Oh Word - Gaye and Eliot edition

“I don't quite know how to explain it but it's there.
These can't be the only notes in the world; there's got to be other notes some place, in some dimension, between the cracks on the piano keys.”

- Marvin Gaye

“Birth and copulation and death, that's all the facts when you get to brass tacks.”

- T.S. Eliot.

The Eliot quote is on the sleeve of Let's Get It On, a cornerstone of the 2 heathens' record collection played during my childhood and the likely reason I 1) became an English major and 2) grew up to have a web log on which every other post references sexytimes and has tags like “Basslines are sex.”


I tried and tried to find the mp3 of this, to no avail. Sorry. Press the little forward arrow below and please note that in the movie version of the goings-on in apt. 302, this plays over the montage of us when we are first falling in love and getting all goofy for each other, holding hands when we go out to breakfast every weekend, and frantically clutching at each other without our clothes on. It's also an exceedingly dope road trip song, oh my goodness, car-dancing on the 10 on the way to Indio, is there anything finer in life?

Marvin, I hear, was full of euphoria and dread, kind of like Kanye except Marvin did not have a blog that was better than the Internet, but it's all euphoria and nothing more when this song hits my brain/ears/heart.



PS, “For only love can conquer hate” was a fine statement about humanity, but “I want to do somethin freaky to you” cannot be denied in terms of sheer lyrical persuasive force.


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Packin a .38 snub and a razor blade.

Why would I stand for disappointed looks
Fully grown but I'm all on tender hooks
Camera Obscura


This, from the most recent issue of Esquire, is as true as the sun coming up in the morning. Things between us shouldn't be any other way. Also, have you heard my thoughts about feminism and Guilty Simpson?


Might I add that you can do whatever you want to her soft physical frame, and probably get her to do your laundry and make you a grilled cheese, if “Baby” is playing. And if it's the summer of '06. And if you play it from start to finish on the hi-fi and don't cut out the beginning, since it's the Stylistics that make the ladies feel all warm and trusting, like it's OK to take our pants off when we're around you. I am still struggling with how to reconcile my need to be treated with care and respect and to hear tender musical hooks while enjoying that She got a mouth like a vacuum part* and not apologizing for it. WHY DO I DO THE THINGS I DO, WHYY am I the way that I am, etc.

Feminism hasn't kept up with advancements and complexities in hip hop lyrical content. Such is the dilemma of a grownup lady rap fan.

“Girls stop when they see the clique ridin by, on jock

They ain't invited unless they gon' drop.”
OH GUILTAYY. I will not be dropping, but the thick, white, fluffy towels you keep at your place sure make a girl think about it for a minute.

Dilla feat. Madlib & Guilty Simpson - “Baby.” I know we all have it, we've all memorized it, we all live it and breathe it. But let's revisit it, because the days are getting shorter right now. People's (ahem) checking accounts are dwindling. USC lost. And everyone's right about Drake. He's corny. So I'm putting my head under my pillow and not coming out until it's August '06.

mp3.




*Honorable mention: Dilla's sing-song part (“Baby, take me home tonight/Baby, lay me downnnn”) and the pretty and evocative “every 5 minutes we untanglin em” couplet. Nicely done, James. Just like with the ladies, the key to song construction is in the grip -

encompassing but not fierce.

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If not for my vices and my bugged out desires...

I would convert for any of these 4.
Um...shana tova? (am I saying that right?)

“I mix business with pleasure way too much
I mean wine, and women, and song and such
I don't get blue; I got a mean red streak
You don't pay the band your friends and that's weak
Get even like Steven like pulling a Rambo

Shadrach, Meshach, Abednego.

Steal from the rich and I'm out robbing banks
Give to the poor and I always give thanks
Because I've got more stories than J.D.'s got Salinger
I hold the title and you are the challenger
I've got money like Charles Dickens
I got the girlies in the Coupe like the Colonel's got the chickens
Always go out dapper like Harry S. Truman
I'm madder than Mad's Alfred E. Newman.”







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"It's like putting Aunt Jemima on a helmet"; Terribly-named NFL franchise still not Banned in DC

Is a Glen E. Friedman photo credit really necessary here? I mean, really.

People, you know how sometimes you're sitting in your car at the stoplight, or you're in bed, waking up in the morning and the sunlight is filtering through your blinds, and you have a moment where you realize something you had forgotten for a few days or weeks? My moments like this go: Holy shit/Jesus Christ/hold up, Americuh has a superhero BLACK MAN at the helm? Disbelief washes over. And then you add like 7 exclamation points and that sums up how I feel. Also meeting the "hold up/holyshit/I just realized again" criterion: all of us standing on the earth while it floats in space (Wayne Coyne, what uuup), my baby brother all of a sudden being all grown up and smart and handsome and tall, and the fact that we still have uniformed humans hand-delivering pieces of paper to boxes in front of our house or slots in our front doors. It's so Little House on the Prairie.

Today Bill Plaschke in the LA Times reminded me of another one of these moments - that there's totally an NFL team called the Redskins. FOR REALS. I'm a football dork and even I forget this sometimes. The Redskins. 1) Yikes, 2) Ouch, and let's not forget 3) Cringe. I'm pretty sure the fact that they exist, with that awful awful name, is what powered LT's breaking of Joe Theismann's tibia into various smaller pieces while America watched on TV in '85. God was smiting Joe for playing for a team called the REDSKINS. Evil does not go unpunished. Oh, and rudeness and stupidity also. God does not care for rude and stupid.



The NFL is a big ol mess of moral contradictions and Roger Goodell wants so badly to play both Mean Dad (“I know you already served your punishment by the courts, Mike Vick, but I don't want you playing in my league for a year or two”) and Nice Dad (“since you personally apologized to me, Mike Vick, you can play again. It has nothing to do with TV ratings or selling tickets and I resent the implication.”). But still - the name Redskins is such an obvious slice of unkind American historical ethnic dealings (the team was named in 1933; it's not a tribute to native people's noble ways), it's shocking if you stop and think about it. I don't know, it just seems like it would've been changed a while ago. Like 10 miles from where President Dreamboat runs the world, sleeps, and glows with the warm light of a thousand smiling children, there's a multi-million-dollar organization in Landover with an obscenely racist name. It seems like it would be otherwise at this point in our collective time. Annnd there I go with my adorable naivete again.

“How does a team from the nation's capital, supported by a fan base of some of the nation's greatest thinkers, maintain a nickname that is the Native American equivalent to the N-word?

Redskins?

‘It is the worst thing in the English language you can be called if you are a native person,’ said Suzan Shown Harjo, the lead plaintiff in one of the most compelling lawsuits in sports history...Harjo's Native American public policy group challenges that, now and then, the trademark name Redskins violates the Lanham Act, which bars trademarks that ‘disparage’ people living or dead.”

(A “disparaging trademark” would be one that, oh let's see if I can come up with a good example, insults an entire group of people by describing them according to flesh color and ignoring the fact that the description of their flesh is heavy with racist history punctuated by geographical displacement and mass rapes and murders. You know, just off the top of my head.)

The NFL and the Redskins counter with an argument citing that the word "Redskin" actually refers to the red paint used on the skin of Indian warriors (EL OH EL, NFL and Redskins ownership! It appears that you think the NFL-watching public is replete with morons whose eyes you can pull the cliched wool over). Tradition- and football-loving people really clutch the name close to their bosom and never ever want it to change, even though numerous other hideous/insulting Indian mascots have already been changed in college sports and nobody died or even went to the hospital as a result. It's gonna be OK if the Redskins have to change their name, fellow football dorks. Deep breaths.

“Amazing, isn't it, how the sports world demands civility and good conduct only as long as it doesn't get in the way of tradition? When it comes to Native American mascots, insensitivity dies especially hard.” Wordemup, Plaschke. This lady blogger hears you loud and/or clear. You're well on your way to making it to my Writers Who I Am Going Steady With list.

“The name can be changed. The name should be changed. There is not a bigger certifiable slur in sports. There is nothing even close.

And don't even try to compare this to the Fighting Irish, OK?

If you saw a Native American on the street, would you call that person a redskin?

‘It's like putting Aunt Jemima on a helmet.’”

The NFL stands by the team and has paid the bulk of the Redskins' legal fees. It's a cornerstone franchise in the league and everybody knows tradition trumps treating people respectfully, dumb dumbs! The worst part about the whole thing is that I bet you Goodell has no idea how ironic it is that he has a dream-catcher hanging from the rearview mirror in his S-class.



In other news,
I just wrote a sentence that had both "rapes" and "murders" in it, and I wasn't joking. Seriousness was the move for this post, but I'm ready to change gears. And now for some mp3 goodness (related to the post's topic, of course) to make the pain go away!:

Bad Brains are from DC. Wale's from DC. Duke Elllington too. But why would I post any of that when Chuck Brown is also from DC and his sonic benevolence is available electronically for us to take part in? Let me remind you that I ALWAYS feel like bustin' loose, you guys. Always.

Hit it, Chuck.

Chuck Brown and his amazing cadre of DC go-go-ness that the Lou failed at imitating - "Bustin' Loose." (Nelly was right about one thing, though. Good gracious, ass is bodacious)

mp3.


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Street poetry is my every day, and I like Meg F. even though she's a biter.

“It has been said that a pretty face is a passport. But it's not, it's a visa, and it runs out fast.”

- Julie Burchill

The boys seem to love this whole Megan situation. She says the f word, sometimes kisses other ladies, and smokes weed! (How this makes her different from most somewhat attractive ladies with fierce eyebrows in major metro areas: unclear. “She is truly, unabashedly EDGY,” everyone says, in Iowa in 1954. But continue to enjoy, gentlemen. I have no problem with this. Buy the ticket, take the ride.)

I like Meg. Here's why:

“Meg says she likes comic books and anime and gaming but come the fuck on. Fronting. Trying too hard.” - ladies (and some dudes) in the comments section of a thousand websites.

“You say you like records and breaks but I don't know, it seems like you're just trying too hard.” - dudes in MySpace messages, to this writer, starting around '05. (Kids, there used to be this thing called “MySpace.” It died.)


Other than her totally biting my lounging-with-records-for-the-camera aesthetic*, I like Meg. I do not care for her physical form that has a lot of fakery and plastic parts, plus she has no hips and no exoticness like the beautiful ladies I take showers with (in my head) Irina and Sarah S, but Meg, like all girls, is an expert at being watched while pretending she doesn't know she's being watched. That's a skill, my dude. She talks a lot about being insecure, and I believe her, and I think it's good if 12-year-old girls believe her (why hello there, Myself in 6th Grade Who Is Super Gawky). People always say her claims of insecurity are BS - there's no way she could be insecure, girl's just trying to seem modest - but these people are usually dudes who think being a girl in life is like a walk in the park on a sunny day with the breeze blowing, people buying you things and putting your Ikea bookshelf together for you just because.
(that's only true like 3 days out of the year)

So other than the pose above (Mark Seliger, Rolling Stone), Meg isn't hurting my feelings. I have to deduct points from her overall score for having plastic bags surgically inserted in her chest and some sort of fat injected into her lips but that is because, you see, I am a hater. And as an expert in posing while looking bored for photos, I can tell you that her right leg side-calf muscle is killing her in that picture up there. Aw Meg. Crouch or stand* with the record; the leg-sprawl is the hardest pose to master! Crouch or stand, sweetie.


PS,
At this point in our relationship, you should know:
1. I take my tea with a lot of sugar and a little milk,
2. It is imfuckingpossible to give me too many compliments about my brain, and
3. I LOVE songs with kids on the hook. And I love songs about pretty girls. Oh look, here come some now:


Dead Man's Bones - “My Body's a Zombie for You,” AKA “Ryan Gosling Can Evidently Make a Big Retarded Banger of a Song; Who Knew.”

mp3.


Tribe - “Electric Relaxation”

mp3.


Ronnie Foster - “Mystic Brew”

mp3.





*

Maggot brain, skinny arms, heels suitable for walking the track.

See I'm not the type of kid to have my biz in the streets.
(But my biz on the Internet is fine, FYI)
Me and Ghetto Music just, you know, relaxing in apt. 302 on a summer day.
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A southern playwright with the Downer of the Day. Then Stones Throw steps in.

1.

“Men don’t want anything they get too easy.
But on the other hand, men lose interest quickly.”

- Tennessee Williams,
trying to destroy me with frustration.

2. MED and J-Rocc were all layin in the cut and then they see me in the throes of frustration thanks to Tennessee explaining the ways of men to me and so they pop out to save the day. That was a close one.

MED and J-Rocc - “The What”

mp3.

(via AnalogGiant)


It's been a while since I've begged for the instrumental of a hot track, but my pleading style is still as on point as ever. I NEED THIS and must have it or I will probably pass out on the spot, 'cause otherwise what are they gonna play when I star in the remake of Foxy Brown and there's that crucial "getting dressed in jumpsuit, boots, and silver hoop earrings to avenge my sweetheart's murder" scene. Use your head. Jesus.




3. Dumile x The New Yorker, SWEET LORD, when my favorite things collide it's all ice cream cones and kittens. Ta-Nehisi Coates, let's run away together and leave all this madness behind. You can read me your articles all day and I'll do various kinds of favors for you as payment. HI MOM.

“When I'm doing a DOOM record, I'm arranging it, I'm finding the voices .... All I have to do is listen to it and think, Oh shit, that will be funny. I write down whatever would be funny, and get as many 'whatever would' funnies in a row and find a way to make them all fit. There's a certain science to it. In a relatively small period of time, you want it to be, That's funny, that's funny, that's funny, that's funny. I liken it to comedy standup.”

HMM, sounds an awful lot like my process for writing a blog post. That's weird. But I guess when 2 people hang out together all the time and are in hot, throbbing love like Doomsies and myself, they're bound to adopt each other's methods for creating their respective art forms.

In related news, ‘Whatever would’ funnies has just been incorporated into my vocabulary.




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Let's go inside my astral plane.

Wolverines!

Patrick Swayze name-checked in hip-hop over the years, courtesy of The Guardian. I was probably drinking corporate coffee and working on Jumble in the Times, or maybe staring out the window at the abyss that is Los Angeles, while this was being thought up and composed. Goddamn Brits always stealing my ideas that I hadn't thought of yet.

“Curiously, Jay-Z didn't appear to care for the term, despite the possibilities afforded by the rhyme with his own name.” LOL, you wacky limeys.


“Reach for the pistol and you're crazy/ Try to blast and I'll be swinging that ass like Patrick Swayze.”
- Kool G Rap, “The Symphony Part II,” '91


“These other rappers actors like Patrick Swayze.”
- Young Jeezy, “And Then What,” '07


“We dropped the microphone, then we Swayze”
- Tha Alkaholiks, “Can't Tell Me Shit,” '93


“Now I'm Swayze, ghost, the rap host”
- EPMD, “It's Going Down,” '92


“That's why I bust back, it don't faze me/ When he drop, take his glock and I'm Swayze”
- Biggie, “Runnin' (Dying To Live),” '94


“Out her fuckin' mind, now I got mine, I'm Swaaayze”
- Method Man, “Bring The Pain,” '94


What's that? Why YES, I WILL post the Ninjaman break that's used so effectively in Mr. Blaze's big fat mid-90s banger. You don't have to ask me twice, my darling.

When I was a little stereo, I listened to some Champion.
Oh and when I was a baby hiphop girlnerd*, I listened to some Meth. Ugh, so corny! But who cares.


*1991 - present.


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There's an eternal flame that burns between me and my Toshiba laptop.

The internets are Frankie Beverly and a-Maze-ing! There's music that people want to give you, totally for free, while record companies just look the other way! Pretty pictures! Political opinions that make you think! Plus naked ladies!


1. The Nation has a “Race in the Obama Era” feature that's pretty great, with pictures and thought-provoking little blurbs. And did I mention The Prez sits, wears sunglasses, and eats Italian ice? He's just like you and me (only dreamier).

“President Obama's loving engagement with his daughters is the very embodiment of idealized male parenting. However, it is interesting that Obama's role as good and loving father allows us to ignore the simple fact that the first black president of the United States did not have a present and available black father. Obama can't make all fathers be responsible parents but he can help single mothers give our kids the opportunities he had.”

I must go consult Cornel West to see what kind of thoughts I have about this. I'll be back.




2. Fun with semantics!

The sign is right, you know.





3. “Is It Because I'm Black?” - Syl Johnson, on trying to be/achieve, in America, in 1969.

“It's 'cause he's Black.” - Jimmy Carter, on stupid people hating The Prez, in America, in 2009 (or, has he more eloquently states, “I think an overwhelming portion of the intensely demonstrated animosity toward President Barack Obama is based on the fact that he is a black man, that he's African American”).


Jimmy's right and Jimmy is a super G for saying this. Unfortunately, nobody cares what Jimmy has to say. It's not risky for him; he's got little power these days outside of the Habitat for Humanity boardroom. Even so - you guys, it seems like a great thing about being an old man is that you can say whatever you want to say and people just give you a pass. Unless you're Don Imus, I mean.






OH INTERNETS, you fulfill me and bring me joy. I could never serenade you as well as Roger can:

Zapp & Roger - “Computer Love”

mp3.



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The little guy from Genesis sums up my '09 relationship with Toney Starks.

Ghost is coming to my city on tour and all signs point to Ghost actually putting out that stupid R&B album that I thought was a joke (it's not a joke), and I don't care. It hurts to say it, but I don't care about his presence in Los Angeles for a night next month at the Key Club, and I'm not planning on getting stalker-y and making my way backstage for a hug. This is weird, since I swear it's 2001 and I should care. But the album is dumb and I simply can't be intimate with someone who I feel alienated from. Can't knock The Hustle, I suppose, but that doesn't mean I can't complain about The Hustle and wish The Hustle were more like The Hustle of 2001 when The Hustle meant Ghost putting out an album I liked. Hit it, Phil C.




Ghostface Killah Presents Ghostdini: The Wizard of Poetry in Emerald City is R&B themed (NO), aimed at his female listeners (NO), and will have Ghost teaching you about man and woman relationship/sexy things with assistance from a slew of individuals I don't care about (Raheem DeVaughn, Kanye, Ne-Yo). Nope. Also, this. A world of NO.

“I focus a lot on women (on this album),” he said, “I just threw my dart at women and other types of situations, too.” (HipHopDX).

Yes of course, dear. I know you focus a lot on women. It's called “Wildflower” and it's about our relationship. Nobody needs a full 12-song album of dumb collabs revisiting the same man-woman issues, so please throw your dart in the opposite direction of the ladies and make sure it's extra poisonous, lyrically speaking. Focus on your boys liking the album; that's what guides the greatest musical creations. If Theodore Unit endorses it, that's how you know you've gone and made yourself a good record. The ladies will come around eventually. Bros before hoes is how 19 year old Caucasoid males put it. It's not just a saying. It's a way of life.



Everybody needs a hobby in between making 4- or 5-mic albums. I get it. Just make sure you come back, Ghosty. Go have your fun, but come back.






PS, THIS is what the ladies like aimed at them in terms of darts!
Makes me all Shakey in the best possible way.



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Thing That We Forget Sometimes, #627

Amerikkka’s Most Wanted was recorded in NY,
but Paul’s Boutique and Check Your Head were recorded in LA, baby loves!
Just think about that today. All day.
Lord knows I will be.

Like Sam the butcher bringin Alice the meat.

“Australian...and Brazilian.” - MCA



Idris Muhammad - "Loran's Dance." I found a perfect copy of this a few Beat Swap Meets back; this is how I am certain that there is a force larger than myself, guiding me through life.

mp3.

G-Son Studios, me, sunshine (other than me, I mean), Eric Dolphy, Dre's hands and ears, the "Goin Back to Cali" video (Rick Rubin appearance, LL at the observatory, the bass, the "Prancin, grindin, grinnin, romancin" part), Gn'R, the way Mr. Shakur announces "Let me serenade the streets of LA," and transplanted NYC dudes who hate it here with vocal enthusiasm and wit are the most lovable things about this awful, wonderful city.

She said. She liked. The oceannn.

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By the time we got to Woodstock, we were half a million strong.

This one time Russell produced a movie about hip-hop shows. It was called, uh, The Show, and it had footage of your favorite rappers and my favorite rappers in concert (oh but then they sneaked in some Warren G footage for some reason, be careful of this when you watch it). People screamed and carried on at the shows; it looked like fun. There were scenes of Russ visiting The Ruler at Rikers in '85. That looked like fun, too. Not to make light of it. Sorry, Rick.

If they made this film today it would have to star Drake and Slaughterhouse and a bunch of sparkly little guys from Georgia. That's who the people scream and carry on for now. So, in order to save my life from this excessive amount of pain and sorrow, and remind me that in life there's sunshine and fluffy bunnies and excellent hip hop music, I need to be in NYC on 9/25, thanks.
I also need it to be '97, right when or right before or right after The Equinox is released. Thanks.

We are stardust/We are golden.

Plus I need to be at this show in Berkeley since basslines are sex and I'll follow basslines anywhere. I'll need to bring various kinds of pills and a little powder, 3 changes of clothes and underthings, some towels, handcuffs, a turban, probably my passport. And a camera to record it all. It's going to be a long evening filled with ecstasy, twists/turns, and moments of clarity; I'm like one of those muddy kids in '69 on Yasgur's farm except I'm not mad at my parents. I'm pretty sure I'm getting pregnant by 2 AM. Plus I think I might lose my mind slightly and always be a little off for the rest of my days. It's been nice knowing you guys.


'72. This was before I was walking the earth but really, how hard could it be to get me there? I mean, it's not like I'm reaching for the stars here, people.



War - "Slippin' Into Darkness," AKA Poor Righteous Teachers try to seduce me into becoming a Five Percenter by looping a classic from my Caucasoid childhood.

mp3.


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She caught me off my guard/It amazes me, the will of instinct

“No band is special, no player royalty.”

- Krist Novoselic, no doubt having grown tired
of getting adoringly mauled by 15-year-olds in '91.

I used to have this thing where I didn’t like things if other people liked them.
I believe this is called “being 14.” I got over it.
I love Nirvana.


Nevermind came out in Sept. '91. It's 18, and legal now for you to do sexy things with, just like Breaking Atoms! (threesome?). This might have been the reason that VH1 Classic showed the episode of Classic Albums today focusing on Nevermind, with interviews and video footage and the like. So I accidentally came across it, right at 5 when it started, and for that next hour all production in apt. 302 was shut DOWNNN. I mean, I was held rapt, like one of the prisoners in The Shawshank Redemption when Andy puts that Mozart on the loudspeaker. Did we have an earthquake? Did more LA hillsides catch on fire? I'll never know 'cause Viacom and subsidiaries, you were slowly killing me for that hour with your huge production budget and ability to hypnotize with cool edits on my TV screen. Thank you for spoon-feeding me information about albums; it powers me and puts a spring in my step. However, please note that this does not mean that I respect your conglomerate. Don't get it tangled. Or something.

I looked around and found it below - music dork heaven, courtesy of VH1, which has lovingly not had its lawyers remove the clips from YouTube (thanks, guys!). Butch Vig’s got his fingers on the console in front of him, talking about cellos and demonstrating his power to take us all back to when the album was new. It's '91 again, and I'm not just referring to his glasses and haircut. Rodney King, Jeffrey Dahmer, Magic's HIV. Everybody got a copy of Nevermind and it felt good to be melodic and miserable. Then Super Nintendo came out and everybody got distracted. But it's '91 again, and I'm hoping soon we'll get around to discussing the stunner that is the name Butch Vig. Butch. Vig. That's his name, my dears. Officially. His driver's license and everything says so.

Butch describes "Polly" and uses the word "mournfulness" about Kurt and wears his feelings all over his face; just watch him, his expressions, and how he bows his head like people in church do. And realize, please, the fact that doing things right in music/life is basically the skill of: knowing what to take out and what to leave in. The end.



"So the track is a little out of tune. But that gives it kind of the eeriness."
Kurt's more hiphop than you. Hell, Kurt's maybe even more hiphop than me.
(HA, just JOKIN. But I had you for a minute there.)







PS, bonus material I call "Logan entertains herself with Google":

Nirvana, says Google Image Search. Dave Grohl's the little one on the left.

Nirvana, says Google Image Search. I liked it because it is is pretty.
I kept it in the post. You get a blog, you post what you like; it's a beautiful system.

Shafiq Husayn (Sa-Ra) - "Nirvana"

mp3.


The Pains of Being Pure at Heart - "Kurt Cobain's Cardigan"

mp3.




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Like/Don't Like, 09/10/09

I LIKE: old RapPages covers shot by B+.

Nov. '95

Sept. '95

AND I LIKE:

Board game high jinks while drinking some malt liquor in my black wig and white bikini.
With my dude.
In 1970.

OH, and
hold on, what's this? Why, it's something I DON'T LIKE:

You, herb-ish Caucasoid Tumblrist posting a love letter to the tennis sweater,


while, just above it, posting some Biggie lyrics. Because plainly, you know, you are down as fuck and we all know it.

It looks like this on my computer screen and it's the juxtaposition that hurts my feelings:


Dear sir, You're not po-mo highbrow/lowbrow, country club to the strip club. You're lame and you're not a fashion-forward superfoxy beautiful MC from Atlanta. Therefore, you cannot pull this off. Therefore, stop it.

I'm the hardest person in the world to offend, most times; deviant sexual practices and sexist jokes* are pretty great. However, Andrew McCarthy here, misappropriating my precious, darling hip-hop in between posts celebrating his cashmere socks and ascot makes me shaky and feverish, it offends me so. Country club gear will not be dope until at least 100 more years, unless: you are a member of a group that has historically been/still is excluded by country clubs and you're donning the gear because you've got sparkling wit and tight irony-fu. This has been the latest edition of "Fashion rules from the girl who only wears jeans, dresses and bathing suits." You kind of need me, admit it.

(The irony of a middle-class/suburbs-reared Caucasoid lady blogger claiming hip-hop and needing to defend it from those who would besmirch it is not lost on me, by the way. But who made you the hiphop police? That's KRS-One, duh.)

Dudes who wave their cash around Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked, thank you. Ugh, it's so West Egg. One day I'll use his toothbrush to clean the toilet. I swear to god I hope we definitely do NOT fuckin die together.


Clipse - "Dirty Money"

mp3.



*Why do brides wear white?

Because it's good for the dishwasher to match the stove and fridge.


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Joe Wilson talks loud, says nothing. And Monch weighs in.

LOS ANGELES, apt. 302, Sept. 9:

Rep. Joe Wilson from the Overflowing Stockpot of Dumb/Crazy known as South Carolina tries to interrupt my BOYFRIEND while he's TALKING and this makes me simultaneously amused and horrified.

"You lie!" Joe yells at President DreamComeTrue. Then he takes his ball and goes home because, you see, his heckle-y plan was a big failure. Obama brushes it off with a supercool "Not true" and maintains his mass appeal/Teflon Don/Billy Dee Williams/Atticus Finch supersteez. And then "Triumph" plays in my head.

Then my other boyfriend, that Pharoahe from Queens, asks to see Joe in his office.


And my daily recommended allowance of 5th-grade humor gets satisfied. The end.


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