• Quote above courtesy of writer, communist, and champion of the people Jose Saramago, who died this week. Once you go Marxist, your name is forever dirt among the small-minded; what more is there to say. And I loved Blindness; what more can I say.
The masses get excited for Drake and his cringe-inducing lyrical non-prowess (“What am I doing? What am I doing?/Oh yeah, that's right: I'm doing me”), when it's Saramago, a real man of letters, who should be celebrated--and not just in his native Portugal.
Behold the beauty below. Obrigado, senhor.
• Beautiful-facial-featured Spanish WAG Sara Carbonero is my new girlfriend with whom I'll be running away to a land where we can marry and lounge around nakedly and read Neruda poems to each other all day long. With that skin tone and those Arab eyes--her face is like the illustrated history of the Moors fornicating their way through Europe--she rules my heart, yes, but is still only my second-favorite Spaniard, behind this gorgeous specimen:
Quantic - “Juanita Bonita.”
• God bless the freaks, went one of the more prominent bumper stickers I'd see at Dead shows when I was little. Amen, brother.
Manute Bol, my brother in unnatural-body-type-ism (his unnaturalness was height and lank; mine is scrawny legs and fat hips), was a good guy. He was able to withstand the vast difficulties and rude stares incurred as a result of being 7'7" (that's like a head taller than Garnett, yikes) and used his fame and money to the benefit of causes in his home country, the Sudan. He was also so smart that he really was somewhat a nerd, which makes me love him even more.
When he played for Philadelphia, Bol became friends with Charles Barkley, who shares this:
“You know, a lot of people feel sorry for him, because he's so tall and awkward, but I'll tell you this -- if everyone in the world was a Manute Bol, it's a world I'd want to live in. He's smart. He reads The New York Times. He knows what's going on in a lot of subjects. He's not one of these just-basketball guys. Basketball's just one percent of it. You know what he was talking about the other day? Milk. He was saying that he grew up on milk straight from the cow. Squeezed it himself. Milk. He says, ‘Charlie, what's this lo-fat milk, this two percent milk, all of this other milk? Cows don't give lo-fat milk, two percent milk. We shouldn't drink it.’ I don't know. Maybe he's got something.” Ain't no maybe about it, Charles. Except maybe he'd tell you to stop doing those T-Mobile commercials because they're not funny, and do you really need the money at this point, unless you're giving it to charitable causes in the Sudan? Good lord.
• Please get me this book, out later in June: Fender: The Golden Age 1946-1970. Guitars are perfect because the sounds they emit fill our lives with joy, and because they are shaped like women. Ain't no maybe about that, neither.
• Gary Shider, Diaperman, Starchild, has left this place and joined the big cosmic slop up there above the clouds. He was proficient in gospel and goddammit if that's not what this music is, below.
Coke & headphones are necessary here, after you press play. C'mon, a little won't kill you.
In the role-playing game of Funk Gods If They Were Clan Gods,
Bernie Worrell is RZA (song constructor),
Eddie Hazel is GZA (space cowboy in tune with the cycles of the moon; not of this earth),
George is Mef (charisma, voice),
Bigfoot Brailey is Rae (the anchor, consistent, unflashy),
Bootsy is Ghosty (often high-pitched voice),
and Shider, of course, is ODB. Because he wore a diaper on stage, people.
• Lakeshow necessities:
- “Drake Brings Out Kobe at Powerhouse" is a headline which could also just as accurately say “2 Wack Rappers on Stage at Powerhouse.” My strong sense of integrity means that I simply cannot overlook bad music, which explains my snark here, but #24 is still the greatest. And hey, what happened to all those people who were making fun of the LA Times magazine spread? So weird, how they're not really running their yaps right now. You oughta be ashamed, e-thugs. It's like the liquor store owner in Menace said: I feel sorry for your mother.
- Ron-Ron has a song called “Champion” that is, let's be honest, not very good, but the best part about following this link is that you'll see various commenters on Rap Radar correctly ascertaining that it's far superior to anything on Drake's album. I find comfort in this, being understood by my brothers in hip-hop, even though I dislike the fact that Ron had to do it over that goddamn Beamer Benz beat. WHYYYY in the name of Long Island City his verses were not done over “The Bridge” instrumental is beyond me, but I love Ronald always and forever. If things don't work out with Sara C. and me, he's definitely my next conquest.
- Most of the team (sorry, Luke) and a spectacular pair of Harlequin pants were guests on Jimmy Kimmel. Update: even if things do work out between Sara and me, I'm setting my sights on Ron. He's my density.
• Haley Barbour is the Republican governor of Mississippi, deflector of criticism aimed at BP, and brand-new Dude Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked. Welcome, Haley! Pull up a seat next to Sean Hannity, just behind all the dudes in that goddamn Grown-Ups movie who bored me to death with their courtside appearances and half-assed takes on NBA rivalries during the finals (even you, Chris Rock, who disappointed me most of all because you should know better).
Barbour is going to be trouble, I can feel it already. “A self-described ‘fat redneck,’ he speaks in a marble-mouthed Mississippi drawl, loves Maker’s Mark bourbon, resembles an adult version of Spanky from the Little Rascals and fits no one’s ideal of a sleek new political model: squat, big-bellied and pink-jowled, he looks as if he should have a cigar in his mouth at all times (and occasionally does),” and makes it clear he'd be none too pleased if his daughter were to bring home a young man of color. Oops, I may have added that last part.
“A bunch of liberal elites were hoping this would be the Three Mile Island of offshore drilling,” said Mr. Barbour, who earns over $120,000 annually but is in no way a dreaded elite. This was in response to the BP spill, which Barbour insists was not very consequential--I mean, oil won't affect the ecosystem just offshore from his state, which he knows for a fact based on his scientific research that consists of walking along the Mississippi coastline and seeing that very few tar balls have washed up. Offshore drilling employs a lot of people in Mississippi, and it's nice that he's defending that; however, I believe he has an even stronger sense of obligation to defend the oil companies that gave him $1.8 billion toward his gubernatorial campaign.
“I appreciate him promoting tourism,” said Diane Peranich, a Democratic state representative from the coast in response to Barbour's public statements of delusion, “but not to the detriment of reality.”
Home to this guy and birthplace of Elvis, plus that whole Chaney-Goodman-Schwerner unpleasantness, Mississippi needs a miraculous turnaround if it hopes to redeem itself after all these years. David Banner and Bo Diddley can't carry the whole state, you guys.
America is broke/its backbone was built off of dope, oil and false hope.
David Banner - “When You Hear What I Got to Say.” I sure do love this song, especially right around the second minute. Like me, David's got a dirty mouth but a pristine soul.