass moves like putting pictures of myself in a bikini on the Internet. Get 'em, Miss Monae.

mp3.



Patrice Rushen, “Forget Me Nots.” Handclaps. Bass. Handclaps.



Little Brother, “Passion Flower.” Tired of these hoes talkin shit. Also: 9th Wonder.



Barrington Levy, “Black Roses.” Wail.



De La Soul, “D.A.I.S.Y. Age.” (no link because there are NO YOUTUBE UPLOADS??). Rebel. Renegade. Renegade reaching only top flight, can't find your new height. Think you need a raise. PS, De La Soul means “From The Soul.”



Dr. Octagon - “Blue Flowers.” Nobody else repped Bellevue so hard.




The Avett Brothers, “Famous Flower of Manhattan.” Posted because it's a good song and also because I feel that somehow it will lead me directly to Rick Rubin.

mp3.



Johnny Hodges and his Orchestra - “Passion Flower.” 'Cause I'm classy.




Doom, “Passion Flower.” It's Doom. Have you and I just met? If you need to ask me about this, leave this place and don't you ever show your face 'round here again.









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