Mac Premo, Number Two, He Doesn't Have the Pants, 2008, mixed-media assemblage with animation, 19 ½" x 18 ½" x 9 ½"
1. A photo of Mr. Premo's work was in the Paris Review I was reading last night in apt. 680, in between taking tasteful erotic photographs of myself to send to Lil B, baking a pie, and peeking out of my blinds to see when Lil B's going to come walking up the stairs to my door. It's the spring 2011 edition, and Édouard Levé's piece is great. It's really really good, you guys (“I do not consider myself handsome just because a woman thinks so. I prefer desire to pleasure. My death will change nothing”) and not just because it's titled, beautifully, When I Look at a Strawberry, I Think of a Tongue.
Even though the only (visual) art worth my time is Kruger's stuff and Baldessari and oh Pettibone I suppose and THAT FUCKING RAMMELLZEE ROOM AT MOCA (an experience from which I still have not recovered), I like Mac Premo's work, and I like the fact that “Mac Premo” sounds like the name of the producer of Jeru's next album (he's Premier's cousin).
2.Hindi is how you say “NO”in Tagalog. Now we all know what to scream at our televisions during Pacquiao's walk to the ring while accompanied by a corrections officer.
The fuck/whyyyyyy/NO/hindi.
If I were in charge, things would be different; Rawss would not exist of course, but let's say I was feeling generous and allowed him both to continue living and to escort a boxer into the ring prior to a huge televised match. I would insist that Rawss escort the other guy--not Pacquiao. Ricky Rose Hey should definitely be walking next to “Sugar” Shane just based on pure similiarity, as they have both co-opted the names of historically successful individuals in order to enhance their own myths/reputations. This is a lazy, sorry move, the kind that bitchy dudes make. Boxing is so lame, I've addressed that fact and provided supporting evidence on this blog before - unless we're talking about the boxer Zab Judah, which is a really fucking dope name for a human.
3. Does anyone recognize that sweatsuited side-leg?
If I were going to the show and could somehow get backstage without using sex, I would look him square in the face and say, First of all: nice warm-ups on that promo flyer. They weren't Champion, but still. Very nice.
Then I'd get down to business. Hey, remember when you or one of your colleagues blacked-out Budden's eye socket? I blogged about it like crazy that week, as did everyone else with a computer and an opinion! I was so happy it happened! Thank you! I heard Joe said you asked for an apology, and he obliged - “only because he was outnumbered”! What a fuckin dummy! Why'd you have to make up with him, though? There's not enough beef in 2011 rap. And how did you and Randy Spelling meet?*
* Rae's working with Randy Spelling, a thing that has been added to 2011's Mysteries List. “How did Rae link with Spelling's kid” is now in there, right at the top, along with “Why does everyone like The Weeknd,” “Who keeps downloading Rawss' shit and making him successful,” and “How come the first sip of iced coffee is always the best.”
Rae also has a rapper in his stable named “Polite,” a person from whom I am telling you right now I will never buy or download product.
4.“Tattoo Artist Who Owns Mike Tyson’s Face Sues The Hangover Studio for Copyright Infringement” (Gawker). Click the link and you'll find a story about some loser who has trademarked the sorta-ethnic-but-not-sure-which-part-of-Samoa-it's-from "tribal" design on Tyson's face. That loser is suing the losers who made The Hangover, an unfunny major-studio production that everyone loved because everyone's an idiot.
Tribal anything on your flesh is ridiculous; I come from a coastal city in Southern California so I am a certified expert in this matter. (I also know about chain wallets, putting huge tires on your white Chevy truck, and yelling at your girlfriend in public). But in a post about pugilism you know Tyson's gonna show up so I had to include this story. These days everyone loves soft, repentant Mike - playing with his birds, taking his kids to the park. Dullsville Mike, in other words. The Mike who gets glorified in apt. 680 is the Mike who said, “I don't try to intimidate anybody before a fight. That's nonsense. I intimidate people by hitting them.” Mike Tyson, Brooklyn-bred unsubtle face-hitter ALL DAY.
5. Yes yes of course the Lakers need to come stronger in this next series, I don't wanna talk about it but yes they really need to perform as more of a cohesive unit, 110%, fewer mistakes, hard in the paint, Pau needs to show up, lalalalaaaa yeah yeah. I don't want to talk about Nowitski or Butler or Terry. I don't wanna discuss what we are going to do about my Moscato addiction, or when I will stop stripping and settle down, etc. I just want to talk about how great Chappelle's Show reruns are, always coming on at just the right time. I was still pouty this week because every skinny white girl in the world except me was doing some bikini-clad cooking in Lil B's audience in the desert a little while ago but they were doing it wrong, 94% of white girls do it wrong. Then good ol' Comedy Central comes through in the clutch, showing some TV perfection from 2004.
Random Tribute: DMX's jabs and left hook between 1:11 and 1:18. DMX was terrific in his prime and I loved him; people think I'm kidding when I say that because how could I like DMX, that's crazy!, since I like little girls in glasses and I'm polite and soft-spoken, but I'm not kidding. That voice, dragged through gravel! That cadence! I'm not-a. nice. person/I mean, I'd smack the shit out you twice dog, and that's before I start cursin. (I also really like the name Spider Loc and people think I'm kidding about that too. Um, I'm not kidding. They all think it's a game. They think it's a fuckinnnn gaaaaame.) To put the performance below in context and remind you of the levels of perfection: this ep also had Negrodamus, the Niggar Family, and WacArnold's. Fucking perfection, I said.
Directly-related additional Random Tributes: 1. that “UH OH” just erupting outta DMX when “What's My Name” starts. The smile, the genuine excitement. So sweet. 2. Swizz Beatz in '98/9 and '03/4: the party-starter. Those beats/z he crafted made me want to be a boy and throw a punch, kinda; I settled for car-dancing ferociously whenever somebody put It's Dark and Hell is Hot in the car's CD changer. Grand Champ was, um, grand when it emanated from the stereos of Japanese compacts as well. GITITONTHEFLOOR, git it git it on the floor! Who didn't want to get it on the floor when DMX yelled it over those drums? Alas, he has softened with age, which is typical of producers. It's 2011 and things aren't the same. Now he's got the terrible beats of an old and feeble man, and let's not forget the Shep Fairey tattoo. OH SWIZZY.
Judgement Day - “Mike Tyson's Punch-Out (Training Song).”
“I never had much interest in the piano until I realized that every time I played, a girl would appear on the piano bench to my left and another to my right.”
Duke understands me, clearly, based on his little piano anecdote. He understands most women, I guess. He also had a compulsive need to be around melody, so he understands me on that level too. Clearly.
Duke also said It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing, the sixth-greatest “ain't”-related colloquialism after
Ain't no thing but a chicken wing,
Ain't that a bitch,
King Kong ain't got shit on me,
It ain't trickin if you got it, and
It ain't no fun if the homies can't haaaa-aaave none.(sorry, Mom)
Ellington and Coltrane - “My Little Brown Book.” OH THIS ONE'S A KILLER, beautiful but sad and a killer, so let's all remind ourselves about the joy of this one if it gets to be too much. You can feel it all over! (You can feel it all ohhhver, people.)
SLASH'S DAD DESIGNED JONI MITCHELL'S COURT AND SPARK COVER.
TOM SCOTT'S SAXOPHONE (ON "TODAY," A FEW YEARS BEFORE HE GUESTED ON COURT AND SPARK) IS THE HEARTACHE BREAK IN "T.R.O.Y."
Me n Joni, demonstrating the poses that come naturally to each of us. (I'm also doing a composite impression of my mom in 1975 and that girl in those shorts in that video for that remix of that Khaled song.)
"Racks on Racks" is the current THISMYSONG champ on Power 106 when I'm out driving, and Berner's & K.R.I.T.'s "Yoko Ono" is almost there (despite the presence of Wiz), but "Welcome to My Hood" is welcome in my car when it comes on the radio too. It is godawful and catchy, and Luda's verse has more stereotypes than a Tyler Perry movie, plus he says WHOOOO in response to his own lyrical hotness and I hate it when dudes do that, I HATE IT, but his glasses-wearing makes up for those things. Plus foxy-and-wise-older-man-on-whom-I-have-a-crush Bun B says Lotta dudes sayin that they can but they don’t/Lotta boys sayin that they Gs but they ain’t/Mess around, get layed down in the paint, a reference to Emeka Okafor's experience in downtown Los Angeles last night.
“The tigers of wrath are wiser than the horses of instruction.”
- William Blake, Songs of Innocence And of Experience.
“Prison is for losers and dumb fucks.”
-Unstoppable beef cultivator and noted Lemieux fan Prodigy, on what he learned from his up north trip (NY Mag).
Gucci - “Up My Alley.” Because just like MLK, Gandhi, and Prod, he's familiar with life behind steel bars. And because it's a sparkly, cheery Zaytoven beat that makes me wanna sit on my front porch, drink lemonade, and savor my freedom.
Once again, my agent has dropped the ball, even though this is more of a "White girl who can play Cuban side hustle opportunity I missed." On my comp card it says Logan, 5'8.5", hazel/blonde (highlights), prominent hips, ethnically ambiguous face, so I should have been given the opportunity. I lack the fake breasts but I have bikinis, earrings, and eyeliner, and I know how to hold my hair up and away from my face when the wind starts to get feisty.
Also I have a thing for dudes with pagers.
3 bitches, 3 different flights/Glad it was 4 sides at that Paul Williams fight/The Wynn, the Bellagio, the Palms 3 nights/As long as they are separated they are my three blind mice.MCs talking about having main ladies and side ladies, and being able to skillfully prevent all the ladies from knowing about each other, is a comical and delusional way to brag. Plus it insults the ladies. Unless you're with a starry-eyed white girl with deep notions of romance and monogamy (her name's Logan; she lives in apt. 680), you know when your industry boyfriend is doing dirt. I'm therefore confident that all the girls know about each other. They're not idiots. Dude they all know about each other, only none of them care, plus they'd all take a bath together in front of your fancy videocamera if you would just ask sweetly. Well we hustle out of a sense of hopelessness/Sort of a desperation, went the earlier, better "Can I Live," and I'd add "sense of boredom" and "need to add something fun to our life's resume" to that list too; we ladies always wanna be remembered, we want to have interesting stories in our repertoire, even if it means having to take part in the classic lesbatronic attention-getter.
Music-nerd rambling would annoy the director and the talent. Everybody would question the decision to cast me as one of the female leads. Oh Pusha, were you aware of Harold Rhodes' time in the military?, I'd ask. Let me tell you some quick factoids about it. All the set hangers-on would roll their eyes. Then I would go on and on about walking into the RAMMELLZEE section at MOCA*, an experience which magically made up for all the morons swarming around the Banksy area - They fucking recreated the Battle Station, it is cosmic and life-changing and I still have not recovered! Graff could liberate the power of the alphabet!, did you know this, Pusha? "The letter is armed to stop all the phony formations, lies, and tricknowlegies placed upon its structure"! Please Pusha, come to LA and let me take you to the show; we can stand square in the middle of it, swaying and crying together! But it would be my blurting out that I really don't like this particular song that would really cost me some precious screen time. It's the weakest track on Fear of God. Jay's version of "Can I Live" is superior. Everybody knows that. We all fiends, gotta do it/Even righteous minds go through this/True this, history school us to spend our money foolish/Bond with jewelers and watch for intruders. (I always liked that CBS mention too.) I would probably say so in a moment of stupid honesty, just not even thinking, and then I'd get the big ol' boot off set, squandering the chance to parlay video exposure into more blog followers.
But gosh, Jay has a lot of songs with question titles, doesn't he? (more rambling, as security escorts me away). "Who You Wit." "Can I Get A." "Where Have You Been." "What They Gonna Do." "What More Can I Say." "Is That Yo Chick." "Do U Wanna Ride." My tribute song to him's going to be called "How Come You Haven't Made a Good Song Since '07" (feat. Scarface, Rae, Kool Keith for some sexy and Luda for comic relief).
* no I'm not going to link to pictures because they won't do it justice
Black Milk did some Slum Villy production when he was 18. He had found his calling even back then. These days he still does drums. He should do drums, professionally, for ever and ever. On his tax return, under "Occupation," he should write DRUMS. DJ Quik was 21 when Quik is the Name came out. Incredible! I'm a few years past that age too and I have mastered little except the art of lounging and posing while nerding out and obsessing. Oh and I can sew now too.
Lounging and posing, above. Nerding out and obsessing, below:
"You know I ain't ashamed, and you know I ain't bashful." Oh wait - I am kind of bashful (despite the fact that I have just appeared on the Internet in a pink lacy onesie).
Kleeer "I Love to Dance." Nice title. Non-ironic, catchy, straightforward.
1. "Fishermen and members of the community listen to Ken Feinberg, administrator of the BP claims fund, on March 28 at a public meeting in Mathews, La." (Julia Rendleman/The Houma Courier/AP)
The Big Picture's latest collection of hi-res beauty focuses on the Gulf oil spill, one year later. No more problems, everyone's back to work, says the Logan who lives in a fairy tale. Turns out the region's delicate ecosystem thrives on oil. Birds and fish are making love, churning out new generations. A butterfly landed on a rock in an estuary, flapped its wings twice in the sunshine, then flew off to go make butterfly love.
2. The King of the Universe/Master of Puppets/Mr. Dynamite/HBIC in a NY Mag interview.
Other than turning up in those files on Biggie's murder the FBI released, cutting off his own arm then chewing it up and swallowing it, or showing up on the doorstep of apt. 680 and announcing he's moving in to base the hell outta me every night, nothing Brandon does should be able to surprise you. It's April 2011, in this, the Year of Our Lord, and he's been rearranging the pieces on the cosmic chess board for a couple years now. So I rolled my eyes when I heard about that upcoming album title because his "Look at me, listen to me" hustle is unrivaled. Seemed like a big ploy to make RSS feeds quiver, go dumb with excitement. It worked. (Please consult the Internet--maybe type in "Lil B" and "gay," then stand back).
But then I remembered that, just like a dude isn't necessarily gay because he's grindin in his tiny pants, an artist isn't necessarily thinking about selling product when he names his product a certain thing. I'm deferring to my hopes and dreams here, embracing my inner Pollyanna, and just going with the assumption that Lil B really means it when he says he's a gay ally, a supporter of GLAAD. Lil B cleaned up all the oil in the Gulf, solved the Biggie murder, made love to a butterfly, showed up on American Idol and cut off his own arm and fed it to Mister Cee while Faces of Death 7 played behind them on a huge screen. Lil B has successfully introduced me to post-skepticism. I'm living in the Brandon Epoch and for that I am eternally glaad. Still waiting to hear what he thinks of the topless pics I sent him; I believe he and I would make a good duo, despite our one tiny difference - I do support putting other people down (as long as the people being put down are not me or anyone I care about, or a poor person or a disabled person, and as long as the putting-down is done with stylish flair, over a beat).
Over at Ego Trip they tell you Darryl Jenifer is one of their bloggers (!). You get that fluttery feeling in your stomach, start composing your first email to him in your head ("Hi Darryl! I live in Los Angeles and I have a blog too!"). Then you click the link next to his beautiful face and it goes nowhere.
"NOT FOUND; SORRY, BUT YOU ARE LOOKING FOR SOMETHING THAT ISN'T HERE." Yes, I'm sorry too. I had hoped for lessons on bass playing, keeping food ital, smashing shit (amps, industry rules, people's stereotypes in the '80s), how to get Rollins to quit yappin in the tour bus on the way to Providence. I had hoped for tales of Bad Brains groupies - I am curious as to whether they were blessed in the hips department, or if this is a specific subspecies of groupie that only came to be in the city of Los Angeles, long after the band's golden years. I cannot get any of that, you see, because that isn't here. I looked for it but it wasn't found. (Sorry.)
The visit was still a success, however, because I saw that the tiny bio Darryl wrote about himself sounds exactly like a Doom lyric! And because I discovered that Gangstarr video from '92 (Premier's t-shirt, c'monnn).
New Curren$y! Excited about it, already downloaded it, despite the presence of a song called "Success is My Cologne." (there was a mix-up at the post office - it was supposed to go on the new Soulja Boy).
"Diamonds and Girls." Aw, an oldie! A Prince-tinged oldie!
Ty and I met last year at the green-striped tube socks convention. We still keep in touch. I hope he will introduce me to some of his industry friends one day.
1. Fucking YES, everybody. War has arrived to inform you that you and your inferior hairstyle and wack kit should step aside. This photo, those sweet potato fries at lunch, and the Quinones incident* were the 3 best things that happened to me today.
2. I only like rappers who once sold stimulants or the bodies of women. I think I'm reallllbadass sometimes because of this.
But that's only because 10-year-old Libyan kids haven't started rhyming yet about daily life. Pink scarves, rebels, ceasefires, kevlar helmets, etc.
3. One of these things is not, in fact, like the others.
Either
Take your rap unserious like your movie roles Don't smile when the Doberman Pinscher finishes bad work on your sneaker soles, all V.I.P. material - don't pay me to hype your lyrics Tear you a new ass, go pay Jay-Z to write your lyrics
(Kool Keith, "Robert Perry")
or
Shut your face, shut your mouth like pigeons floying south
(Kool Keith, "Get off My Elevator").
Either way, YES. Thank you, Keith (as always).
4. Of courseReatard wore Vans and no socks. I could've predicted that. And of course he was fragile since he was a carbon-based life form. But yes, this picture is just nice because of the red/red motif. Settle down if you thought I was making some kind of statement about his psychological state. How pretentious.
5. All girls like the stunning Earthling named T.I. All girls - straight, gay, bi, questioning, intersex, transgender, transsexual, asexual, and ones who wish they could physically make love to the Stalagriddimbassline, like somehow find a way to express affection for it in a grown-up way and maybe agree on a "safe word" ahead of time so nobody's comfort levels get disrespected.
I'm a girl, so I like T.I. He makes me say yep. And yes. And How long does a flight to Georgia take? And unflheihiehrwiorhw9rhf.
6. The Internet giveth wonderful presents sometimes, like the booking info for rap'sKool-Aid Man which I intend to use to stage an elaborate prank, yes I do. And new/old Doomsy (thanks, Rafi!). And photos from the Class of '89. God yes.
7. "We are welcoming people that appreciate street art but we hope they are not inspired to show off their work on the buildings outside," Kito (the owner of a business near MOCA) said, "WE HOPE THEY ARE NOT INSPIRED TO SHOW OFF THEIR WORK ON THE BUILDINGS OUTSIDE." Jeffrey Deitch added that he had that tingly feeling when he was curating the show that it would bring "unwanted and unauthorized ancillary activity from 'some of the young taggers who are anarchic.'"
Unbridled irony running loose on the streets of Los Angeles doesn't get a YES, but
* Your favorite awkward ladybloggershaking the hand of THE GOD QUINONES today as she walked past the Geffen at lunch gets a yes. ZORO. YES.
Nobody back at work would understand. They are a simple and dull group of folks. So I just tucked it away inside. And when I came down from my high, I found this, from back when Lee was younger and more anarchic and insisted on showing his work on the buildings outside:
And YES, the "raw nozzle" technique does mean something totally different on Urban Dictionary.
"Let me see you. Let me see your tight wire come alive. I just want you to get up" - The Dramatics, on being young and anarchic. No drips.
2 in the mornin and the party's still jumpin cuz my mama ain't home!
I'm happy in apt. 680. Thank you.
(photo credit: GF, who does not approve of grown-ups wearing onesies but said I looked cute sitting like that, with my Lou record)
Lou Donaldson - “Who's Making Love.” Nobody in apt. 680, Lou! Your curiosity is charming, though. PS Big's not only the client; he's the player president.
“I was making a stand, and in that moment I was free. You can’t get in, and I can’t get out. But in my space, I’m free. I’m making the decision right now, and that decision is fuck you.”
A little fetishizing of gunplay to start out my Top 10 Or So Oh Word moments of the week. I had some heavy emotions at the laundromat on Thursday night, thanks to the LA Times magazine and its article about the LA SWAT team using the Black Panther Party for target practice/political gain in late 1969. The whole affair is depressing and the article is hard to read in some places, with all the COINTELPRO nefariousness; fuckin cops I said softly to myself while reading it. Mixed in with that, though, was some emotional uplift courtesy of the quote from Wayne Pharr (above), and knowledge of the sheer existence of epically-named humans Geronimo (it says Elmer on his birth certificate, but I'm ignoring that) Pratt and Alprentice "Bunchy" Carter.
2. - Harpers mag, April 2011.
More heavy laundromat emotions (same visit as the SWAT team article), only this time it was humor tinged with irony. Pepe the architect was 2 machines down from me, being nice during the spin cycle. "Beautiful eyes; you are part Basque!" (nope. Sorry, Pepe.) I always fall for that stuff (nice words) because I figure everybody means everything they say, all the time. Then Pepe commented on my ass and I wanted to cry. I mean, I was asking for it in those jeans, but still. Anyway, the stat above is from Harpers index, the section I always flip to first.
And from the Logan Index:
Number of visitors to apt. 680 as of this writing: 6.
Times today the Time Warner tech verbally marveled at the number of records I have: 4.
Number of girls in the world who listen to Kool Keith, according to the Time Warner tech, upon seeing First Come First Served on my shelf: "not a lot." PUMP YOUR BRAKES, homeboy. I didn't ask for that kind of attention; I just wanted some Internet. The intimacy level he and I experienced during this, his first/last visit to my apartment, felt a little rushed for me. I handled it with grace, though. You guys would've been proud.
4. a) "Greed, money, useless children,"Reatard sang. "No. It's not for me."Yep, I say in reply. I mean nope, it's not for me. Me too/me neither? Yes, it's not for me. What Jay said, is what I'm trying to say.
He also b) had that cover where he's in a tub with a bunch of 45s. And even though the act of being a white man screaming into a mic about being a white man with burning-hot emotional pain/numbness like death inside is nothing new, he c) somehow made it sound new.
If you slow down when you're driving so you’re going the exact same speed as the cop car in the lane next to you, like you’re skeered to pass him, I am afraid your brain's anti-fear device is faulty, you're unabashedly wack, and therefore my naked body is not going to be yours for the taking/defiling. The "I’m scared to get a ticket" way of going through life is not something that will serve you well. Dudes don't all need to be like Reatard but they do all need to have a little DGAF in order to make it in this crazy world and see girls naked. On the current things-to-GAF-about list: friends/fam, words in songs, being nice, and telling people how much you like em 'cause life's too short.
5. "Left Brain extract bitches minds and give 'em left brain Soft synths, hard drums, give your bird chest pains."
Still listening to Dome and Hodge's "Tanggolf." Still. Can't let go. Can't stop listening. Plus it gives me energy while moving from one tiny apartment to another. (I'm still draggin crates)
a) The spirit of Gary Grice guides these young men through their journey. And b) the raspy-voiced stuff, the mark of a good passionate rap song, starts around the 2-minute mark. Plus c) SOFT SYNTHS, HARD DRUMS means they check this blog from time to time and understand what this particular bird needs, even though they are probably fornicating their way through Los Angeles due to their fame and that does not bode well for our love affair. Dudes who give me everything I need but also make me cry are still worth it because they give me everything I need (wordplay, bass, hugs, kisses).
6. "Yo, every gang, every hood’s in my veins It’s my thing, it’s real, I’m in tune I chill like the cold side of the moon Silence you dudes like an empty room."
I heard the Kings of Queens (Prod, Hav, Nas) were linking/building, squashing USDA prime beef (wait, was that beef ever confirmed?), and I got excited...until I heard the song ("Dog Shit") and listened to the cliched lyrics, and the sleepytime beat made me take a nap, and then when I woke up I remembered what I heard and I wanted to cry. I chill like the cold side of the moon. First, no you don't. Second, that's a stupid thing to say. The Wu one was terrible too. Listen, dun, I've had it. No more songs called "Dog You-Know-What." You had your chance and you squandered it.
7. The realness, however, is foundation. STILL. And is shall remain so until I say otherwise. The realness is foundation; who else would think to say such a thing? You wouldn't think that it works, but it does. Really, who else would think to put that particular string of words together.Who else. OH MY DEAR PROD, you are catnip to an English major.
8."I just bought a coupe, the roof is translucent Pockets on etc., money talk, bullshit walk like George Jefferson."
Money talks; bullshit walks. We all know and we've known for a long time. But my goodness what an awful song, mostly because of the presence of T-Pain and yet another verse by Wayne talking about his dominance of planet Earth ("I hold it in my hand" - although at least he's not describing how he penetrates it like that one time and that other time). At first I hated those church bells laid on top of the beat but they've grown on me. And making a cliched phrase come alive by adding some '70s sitcom flair is the best way to make my Oh Word awards for the week.
(Additionally: did Cash Money ever chop n loop "Cash money ain't nevvvvver gonna play out" from "New Jack Hustler" in one of its releases? That would've been Fresh, super Fresh, so MANNIE - call me*! I got a million ideas!)
*before you left Cash Money, I mean.
9. "One critique: 100% not buying Lil B’s heavily not-based claim that he does not go down on girls."
HA, Fader mag regarding Brandon's new jam "Salute to the Bitch"! We're all adults here so I figured it's OK to mention grown-up stuff (sex stuff). Some of us are based, some of us not so much. Some of the more based individuals among us have scratch-offs, flat screens, pink bandannas, 65 bitches. Some of those same people lie about their sexual practices. That needs to stop.
10. "Just hanging round with older boys Oh big thighs Creepy, creepy in the dark Shiny, shiny Joan of Arc When the moonlight starts its glow Cold hard Helen, Queen of Troy She's got Christmas, got thunderstorms Like a baby, never, never been balled She's got fat men, vermin in disguise In the cold rooms of her eyes Oh, Helen Of Troy."
Rollins has a radio show out here on Saturdays (not sure if it's national or just a regional thing) and he plays some good stuff in between overly-enunciating everything and injuring his big toe with all the names he drops ("...So then Ginn and MacKaye took me to Olive Garden and I had the all-you-can-eat salad and breadsticks and blah blah blahblahBLAH"). He played John Cale's "Helen of Troy" during his most recent show when I was driving, and I liked it (it's an OG "Logan walking down the street" song, but during the walk I'm probably wearing short shorrrrt shorts like a little tease, instead of my usual sundress). And he played Eno's "Blank Frank" and I liked that (the Bo Diddley beat). Then he went into some blah-blah tale about Here Come the Warm Jets and the best part of that was it made me wonder if Curren$y will ever do a funny take on that for a mixtape. PS, is it true that that title isn't about actual jets that fly in the sky?
11. "Sliding in the back screaminMMG 10 bitches and they dime so it’s Tennessee."
Anyway, this makes Top Oh Word of the Week because the song's concept and lyrical content is so awful, so tragic. It's hard to believe it's real. Meek Mill's pun in particular - it's awful. 10 I see.Tennessee. Here's an example of a good pun, for future reference: Orion's belt is a waist of space.
On the plus side, I like it when everything I hate is condensed into one, easily-hateable unit.
12. "All these bitches is my sons And I ain't talking 'bout Phoenix Bitch I get money so I do’s what I pleases I live where the motherfucking pools and the trees is."
I DOOOO'S WHAT I PLEASES. This is like her version of my beloved "I'm grownnnn. I do what I wanna do," which is appropriate for all situations in which people try to constrict me with rules and regs. Nicki says everything I want to say, only in a fiercer way and with a Queens accent. I mean, bitch I live up in some trees too but unlike Meek Mill I know when to shut up about such mundane things unless I can give it a colorful spin.
13. "The medicine often given to Parkinson's patients is L-dopa, which is converted into dopamine in the brain."
And then it just takes one spectacularly fine grouping of words, like the quote above from that time-sucking science site I always look at, to make it all better. L-Dopa was 'Clef's original nickname for Lauryn. (In the end, L-Boogie won out.)
14. "Whenever you call, baby I roll up, I roll up, I roll up Whenever you call, baby I roll up, I roll up, I roll up Whenever you call, baby I roll up.
No matter where I am, No matter where you are I’ll be there when its over, baby Cause I was there from the start No matter if I’m near, don’t matter if you're far."
What a goddamned fool. Khalifa is the worst and he's all over my car radio. I roll up, I roll up, Irollupirolluppppp. Shawtyshawty, baby, weed, shawty, Taylor, rararah. Please save me. I'm trapped. Feels like in every song there's a hidden message just for me - play it backwards and he says "Ha ha, Logan! I'm a terrible rapper and I'm RICH! WHEEE." Just, I mean, what more can I say. C'mon, everybody. In your most secret places, in your heart's tiny spaces, you know Khalifa's a terrible rapper. Cornball city. But because this is the world in which we live, and its system of rewarding people is hideous and flawed, the fact that he is a terrible corny rapper means he'll make a billion by next week.
15."Even before I wrote any songs, I had this idea of a triangle where the voice was at the top, some sort of guitar element on one side, and then some sort of really basic rhythm on the other side. That's where I started from in the recording process.So having everything filter through this one brain, this box, seemed like a really good idea. It's a hellish thing to mix live, but I liked how it would connect the dots in the songwriting sense, because everything has these weird little tongue licks of certain types of sound. There's an effect matrix in the thing with five effects you can run through."
Panda Bear, on his Korg sampler thingy mod. I'm still writing my secret-admirer letter to the "Kurt's Jag" guy from a couple weeks ago, and then I see this interview with PB, and now my heart is conflicted, tied up in knots. "Panda Bear, I like you; do you like me? Circle yes or no and pass this note back." I'm in love with the Carl-Sagan-ish levels of detail/nerdery on display here, and the phrase tongue licks of sound, which describes nice things that, when placed in various combinations, give a young lady good feelings.
Oh wait! I like him, and his little speech about Dilla*, and he would probably suggest Reatard's "Tiny Little Home" as the first song played in apt. 680 to christen it. That's dope. But Panda seems sorta pretentious and would probably not like to discuss the skrip club with me. He also would not understand my appreciation for gigantic raspy-voiced ridiculously named Brick Squad representatives. Bye bye, Panda. Our love affair was fun while it lasted.
* "And then the last thing is J Dilla's Donuts, just in terms of pacing. The first two times I listened to that album, I couldn't wrap my head around it because it would go from piece to piece really fast. The rhythms really ground it, but I had no idea where everything else was coming from. It might have been alien music for all I knew. Nothing really waited around for very long. But after listening to it a couple of times, it was like a sea change-- my mind just totally connected to it, and suddenly it was the best thing. After doing these songs that took their time going where they were going on Person Pitch, I wanted to take those songs and squeeze them down into your hand like a little ball."
16. "Feels like I'm doomed to dealing with women whose Relationships with their fathers won't allow us to bloom."
I think the problem for Pusha is that he is not choosing the women who have/had good relationships with their fathers. Those are the ones who aren't showy or hardboiled like Marlowe liked 'em. They are shy, but they're good, solid, won't run away when times are tough. He should talk to 'em at Vons sometime. (they are sweet)
17. "Three piece band on the corner played 'Nearer My God to Thee' But Delia whistled a different tune, what tune could it be? The song that woman sang was 'Look Out Stagger Lee' The song that Delia sang was 'Look Out Stagger Lee.'"
Please indulge me, pretty please, when I want to a) pick the songs on the radio during car rides and when I want to b) go on and on about Robert Hunter lyrics. In both cases, I do sort of an excited wiggly thing and open my mouth out of sheer joy.
OHSHIT THIS MY SONNNNNG.
(I'm guessing "Devil's Pie" here, just based on the hand motions)
a) Like when I screamed with pleasure when I heard the opening bass of "Walk it Out" earlier tonight, Glendale and Montana, eastbound, sitting in traffic - it was, after all, not the stupid original but the remix! With Andre! I haven't heard that version in, what, 2 years?"Real talk"! Cars - metal instead of plastic! Westside walk it ah-ah-out! (Aw, I'm not typing it right. You know the part I mean.)
b) As far as Hunter's lyrics go, there's "Stagger Lee," which has been swimming round in my head ever since I saw that compilation of murder ballads (not Murda Muzik; that's something else). I'd appreciate some new MC coming out the gate calling himself "Swagger Lee." Anyway, then I read Tom Waits' quote about murder ballads being "just a cut above graffiti...the oral tabloids of the day," and speaking of -
27 of my favorite things in one thing. This image is pure sex and the most pornographic thing I've seen ALL WEEK, cuddie.
Crates n' crates n' dresses n' books bring me joy every day of the year, except for this particular day and the next few days that follow since I am moving. I am moving to a new apartment home in the city. I'm moving, again, just because I enjoy it so much. Soon there will be posts emerging from "apt. 680," which I know, I knowwww doesn't have the same catchy appeal as "apt. 15," (Deck didn't go to jail at the age of 680, sadly) but it's a much better place, you guys! You'll see. I'll stand in my living room, probably holding a record and most definitely wearing something my mother would not approve of, take a picture of it, then post it. I know this girl with her own crib, in isolation, Keith said. That song's about me. Sometimes I need to alter my surroundings. The background changes, but the overall themes of my life (bathing suits, ice cream, breaks, science stuff*, venom directed at bad/lazy rappers) never will. And yes, now I'll be living up in the treez, but my heart's still down at street level with all of you.
Moving songs to give me energy while I drag crates and to, well, move me of course, include
1. V White and the Politician's "Sixes on My Seven Deuce," a song that'll make you forget about the damage you're doing to your car's suspension with your heavy round chrome darlings. (Not to be too preachy. Sorry. They look tiiiiiight.)
Brilliant corners. The video was directed by Casual!
The sun is a-risin, most definitely. A new day is comin. (Ain't it beautiful)
The beautiful bodies of ladies are fetishized in rap music/all music/America/HeightFiveSeven/the street when I walk down it. The bodies of cars: also fetishized. Players (the rims); players (the people) - fetishized (every gangster movie, every UGK song). The concept of things being "deeper than rap" (a statement which holds no meaning, it's not real, since that's like saying something is "deeper than everything" or "deeper than life," which is to say that rap is a thing that can be quantified which of course it cannot). Of course that's a fetish. Nearly everything I love is fetishized but I've mastered the ability to separate that from my enjoyment of those things. When I hit a relaxed mood and I'm just coasting on good feeling, I don't mind so much that women and cars are usually described/beloved/criticized in the same way by straight men. I mean, who cares, because the beautiful paint-glisten in the pic up there resembles sweat, like that of a human female.
The Politician, whose heat is in the trunk along with that quad knock, also happens to have the face of Huey Newton on his tricep. (Black revolutionaries: also fetishized) I am listening to this song over and over, because that's how my particular form of OCD (the flood of brain chemicals! fetishized) works.
2. I know nothing about these individuals other than a) fixies and b) drums. Warm-sounding drums. I don't know if you'll have the same love for it; I had to share, though.
(The greatness of an already-great song is slightly distorted, amplified, when I put on my precious expensive headphones. That's the Sennheiser Effect. The sound is crystalline, booming and emotional. Hearty and fulfilling. My brain's reward center needs it every few weeks - a song not about hookers and ki's. This one's like the musical version of steel-cut oats.)
Caramel complected/body like heaven (ummm no). Your favorite nerdy bikini-clad sarcasm peddler.
Tomboyish tendencies in a girly package.
Music nerd making my way in the world. The more emotion I put into it/the harder I rock.
I bow at the altar of Phil Spector, Rick Rubin, and Large Pro.
I find that I can amuse myself to no end. I got front & back, and side to side. I am a real person and NOT viral marketing for Stones Throw. I also have a government job so please don't tell too many people I'm in my bathing suit on the Internet.
Nothin else to tell, really.
The fuck/whyyyyyy/NO/hindi.
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