Saturday, February 26, 2011

And my jewels blue and yellow/The type of shit that make 'em call you Carmelo*. (*2003-2011; “blue and orange” hasn't been rhymed with anything yet)

1. Long hair she don’t care, when she walk she get stares. All Waka songs are about pretty white girls, I just realized. This is one of the Top 10 things about being a white girl this week. And I know for certain that “6'7” is, in turn, about gigantic, beautifully-cheekboned Waka who happens to be just that many feet and inches tall. (Wayne's got a crush on him, along with almost all white girls in my neighborhood).

That's how you do the blonde-lady lounge: in black and white or muted tones, and thigh-highs holding tight to your milky skin of course.
Amanda in Interview.

YES. Yes. Yep. Oh god. Blonde lady with skinny legs, gazing toward the future. You can't deny it.
Lily in London.

Jeisa in Marie Claire. She is, sadly, not blonde, though we must still accept her as one of our own. The brown-haired are welcome at our board meetings and conventions but their powers will always be limited.
(even if they have beautiful curvy shapes on their bodies; please refer to photo immediately above)

Looking pretty and thoughtful at the same time is my overall goal in life (now that I have my master's degree).

2. Today we are pouty that we didn't get cast in that Gucci/Soulja/Gotti video and I will have to report this matter to the union, but white girls? We're still doing all right for ourselves this week, looking fine and doing important stuff. We're waiting for that Curren$y mixtape, posing in front of mirrors, wearing our red trenches on dreary days, lounging hard, wondering why a perfectly lovely Dilla beat was wasted by some jackass on a song called “Man Purses.” And we're doing laundry and grocery shopping, of course, because we're kind of boring during the week.

3. The tomboyish among us are discussing the 'Melo trade at work and with our brother because we want to keep up with the world, but we're really not that interested. Snoozeville. Besides, our favorite headband-wearer is Baron Davis, and we are sad he got shipped away so it's hard to get excited about the stupid NBA right now. Plus we only care about the Knicks when they turn up in lyrics by the residents of various NYC boroughs. We can endlessly talk about that condition Blake Griffin has that makes his eyes so close together, though. An unfortunate face, that one's got. And we love Charles Woodson and his solidarity with the nonwealthy working class (which, despite our Alexander Wang bag, we are still a proud part of).

4. We like that new PJ Harvey but not as much as the old, and we were reminded by witchy godmother Stevie Nicks on the radio today that Players only love you when they're play-innnnnn. That's some wisdom, mama - right up there with It's OK to eat fish cuz they don't have any feelings and Write down blog ideas during boring meetings at work (sit in the back and lay low, dummy).

5. We love that “The Pot” came on LA radio today when we were driving!; oh god, it turned the inside of the Civic into something cinematic and cool, thanks Justin Chancellor's swampy bass--“the midrange cut and punch for which he is known,” a quote boosted from Wikipedia but only because it's so dope. Midrange cut and punch, like a fighter. And we're still high from the four-plus minutes of Metallica we heard the other day, which was rivaled by Today's Other Best Song Heard While Out and About, “A Pair of Brown Eyes,” at the gas station (????!!?). The tune just hangs out in a girl's head hours after she hears it, and we were curious about the lyrics so we looked up both “Where the Water-Lilies Grow” and Ray and Philomena when we got home. We want to do well in music nerdery when we finally make it to Jeopardy! It's not about impressing Ken Jennings, though--he's not our type; we're more into the computer.

(We loved the Pogues when we were 16, having successfully completed our Beatles phase at 15. It was a perfect fit because we liked feeling that life was tragic but we still loved melody and Elvis Costello. We also believed that if it were 1983-88 and we were of age, we could've gotten into their shows for free based simply on the fact of being named Logan--the Gaelic discount).

6. Back at HQ, we liked that Kurupt kameo in that Snoop video. WE LOVE KURUPT. We also liked that a song called Gangbang Rookie” turned out to not be about what we first thought it was going to be about based on its title. That was a close one.

7. Then, taking it to the eastern seaboard, we liked two-thirds of that Rae/Ghosty/Rawss song; one-third of it we hated. (We don't like the fattest one's verse, or his voice.)

What we really liked, specifically: a) Rae bragging about “swimmin through life,” because that's what we're doing too only we never thought to put it that way; b) Ghosty saying “We in the back roastin marshmallows, bottles of Cru” (not the kind of roasting a marshmallow on Urban Dictionary, perv; is that even a real thing?); and c) this, from Rae:

Holdin my girl wedding ring,
She Medellín, name is Beretta King
Live in Alpharetta, and she never leave me”

We know from a thousand songs by males that the perfect woman is, alas, not a white girl. We hate that. How disappointing. The perfect woman is either an American- or Italian-made car, or a firearm (a loyal firearm, in Rae's case). She's also Colombian and lives in Georgia. Sigh. We've always been pretty fucking down when it comes to supporting our dude, we're willing to hold weight, but we have been humbled here. We simply cannot compete with this girl. We are too hard on ourselves sometimes, trying to be all things to all people. We should remember we have our own gifts, our strong suits--Kanye will always love us, we can always get knocked up in someone's suite after the All-Star Game and get fucking PAID dog, and we have the power and smarts to make invisibility cloaks happen! We're also thinking of becoming architects, while still doing our makeup in glittery pinks and purples like we're about to go to our night job at Magic City.

8. Abbey Clancey. We like this look and we're confident we can replicate it since we are also a skinny-legged glasses-wearing blonde with too much eyeliner. We'll never be mistaken for a member of Warpaint but that's OK.

Abbey's famous for being hot (British standards, though--not American hot) and for entrapping an athlete with her vagina. We respect this. Ha ha, gentlemen; you're just mad because you fear female sexuality and your physical limitations prevent you from taking part in this particular hustle.

9. Even our mailman and the OG white lady fox (Mom) are geeked about Odd Future at this point. This is annoying but not at all surprising. You can try to stop a freight truck but then you just give up 'cause you have weak Mr. Burns arms and it goes whooshing by, delivering LA rap to the midwest and the east. We hate that the fucking Spin article about them ended with “the future is going to be very Odd”; it literally made us go UGGHHH. OH GODDDD at the bookstore and we tossed the magazine aside in a mini-tantrum. Oh but the newest and best thing about the Fairfax boys is their affiliate Frank. We love Frank and we'd never play Drake* if Frank were in the Civic with us (since we HATE DRAKE).

* verse 2, “Songs for Women.”


The Pogues - “Maidrín Rua” (Little Fox)


10. Annnnnd we liked this.

We really liked this a lot! Thanks, Tumblr.


Monday, February 21, 2011

The Friends of Distinction!

“Don't tell me where your priorities are. Show me where you spend your money and I'll tell you what they are.” - James W. Frick

It looks tragically as if my hips went away! Don't worry; they're still around.

Name: The Friends of Distinction, Grazin' (RCA Victor, 1969).

Is this acceptable? Yes. The band's name is amazing; friends of distinction are the best kind of friends to have, next to friends who will tell you how smart and funny you are and reassure you that you do not, in fact, emit natural cop-attracting pheromones. The title is in reference to “Grazin' in the Grass,” a silly song that was their biggest hit, and is part of the great canon of one-word album titles (Stankonia, Hell, Promise, Innervisions, Frankenchrist, Damaged, Donuts, Bleach, Ironman, Fishscale, Roots).

Produced by: John Florez, who also produced some Willie Hutch, and the Hughes Corporation’s Freedom for the Stallion, with corny-ass “Don’t Rock the Boat.”

Additional personnel that make me sigh with desire and yet somehow fulfillment of that desire at the same time: Singer Jessica Cleaves was also in Parliament for a while. King Errisson played congas, just like he did on records for Grant Green, Lalo Schifrin, Lamont Dozier, David Axelrod, Eddie Kendricks, just like I mentioned in the Willie Hutch post a while back. Jim Gordon on drums. JIM GORDON, BABYCAKES. I just can’t. I don’t even know. I can’t. I cannot. I don’t know where to begin with Mr. Gordon. Take my class about him at the Learning Annex. Thank you.

Jerry Peters wrote “Going in Circles” and produced Foster Sylvers’ self-titled album with “Misdemeanor” on it, which anyone within a 50-mile radius of apt. 15 will wreckonize as soon as I say “ONE and in comes the TWO to the THREE and FOUR.” (That was my D.O.C. impression).
Peters also produced Jimmy Smith’s Blacksmith, whose “I'm Gonna Love You Just a Little More, Babe” is a big fat beast and was used by Tribe and G Rap (produced by Sir Jinx!) but it's most memorable for Professor, what's another word for pirate treasure?*

* (I think it's booty. Booty. Booty. That's what it is.)

Also on this record: flugelhorns. A human named Garry Nuttycombe. Al Casey on guitar—he also played on Billie Holiday and King Curtis records. Arthur Wright on guitar, too—he also played on Let’s Get It On. Max Bennett on bass, who played on Quincy Jones’ Body Heat, the title song of which was used in that stupid Tupac song where he refers to himself as daddy and that always creeped me out. Gentlemen, no. Please don't do that. Also please don't accelerate super fast and make the tires screech when the light turns green, both because it's a waste of gas and because it makes us think you have a small penis.

It is important and strange to note that heralded running back and wearer of hats Jim Brown gave “The Friends” their first contract. He also scored 21 points in the Cotton Bowl and made out with Raquel Welch in a movie, 2 of my goals in life.

Global events at the time of its release: 1969 equals “Crimson and Clover” riding high on the charts, the end. Bye bye. Nothing more to say about that year. I can't think of anything else that happened that year; did anything else happen that year?

Normally I'd focus on what was on the R&B charts* during a trip back in time in a blog post rather than tripster echo whiteboy yearning jangly rock. However, as great as *Tyrone Davis' “Can I Change My Mind” is, the fact is that it lacks the sex, energy, dirt, guts, and life force present throughout “Crimson.” The “over and oh-verrr at 1:59 alone turns me into a Vivid contract girl who just got back from the monster truck show and is ready for some fun with pills.


Entered my life: December 2008. Amoeba. $10.99.

Difficulty of finding, vinyl-wise (1-10 scale): 2? 3? Pretty easy. But listen, obscurity is so overrated. It's at a 2 or 3 and that's a great thing; it means you can take your cute self down to the record store right now and get you a copy! You need the whole album for the bassline drama of “Going in Circles” alone. Nothing on the record comes close to that quality, but it's worth the price just for that one.

Lately the battle of the dramatic songs on LA radio that turn the inside of my Civic into an opera has been “All of the Lights” vs. “The Dog Days Are Over” (the feeling of triumph in the latter is what Kanye is trying to recreate on half of Dark Twisted*, I believe), but sometimes Laboe or somebody will throw a slow jam in there and if I'm truly blessed, “Going in Circles” comes on. The degree to which I want drama in my life is inversely proportional to the degree to which I need it in song. Everything around me calm and pleasant, I've made my life that way on purpose--I'm good at picking friends and I don't call boys who don't call me back. I get along fabulously with my mom. And that's why I need a song that makes me want to kill myself, have sex a thousand times a day or jump off a building because it's made me manic and convinced me I can fly.

* “It gives you that dramatic feel that makes you unsure whether you want to laugh or cry. And when i sing this? I have this awkward moment when all the people around me turn to dust” - 11monstermash11

Breaks contained: Shockingly, only 3 as far as I can tell--“And I Love Him” (change-up of the Beatles' “And I Love Her”) was sorrrrta used on Rawss' Maybach Music (ugh), although the producers (J.U.S.T.I.C.E. League, and now I'm exhausted typing out that whole thing) insisted on changing the lyrics. Right, because “Never ever doubt” would sound ridiculous and not at all cool at the beginning of a song about your wealth. Oh wait, no! It would sound great! Never ever doubt the degree to which I am getting caked! Dope! It's Rawss, though; what you expect. That dude always drops the ball.

The Grouch also used it on “Never Die,” which means he thinks they're singing “Never ever die.” Oh dear, no. That's incorrect, but I don't know how to say that without sounding like a jerk. It's doubt, not die.

The only use of “Going in Circles” I could find was in Crime Mob's “Circles”; however, “Going in Circles” was used in Dead Presidents and it therefore gets some tangential breaks credit because of the movie's beloved place in rapdom. That was a Hughes Brothers film, correct? Pre-Tupac unpleasantness, I believe-? Dead Presidents features creepy face paint, foxy ‘70s dudes sitting around talking shit so you know I love it, and Bokeem Woodbine as crazy, creepy/murderous Cleon, choppin off some Viet Cong heads and then coming back to New York and becoming a minister but still being a bad guy, making the simple act of wearing glasses seem creepy and murderous. I've seen a lot of these movies, the ones focusing on post-Vietnam, pre-Reagan life in America (but usually in LA and NY), and that time period holds great allure for me.

The strings alone on this song spell “tragic, doomed love affair” in big bold letters, but that just means it's good for a bittersweet lovemaking session.

Best YouTube comment:

Is this me? Did I post this comment on YouTube in a dream? It sure sounds like me, all those exclamation points, trying to get all cute with it and say some rhymes, like I'm a DJ and I'm introducing “Going in Circles” on my radio show, finger trembling as I'm about to press play for alllllll you lovers out there.

Reason for this post on today of all days: It's (dead) Presidents Day! And because, not to brag or anything, but ummm I'm still spending money from '88.

Facts of nerdy interest that excite me and might show up on Jeopardy! someday:

- JIM BROWN SIGNED THEM, what the fuck is that all about. It's so strange but I love it. He went to Syracuse, which is where one Carmelo Anthony also matriculated. Hey, have you guys heard anything about the possibility of 'Melo not playing for the Nuggets forever and ever? That would be fun and not at all boring to discuss, like the whereabouts of Obama's birth certificate.

- Further thanks to Conn Musical Instrument Corporation for donating the multi-viders used on “Grazin' in the Grass,” it says on the back cover. So of course I had to look it up (a multi-vider was a voice-splitting device that could “add certain wah-wah like effects”).

Mid-hair-out-of-face-move, without record (L), and with record (R). Note the leg sheen--I don't know how I made that happen but I'm gonna try to do it every day from now on.

Sartorial accompaniment:
Thrift store sweater (yay), mall shorts (ugh), espadrilles because I love things that tie onto and then untie off of the body. I got the Fawcett hair waves and high-waisted stuff flatters my shape, so I am always fond of a ‘70s look and therefore you know I keep that particular game extra tight, world's skinniest legs and all. “No bad habits, Ma,” Anthony (Larenz Tate) says in Dead Presidents upon returning from Vietnam, “except for a little killing.” Mine is “No bad habits, except for never throwing an article of clothing away because you just never know when you'll want to show it off in a blog post.” And my aesthetic is underaged hooker, 1976.” I have a look and I go with it and if it works, why change it. All the girls at Vons wear their Black Flag tees, it's the uniform around here, but that's just not me, man. I'm square? You're the one that's square, man.

Watch out, Gisele has been my mantra, my ridiculous-posing game is super tight, face-pose-body-hands-work-FACE-hips, but that was before I saw these young ladies and it struck me that I should probably focus instead on MPC acrobatics and Doom lyrics, and the history of Stax. And Artest. And sewing.

Life lessons, important messages contained:

- Again, it's really all about “Going in Circles” here.

I'm an ever rollin' wheel, without a destination real.
I'm an ever spinning top, whirling around til I drop.
Oh but what am I to do, my mind is in a whirlpool.
Give me a little hope, one small thing to cling to.
You got me going in circles (oh round and round I go).
You got me going in circles.

OHH bassline, you put the hurt on me! Some boys over the years have made me go in circles. Too many, I'm afraid. How sad. Real dudes, not famous rappers. It's usually been because I've spent time waiting around for them to catch up and realize they need a shy record dork, smoldering and skinny-limbed, with whom to go for sunny-day walks. Give me a little hope, one small thing to cling to. You got me going in circles. Then I realized that's boring, because a circle has no stopping point. What a waste of time! Round and round! It says so in the song. R&B is so great for epiphany moments like that. Similarly, Facebook’s sidebar tells me E-40 is coming to the House of Blues later this month. Mike Tyson loves pigeons, according to Yahoo!, and this news was so pleasing to hear and it crushed me in my heart. You never know from where you’re going to get important messages.

Other notable things about today:

- I’d like Fela’s “Who’re You” to play every time I walk down the street on a day when the weather is between 70 and 78 degrees. I'm wearing a short cotton dress and drinking a Coke from the bottle, walking my black Lab puppy.

I’d also like Ayatollah or Mike Clink to produce my first single. I'd like there to be no more Travis Barker anywhere, but especially no more of him on rap sites. I'd like Ghosty to wear that yellow jacket and do that lazy spin-around dance for me every morning in apt. 15 to give me motivation while I'm getting ready for work, and I’d like a pic of Waka and Wayne standing next to each other—Manute n’ Muggsy, rap edition. If you can get that last thing for me I will act whorish for you in the best possible way. Hi Mom.

- Best song played on LA radio in the last 48 hours: “For Whom the Bell Tolls,” DOG. Time-mar-ches-ON-on-on-on-on. I mean, really. From a melodic standpoint, from an ear-porn standpoint, it's impossible to argue with me here. DRUMS, drama, big dramatic DRUMS and lyrics about GUNS, just like all the best Clipse songs, and the whole section from 3:00-fade out, including the DRUMS at 3:05 and 3:18 and 3:30 and 3:47. For a hill, men would kill--why? They do not know/Stiffened wounds test their pride! Crack of dawn, all is gone except the will to be! Plus it's a BASS Cliff plays at the beginning. I learned that a few years ago; I had a boyfriend who had all the records on vinyl and thus began my obsession with Flemming Rasmussen. That's one Dutchman* who can produce a great record. So in addition to having friends of distinction, it's also nice to have friends with the good sense to pick up a copy of Ride the Lightning on vinyl when they see it. You never know when you'll come across it again.

*He's Danish! Oops.


Monday, February 14, 2011

And to get with me you better be Chief Lots-O-Doe.

Ha! Only jokin! Money's only good for rolling around naked on at Rozay's parties. I don't need money.

Please just be sweet, and not a cop, and don't be uptight when I culture-poach in the name of fashion, of course be nice to my mom, and enjoy grabbin hips, singing/rapping while driving, and sharing in my excitement when I find cute shoes and a feather necklace at the swap meet that also remind me of a freaking rap classic from last decade, a big fat beautiful song about global ass and ethnic stereotypes. You'll also need to worship me when appropriate and tell me to knock it the fuck off when appropriate. Your work will be rewarded, though, I promise--in homemade cupcakes and affection and my eternal feminine gratitude for killing bugs and opening jars. I would also like you to listen to my daily rants about the sad state of rap music (Pusha T's verse is about that Lanvin H&M collection? And his voice seems to have lost something, that snap and fire; he sounds tired) and my daily speeches about the beautiful state of rap music (bug-eating Fairfax boys). I dress my ass off and my walk is meannnnn but who cares when I know all you boys care about is my big heart and my master's degree. And that fact that I can tell you Barry White produced that break!

Professor Longhair - “Big Chief.”



Friday, February 11, 2011

Roundness. Rotundity. (variations on a theme)

Ohmygodwhoisthisgirl; I want to buy her things and show her off in public.

Oh my god--good for you, mama:

(Outfit that I am barred from wearing in public due to body type and the unfairness of life, unless I want to look like a complete hooker. Hipless British girls out shopping have no such worries, however.)

Bright Eyes has that new song called “Haile Selassie,” which is a problem, obviously. Hitchhiking back to Zion/Holding our tears as we flip the album/What if this leads to ruin?/You got a soul--use it. This kind of pretentiousness is only acceptable if you wear a metal facemask or an Elvis hair thingy, and then it's somehow not pretentious but perfect, weird, and poetic instead. I maybe turn it up the damn song when I'm out driving and it comes on KCRW in spite of myself, though. I'm kind of a weak person. (it's got a pretty melody and throbby guitar work, what can I do) It's educational, too--All this despair forgiven/Rolling away on the Wheel of Sevens, Conor sings. The Wheel of Sevens, I learned, is a cosmological diagram, a Christian kind of choose-your-own-adventure regarding how to live, except all the adventures are about behaving nicely and not having sex. I was raised by glorious heathens in a weed den so I know little of the superstitious ways of Christians, but from a design perspective the thing is beautiful.

Best eyes in the game: Sadat X, Andre 3000, Waka, Madlib, every Wu god, the brothers Thornton, F. Gibbs, Ty. It's so cute when he tells Syd to be quiet about her romantic exploits. Aw.

I thought Gucci was like 23 but he turned 31 last week! That's some hard living, I guess. I also thought he was the most stylish man I had ever seen with my own two eyes until I saw this kid from an old Vice mag.

Then I saw this dude and I said to myself, OHH. And that’s where I’ve been ever since.

Round and round/round we go said Tupac, whose name was on LA sports talk radio today for a hilarious reason. The Pac 10 is going to become the Pac 12, which of course is ridiculous and dumb (Colorado and Utah, you do nothing for me plus you're nowhere near the Pacific). The Tupac Army is strong and well-manned, it'll never die on the Internet; it's got domain names locked down. is already taken by a Tupac fan, which is funny to me now but this saga will probably turn dark when the dude who runs it gets a huge payout to relinquish the name and he'll just keep the lump sum instead of giving some to Afeni or donating it to Pac's old high school. I will be rather annoyed and disappointed.

You don't know me, just met me, you won't let me, he continues in “Round and Round,” a song that is cute radio ear candy but is nowhere near as good as “Trapped,” best Tupac song EVER (oh god with the bassline of death that's still bouncy at the same time. Unfortunately, “Trapped” doesn't make sense in a post about rotundity) Break out or be clowned, he says. Get naked or leave. Ladies, we've all been there, but oh excuse me Pac, because earlierrrr you said you don't want it if it's that easy. Either he's talking to 2 different ladies, each with her own established code of behavior (a librarian and a stripper), or the things that excite him sexually are really just that hard to pin down. This is difficult stuff for a woman. It causes quite the headache. And that is why I no longer date foxy shirtless rappers, thank you.

Mambo! This mix was posted on sofritoUK, which is currently down but I'm hoping they just need to pay the bill and it'll be back. A mambo mix is totally appropriate for a post about roundness and round things because of congas and timbales and hips, hips all day, nothing but hips, que bolá! The site has a track listing for the blues and mambo mix below but I didn't get it while it was still available. I'm asking you to blindly accept it, this gift without song titles, because I have excellent taste and I wouldn't lead you astray. I do remember there's a song called “Turn Around Girl” almost at the end, which might mean Turn around so I can see your front, miss but it might mean Turn around so I can see what is happening back there. Either way, I’m feeling pretty confident. Whatever you like, boss--I got you.

Does mambo really mean “voodoo priestess,” by the way? Let's go with it because that's pretty cool. I bet the priestess had amazing fat hips, so amazing they named a whole style of music for her which is my dream in life.


Thursday, February 10, 2011

Pull up in your town, when you see me you know everything

green and yellow green and yellow, green and yellow green and yellow.
Katherine Ann Moss for Longchamp. This outfit is probably cop catnip but I don't care.

June Gardner (Sam Cooke's drummer!) - “Mustard Greens.” Because a girl can't walk down the street wearing a dress and feeling the sun on her skin to “For Kate I Wait.”



Monday, February 7, 2011

If you expect me to believe Eminem drives a Chrysler you are stone crazy but listen, I got some white and some syrup, I'm tryin to sew up my town.

I just made a nice cotton dress with my own two hands and my sewing machine, and I decided to honor Pimp C with the title post. (Sorry, “Snitches Get Stitches”; you never had a chance)

Patti Jo - “Make Me Believe In You.” I thought about posting a song about sewing, or thread, or even completing a project. But in the end it came down, like always, to the old “walking down the street in a cotton dress” bass-drenched song with sassy female vocal, and this one probably has top 10 status in my heart. Not one note is sung 'til the first 2 and a half minutes go by, and it was written by Curtis Mayfield (you can tell when you hear those lyrics and get a feel for it, the whole vocal phrasing), and it makes me want to curl up in a ball because the universe is so wonderful sometimes I can't take it. Don't worry--I'll delicately arrange my dress before curling up so nothing inappropriate is seen. Hi Mom!



When War came out with “Lowrider” they gave the song to the Imperials car club before anyone else heard it! (Detroit: variations on a theme)

I do not know what this is, or what it does or what it means, but I like it.

I'm not one of those girls who takes her pants off for a dope car but oh hey, these jeans sure do seem terribly constricting all of a sudden. Superb human Jesse Valadez, founder of the Imperials car club and owner of the Gypsy Rose above ('64 Impala, Detroit heavybodied craftsman finery), died over the weekend. In most bloggers' hands, stating that this event meant they had to listen to a lot of Malo, some Delfonics, the Persuaders, and throw in a few plays of "Slippin Into Darkness" would come across as crass and jokey; since I'm me, you recognize that putting records on, my own form of mourning, was the best possible way for me to show respect. This would have worked out nicely, a perfect private little funeral in apt. 15, were it not for the coverage by local news on this story, and the focus on Gypsy Rose--LA anchors have been saying it Im-pal-a (“pal,” like friend, buddy) instead of the obviously correct Im-pal-a (“Paul”). Also on the playlist: “Duke of Earl” 'cause of the romance it just spills out of the speakers even though it's weirdly about British royalty, and because of the Muggs connection years later. And The Elgins to bring it home, 'cause I need something with a little heartbreak in it, and then a song with a whole different feeling the next morning to take away the gloom, remind myself to dust myself off since, after all, I can still stand tall.


When the hell is this Random Axe business going to come. Sean and Guilty provide the slightly unkempt facial hair I need from every blue-collar rapper, and Milk is their pretty, svelte friend with all the cool electrical toys. Oh and “Zoo Drugs” and “Shirley C” sound like Kool Keith song titles.

Love this. I just love it. The final frontier.

In the future, when I have a cubicle at Wax Poetics, I will ask to have this pulled from the archives so there's no stupid bar code on it. Then on my lunch break, I'll go to Aaron Brothers and have 'em frame it.

1 of the 3 best songs played on LA radio today was “Mr. Telephone Man,” produced by Ray Parker jr. (!) who just happens to have been born and raised in Detroit. (the second song was Them’s “Gloria,” a song about getting ass at midnight and longtime white-girl anthem for when we need to feel a little foxy, even if you're 5'7" instead of 5'4").

“Cutie Pie” by One Way (from Detroit) was the third best song played. It's perfect that I heard it because of the lowrider connection and because I dorked out a little bit when I got home, looked up its history, and discovered it was co-produced by a woman! A lady! A person with hips who has an innate sense of timing and the proper application of bassline (not named Logan, I mean). Irene Perkins, I had no idea you existed and I'm sorry. Your tune is a longstanding certified banger. Nice job, mama.

CELEBRATE BLACK HISTORY MONTH AND SAVE, flashed the Walgreens sign when I drove by this afternoon. SNICKERS BARS $0.49. This is the exact same feeling that I get from that Chrysler commercial with your boyfriend Eminem.

Whenever you see a black gospel chorus in an ad, run 'cause that's how you know it's emotional pandering. Just a good rule of life. Listen, nobody loves Detroit more than me--the Voice of Ruffin, Isaac Hayes' Eldorado, the Dilla siren, Axel Foley's jacket, the mighty superfine bass playing of James Jamerson. I do not appreciate being marketed to by that dude who made that album about working the Steps and holding hands, however. (They're also using the instro of a song that's 8 years old--not something from the current terrible album. Hm. If Chrysler wants to court me they should put into every commercial the fact that Marley worked in its factory in Delaware for a brief time. And even then I'd probably roll my eyes and say Welllll, it's not like it was Dennis Brown or something; then we could talk.)

I am a mystery to myself at times, I am an alluring sly fox of a woman, because I can't understand why I felt the need to save this picture on my hard drive upon seeing it on the Sports Illustrated site a few months ago. I think I liked the energy in it, and Parrish is kind of cool-looking in the moment captured, but why would I save a photo of men who played for the two teams I hate? What do I care about a couple of basketball reps for Boston and Detroit, the squads that annoyed the Lakers the most during my development years? Hate on top of hate. At least one of the dudes I hate is having something bad done to him, though. This is like me posting a picture of Rawss calmly dropping Drake to the floor: though it would be nice if Ricky could get dealt with too, it's still Drake getting knocked out! (WE DROP BOWS ON EM IN MIAMI, Rick would say as he gathers his belongings and walks out the door. The do'.)

Ruffin and Robinson and Kendricks and 2 Williamses get it tight and right while wearing cardigans, backstage at the Apollo in 1965. (Motown in Photos: Then and Now) Today's version would be who, exactly. WHO. WHICH SINGERS. I welcome any ideas, as they will pull me out of my “Old things are better than new things” sadness fog.

Wangechi Mutu, Before Punk Came Funk, 2010, Mixed media, ink, paint, collage on mylar.

(just seemed appropriate for a post about Detroit)

• Correct and true, but I don't know, it's all semantics I guess. Before the sound of guts screaming into a microphone came those other sounds of guts screaming into a microphone.

Like what the fuck is this hey look at this what kinda luck is this. Shout to Harper's mag for making my 2 hours at the laundromat all heavy with emotion this afternoon. Between the piece above (p. 15) and the collaborative poem written by early-stage dementia patients (“Sun,” p. 25 - “I guess I have to wake up earlier/Tastes like orangeade/The sun at noon is bright as fire...The sun tastes like death”), it was exceptionally pathos-filled. Right before I left apt. 15 I watched that Dilla thing and saw Badu and her beautiful wide eyes say the words, “His house was like a lab, in the basement...(and) he was definitely the scientist.” And Questo would like to remind you all that Dilla always said Keep it sloppy.

Bobby Hebb - “Sunny.” Ha, you thought I was gonna post French Montana & Curren$y's “In The Sun.”


The instro of this is sort of a walking-down-the-street-in-a-sundress anthem, except it sort of makes you want to cry at the same time.



Sunday, February 6, 2011

White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #4 (other than going to Dallas to valiantly help out with the stripper shortage)

Gettin paid for lounging half-nakedly, mostly showin some hips n ass but showin a little front too, for The Loved One...

and for Free People.

OHGOD I would KILL this shot if I weren't afraid of looking like I was offering my body up for sale due to the vulgarity of my hips. I do this pose EVERY DAY, alone in apt. 15, simply for my own enjoyment. I'm doing it right now, matter fact.

Funkadelic - “Can You Get to That.” Y'know, 'cause I'm just loungin without my pants on and who better to provide the sounds than George and the crew. The song's about a breakup but that bassline says otherwise. PS, Can you get to that was like a more formal version of You dig, right? Or maybe more like the '70s version of You feel me.


Ski Beatz - “Taxi” (instro). 'Cause the words are kind of sad but that beat is not and it is suitable for loungin, dar-linnnn.


Just Blaze - “Exhibit C” (instro). BECAUSE IT WILL NEVER GET OLD, and because Laboe played “Cross My Heart” the other night when I was driving and I almost crashed by the Chevron station on Temple.


Seu Jorge - “Rebel Rebel.” Because sometimes I fuck around and tell people I'm Brazilian, and they believe me, because I have both a trustworthy face and an ethnically ambiguous face. And because I couldn't find Caetano Veloso's “Não Identificado.”


Isaac Hayes - “Hung Up on My Baby.” BECAUUUUUSE! I don't need no “because”! Just listen to it. Plus it's Isaac, and he has a no-pants rule. I would also like to inform you that I make big money, I drive big cars/Everybody know me.