Haters, I see your points and they are valid. If I were not from the greater Los Angeles area I'd wish misfortune upon them, too.
But still, I'm sad and I want to cry about it for a minute.
God is clearly punishing me for showing too much of my body on the Internet and writing the F-word too much in my diary, SO. How bout those Dodgers? And Derrick Rose, he of the amazing eyebrows? And hey, how bout that UGK - still the only thing from Texas, other than promethazine raps of course, worth giving a tiny bit of a fuck about. Oh and Devin. And Scarface. Willie Hutch. And ice cream paint jobs, explosions in the sky (I'm assuming there are a lot of firearms owners there), Explosions in the Sky, the hairdos of Omar and Cedric (late '90s through '07), Leon Haywood's desire to do something freaky to all of us, and Buddy Holly's glasses.
CoCo Budda f/ UGK – “Let ‘Em Have It.” Hearing It’s all about Sweets/Fuck Optimos outta Chad Butler's mouth does a pretty good job of cheering me up.
In 2005, the Six Flags theme park in New Orleans' Ninth Ward was closed for the approaching hurricane. It never reopened. The city of New Orleans allowed photographer Teddy Smith to shoot video footage of the abandoned park before its demolition in January 2011.
Johnny Jenkins, “I Walk on Gilded Splinters.” Because I needed a New Orleans song that was kind of weird and spooky to go along with the video, and even though I really wanted to post “Nolia Clap” and then maybe “New Orleans Based,” it wouldn't have been thematically appropriate. This song was written and originally done by weird jovial New Orleans spookmaster Dr. John, but this version is better--and this version's drums were used by Blackalicious in “A to G.”
I thought all of last week's annoyances in life could be soothed by a single Prince acceptance speech at the BET Awards and Sean P's wordplay (that album will be called Mic Tyson). But oh damn--there are other things in life that have recently made me cranky and that I have yet to negotiate. And it's strange, but they are all in liquid form:
Gasoline.
The problem: I know about gas and how it's killing the big blue marble, and I know about the gross and inhumane way it makes its way to the Chevron station around the corner. Everyone profits from the gasoline made of Nigerian oil except for the people of Nigeria. Your 19-year-old cousin from Nowheresville, FL is currently in the desert fighting to making sure my Civic has enough juice in its guts to get me to Coachella and back. I've seen the sad fallout from oil spills, the greasy pelicans, I've heard the fishermen from St. Bernard Parish who don't know what to do with themselves right about now as expressed in their plaintive Cajun-accented speech (“Can you replace my heritage?” one asked BP reps a few weeks ago. “No, you can't. And you gotta understand that it's not just money; it's more than money. You're not gonna replace me being able to teach my kid how to fish”).
The newest horrible thing I've learned about gasoline is that, in an elaborate display of extortion-fu, the Unites States government is paying off Afghan warlords to allow us to use their roads to transport military goods to US troops, who are, of course, fighting Afghan warlords. And I think there's something about heroin in there too. Supporting the gasoline industry is an evil necessity until I have enough money to get one of those nice vegetable-oil-converted-diesel numbers. Until then, I'm just another lazy American who can't survive without her own car, passing the wind turbine generators on the drive to Coachella and thinking Gosh, what a logical, green source of energy!
The comforting factor: We'd have very few songs about cars, and probably no label known as Motown, without the Michigan industry that so reliably fed into our dependence on fossil fuels. Maybe Derrick May's grandfather never would've raised a family in Detroit if he hadn't gotten a job at the Ford plant, and then where would we be, music-wise? Would Milt Olinga have been born elsewhere and might not have taken up the vibraphone, and then, years later, maybe there would've been no “Award Tour” break? And what about Black Milk? Dilla? The MC5? Stevie? (I know I already covered this in mentioning Motown, but really think about that--a Stevie-less universe).
The steel industry would've been impacted too, which means the city of Gary, Indiana might never had appealed to Joseph Jackson as a place to raise a musical brood, and Philly would've been without plants and mills to lure in young men who needed jobs to support their growing families--and yikes, think about how your record collection would be suffering right now. See, BP's not so bad!
related:Dawn dishwashing liquid.
The problem: Hey, Dawn really cuts grease! Great, but do you know how I know this to be true? Because they're using Dawn to clean all those poor, sweet birds on the coasts of Alabama, Mississippi and Louisiana who are just trying to eat and flap their sad wings and make nests for their babies. Thanks to NPR a couple weeks ago, I know that the ingredient in Dawn that makes it especially effective in separating and breaking down petroleum so that it can be wiped away is...petroleum. You have to use some of the bad stuff to make the bad stuff go away--this is the same reason they give stimulants to hyper kids.
The comforting factor: None, currently--those pictures of defeated, gummy-winged birds haunt my dreams.Well, wait, there's this:
Andrew Bynum's knee fluid.
The problem: The fact that I'm so hyperaware of the daily status of the liquid that bathes Bynum's patella means that I'm growing up. Like our worst secrets and the amount of money I truly spend at the record store, the inner workings of professional sports teams should be hidden. A young Logan knew nothing of salary caps and clauses, agents and collective bargaining agreements, but she sure as hell liked to see tall, magical men on her TV screen, flying and running fast. It was all innocent and fun. I'd like to go back there, please.
The comforting factor: Oh, you haven't heard? THE LAKERS ARE THE CHAMPIONS OF THE WORRRRRRLLLLLLD. So I feel pretty great. I can do without innocence! Andrew says he's now going to get that surgery he's been postponing, but my question is, Why the rush? Let's not be hasty now, babycakes. Playing through the pain seemed to work just fine a couple weeks ago.
The saliva of Cam’ron, plus the rum & Coke he drinks as mentioned in “Speakin Tungs.”
The problem: I haven't been able to enjoy the Killa since I left irony behind in '07, doggy. I haven't been able to move past him naming a rap group Children of the Corn. And I most certainly haven't been able to move get over the awful stop-start cadence in “Horse and Carriage.”
I also despise him for not yet making a song using this when, here it is, I'm laying it right here at his feet:
The comforting factor: I should (and will therefore make it a point to) lighten up. What's one more double cheeseburger when you've been gorging yourself on instantly gratifying, fatty things for so long? Really, it's not going to hurt. The “Speakin Tungs” instrumental is like sweet Bollywood love story music, so inspirational while I'm sweeping and mopping the apartment on a Sunday morning. I assure you that nobody can fucking sweep a floor like I can when that instro is throbbing through my headphones (I'm a nice, quiet neighbor) and into my heart and blood and limbs. Plus it's got DOUBLE HANDCLAPS! In summation: boys should never wear pink, but I’ve enthusiastically listened to this song so often that I’m not even minding that apostrophe in his name so much anymore. That thing used to fill me with rage, remember?
The bloodstream of humans, as affected by Lupus.
The disease that felled James Yancey, it works by making the immune system foolishly attack and destroy healthy body tissue. Andit's back on my radar because Gaga keeps talking about how she thinks she has it. The problem: In Dilla's absence, everything I aurally love these days is slick and shiny and lacking in depth. None of it makes me think of things beyond my own flesh and hour-to-hour (sometimes minute-to-minute) enjoyment. Look above--I just wrote a thing about how much I enjoy a song by Cameron Giles. People, this is some real self-loathing you're witnessing.
The comforting factor: There’s no withholding Dilla's stuff. We work ourselves into a fever clicking around online for his musical delights. Everyone’s sharing his compositions still, he's still on records and we'll take what we can get, even though it’s been decades (in rap years) since his death. We're more ravenous for his beats than ever.
The bloodstream of Eminem, which was carrying large amounts of benzos until very recently.
The problem: I know exactly what he's put into his body because, thanks to his Atonement Tour 2010, he's constantly yammering about it and making horrible songs in which he makes a searching and fearless moral inventory of himself--with the final moral inventory approval by Jimmy Iovine and Universal Music Group, Inc., all rights reserved. Other than the music being bad, the campaign is bad. If the newly-sober guy wants to apologize, it should be just you and him on the phone; if it seems like his apologies are making him money, I'm less inclined to believe his apologies. “Hey, sorry about those years when my brain's reward system ruled my life. Catch me on 106 & Park later.” This whole offensive seems so album-sales-friendly rather than heartfelt, sacred and private as apologies should be.
[Also a real big problem: Em's Bed-Stuy affectation when he talks, like a kid playing dress-up, which nobody ever, ever calls him out on. He should have the flat “a,” the flat “o.” You know what I mean. That midwestern inflection--Michigan, Fargo, Chicago, Minnesota, parts of Ohio, Sarah Palin. I know there are regional differences (please don't email me with an indignant tone) but to us coastal people it all sounds the same. Ooooohh gaaash. Braaatwurst. Coooach Ditka. I'm a speech expert and I do not appreciate the way Em thinks he can convince me he grew up taking the A train to school. Nobody from Detroit sounds like that, and they don't pronounce song “sawng.”]
The comforting factor: For every piece of Em coverage, there's one fewer piece of Drake coverage. Yay for hiphop.
Kim Kardashian, the fragrance.
The problem: Oh god, there are so many. She's yet another exotic pretty lady with fetishized body parts. She's sort of an idiot when she talks in her babyvoice. She keeps fucking with her face (pulling it back and injecting into it, when none of that is necessary). Since this is America, this combination of looks and behavior has earned her lots of MC love and lots of cash--both of which make me jealous. She knows how to dress for her body type, and as someone who is shaped like a girl I can appreciate that, sinceshit like thiswas not made for girls who are shaped like girls. Whenever Kim does it real big, she gets accused of looking vulgar, because of the male hegemonic fear of the power of female sexuality. She could be a thinking, challenging bombshell if she applied herself. But her major flaw is that she uses her fame for nothing but fame. Like Lady Gaga?, you might ask. Uh, no, I would respond, because although Gaga mainlines fame into her veins like Kim does, Gaga also has a purer calling, a do-gooder mentality that manifests itself in her campaigns for AIDS research, her gay rights activism and her feminist leanings.
Alas, she didn't create the rules of the game, so it's bitchy of me to blame her for playing. Kim's the symptom, not the problem. She's not bad; she's just drawn that way. And still, there is a problem--her perfume is delicious and warm. It smells like how it feels to have your lower back touched in a soft way (that's for the ladies; they know what I mean), like wearing glossy black 5-inch Loubies that are so comfy 'cause they're lined in sheepskin, like the first 8 seconds of “Time of the Season”played on a loop. The most difficult thing for me to reconcile here is not that the perfume exists, but that I want it. I place it in small amounts on my wrists, for free, thanks to Sephora's sampling policy because I refuse to buy it. I can't support Kim as a brand so I won't participate in helping her business ventures succeed. But it's not fair, because the scent makes me feel sexy and I strongly want it in my home so I can put it on my skin after a shower, when my pores are open and at their most absorbent. “Crisp top notes, lush mid notes, and a sexy drydown.” CORRECT.
The comforting factors: Maybe she'll become a humanitarian. Maybe she'll procreate with one of the System of a Down boys and make the most stunning and talented babies we've ever seen. Or maybe, in the biggest win of my life as a Los Angeles resident, she'll become the life partner of Kurupt, they'll each get a Kompressor and drive around town listening to Organized Konfusion all day on the (what else?) Kenwood.
The blood, sweat, and tears of soccer players (like John Pastil of Ghana here)
Rob Griffith / AP
The problem: I don’t fucking care about the World Cup and I feel manipulated by global media trying to make me care. Thanks to Lit 101, I'm well-versed in Lacanian theory as applied to advertising--we're motivated by feelings of lack, and the subsequent desire we feel can never be completely filled. So even though I love Don Draper, advertising is truly nefarious work--Nike uses our consumer anxiety to make us believe its products are necessary. Nike wants me to believe soccer is the great equalizer and that Uruguay or Ghana winning would make it OK that they are not invited to the G-20 summit because they are countries filled with corruption and poor people. Oh and there's the fact that Nike still doesn't pay its workers enough.
The comforting factors: It's just impossible to dislike that Argentina team--Papi Maradona is the Ozzie Guillen of soccer, the Andre 3000 of music. Mike Tyson loves the squad. And I always get assessed as Argentine, based on my physical appearance, by dudes at the club (or I did, back when I used to go to the club), so I have sort of a funny allegiance to the entire nation.
Additionally, it would've been great if Ghana had won, because then the shackles of imperialism would've been thrown off, the IMF would've become democratic, pictures of Kwame Nkrumah would've gotten a lot of love on various Tumblrs, and everyone would've, for a few days at least, stopped associating the continent with AIDS, genital mutilation, and outsiders like Oprah coming in to Save the Day. Ghana, I want you to be economically and politically stable enough to save your own day!
Obviously MCs are mythologized in my head and they kind of talk to me as I make my way through each day, giving me pep talks and inspiring me with joyful and creative wordplay. Yancy Thigpen couldn't catch me sleepin; On my feet is venom/see I'm dressed to kill (I always wear heels to work), blah blah. Their births, therefore, must be celebrated. It just so happens that Biggie's birthday falls on this particular Spring day in which so much is irritating and sad. Sorry, Chris.
Oil-covered animals are washing up ashore, I hate HAAATE that dash in The-Dream's name, Arizona, Texas, and Kentucky are in a 3-way battle for Evil Supremacy within these United States (the "Atlantic Triangular Trade," fucking hell), and Christopher Wallace is gone and he's never coming back (never, not EVER). Then there's this "6 Unexpected Ways to Turn Him On" story today, pushed hard by Yahoo (I refuse to put the exclamation point; I'm an adult). I knew I'd have to make fun of it before I read one word in the body, as "turn him on" is so comical, like something from Cosmo in '86. This feature is part of the larger body of Internet theme pieces that compile alluring qualities of people of each gender - a theme that is annoying and stupid, but that I wish I had thought of because people really seem to love it, as evidenced by their enthusiastic comments and such. People get riled up when you tell them to do this, and not to do that, if you want someone to love you.
This particular list is BS, I'm afraid, as there are no statements of requirements related to sex, a girl maintaining a nice weight even after babies, voting appropriately, and possessing the good sense to be quiet when she knows that talking would just ruin the moment. Even I look for these qualities in girls and I'm not even looking to date a girl. It's just human decency.
1. She Appreciates "Nontraditional" Beauty. I love feedback - the squealing sound produced by guitars held close to amps. Feedback sounds like a rusty door, a dying cat, or a pack of whales crying in the ocean. When I share the ultimate feedback song, Smashing Pumpkins' "Drown," with a girl, she usually refers to the feedback-laden ending as "senseless noise." But in my opinion, it's a carefully orchestrated, creative way to use a sonic element of the guitar.
I'm not sure why I can't just walk away from this one instead of dignifying it with a response, but I must take the bait and address that "dying cat" reference. Girls don't like to be reminded that animals die (please refer to the second paragraph of this post) - especially if they are sweet and furry animals like kitties. Further, JIMI is the feedback don; his version of the Star-Spangled Banner is the song you must play in order to gauge a lady's sensitivity to the mating call of the guitar. Additionally, there is an annoying band from Los Angeles called the Silversun Pickups that bite the sound of Billy Corgan & co. like it's '94 all over again (which, of course, it is, but only when it comes to rap music). Basically, I'm just leading up to this: I wish one of my favorite rappers would do an"Ava Adore"freestyle.
2. She Faces Reality. People avoid reading about bad things that happen in the world, but it's important to have perspective and realize the world is good - and bad.
Is this even true? I only give my body and time and energy to someone who is brilliant and strong, appreciative of my smarts, affectionate, and can give a rough estimate of when Rawkus started to go downhill. Therefore, I simply don't know what most mortal human boys like and need. So is this one true or not? Realize the world is bad?I thought a sunshiny outlook was best. Do boys like a girl who watches CNN and then discusses world issues, frowny-faced and with a heavy heart? Is the art of escapism not appreciated among you? Please inform. (FYI, she should be watching BBC World News instead.)
3. She Doesn't Do What Everyone Else Does. The media embraces certain things, and many people follow. But, to most guys, followers are boring, and independent thinkers are sexy. Set trends on your own and buck established ones.
This one is just disingenuous, since "independently thinking" is probably only acceptable inasmuch as it does not interfere with a girl's commitment to shaving her legs and taking her birth control. I should've ignored this one on sheer principle, since "The media embraces certain things" is a poorly constructed sentence opener that just makes no sense and now I'm complicit in its promotion on the Internet. Nice, Logan.
4. She's Tuned in to the World. A few weeks ago, I read about a disease wiping out entire colonies of bats along the East Coast. The article confirmed my worst fears: As the bats disappear, the insect populations they feed on will explode. When I relay this story to most women I meet they say, "Why should I care?" There seems to be a dearth of people who have a passion about the world.
Science is the greatest and any girl worth marrying knows that, but 1) fuck a bat, and 2) all bugs should die because it scares me when I see one unexpectedly. And, really, who isn't tuned into the world? Are we not assuming that all girls read the paper and watch Rachel Maddow every day? Because we should assume that, as this is the standard to which we should be holding our girls. Anyway, we're spending too much time on this. Let's tune in to some world events. There's new Oddisee to discuss and obsess over. And pull your head out of your ass, because Texas is trying its hardest to get back into the Confederacy.
5. She Can Tell a Good Story. Storytelling is a gift that requires a sense of timing and an understanding of an audience. A good storyteller is intriguing but hard to find.
It's the birthday of Biggie Smalls, the fourth-best storyteller after Aesop, Slick Rick, and Captain Koons in Pulp Fiction, and any lady worth dating is obviously going to know that. I can't really tell a story for shit (I mix up my metaphors and get nervous from the pressure), but goddammit if I can't hand you a list of 100 microphone kings with great narrative ability. This would make me wife material if it weren't for the fact that I refuse to participate in the institution of marriage until it's legal for my beloved gays to do the same - in every state. So, for now, you and I will just sleep together and go record shopping together, but part ways after that and return to our own apartments for quiet time, personal time. It's rough, I know.
6. She Can Talk About "Boy Stuff."Sometimes, I spout off "boy stuff" (read: sports) and unfairly expect a girl to keep up, but I do talk about my fair share of "girl stuff" - cooking, fashion, hair - to deserve a few conversations about serial killers and horror movies.
Cronenberg and Argento, obviously. But the serial killers thing? Is that true? I feel so lost.
I know about Gacy and the clowns, and I guess there's something cool and outlaw-ish about those guys as a whole if you sort of detach yourself from the emotion -the taking of human life and evading the law, pretty G - but a whole conversation about serial killers is off-putting to me and the rest of my ladies, all the chickenheads from Pasadena to Medina. Boy stuff, if you must mark it as such and place it over on that side of the room (away from girl stuff), should maybe be reserved for talk between you and your boys. Not every girl cares about basketball and funny old pictures of KG at the high school prom, even though in a perfect world every girl would because that's some of the best stuff in life. Also, why are your gender attitudes cribbed from Father Knows Best?
I wish Big were here, but I'm OK. (I say this because I want to be). Devin the Dude still makes albums, I'm loving the delicious LeBron-Delonte dramaticals, plus I found out that me and Rizz use the same technology portal!
Being the proud owner of a trusty Toshiba laptop makes a girl feel alluring and classy, like a tall, lanky, and spectacular music producer with kung-fu, chess, and comic book fetishes. Once again, Robert saves the day. WU-TANG, UBER ALLES.
From The Boston Globe, just 'cause I feel like hometown obits are the most respectful.
OH, AND WHAT HAVE WE HERE. Why, it's some good rap music coupled with some love! Mister Cee's very very special Guru-imbued Throwback at Noon today, his voice cracking and his breathing slow and focused, streaming at Rap Radar with a higher quality version on Megaupload that will startle and move you with its greatness.
“A great man, a great rapper, a great humanitarian for hiphop...don't ever let anybody tell you that you can't show your love for somebody. Ain't nobody gon stop me from doin what I need to do for Guru!” The voice cracking and the slow breathing, I know I just mentioned it but oh it is such a lovely expression of affection from one friend to another friend. Sharp blades, heavenly praise, and dues are paid!
“California Bill Would Create Annual Ronald Reagan Day.”[Huffington Post]
Crack vials and junk bonds for everybody!
Thank you, face of Shawn, for wordlessly and accurately expressing my feelings about this. I'm frantically trying to reach Jello Biafra and Chuck D for comment.
You know the hammers'll lose your cabbage, them dudes do damage/Send Zulu Nation through Reaganomics, we move them package. Love Mef and Styles P and the beat below; hate hatehatehate Fat Joe so much that even if I adopt an ironic stance I still can't fool myself into not hating him. Similarly, LOVE Reaganomically produced hip-hop and punk fucking rock; haaaaate the fact that Reagan had to exist in order to make them so.
I get hyped when I hear a drum roll, When my mind is free/I know a melody can move me, Whether or not the blood is red up in the gutter/Music is my bread and butter, and as a result, I got a thousand old records in my crib.
My arms are sore due to my devotion to vinyl, as I am currently moving my entire analog life across 3.5 miles of Los Angeles landscape into my fabulous new apartment home. Please accept this, my humble explanation for lack of posts. I'll be back, probably quoting Deck in “Triumph” because I'll be feeling so damn good about myself. Successfully moving all your stuff into apt. 15 is the skinny-Caucasoid-girl version of Swingin swords like Shinobi.
“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.
It finally hit me today that the tiny Hero of Hollygrove is going away on some weapons charge! Mixtapes and the coke market, prepare to feel the pain.
I literally got sad sitting here in apt. 302 in response to hearing about Wayne's performance at the New Orleans Arena days before he gets sentenced, which is ridiculous proof that the Internet's constant information flow about everybody's life causes me to feel like I'm best friends with every rapper. This sadness is obviously related to my newly-found allegiance to the Saints as the Greatest Football Team In the History of Televisions Watched in Apt. 302, and my affection for the city of New Orleans in general going way back to when I was a kid (Dr. John & the Meters, plus that Randy Newman song about the flood. Thanks, Mom). It's also related to the fact that I can't deny my feelings that Wayne is sincere in everything he does. I'm naïve, I can't help it, but I feel like there's no pretense with him. So when he screams, "I'm nothing without you" to the hometown crowd, it's this combination of sweet and sad mixed with his uncut gratitude that makes me shed a little tear. A primal response to male vulnerability, that's all it is; suddenly, boom, I'm reminded that I'm not so evolved after all. I change shapes just to hide in this place but I’m still, I’m still an animal!/Nobody knows it but me.
Additional sadness:
Wayne leaving that awful Drake to pinch-hit for him during his absence (ugh), and Wayne missingour mighty Lakers making their impression felt this season by cutting a destructive path through the jungle infested with inferior NBA teams. Dr. Carter, while you're locked up I'll be sending you updates on division standings and Ron-Ron's latest batch of crazy. Also: naked pics of myself. For now, I left a half a hundred in your commissary. Stay strong, buddy.
An obvious choice, but orchestral ear candy trumps obscurity every time. And the fact remains that '98 trumps '09 every time. Go Clef!
...
*You're a bad person, Mark Ronson, for making me like your remixes even though you're a derivative wanker who probably has bad teeth. Anyway: Miike Snow, plus horns.
“We like ass. Wake up, sweetheart.” - everyone with an Internet, to me.
(Things also do not turn out well when you put in “Blu” + “Drake,” just sayin.)
I will frequently be focused on including this in a post about rankings of any sort. Search volume rankings? Well, here you go. Althea & Donna - “Uptown Top Ranking.”
1. Common tells CNN there's less talk of rims and chains in the rap music these days because President Dreamboat is in charge and fools are more conscious now, y'all. Ostentatious lyrical talk is “super played-out,” he says, but everybody knows if you're from Chicago it's bogus. OH COM. You're so out of touch.
He “hopes more rappers abandon vacuous materialistic ideals and the glorification of vices plaguing American communities -- ‘and whatever MC doesn't, I will,’ he warned.’” Then he gave us all a copy of Manchild in the Promised Land and asked if we wanted a ride to the co-op for groceries (nothing over-processed and nothing that once had a face, obviously).
Sigh. Happens to all of 'em eventually. Nobody I know and love has cared about this dude since Be (OMG, remember how good Be was? JESUS), but it's still annoying to see a classic '90s action hero cross over into Old-Mans-ville. The sun rises and sets, children grow older, and rappers do Gap commercials then date the tennis star then give quotes to CNN about the state of hip-hop. To everything, turn, turn, turn.
It's finally time for me to move on, I suppose, from 1992.HA. I kid! NEVER moving on from '92! Have we just met??Here's Com in his glory days, when we loved him the best, talking about some lady who won't let him hit it.
2.Les and JuJu are starring in a play,says XXL. Bob Fosse and Leonard Bernstein, watch out now!
I believe the term you're thinking of here is “subtle imagery.”
The Beatnuts will be starring in a play written and conceived by journalist/His Holy Ego Trip-ness/my ex-boyfriend Sacha Jenkins called Deez Nuts, because evidently nobody could think of a better pun (?).
According to Jenkins, Deez Nuts follows a journalist as he interviews founding members Psycho Les and JuJu outside of a Bodega in their shared hometown of Corona, Queens. It will feature live performances by the group as well as a full cast of actors.
3.Rae, in a rare misstep, wants old rappers to do remakes of their classics. That's great. Really great. Hey, you know what? I want a pony, access to the Def Jam masters (hi Russ!), andBritt Eklund'swhole appearance and bearing.Let's keep each other posted on our respective goals, what do you say, Rae.
“I'd like to see Nas do another Illmatic. See Snoop do another [Doggystyle]. I'd like to see Hov do another Reasonable Doubt. I'd like to Slick Rick come back with the another Great Adventures of Slick Rick. I'd like to see Rakim do another Paid in Full. ... I'm hip-hop for real. We could go on for days. I would like to see another Criminal Minded.” (MTV News)
The only things I have to say are 1) NO, 2) um, hello, I didn't see Hustler's P.O.M.E. on that list, and 3) BABY RAE IN A YELLOW SHIRT, so epic.
I'm basically the Sasha Grey of the blogosphere (pretentious, Oscar Wilde fan, skinny) but this venture does not pay well. I do it for the love. In my spare time, then, I earn a living as a social scientist with a concentration in prison-industrial-complex superhaterism because I'm a patriot. I live in a wonderful yet infuriating country called America, where almost half of the prison population is made up of black males; however, I am now about to complete the only prison-related blog post you'll see in '09 that does not include a picture of Prodigy, Gucci Mane, or Chi-Ali. Please save your applause 'til the end.
Joel Dvorskin, a university professor and criminal justice expert, wanted to find out what social science reveals about preventing and reducing violent crime, and the specifics on how the prison system is a massive failure.He then did some research, and that was a sad time-waster for him since he could've just listened to some PRT or Dead Prez. Feeling all pleased about hisself, he would now like to announce that U.S. prisons provide instruction for inmates on how to commit crimes more successfully, and how to behave in an aggressive manner in order to get their needs met and dominate within the social hierarchy. Prisons, he says, are too punitive and fail to rehabilitate. Harsh punishment backfires. And you should probably provide some job skills training if you want prisoners to be less violent upon release and stop returning to the place with all the cages.
"No fucking way," I said, sitting in the back of my 8th-grade US Gov't class after having written 19 essays on this topic. Then I gave him a Mumia petition to sign and went back to being miserable and annoying as a middle-class Caucasoid girl from a loving, 2-parent household.
Dvorskin has a book coming out called Applying Social Science to Reduce Violent Offending, which I genuinely would like to read despite the hater-ish tone of this post, since my copy of No More Prisons has been in some box in my parents' garage since '99 and going to look for it would really cut into my lounging-around time. Dvorskin's book examines why prisons are failing and what needs to change, from a psychologically informed perspective. Its main point is that we need to stop locking up every other black man and spend resources on violent lawbreakers rather than worrying so much about 20 sacks.
My hollerback book, Incarcerating Poor and/or Brown People Keeps America's Financial Wheels Turning So Stop Being Naive, Joel Dvorskin, has no release date as of yet.
And because of this fucking downer of a story, things have gotten far too serious on HeightFiveSeven today. I need 2 of the most cheerful songs ever written about being on lockdown in order to feel better:
Madden's like your funny uncle that gives you bear hugs, always has weird metaphors for things, and tells you long, drawn-out tales of Brett Favre's greatness.
John is now leaving us in the un-funny and un-comforting hands of Cris Collinsworth and Phil Simms and Greg Gumbel and Al Michaels--dudes who I'm pretty sure would never give you a bear hug. His retirement makes me sad.
In other news, I'm still such a tomboy.
"If the quarterback completes a pass in the endzone, it's a touchdown."
The Philly Sound! Show some goddamn respect, kids.
"La La Means I Love You" has powered many a makeout/sexytime sesh over the last 40 (!!) years, but this one was selected from the Delfonics' catalog simply on the basis of the "oh baby/hey baby" part(Lauryn did a pretty good job if I don't say so myself, but we all know that original trumps derivative EVERY time).
I wish that you would press play and listen to this in its entirety, and I trust you to do so even though I'm not there to monitor you.
Drummers don't ever seem to get recognition unless
they're self-destructive and are always involved in hijinks (I'm looking at you, Keith Moon & John Bonham) or have 1 arm (Rick Allen)
or move along to other instruments (Dave Grohl, Josh Homme)
or are an anomaly cuz they're a girl (Sheila E.).
I have listened to this song OH SO MANY TIMES in life and its shut-it-down-ness has not subsided in the slightest. Thank you, wondrous drummer Mr. Jones.
Also played on: "Tracks of My Tears" "What Becomes of the Brokenhearted" "Ain't That Peculiar" "I Heard it Through the Grapevine" "Ain't No Mountain High Enough"
The Boston Globe has a greatly depressing feature called "Scenes from the Recession," including this storage yard of newspaper racks and boxes that have been put out to pasture. Wah-waaahhh. I'm a newspaper dork so this is sad, but the pic itself is kind of stunning and beautiful.
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.
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