Sippin on booze in the House of Blues.

More LA lovehate.



1. Ronald William Artest is appearing live and in person this afternoon to sign autographs at a Verizon Wireless store in Santa Monica!

Obviously I cannot attend due to the fact that I solely rep AT&T, plus I never ever go west of La Brea, though the temptation to ask Ron-Ron lots of burning questions about Queensbridge makes me almost consider going. Plus I bet you I'd be able to talk him into calling Kevin Durant and asking if his refrigerator is running. Y'know, just a lil pre-playoffs shenanigans. Then we'd laugh and laugh, me and Ron, and go to Fatburger (he'd pay) and we'd talk about how underrated Nore is as an MC. Sigh.

(I just noticed it says "supremist.")

2. The LAPD will be out in force later today, holding motherfuckers back as white supremacists have a rally in front of City Hall. A group of fear-based Anglo males called the National Socialist Movement done got themselves a permit to hold their "Reclaim the Southwest" rally; there will, of course, likely be counter-demonstrators, and the police will be there to minimize clashes between the two factions and “allow both groups to exercise their First Amendment rights.”

“Counter-protest organizer Fred 'Scorpio' Smith of Watts said he anticipated a turnout of at least a hundred demonstrating against the white supremacists, whose rallies have spurred opposition in Riverside and San Diego.” Fucking with a dude whose nickname is Scorpio will likely result in you getting dealt with, so umm, watch your step, Danny Vinyards in the place to be. Oh, and keep an eye out for a special appearance by me, as I've been scheduled to give a speech about the comedic irony of a rally to "reclaim the southwest" being held on land that is "technically Mexico" since we "stole it from them." Then I'll clear a spot on stage and have sex with a bunch of black and Jewish dudes while all the dead-eyed white men sadly clutch their shaved heads.










3. On May 18, a box set of Otis Redding's recordings from a series of 1966 live performances at the Whisky-A-G0-Go will be unleashed upon the world and available for purchase! In the words of the latest, greatest, most awful and most pleasurable slice of ear candy to emanate from my car stereo: ROGER THAT.


Live On The Sunset Strip contains 3 live sets, sequenced exactly as the sets unfolded, including Redding’s spoken intros.

“‘In 1966, Redding was 24 and defined not only the sound but the style and look of a true soul man. Tall and lanky, he was ready to drop to his knees and tear off the thin-lapelled jacket of his sharply pressed suit when it was time to deliver the goods,’ (the liner) notes read. ‘His ten-piece band was his personal, traveling amen-corner, urging him to testify night after night...His out-of-breath stage patter was warm and downhome. ‘Ladies and gentlemens,’ he addressed his fans, ‘holler as loud as you wanna — you ain’t home!’

The set marks the first time the live sets, which include ‘I’ve Been Loving You Too Long,’ ‘Security,’ ‘I Can’t Turn You Loose,’ ‘Satisfaction,’ ‘Respect,’ ‘These Arms of Mine’ and ‘Just One More Day,’ have been available in their entirety.”

“Cigarettes and Coffee.” Give in to vices, advises the patron saint of Macon, Georgia. I would love to have another drink of coffee now/And please, darling, help me smoke this one more cigarette now/I don't want no cream and sugar, 'cause I've got you now, darling...

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I'm ready Slick, are you?

It hurts to type this, but

as of this week in the year two thousand and ten,

BBD’s “Poison” is 20 years old. OWW. IT BURNS.



Someone allegedly named Dr. Freeze wrote and produced it (he later masterminded "I Wanna Sex You Up"), and the Bomb Squad (!) had a hand in making the rest of the Poison album. Right around April 1990, Mandela was released, Mapplethorpe was too gay and sexy for museums, all the Iran-Contra players were surprised that Americans did not care for that whole "arms for hostages" concept, and most importantly, BBD sang about the pain and pleasure involved in the pursuit of juicy, prized jumpoffs.

Below, go ahead and savor Biv's Raiders parka, Ronnie's mismatched footwear, G Rap’s big booming voice spitting out "poison!," oh dear, I just realized I'm suddenly so old but watch me and my creaky old bones giggin up a storm on the dancefloor! Life really just doesn't get any better than that moment when you're at the bar and the chorus swells, and everyone lifts their drinks and sings "It's driiiiving meeeee ouuuut of myyy miiiiind..." People, it's pop music and it is wondrous! BBD IN FULL EFFECT.






Relationships, it's true, do all seem so beautiful at the start. But when she lets you and your friends run a train on her, she's a hooker and I do believe it's time to look elsewhere for STD-free affection. Also, that thing between you two is not really something that can be called a "relationship" if you do anything with her that involves yourself and your crew. Anyway, 2 decades later, it would behoove us to heed the warning of Ronnie, Mike, and Ricky and still never trust big butt and a smile. Full hips & a blank stare*, though? Always trustworthy!




*


























"Rappers getting leery to hear me/G speaks in a new technique of fury." G Rap is me n' Raekwon's favorite MC.








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Regional biases, STAND UP!

"Everybody hates it, but you gotta see it once." - Murs (kinda)

LA's like my little brother, you see, in that I can make fun of it but you're not allowed to. Disparaging remarks about this terrible place will not be tolerated and I'll probably have to take it back to '96 and say you'll catch a bad one if any of you people make jokes about traffic or earthquakes, although that's mostly because they're cliched and unfunny.

The Dodgers are like Drake, of course, in that they're both well-funded, popular, and awful. The redeeming thing about LA baseball, though, is that when you're walking to Dodger Stadium (which can be done from apartment 15!), you'll pass traffic and might get swallowed up by the earth thanks to plate tectonics but goddammit if you don't have the greatest and most elegant logo of baseball aesthetics on your fitted.


Breathtaking! It's so strong and foxy, this design--even with serifs, which normally adds daintiness and makes the masculinity plummet. Says the astute David Kipen of the LA Times (my partner in geeking out about the history of stuff and then feeling obligated to share it with the world), "Whoever takes credit for it, the Dodger symbol represents a triumph of logocraft." (Spell-check doesn't recognize logocraft, it turns out, because spell-check is stuffy and unhip.)


"On a purely aesthetic level, the Dodger insignia is, demonstrably, the most beautiful in all of baseball." It's clean. Uncluttered. It's got thrift, Kipen says, because nothing is wasted. The lower bar of the L doubles as the cross bar of the A.

It demonstrates teamwork, "because the letters don't just share that crossbar, they overlap and interlock. This is how baseball is supposed to work...get on base, set the table, move the runner over, play hurt, take one for the team." Aww.

It connects. "No one calls Boston 'B,' and NYC isn't generally known as 'NY' but we go by 'L.A.' at least as often as Los Angeles. (There's) speculation that before the Dodgers came west, people may not have thought of Los Angeles as 'L.A.,' or not nearly as ubiquitously." DJ Muggs and Paul's Boutique-era Beastie Boys prove that people and organizations really start to do their best work, I mean really really start shining, when they start in NY and come to LA.


So even though the Black Thought is technically superior to The Game in every way, when it comes to the logos they display to the world on their head and etched into their facial epidermis, respectively, LA has it sewn up tight. Knowin nothin in life but to be legit, you guys. We don't call it 5-0; we call it one time. Joni Mitchell, OJ, porn, the gunpowder on Phil Spector's hands, Cypress Hill's first record. LA, you're a jerk and I love you.









"Blue Monday," Fats Domino, preceding New Order by about a hundred years. Because the Dodgers have their own shade of blue, and because this song was a hit right around the time they moved to LA in '58. I'd also like to add that, FYI, I should work in a '50s theme restaurant, not only because I have the gams for a short cheerleader skirt and I can make change for a customer on the fly totally in my head, but because I'd get to listen to bass-y, heavy-bottomed rock n' roll music like this my whole shift.

Saturday morning, oh Saturday morning. All my tiredness is gone away. Got my money and my honey. And I'm out on the stand to play.



This post written most definitely without the expressed written consent of Major League Baseball, but please realize it was all made possible by Kirk Gibson's moustache, the iced elbow of Swarthy, Handsome Judaic Man Sandy Koufax*, and the fact that Vin Scully and Manny Ramirez are both from Washington Heights (!).































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Nike Auuuurrrs & crispy tees.

“It's never too late to become a better person.
Donate your organs after your death.”

Agency: CLM BBDO / Boulogne Billancourt, France

[via Ads of the World, notorious time-killer in apt. 15.]

France gets all the ill advertising goodness; my home country gets the ghost of Earl Woods helping his sad, unsexy son sell polo shirts and shoes. America still rules at rapping, though, so I feel good.


That Tiger ad, turns out, was done by Wiegen + Kennedy, an agency that's really good at figuring out how to tug at my heartstrings (beautiful young men, organized and practiced, displaying athletic gifts) while making me hate myself (the toned bodies of young men of color being used to sell polo shirts and shoes). I miss my childhood, when I could watch that Bo Jackson commercial and feel nothing but joy and not think about Phil Knight's labor policies or the athletic-shoe-industrial-complex. Goddammit.









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Tons of fun and brainwashed slime.

“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.







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The greatest Easter mentions in hip-hop!

Easter to me obviously means that Patti Smith album, but like every other little girl in my suburban American neighborhood I was given an annual basket full of candy and wore a pastel-colored dress to find hidden eggs. The holiday lives on in my heart and memory; I still love pastel-colored dresses, only now I chase paper and I like candy paint and I have an apartment full of rap songs that speak to me about pagan traditions cleverly repackaged as Judeo-Christian holidays. Journey with me, won't you, through my record collection...




• Jay-Z, “Intro - Hand it Down” (Memphis Bleek). Those Premier keys at the beginning, sweet like a Cadbury egg. Everybody in '98 regurgitated lines from this, remember? “The last of the realllll hustlers.” “Ponce Funeral Home on Marcy.” Everybody in apt. 15 in the year 2010 is still regurgitating lines from this when we think nobody's watching. Roc-A-Fella, yalllllllll.

Nah this ain't Jigga, it's your lil ni--a Bleek
reportin to these motherfuckers live from the street
game I peeped those, my mind so advanced
at nine I used to geese hoes for Easter clothes.

• Juelz Santana, “Home Run.” I'm still morally opposed to Juelz and the fact that he has millions and I hate the fact that I know what his last album's title was, but not even I can deny the power of a good guilty pleasure song. I mean, I'm only human. Additionally, I just think it's so comical how at the beginning he talks about joining his girl in the shower and feeling her body. He calls her bitch and in the same breath describes how he strokes her breasts. Nothing more vulgar than that, Santana? I find this odd mix of tough and tender so compelling. AY!

I’m international like my fuckin Visa
swag on Easter, wrist on freezer
bitch on diva, waist on heater
lungs on reefer, pockets on pizza.

• Freeway, “Hear the Song.” Nothin special about this verse, but hey, did you know Freeway's real name is Leslie?! Teehee.

Yo, say hello
to Mr. Aint Gon' Be Shit
get a job, get your kids somethin' for Easter
knowin’ I just came home aint got nothin to eat with
bitch outta line, ho been drove me outta my mind
she like, I shoulda knew before I lay down and slept with him
now she wish that she could sleep with him

• Snoop, “Pay for P---y” (Big Pimpin' Delemond). Snoop during the No Limit years, I sometimes forget, was pretty fresh. “Lay Low”? C'MONNN. Also, Nathaniel Dogg, sorry about the stroke, but I don't miss you and your horrible vocal stylings. That said, I'll still listen to “Lay Low” 6 more times by the end of today.

Remember that Easter Sunday
It was so damn sunny
We didn't get no Easter clothes, candy, or Easter bunny
Yeah, daddy fucked it up
Rollin' dice with the boys
Yeah n---as pay for p---y
Whether it's at the titty bar
Or outta the car.

• E-40, “Why They Don’t Fuck With Us.” I literally, swear to God, have a conversation and/or say something glowing/complimentary about E-40 at least once a day. The Ballatician, you guys. Luh the way he puts it on me.

Next tape, they can't trace the calls
I change numbers, like a playa changes draws
I'm having money, money long stretch like a bungee
when he use to come around ask the Easter bunny
(Tell me do you know E-40)
bet you the players say that's the homie
you liable to find me on the ave on the main drag
or on the corner sippin 'gnac out of a brown paper bag

• Mos Def, “Do It Now.” Produced by one of the Bush Babees, this just sounds like youth and happiness and hope. Plus there's a nice "What a gwaan" courtesy of Busta.

From east west north and south, I got joints for all of those
heavy aquatic water flows keep them on they toes
tell them thugs that wanna be CEOs to be de-robed
'fore I wear your little dumb ass out like Easter clothes.

• Redman, “J.U.M.P.” 1. Reggie's just awfully adept at wordplay; 2. I can never say no to a New Jack City reference.

Half my brain is still experimentin
Doc already gone before the X kick in
yeah, I want my cut like G-Money
stickin the Easter Bunny for sneaker money
now how many muh'fuckers out there
is high - make some noise...





• Wu-Tang, “Rules” (Rae). “How the fuck did we get so cool, man?” - Meth. (Sorry, that's all I got for now.)

Order drinks, all real n---as order your minks yo
we got the fitteds on, lookin all fink
daddy everybody get money from now on
payday flash Visas livin like, Easter e'ryday
don't fuck Benz, rather a 430
that shit that float through water, eyeball come up, drop birdies.

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Sometimes I'm such a girl.

Televised competitions of sport and strategy can be a pretty incredible thing.

Above: Bob Huggins (affectionately called "Huggy" in apt. 15) dirties up his nice suit and crouches and consoles in front of millions, thereby making me tear up in my tiny Los Angeles home yesterday. Obviously it's chic to hate Duke, so I was already a Huggins groupie, but uncalculated acts of care between men representing the fine state of West Virginia suddenly and without warning make me a proud, red-blooded Mountaineer. I gave myself a little hug and held my breath and didn't once think of a Redman song (Da'Sean Butler is from New Jersey, I hear). PS, Da'Sean Butler. You're 20 years old and your ACL has just painfully informed you your whole life trajectory will change. Just how deep can shit get, you know?


And thus I have created the first post in my life that can accurately be tagged with both "Girlyness" AND "A tomboy moment."



Darron Cummings/ AP photo / April 3, 2010. West Virginia coach Bob Huggins consoles forward Da'Sean Butler after he injured his knee in the second half against Duke.







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Ooowee, it's my birthday!

Left: "Me vs. Pants, Episode 863 (Advantage: Me)."
Middle & Right: "Pan Am Stewardess, Circa 1967."

A tennis court from Ghostface (finally), that new OJ Simpson (!!) from my brother, boots & a dress & another dress & shoes from my mom, and cake & ice cream at Reggie's house!

I'm open, RZA
hit me off lovely and I love him
with root beer thoughts,
here's a tennis court for your birthday,
the babyface of rap politic with Sade
avenging eagle crooks rock the W and Spiegel books.







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James | David | O'Shea | Boys | Vendys

1. When I'm in line at Coffee Bean and I see on the TV behind the cashier that Mexico's 'King of Heroin' has been caught and the first thing that comes into my head is "King Heroin" by James Joseph Brown, my father would say his job raising me has been a success.
(Other than the part about me buying corporate coffee. Sorry, Pop.)



Photo above selected due to the fact that the I'm financed in China, ran in Japan/I'm respected in Turkey and I'm legal in Siam part in this song is oddly exactly like something Ali would've said into a microphone in 1966!

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2.

9th Wonder producing David Banner sounds like something that came to me in a dream last night, or maybe while daydreaming in line at Coffee Bean, but my computer tells me IT'S TRUUUUE. I predict with great confidence that this will be my favorite album of 2010, and then my favorite of 2013 (I'll shelve it, then find it when I'm flipping through a record crate, and put it on the platter for another month straight). Like what happened with me and "Cadillac on 22s" in '03 and '07, remember?






3.

"They can't make a name for themselves so they need help from the O.G.'s. I refuse to throw 'em a life line. Fuck 'em. It ain't my job to make nobody famous."


"I was sick of babysitting grown ass men and walking them through the industry. I felt like Dr. Frankenstein building uncontrollable monsters. How? If you DON'T make 'em a star, they blame you. If you DO make 'em a star, they leave you. I got sick of that ungrateful shit."

Ice Cube, for your information, is not a mentor or a helper or a babysitter or even a nice dude if you're an LA rapper on the come up. Sowwy. He feels no responsibility to help boost local MCs. I love this story because obviously I prefer my rappers baggy-pants-clad, distant, and pissed-off, thankyouverymuch, but also because it's Ice Cube. Ice Cube is untouchable. He likes the Raiders, he's friends with Hank Shocklee, he'll never ever pop up in a Justin Bieber video (LUDA!). I mean, outside of his film career, there are no credible jabs one can throw. I'm a nice girl and I want everyone to get along but everyone getting along reaches boring levels quite rapidly. There's just something so delicious and fun about a talented grumpy old dude yelling at the kids to get off his lawn, especially since I'm on the old dude's side in this case. Also, I just really, really like a classic, well-placed "Fuck 'em." More, please.






4. Men take more risks when pretty girls are around, says science. This is true, like when rappers talk about being the coolest shit and putting their Gretzky on; it's a risk-taking venture, because girls don't like dudes who brag about themselves and even fewer girls like hockey. Think it through next time, Lloyd. And yes, I am choosing to interpret this line as actual hockey gear since "Gretzky" is simply too stupid of a word for "diamonds" for me to acknowledge.

If your weakness is lady bloggers with hips and a slight case of social anxiety disorder, I suggest going NBA or maybe Division I? I like an old Carmelo Syracuse jersey myself, but if you're going more modern and you're near the greater LA area, Artest is always nice. I mean, really, anything but LeBron.









5. Something called the Vendy Awards are coming to LA in May to judge and honor the best street food. You'll be able to vote online, a final cook-off winner will be decided based on "flavor, portability and personality," and a big bash where you can taste wares from all the entrants will be held at MacArthur Park--where you can also get a Social Security number and something powdery from Asia that might be cut with Fentanyl (careful). I'm just saying, it's a good place to get one's various needs met.

Cue my eye-roll when I hear that this event costs $50 (!), except for the fact that "the Vendys are linked to the Asociacion de Loncheros, the grassroots organization that stands up for the rights of neighborhood taco trucks, rather than the SoCal Mobile Food Vendors Association, which reps trendy new trucks." Plus the Vendy Awards are the culminating event of the first national street vending conference, "Contesting the Streets: Vending, Open-Air Markets, and Public Space," that runs through the weekend at UCLA. That $50 gets you all-you-can-eat street food, with proceeds going to the Coalition for Humane Immigrant Rights of Los Angeles and the UCLA Downtown Labor Center. I'll wear my yellow dress, you throw on that pretty orange Carmelo jersey. It's a date.





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Jim Marshall.

The "Greetings from Johnny Cash" photo and the "Jimi lights his sex weapon on fire" photo mean he would've gotten a tribute post on here eventually. There are other beauties, however. Look/swoon:

Richie opens Woodstock, no big deal, 1969.

Sly in Hat, San Jose, 1968.On Jim's page there's a story about Sly at Doris Day's house, white girls, and coke (back when it really meant something. Now everybody's got white girls and coke, you know? People used to ooh and ahh when they'd see me in the streets. Now the market's been flooded and it's sad for me.)

Ginsberg and Monk, Monterey Jazz Festival, 1963. “Allen Ginsberg is looking at Thelonious Monk like he's looking at God.”

Led Zeppelin, knits, denim, and pendant necklaces, Los Angeles, 1970. (That's 40 years prior to you, Every Dude in My Neighborhood In A Band*.
[*That's Every Dude in My Neighborhood.])

Monk, Monk's smile, Monk's hat, Gillespsie, Wilson, Monterey, 1963.

Dr. John, San Francisco, 1983.

Allman Brothers, Live at Fillmore East color shot, 1971. Jim is the one who stenciled the band's name on those flight cases! NOW I KNOW! “I'll take Weed Rock Album Cover History for $800, Alex.”

“Muddy with Suspenders.” Chicago, 1970.

“Tom Cat.” I don't know why I love every song that sounds just like dirty sex. I JUST DO. I would appreciate you not over-analyzing that. PS, Muddy, call me.

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NY Times.

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Bay vs. LA | the NBA | the subway

1. 89% of decisions made by Suge Knight in the last 15 years have been ill-timed and idiotic. That kind of consistency is admirable, and rarely found outside a basketball court featuring THE GOD Kobe Bean Bryant (only it's his shooting percentage that we're talking about, so that comparison wasn't my best). Alas, Suge’s latest stunt was sticking up Oakland rap god Yukmouth, and by "sticking up" I mean "ordering his boys to beat and rob Yukmouth." Idiotic and ill-timed. OH MARION.

The Luniz, you see, are friends with everyone north of Monterey County, like Mac Dre before his passing had his boys Christopher Columbus, Marco Polo, Solano County, Sac and Yolo. That's a huge crew. Meanwhile, Suge basically has no friends. Obviously.

The comical nature of this story (the altercation occurred at a Ralph's! in the Valley!) is only outweighed by my curiosity regarding the fallout from this act. I believe something between "tons of mixtapes n' diss tracks featuring E-40's slang-fu" and "the Bay vs LA is the new NY vs LA in rap beef" will happen. Either way, I'm here and I'm ready so let's do this.




2. GQ's Most Stylish College Basketball Players of All Time is yet another gimmicky bracket flooding my precious Internet this time of year, but I spend so much time analyzing the style of '70s/'80s players anyway that it's been bookmarked in apt. 15. Carmelo and the Headband make an appearance, but it's Pistol Pete, Bill Walton, and Michigan's Fab Five and their swaggerrific '92-ness that make me especially happy. OhanddidImention there is so, SO MUCH Lakers representation? Magic, West, Rambis, Shaq, Worthy, Wilt…and of course, Adam Morrison and Mark Madsen. Obviously.







3. The "What are they listening to on the subway?" Tumblr is an entertaining urban anthropological study that combines some rather lovely and rather horrid music selections (scroll through) with smiling people who seem to have no self-conscious fear of looking goofy for listening to dumb stuff; I enjoy that. I also like how nobody decided to pull the cliche move and say they were listening to Berlin's "Metro." And I approve of Rory with the "Poppin Tags" action. I never realized how its BPM is probably perfect for the rhythmic movement and blurred visuals of a subway ride. And I approve of Tony, below. Obviously.


















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We done rocked shows abroad and slept on floors.

I couldn’t do what I do without the assistance of Nutella, Wild Pitch, Alpha Pup, Warren Zevon songs about LA and basically all Asylum records circa '71-'72 on which my parents raised me, cute underpants, cute bathing suits, and yummy corporate coffee (I'm a bad person) with tons of sugar, cream, and cinnamon. And evidently all that my buddy Jati Lindsay needs in order to do his respective thing is some sort of camera (I'm guessing a Leica?) and a ride to the 930 Club in DC in late December 2009 on what must've been 2 very cold and wintry nights.

Along with the sheer beauty of these black-and-whites comes a live hip-hop lesson, in which we finally understand, once and for all, that the index finger-middle finger-ring finger mic grip, with the pinky providing steadiness and control, is THE industry standard.













Thus far, my day has consisted only of gazing intensely at these and wishin and hopin that the Roots|Nappy Roots|Grass Roots Tour (Summer '10) passes through LA.


The Roots, “Water.” Dumbin, just embracing the dope like it's a woman. Handclaps + bassline, circa '02. I would physically make love to this song if I physically could.

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There is simply no situation in life that cannot be described by an existing Ghostface song.

Health care is a right, not a privilege. I'd like to thank Bart Stupak from the great state of Michigan for rescinding his bitchy move at the last minute, and I'd like to remind John Boehner that he is an OG member of the Dudes Who Will Not Be Seeing Me Naked Club.

Peace to Nancy Pelosi.








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I learned about hustles from Jay-Z but I learned about drum loops from these two.

It's quite the red-letter day in apartment 15, as we celebrate the births of 2 humans so epic (please refer to photo above) that my poor little body can't handle so much hip-hop and I think I might just pass out and die right here on the spot. I hope my spirit will live on. At my funeral, please play something from Daily Operation and a little “Live at the Barbeque.” (And “In My Life,” by the Beatles.)

Happy birthday, DJ Premier and Large Professor, born March 21, 1966 and 1972 respectively! I enjoy living in a universe that has made it so that you two luminous gentlemen were born on the same day. Incredible.






Premier. I don't care if they want a ounce. Tell em bounce.



Large Professor in the house. You know how we do. I skate on your crew, like Mario Lemieux.










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Communications 306: Images of Hip-Hop in Popular Media (“6-inch height was the bird” edition)

03/16/10. Jakarta, Indonesia: A boy trains a racing pigeon. [Beawiharta/Reuters]

Street merchant tucked in the cloud, stay splurgin. Apollo kids + eagle head. [Photographer unknown, date unknown, photo agency unknown]

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Sundress music, with special guest Gary Grice

Songs for summertime clothes.



The one where Devendra walks around town with his boys and proves he has 1 black friend, but never once encounters a comb or a shower. Sigh.

Thanks, Pitchfork.





And this is the one where Devin the Dude, after years of convincing arguments, compels me to become a smoker. This guy is never in a bad mood. Plus he's done a lot of reparative work for Texas' reputation after the dark days of George W.

Why thank you, Kevin Nottingham.








Jorge Ben - “Take It Easy, My Brother Charles.” Meu irmão de cor.

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Aretha. Andrew. Sly.

Jerry Wexler + Aretha, an epic coupling in the long, long history of Urban Judaic Man Signing Green Young Talent to Contract in Order to Lay Down Gorgeous Tracks Together.
Spector + Ronettes, Clive Davis + everybody, Rifkind + Wu. Etc.

1. News items about old singers whose influence cannot be quantified always gets me thinking What are we gonna do when ________ dies? (Prince, Stevie Wonder). Sorry to be so morbid. By contrast, I do believe that a recently-unearthed, Sydney Pollack-directed documentary of Aretha recording 1972's Amazing Grace will provide us with some life-affirming positive energy. Please remember that from here on out, any lack of appreciation shown for Aretha will result in me sitting you down and pulling out that dusty old Marianne Faithfull quote to show you. Again.






“One Step Ahead.” Columbia-years Aretha. I've posted it before, but I can't help myself because, you see, I know...I can't...afffoooorrrd to stop. (00:53).

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“Rock Steady.” Perfection, due to its combination of jangly guitar, mention of the motion of hips, and sheer meta-ness because I LOVE a self-referential song. Let's call this song exactly what it is (what it is, what it is, what it iiiiis).

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2. “Do not build fortresses to protect yourself; isolation is dangerous.” Andrew Bynum of my beloved Lakeshowww (he's the only one on the squad without a current hand injury) is getting all grown up now and has just discovered Robert Greene's The 48 Laws of Power [CNN]. Welcome to the year 2000, Andy! You heard Supreme Clientele yet?

The 49th Law is "Always heed the advice of Mr. Sky Hook."

I already posted this one before too, but it gets a second nod simply based on the line I know I talk a lot of shit but I can back it up, part of the vast collection of statements I love because they are things I could never get away with saying In Real Life. Also, it gets a second nod 'cause it's M.O.P. Duh.






3. Goddammit, Sly Stone, your music makes my brain hurt and my lady areas feel nice and even though you're a space alien we still celebrate the annual marker of your years here on Earth. You and Kool Keith have that in common. Happy birthday.




“Equinox symmetry and the balance is right/Smokin' and drinkin' on a Tuesday night.”






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