Woman's gotta have it and by "it" I mean a Womack tshirt

Instagram isn't just my nickname for Josh who supplies me with that beige!
It is also a photo site that I am newly on.

Birthday compare n' contrast - Lynott, Parker, Hayes. (Also where is that RZA/Isaac photo by Sue Kwon? PLEASE HELP)

The only thing that can tear me away from making pancakes and listening to that new Danny Brown is a birthday tribute post to some Record Collection Gods of Apt. 680 (born in '49, '65, and '42, respectively).

Photo that makes me giggle:

Parker.

Hayes.

Lynott - N/A, because he looks fresh in every photo.

1- a present from Stax in '71 for his success, it's a metal/sex beast made by Lucifer's minions in a GM plant for the purpose of getting nice, respectable young ladies like me out of their dresses.

2-

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“Money is not the most important thing in the world. Love is. Fortunately, I love money.” - Jackie Mason

“Jigga,” I'd say if I were there as the token fair-haired one, “I don't like it if it don't gleam clean."

The Wall Street Journal wonders if “Otis” will give a boost to the Maybach and its sad little sales record. The video has given the car “new-found hip-hop notoriety,” the article submits, which means that the WSJ has never heard of Rick Ross (LOVE) but also that the WSJ is as out of touch with rap music as say, Kanye West is as out of touch with my life. Anyway, as I've already established, a jerk is a jerk, and that hi-res Lakai intro and lo-res Fatlip video still set the standard for Jonzeian superbness, but I won't lie - I wish on all that is good and holy (Lagerfeld, Murakami, Tisci) that I had been picked for this gig. It's daydream fodder when I'm at work - fast cars, danger, fire and knives, plus that cute part at 1:18 when K looks back at J so they can synchronize their, uh, grippin wood dance. (Am I supposed to pause at this point?)

“Let the Dollar Circulate.” GAMBLE N HUFF. GAMBLE N HUFF. And to a lesser extent, JEEZY JEEZY JEEZY.

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White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #6 (“industry dinner with Curren$y” edition)

I HAVE BLONDE HAIR AND OFTEN WEAR A WHITE TANK TOO, YOU KNOW, SO HOW COME I CAIN'T SIT THERE?

I would add “Whothefuck is that bitch,” à la Joi in Friday, but I don't talk like that in real life so I don't want Curren$y to see this post and think I'm foul-mouthed. It's unladylike.

Aw, censorship. I had to do it, this being a sweet and innocent blog.

(you gotta buy the Blu-Ray edition if you want the director's cut)

I know there's more to him as a man but you can't fault me for thinking that all Curren$y cares about is his X-box, V-12 engines, the greatest strains this season, and a whole lot of commas on his checks. He also says things like Dead stock tissue in the box, elephant print/On my Flint 13's no retro 3M reflective, which is either about cars or shoes - either way, I'm fucked. Not a lot for me to work with there, conversation-wise.

But I bet you I can elicit a smile across the dinner table by engaging him in a debate about Sean Payton's visor (stylish or no?) and which is the superior walking-in-slow-motion-out-to-your-Caprice-in-the-driveway song (“Easin' In” or “Only One Can Win”?). Then I can just babble on, ask him what he thinks about the pumpkin-colored 328 on that Frank O cover, and try to repeat some of my favorite lyrics of his - Something you n---as ain't never been: boss/Can't find your mom and your dad/In the grocery store, panicking: lost - til the champagne hits me and I lose my focus. I start to get all critical like I'm composing a blog post (“I didn't much care for your lyrical content being so firearm-heavy a few years ago, you sounded silly”; “How come I was not notified of the audition for the ‘White Girl Jumping into Pool’ character in the ‘Address’ video?”). It turns into a huge foot-in-mouth extravaganza. So I just resort to giggling, playing with my hair, saying “I FEEL THE JETNESS, LALALAAA” and just when I'm about to ask him to start reading the phone book to me, the DJ plays my funtimes girly song that I have no choice but to love due to the estrogen flowing through me, or maybe it's that funtimes girly song, so I scream THISMYSONNNG, then excuse myself from the table to go work it out on the floor. It's a good plan, yes? I'm ready. I am. I've lotioned myself up, I got my white tank on and I'm ready for my meal at the table, the human obstruction known as “Dame Dash” be damned. I want to be that lady at that table. Time to get it crackin like lobsters.

“Run Dat Shit.” The part about having advance access to fashion designers' sketch pads for next season is lame; it could be straight from Rawss' playbook and that's the most devastating criticism I can give a lyric. But the description of him on the red carpet in shorts makes up for it. (He was just at the premier 'cause his homeboy was in the movie!). Also: My style straight like 9:15 and Marlo on the screen, yeah bitch we on The Wire/You talking too much, bitch - go sit up there with the driver. (things I like)

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Sometimes I fear that you do not understand the degree to which I have the music nerd game on lock.

Anthony Hudson, designer of album covers for Geffen in the '70s, begat one Saul Hudson, top-hatted, amazing-haired Gibson wizard.

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.

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White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #5 (“yachting with the cornrowed Virginian” edition)

Pusha's Miami sleazeball impression in his "Can I Live" video.

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





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Ridin through the city lights, Monday Magic City night

“My relationship to groceries is directly related to how much I earn as a street musician,” says the man profiled in a Wall Street Journal piece from a couple months ago.

Well yes, sir, but

anybody's relationship to anything purchase-able is directly related to how much that person earns as a ______ (occupation).

The article is called Ten Rules for Street Musicians, but it could just as easily be 10 Rules for Strippers, or 10 rules for anybody with any type of hustle, anybody who uses what they have to get what they need. 10 Rules for the Cardboard Sign Wearer on the Corner. 10 Rules for Those of Us who Expect Payment for Services Rendered. 10 Rules for People who Need to Eat. 10 Rules for Humans.

The street musician's list of rules came about after he “explored the ideal circumstances for generating the funds to feed (his) food habit.” That's a universal exploration, though. My food habit is a beast, as is my rent habit and my Amoeba habit. And goddammit if I'm about to let something prevent me from generating funds to satisfy all my habits even if it means I need to take it to the Magic City stage. The street musician's primary means of securing ends to feed himself has been playing the cello on the streets, but for the girls in the club, just as it is for any professional, the advice on how to succeed is no different.




1. (Take Into Account) Day of Week / Time of Day.

“I make two or three times more money on Friday mornings than Monday mornings,” the street musician says. “Friday afternoons are second best. Tuesday morning is better than Wednesday morning although Wednesday afternoon is better than Tuesday afternoon. Thursday mornings aren’t so good but Thursday afternoons are.”


In a free market economy, people can choose the things on which they spend their disposable income and you better adjust accordingly, mama. The tightness and rightness of your game should be a given, but there are variables you need to consider. Stock market crashes, the latest with the Libya situation, a major sporting event on TV--try to predict the factors that will decrease or distract your audience so you don't waste your time putting time and effort into something that won't reach your best-paying customers. But then come extra hard when your audience returns so you can recoup your losses. They'll return, luckily. “It's like dope,” Frank Lucas said about money but it applies to anything pleasurable, “they always want more.”

I could never get hired as a stripper due to my innocent face and sassy mouth but I think Tuesdays and Wednesdays in the club would be deadsville. Thursday nights would be pretty lucrative, though--everybody psyched because the week's practically over. Fridays and Saturdays would be good too, but it seems like the club might be full of too many dudes being rowdy for the sake of rowdy (i.e., weekend warrior types coming to gawk with their crew rather that to tip the performers). No day shift, ever. The day shift is for the ugly girls, we know this.




2. How to Prepare for the Job.

“I get up about 6:00 a.m., eat a solid breakfast and listen to the Market Place Morning Report on National Public Radio while I drink a cup of coffee,” says the street musician.


Other than a Teflon psychological shield and vanilla cherry perfume oil, it's autopilot time for me at the club. There's nothing to prepare for or think about. The shield one is exhausting, though. And dude we all listen to NPR, so stop.




3. What to Wear.

“I dress respectably but not too nice - somewhere between grungy and preppy. I wear brown leather suede shoes and dark pants. If it’s cold, I wear a sweater but t-shirts are fine. People don’t need to see a collar.”


I could never be a stripper because I am terribly shy; however, I'm not an idiot so I know that if I were a fantasy fulfillment professional I would dress accordingly. I'd dress respectably but not too nice - somewhere between librarian and hooker. And no, people really don't need to see a collar.




4. Eye Contact.

“Eye contact is essential. I don’t wear sunglasses or a large brimmed hat.”


YEP. This one definitely applies to the seduction-arts specialist. People never talk about the importance of eye contact (music and outfits get more discussion time) but it's of the utmost. I could never be a stripper because I'd get tired of people asking me Ha, yeah, so what's your real name? when I tell them my name's Logan, but if I were, I would master the “I enjoy pleasing you” direct gaze. At first I thought it would feel gross to fake such a thing--the “I'm thrilled to be here” thing that a girl at the club has to put on, like a jacket or a hat, except worse even than a heavy, hot and itchy jacket or a hat because it fucks with you psychologically. Then I remembered everybody at work is doing this constantly no matter what the job is, including me at my government job, except at my job I don't get to hear any new Brick Squad or Grand Hustle stuff. Really, I'm thrilled to be here. Honest.




5. Location.

“The Charles/MGH Station is best for me as a solo cellist. It’s big, open and glassy, kind of like a greenhouse. I feel happy there so my music is probably better.”


Other than east of the LA River, south of the 10, or anywhere in the valley, I think I'd be fine with any club location. Obviously the ideal place would be next to the Starbucks at 2nd and Central downtown, so all my LAPD admirers could finally have their dreams come true. GROSS. Now I'm thinking about them! Moving on -




6. Competition.

“Once I showed up at the Harvard Square stop before 7:00 a.m. and wasn’t able to get a spot because other musicians were already set up. I came back another day and found an empty spot. I start to play and another street musician with a guitar comes up and said, ‘Did you guys do the lottery this morning?” I said, “There was space. I started playing.’ He said, ‘Usually we show up before 7 and flip a coin to see who goes first.’ I don’t know what’s true. Street musicians talk a lot of shit. I don’t go Harvard Square anymore because people who play there are so territorial. And the money isn’t as good for me.”


The original meaning of hustle was “to shake, to toss.” And if it's stripping we're referring to here as the hustle of note, there is no competition for me if I do say so. Have we just met? Shaking it and nerding it up are the 2 things at which I am most skilled. I get my fondness for logic from Dad; hips from Mom. I have excellent balance and I did ballet for 8 years. Combine these qualities and you get pure practicality - I heard that people will pay me if I do this thing and that thing with my body, so I'll go get a job at a place that will hire me to do this thing/that thing. Makes sense. I'd probably hold back a tiny bit on stage, though, so that my coworker with the young child would still be able to make a decent amount. We all need to get ours and the nature of the free market means that the girl with the most hips will get the most cash, but that doesn't make it right. Women get stereotyped as being competitive and catty, the whole crabs-in-a-bucket thing, but that's just a by-product of our culture's fear of female sexuality. What can you do.




7. Selection of music / Weather.

N/A regarding that second thing, but oh yes, the first one is definitely important - Toomp, Nitti, Mannie, Lex, Collipark, Shawty Redd, Neptunes '98-02, Rick Rock, DJ Paul who never gets any accolades but whose compositions are just amazing, 80% of David Banner's catalog, 100% of Nickatina's, that Minaj instro, the “Ha” instro, oh fuck it, really any rap instro from the states of Georgia, Florida, or Louisiana between '96 and '03, and in a surprising twist, some Jake One instros. The DJ might try to drive the particularly nerdy musicdork bassline-loving ladies who were raised on the Stax catalog out of their minds by playing something from Black Caesar or maybe some Cymande or something. Please, no. It reminds such ladies of their parents' record collection, and therefore it reminds them of being a kid. Kid stuff doesn't belong in the club.

Mr. DJ might also try to play “The Next Episode,” since it's burned into our collective psyche as that song with that stripper video and it's the perfect BPM, plus it has provided the image to open this post. That one blonde girl at the club with the hips who you came specifically to see and who you're pretty sure would go on a date with you would not enjoy this coming out of the speakers, however. She would be thinking about David McCallum and it would distract her too much. She's also thinking about the unadulterated epicness of the name “Kurt Vile” for a musical human, the catchy/sad accuracy of the words You only want me when I'm gone/You only want me when I'm fever dreaming, and how she just figured out that the “All of the Lights” drums sound like Hanna Barbera characters when they're running in place. “Xxplosive” is perfect, though, a slow swangin one to balance out all the frenetic Waka stuff. Anything by him or Weezy I would refuse to dance to, just based on the triteness of such a scene; girls getting money to the sweet sounds of “Bingo,” ooh. Groundbreaking. I refuse to take part. (If “No Hands” is played, though, all bets are off.)




8. Bad situations.

“One day, two guys come up,” the street musician says. “They keep giving me a hard time. I say to them, ‘Can you please just leave me alone? This is my workplace. Don’t bother me. I’m just trying to do my job.’”


I wouldn't get hired as a stripper unless I gained 7-10 lbs, but if I ever did, I bet I'd think about the possibility of bad situations pretty frequently. Getting followed after my shift is the scariest thing that could happen, I suppose. Bad tippers, although not scary, are a bad situation too. Dudes being visibly uncomfortable, resulting in me feeling sorry for them. Dudes bringing their girlfriends in to get cool points. (No cool points awarded, dumb dumb; you're a cliche). I could never be a stripper and sometimes I feel inadequate because of that, but then I remind myself about the pitfalls of such a job and I'm fine.




9. Customer / audience demographics.

“Race and gender make no difference if someone is going to stop, listen and/or give me money,” the street musician says.


WORDEMUP, buddy. We speak the same language. Stripper Logan fully concurs with street musician's assessment, as does Nerd Logan, Lazy Saturday Afternoon Logan, Bookstore Logan, Bikini Logan, Record Hoarder Logan and Grocery Shopping Logan.




10. How to measure success.

“One day was a bad day,” says the street musician. “Everybody was unhappy. I didn’t get much money. But when I got home, there was an email from a woman. She wrote, ‘Every time I see you, it brightens my day.’”


Is this one a trick? The answer to this is “REVENUE RETRIEVIN--money, in rolls or stacks, even though that's impractical and we only store it that way because that's how Gs and Henry Hill do it and it looks dope.”

There's a reason an E-40 synonym for “hustling” is “grittin & grindin.” If I'm a stripper, I don't make an hourly wage. I don't get medical or dental. I have to pay the house at the end of every shift. My legs hurt. I felt on your private parts with my soft ladyparts but neither of us got any intimacy or connection to each other as humans. And nobody ever emails me afterward to tell me I brightened his day : (







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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.”

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The Pogues - “Maidrín Rua” (Little Fox)

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10. Annnnnd we liked this.

We really liked this a lot! Thanks, Tumblr.

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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.”

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Like to let her hair down when the sky gets sunny*.

(*you rack your brain for lyrics about ladies and half the songs are actually about cars.)


Georgia May Jagger proves that if you are 5’7” (model stats; it means she's actually 5’5 1/2”) and blonde-highlighted, life is perfect. Lounge-y. Sunshiny. (like old OutKast instrumentals). If it weren't for SWINE, that is.

Meet

me

on

the

fresh

train.

I love it all, this whole spread. And I have versions of everything here in my closet, except for that button-up Dior up there, which I wish I had because I would certainly wear it, shoulder ties and all. It's cop catnip, though. Cops love me. My style of dress. My good posture. My skinny body, I guess. Thus, How can I continue to dress like this while keeping cops away is the most important topic in my life right now. I need help with it, like understanding Talib getting a distribution assist from Duck Down (???!?) and how to get Doomsy on as a keynote speaker at the next TED conference. Cops, they love me and I do not care for it (unless he's a cool cop, the ones that only exist in movies, a realllll loose cannon with a fucking sweet car and a King Kong-sized ego like detective Alonzo Harris--call me!--or one who gets caught up like Brasco--CALL ME--or even Mr. Orange 'cause he kind of had a good heart plus he was a great storyteller).

There has to be some answer here. I would like to continue to be a dress-up babydoll, but I do not want to be visually patted-down by police officers every day when I get my coffee. (I live in the Rampart division and I work downtown, so what do you expect--the Starbucks at 2nd and Central is particularly thick with them) This is not my most organized set of sentences but basically what I mean to say is that just because that lady in line behind you is wearing some nice white linen shorts and an oxford shirt doesn't mean she doesn't prowl the Internet daily for new Curren$y stuff and old Dilla stuff. You and your stereotypes, I swear.



“Spottieottie” instro. Ha, see, 'cause they're from Georgia.

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Messy-haired pink-nailed fabulous white ladies waitin round for GZA with blank expressions who are not named Logan.

Which record label? CHESS, of course.

Bo Diddley - “Shut Up, Woman.” Don’t you say a word, ‘cause you might get me excited.

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Eddie Bo - “Check Your Bucket.” 00:04 - 00:06. It's that sound that describes you about to go in for a neck kiss because you've been looking at me and I am so delicious you can't hardly stand it.

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Bo Diddley - “Bo Diddley.” Because it's Bo, and it's meta, and because PATTIN JUBA, and because just like how you should have a pretty dope “Shook Ones” freestyle if you’re an MC, you should be able to lay something down on top of this if you are any good at singing. (Or rapping.)

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White girl side hustle opportunity I missed #3.

White girls! This week we’re doing the gross and unspeakable with the sex parts of Charlie Sheen (in Vegas) and creepy old David Duchovny (in front of Showtime cameras) -- we’re not third in line for the presidency anymore, so we are sad and acting out sexually. Our band with M. Ward isn’t really doing big things right now either. Coachella is our Gathering of the Juggalos but it is still months away. So, Radric arrives to save the day. Of course.

Gucci loves us and that's been our bread and butter for the last couple years--hanging out and ending up in a verse of his. A couple years ago he liked our naked dancing at spring break. Today a Gucci hang will probably get you described as Cyndi Lauper (again) but it means you get to be in Waka's general area and sing that hook (in your head) to that song by Best Coast*, she who understands stifled white girl longing and lust.


All-black Phantom, pulled up to the opera/Bad white bitch, call her Cyndi Lauper.

*I wish he was my boyfriennnnnnnnd. (the one on the right)
It’s Gucci 2 times, but it really should be WAKA 2 TIMES. Or if I had my way, 100 times. We can walk around the lake and he’ll try to touch my bottom and I’ll pretend to get mad at first but secretly I won’t be mad. (sorry, girl games. We are trained since childhood to behave this way). At some point in our conversation I'll gently press the Bills hat issue. What's the meaning, why is it so ill-fitting, etc.

Then there were posts of “H.A.M.” by understated class machine K. West, who of course never shuts up about how he hates to love my kind.

But I’ve been practicing with some actresses as bad as shit
And a few white girls, asses flat as shit
But the head so good, damn a n---a glad he hit
Got em jumpin out the building
Watch out below, a million out the door.


I would call this a mini battle of the white girl hang-out opportunities on Internet rap songs, Georgia vs. Illinois, 01/11/11, except you can keep your Kanye hang-out opportunities, thank you. Not interested. If I wanted to be a lyrical accessory in fellatio raps I'd go to the recording sessions for that Dipset mixtape and pretend it's '05 when I still cared about them. My several hundred problems with Kanye include his life-is-a-woman metaphor in song getting really quite old; as an English major I can't support cliche raps. Really, the fact that Lex is 19 years old (!) is the only part of this outfit that gives me hope.




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White girl side hustle opportunity I missed, #2

If my agent were doing his job I would've gotten the role of Girl #3 (the one who purloins some powder on the side) in Sheek's "Cocaine Traffic King" video, which

features an exceedingly clean kitchen,
and Styles P as a cartoony, completely non-threatening version of Nino Brown.

Basically the gig would consist of me wearing my hair down, wearing panties, trying not to cringe at lines like "(her) face in my crotch/eyes on my watch," and getting excited and yelling D-BLOCKKKK when the urge strikes. I already do all that, so I might as well get filmed and paid for it.

I'd ask P where he got that sweatshirt and brag about how the Raiders are going to be atop the AFC when this damn season is over. I'd stifle the question, "You're from Yonkers; how come you aren't wearing Jets gear?" And in my head, I'd play a spirited round of Dumbest Rap Names to pass the time on set (Sheek Louch, Red Cafe, Waka, CyHi da Prynce; Best Rap Name, though? Earl Sweatshirt).

OJ - "Washing Powder Money."

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