Holy Ghost! mixtape. Cuba. Science letdowns. Sexy: men vs. women edition.

1. DFA sneaks up from time to time and reminds me of its rather Ninja-Tune-ish/Def-Jux-y consistency and longevity. (Other than that song with the screaming about the jealous lovers that everyone freaked out about because it was...white dudes playing diluted disco?)





This here is the Holy Ghost! mixtape, which in apt. 302 is a clear reference to that song “Holy Ghost” by the Bar-Kays that was later lovingly molded into the Beastie Boys' “Hey Ladies” and Tupac's “Trapped.” There's some KRS in here, a lot of that bass-and-sirens combo that I thought I would've tired of by now, and something called “Greetings from Ghostface” that are some pretty sweet words where I come from (next to "Up next, another episode of Law & Order: SVU").



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2. After a decades-long period of admiration for the island's health care and education policies, Black activists are being more critical of Cuba regarding racism. [LA Times]

What about Jesse here looking like life cannot possibly get any better? That pic of Malcolm and Fidel is kinda played out, and you're a damn liar if you say you don't want in on the scene above.

“A group of 60 African-American artists and thinkers have launched a rare (and) unprecedented attack on Cuba's human rights record, with a particular focus on the treatment of black political dissidents.” They've noted increased violations of civil and human rights for those Black activists in Cuba who dare raise their voices against the island's racial system, and signed an official statement calling for changes.

“What has changed (since the '60s and '70s) is a heightened understanding outside Cuba of the plight of the island's large Black population, which remains increasingly marginalized economically and underrepresented in the highest echelons of government.” I believe that these critics are now catching up to those who have been outraged at Cuba's treatment of my friends The Gays for years now. My boyfriend Cornel West is part of this group that created the official statement (also: Ruby Dee, of course! So dope) and probably, dare I say, the brains behind it. And I bet you he did it all while wearing a nice suit and spectacles.


'90s rap song tie-in time! Regarding the nation of Cuba: you still haven't freed Assata, so until that happens I'll be borrachada de Bacardi. Tony G produced this, along with DJ Pooh's "Whoop Whoop," an anthem which descended from heaven to emanate specifically from '94 Nissan Maxima speakers, is about some crucial Cube vs. Kam & Pooh beef that tore this city apart in the late '90s (it's ok, they're friends again now!), and has lyrics you would be legally required to know by heart if you lived within a 50-mile radius of LA County.









3. “Top 10 Science Letdowns” [Scientific American] is rather amusing because it's basically a bunch of grown-ups whining about things we dreamed of as kids that haven't come true yet even though it's THE FUTURE RIGHT NOW.



Dumb science is not working fast enough, clearly. We don't have flying cars and we can't live forever. No hoverboards. Mental illness is still a mystery. The planet is sweltering and will probably blow up soon. What this amounts to is basically a Stack of questions with no answers/Cure for cancer, cure for AIDS. This make me wanna stay on tour for days! Heee.

Outkast - "Bombs Over Baghdad"

4. “Men's bodies and minds agree on what's sexy almost always. Women's bodies and minds? Less so.” - Science Daily, openly discussing sexual arousal under the guise of “important science nerdery.”




In studies, researchers found that “men's subjective and physiological measures of sexual arousal showed a greater degree of agreement than women's. For the male participants, the subjective ratings more closely matched the physiological readings indicating that men's minds and genitals were in agreement. For the women, however, the responses of the mind and genitals were not as closely matched as men's, suggesting a split between women's bodies and minds.”


So: what women want to think of as sexy is not really what our cells and hormones and bloodflow respond to*. This, of course, explains my troubling shamelust for Kim K. Because I’m gross. So gross you probably shouldn’t talk to me anymore. Gross.

Basically, even though we ladies really really want to think of smarties and nontraditional beauties as hot, our physical responses betray us. I, for example, want to think Rachel Maddow is pretty, because this would mean I'm defying that American thing of manufactured hotness. Instead, I like gorgeous dummies like Padma, that Bar Refaeli and her waist-hip situation, and various other glossy blank types on my TV screen. In the grand tradition of Things Women Have Always Done, this results in a lot of tiresome mental anguish. We try to psych ourselves out continuously and it's dumb. Get a grip, ladies. Knock it off. (This includes myself.)


*Except for Joan from Mad Men, because at the Women Conference last year we all agreed that it's OK to pine away for her. She's like sexy kryptonite, that one.








. . .

Willie Mitchell, record collection superhero (even without the Wu link)

“The synergy between Al Green’s magnificent vocals and Willie’s crisp & sophisticated production and arrangements became the soundtrack to the endless summer of the early seventies.” Willie Mitchell was born in Mississippi in 1928. He died today. Even so: that endless early '70s summer soundtrack goes on and on in apt. 302! Love you, Willie.

Memphis' Hi Records held Al Green, Syl Johnson, Ann Peebles, and O.V. Wright in its warm, enveloping bosom while Willie did the production. He had Al Green use the same dirty old RCA microphone during the recording of all his '70s songs; the 2 of them became so attached to it that they named the damn thing: "Number Nine." I find this so charming, words fail me. Love you, Willie.

I done told you 59 times: everything was better in the '70s. Just everything. Um, you ever heard an Al Green record? NOTHING FURTHER, YOUR HONOR.





















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LOL, Reuters.

A tourist poses next to Victoria’s Secret models following their appearance in New York’s Times Square, November 18, 2009. [REUTERS/Brendan McDermid]

That news ticker up there in blue behind the lanky girls!

“There are no accidents” - Elie Wiesel, et al.


This is just more propaganda being used to support the stereotype that fabulously successful swimsuit models such as myself are dumb. Public opinion continues to set my industry back tremendously, and I do not care for it one bit.







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Paging Boots Riley!

Rickey Henderson vs. umps/Brock's stolen-bases record/Brewers. 1982. [Heinz Kluetmeier/SI]

Baseball has always been the least popular spectator sport in apt. 302 (season's too long, steroid scandal is lame, Selig is creepy) but: MAYDAY! My (beloved?) Oakland A's are in danger!!

In the tradition of EVERYTHING IN AMERICA, EVER, rich people are trying to poach from the fertile grounds of the urban and poor in an attempt to increase a little thing called revenue. In the Bay Area, the latest episode of this is a campaign to move the Oakland A's to San Jose [NY Times]. The A's have the lowest attendance of home games in the league and they have to play in the creaky old Coliseum. San Jose seems appealing because it's 40 miles to the south, twice as big as Oakland, richer (Silicon Valley), and has, um, slightly different demographics. My rebuttal is that the A's are a classic franchise and represent more than its ticket sales would indicate in Oakland, a city of high unemployment and especially low morale these days since there have been all these budget cuts in California. Man, first they tie up Bobby Seale at the trial, then they wanna move the baseball team downstate. Too $hort is being asked to retroactively show his permit for tape sales out of his vehicle circa '82 now, too.

Bud Selig has a fetish for the sexy/almighty dollar sign, as any businessman should*. Unfortunately, it turns out there aren't a lot of dollar signs in Oakland, unless you look up in the hills where all the Cal professors live, so there's probably a good chance that this move could happen. The fight to keep the team in Oakland is helped, however, by the SF Giants claiming territorial rights to San Jose (whose fans are fancy and well-to-do, which Selig loves), the threat of a lawsuit against the league (which Selig does not love) since the move would “undermine the financial viability of the Giants,” and the efforts of Oakland resident Douglas Boxer, founder of Let’s Go Oakland, a coalition of business and community leaders seeking to keep the A’s in the city. Doug's being pretty persistent in this fight, oh and I should probably mention that Doug's mom is a lady named Barbara...Boxer. Get the Senate involved and, I don't know, it just seems like things could get especially interesting.

The ultimate decision on where the A’s will play lies with Mr. Selig and the other MLB team owners. Conspicuously absent from this debate? Del, the Luniz, Tower of Power, Raphael Saadiq, Ant Banks, MC Hammer. Step up, gentlemen. (Keyshia Cole, you're excused 'cause you live in Atlanta now. Also, that family of yours! You have bigger fish to fry, my dear.)





*

Todd Shaw could not be reached for comment. That don't mean I can't post this attractive photo, though. (808 not included.)

The Coup ft. Black Thought & Talib Kweli - “My Favorite Mutiny.” Up in the Bay like Huey P!


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The best songs about flowers* *now with more bathing suit!

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My life my life my life my life! In the sun-shiiiine! Santa laced me with affordable designer swimwear from the chain store, it's got a dainty floral print, and now life is wonderful. Just bees & things & flowers!


The title of the photo collection above is “me in a bathing suit as it relates to consumable pop music.” What can we glean from this?

1. That when you put something on the Internet, it's there forever so you better be damn sure your future friends and boyfriends and progeny will be cool with it. Good thing I'm not running for President (sorry, gang!).

2. There are many great songs about flowers, as evidenced by the classics(?) culled from my very own record collection below*. There's no Kanye or Outkast “Roses,” and no “Sugar Mag” or “Scarlet Begonias.” That's amateur hour, you guys.

3. My English degree courses emphasized the deconstruction of literature and culture through a postmodern feminist lens. That's great and all, but sometimes a girl is conflicted and likes to document her earthly body via digital media. Fun with hegemonic masculinity!




* The best of the best:

Dudley Perkins, “Flowers.” I'm hungry, filled with happiness all over, and my mouth is dry.

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Ghostface, “Wildflower.” Ghosty fucked my friend then had the nerve to write a whole song about it!



Sonic Youth, “Wildflower Soul.” Sing yr child lights. Lights are gold. Sing yr child life. Wildflower soul. Kim & Thurston have a daughter and I'm not her even though I should be. Sperm Lotto, you suck.



The Carter Family, “Wildwood Flower.” Reminds me of my tumultuous, love-filled marriage to Johnny Cash.



The Pharcyde, “Soul Flower.” Had to mention it, otherwise I would've gotten my Cali ID revoked.



Janelle Monae, “Come Alive (The War of the Roses).” In my spare time I get funny haircuts, I'm friends with Big Boi, I sing like a bird, everyone in LA brags about knowing me because I'm such a badass, I surprise everybody by signing with Bad Boy, and I don't pull weak-ass moves like putting pictures of myself in a bikini on the Internet. Get 'em, Miss Monae.

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Patrice Rushen, “Forget Me Nots.” Handclaps. Bass. Handclaps.



Little Brother, “Passion Flower.” Tired of these hoes talkin shit. Also: 9th Wonder.



Barrington Levy, “Black Roses.” Wail.



De La Soul, “D.A.I.S.Y. Age.” (no link because there are NO YOUTUBE UPLOADS??). Rebel. Renegade. Renegade reaching only top flight, can't find your new height. Think you need a raise. PS, De La Soul means “From The Soul.”



Dr. Octagon - “Blue Flowers.” Nobody else repped Bellevue so hard.




The Avett Brothers, “Famous Flower of Manhattan.” Posted because it's a good song and also because I feel that somehow it will lead me directly to Rick Rubin.

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Johnny Hodges and his Orchestra - “Passion Flower.” 'Cause I'm classy.




Doom, “Passion Flower.” It's Doom. Have you and I just met? If you need to ask me about this, leave this place and don't you ever show your face 'round here again.









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Young Money (non-New Orleans version)

Damon Williams: 14 years old, living the dream, making me question all my life choices that have placed me squarely here and now. I'm conflicted about the content above (knowledge of a global multi-billion-dollar system that by its very nature seeks to exclude 14-year-old Chicago kids, vs. buying a piece of Phil Knight's [alleged] 12-year-old-Asian-girl workforce cash cow), but leaning towards “this is pretty dope.” And that mom of his! Timothy Geithner and Suze Orman, have a seat.

via (ugh) Kanye's blog. Somebody kick me right in the behind, please.




Dilla, “Milk Money.”

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Best use of “Fuck You” since Half-Baked

Those Knux boys and I should hang out and discuss the mighty Saints' road to victory, their upcoming seminars at the Learning Annex on how to make rap more fun, the fact that a Pharoahe Monch photo is suitable for all occasions, and how down I am in every possible way.

I have been putting you people up on some real serious New Orleans game for weeks now, and now here I go with yet another Summertime Song that is deliciously being released in the Cold, Dreary Wintertime of LA. You're welcome. I walk with a switch and talk with street slang, I like to dance to the rap jams, and I like dudes who cuss. Let's hear it for me, I'm from around the way.




Early-Outkast-levels Civic-speaker-knocking ear euphoria! The Knux - “Fuck You”

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Bertolt Brecht on decision-making.

“Grub first, then ethics.”

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Get low, Bus.

Even though I’m just a woman, a woman with a small brain (it’s science*), dainty lady-ness has a wonderful advantage when it comes to tactile sensations:

Women have a finer sense of touch than men due to smaller finger size, according to my boyfriend Science Daily. The facts of this discovery are described in sexy detail in the story - the central nervous system, for example, is stimulated by information sent by vibration receptors in the smaller fingertips of females. So because I'm a woman, when I feel it, you know, I really really feel it - whether it's the flesh of a human male, a fluffy kitten, or the sexy sexy curve of the hole inside a 45. DOWN, BOY.

Next up, science, please explain the benefits of our smaller paychecks 'cause I've been struggling with that one for a minute now. Thanks, chief.




Of course, of courrrrse this story makes me think of that Busta song about French robots, ladies undressing, and echo-chamber handclaps. Touch it bring it pay it watch it turn it leave it stop format it. And then, once more with feeling: Touch it bring it pay it watch it turn it leave it stop format it.

First time I heard it, my brain rattled against my skull a tiny bit courtesy of Swizzy. I'm fine now, with medication and regular MRIs. '05, nice to see you again, old friend.

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* The Eiffel Tower = metal + brawn.






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Risin' up to the challenge of our rival

“Liars go to hell” - Manny Pacquiao, shouted in the general vicinity of Floyd Mayweather.

Snitches and something about stitches, bros before hoes, ain't no such things as halfway crooks, yeah yeah. Boys and their little sayings, so cute.

I would've gone with “Quit your bitchin, or get BLAOW in your babble-box,” copyright Mother Fucking DOOM!*, due to the fact that my Doom obsession knows no bounds as well as the fact that it's fun to say babble box.


Back to the matter at hand (heh, it's a story about boxing): Floyd told the world he's suspicious that Manny is doping because he's from the Philippines, allegedly a major producer of performance-enhancing drugs. I'm part Irish, so Floyd says I have a potato farm and I like to set off car bombs.

Manny and his people became so angered by this accusation that they promptly sued Floyd for defamation. Shit-talking is highly important in boxing, a way of displaying your manhood that's right up there with quick fists and the ability to mean-mug and pose standing sideways on a poster. Tough-guy reputations need constant tending in the public arena, I get it. But this is really some next-levels crybaby behavior, getting the justice system involved. Everybody just calm down! FOCUS, people, I need to see focus! So many times it happens so fast/You trade your passion for glory! These gentlemen need to at least take it to Twitter first, then maybe call into Rosenberg's show when one of them is an in-studio guest for some scripted bickering, then an abrupt phone hang-up, and then a week or so of each claiming victory in the verbal sparring match.

I wish that Manny would ignore the taunts until fight day, when everything culminates in the ring, fists meeting faces. This new bitchiness in the form of litigation is unappealing. Protesting too hard means his ego's bruised. Also, there's the fedora. I don't approve. He's losing his luster. There are no good Filipino rappers (name one), so he's got to keep boxing on lock if he wants to hold my interest.


Survivor - “Eye of the Tiger.” I'm sorry, this is totally Journey. I'm not an idiot.

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*





. . .

Gone til probably June or July, with credit for time served.

It finally hit me today that the tiny Hero of Hollygrove is going away on some weapons charge! Mixtapes and the coke market, prepare to feel the pain.

I literally got sad sitting here in apt. 302 in response to hearing about Wayne's performance at the New Orleans Arena days before he gets sentenced, which is ridiculous proof that the Internet's constant information flow about everybody's life causes me to feel like I'm best friends with every rapper. This sadness is obviously related to my newly-found allegiance to the Saints as the Greatest Football Team In the History of Televisions Watched in Apt. 302, and my affection for the city of New Orleans in general going way back to when I was a kid (Dr. John & the Meters, plus that Randy Newman song about the flood. Thanks, Mom). It's also related to the fact that I can't deny my feelings that Wayne is sincere in everything he does. I'm naïve, I can't help it, but I feel like there's no pretense with him. So when he screams, "I'm nothing without you" to the hometown crowd, it's this combination of sweet and sad mixed with his uncut gratitude that makes me shed a little tear. A primal response to male vulnerability, that's all it is; suddenly, boom, I'm reminded that I'm not so evolved after all. I change shapes just to hide in this place but I’m still, I’m still an animal!/Nobody knows it but me.

Additional sadness:

Wayne leaving that awful Drake to pinch-hit for him during his absence (ugh), and Wayne missing our mighty Lakers making their impression felt this season by cutting a destructive path through the jungle infested with inferior NBA teams. Dr. Carter, while you're locked up I'll be sending you updates on division standings and Ron-Ron's latest batch of crazy. Also: naked pics of myself. For now, I left a half a hundred in your commissary. Stay strong, buddy.






An obvious choice, but orchestral ear candy trumps obscurity every time. And the fact remains that '98 trumps '09 every time. Go Clef!




. . .


*You're a bad person, Mark Ronson, for making me like your remixes even though you're a derivative wanker who probably has bad teeth. Anyway: Miike Snow, plus horns.

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FlyLo. Miles. 9th.

Yay for boys who make music.



1. As a frequent live show audience member, I can tell you that it's heaven when people who make music are very clearly fans of music and when you can very clearly read this on their faces during performance. Flying Lotus, every picture I see of you live and in action makes me smile with delight because I can very clearly see the enthusiasm you possess for your work. I could learn something from you, sir.


Looka here, the soundtrack to a futuristic sexualized wilderness. It's a decade of Flying Lotus, mixed by GLK, and it makes me feel warm all over. I'm pretty sure that's like ten years, you guys. (Courtesy of my boyfriends at Crate Kings who have yet to recognize that I'm the Crate Queen. Still my boyfriends, though.)

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2. The Guardian has a feature about Miles Davis' love affair with the city of Paris that made me snap my fingers, say oh shit, and sit at attention.




He first traveled there in 1949 at the age of 22, where he and his music were treated with respect and he met Picasso and Jean-Paul Sartre--"the group would sit together in hotels, cafes and clubs in the Saint-Germain district, using a mixture of broken French, broken English and sign language to communicate." Um, swoon and whatnot. Plus the Parisian women weren't bad. Ladies loved him, girrrrrls adored him. I mean even the ones who never saw him like. He had various dalliances with ladies more beautiful and French than me no doubt, and then, as is the case with most of my jazz-god paramours, heroin took over and blazed a destructive path.

"In the US, Davis was already a rising star in the jazz world, but while he was highly respected among his peers, in mainstream America he was seen as a second-class citizen. It was a time when segregation and discrimination were rife, and most US states enforced anti-miscegenation laws. But France was a different story, and nothing could have prepared Davis for the reception he would receive in Paris. 'This was my first trip out of the country,' recalled Davis. 'It changed the way I looked at things forever ..."

(The article also says that, beginning in the mid-'60s, Miles Davis began printing “Directions in Music by Miles Davis” on his albums, rather than just his name. I see you, Kanye.)


We Want Miles – Miles Davis: Jazz Face to Face with Its Legend is at the Musée de la Musique, Paris, until 17 January, and in Montreal from April to August. Ha, like I'm really gonna go. But putting the information on my blog gives me hope that I might be able to swing it somehow.





3. Reasons I want to hug 9th Wonder:



1) He makes it so I'm not the only underweight '90s hiphop dork in the room (so thin, that one! "Eat something, dear" say the grandmothers of the world to people with our metabolism speed).

2) All those Mighty Diamonds loop flips. All the Little Brother stuff. Skyzoo. Not using a Mac, STILL. (Not that I have anything against Macs; I just like stubbornness in a talented dude.)

3) On production: "Wails and moans, I learned from RZA." Didn't we all, 9th.

4) On production again: "I don’t really get into the technicalities of it. I just get that feeling in my chest." Why hello there, Logan's Life Motto.






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Being a boy seems like it's fun, episode 1,537.

“Ran into Sadat X yesterday on Fulton. He told me he feels track bikes.”

Massan's Tumblr is a new fun thing in apt. 302. Scroll through and you get some Sadat X, a funny pic of Premier*, shiny bike chain rings, a mixtape (mixtape!) for free while supplies last, photographic evidence of secret boy adventures on wheels in SF, plus an old video of Massan's mommy on Soul Train (page 3). Darling Internet, the way you are and the things you do make me high. Don'tcha know that I'm still in love with you (sho nuff in love with you, haayyy).


In my dreams, by the way, I live in SF, surrounded by gay men who adore me and nice old bearded guys with great record collections just like my dad. Everybody has a Nancy Pelosi story ("She's so nice!"). And when the weather gets too cold I still have the option of returning to bikini-land in apt. 302 'cause I've kept it on retainer (I'm rich in my dream so it's not a problem). Hit it, Cellski.







*Because I've lived a life of intrigue I can tell you with authority that Premier is quite the porn aficionado. Dude loves porn, I mean it. DJ Premier is the DJ Premier of producing hip-hop, and he's also the DJ Premier of consuming porn.






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Corey Woods, you are my density. Uh, destiny.

I’m supposed to be in a long-term relationship with a funny asshole with a great music collection, either Jack Black in High Fidelity or Mr. Blonde in Reservoir Dogs*. SORRY MOM.

FunnyAsshole has yet to approach me, however, because we all know that Dudes Talk to Me on the Internets but Not in Real Life. So I'm hedging my bets by continuing to pursue Rae, whom I have not been able to quit since '93 (and who no doubt also has a great music collection, yay).



I missed his show on Wednesday night, because it was in NYC and I am not. Turns out the performance was “the one where Rae makes Logan fall in love with him all over again with a steezy '93 vengeance.”


Highlights included:

- A huge cake shaped like the Purple Tape!

'The fuck?,
YES,
???,
!!!!!!!, etc.


- An hour and a damn half of songs comin fast, Wu and solo songs, without the fancy tricks of stagecraft or pacing. No tricks, no tricks baby! HATE TRICKS. Enough tricks. Thanks, Rae.

“The set went back to early tracks by his old collective, the Wu-Tang Clan, touched on Cuban Linx Part 1 and settled in for stretches of the new album, including the scabrous, seedy ‘Gihad’ and the imagistic, violent ‘Surgical Gloves.’”

‘Gihad,’ by the way, still needs to be stripped of its vocals and lovingly placed into my vinyl collection. OH SANTA, spoil me whydontyou.


- Appearance by Cherry Jones!, who receives epic human status for giving life to one Russell Jones.

“She and Raekwon hugged, without speaking, for nearly a minute. Raekwon praised Dirty and his mother and then performed ‘Ason Jones,’ a tribute to Dirty on the new CD, with some emotional difficulty, his movements creaky, as if he needed oil. (He stopped the song at one point, shaking his head in sorrow, swearing and then collecting himself.)”

[Round here we say “cussing and then collecting himself,” but the feeling inherent in the description above transcends regional dialect barriers. Also, “his movements creaky, as if he needed oil?” Love this. Rae as the Tin Man. Rap-show reviewers, more of this please.]


- Appearance by CNN! Nore's large and in charge, both physically due to the body's natural weight gain that comes with age, as well as lyrically because he entertains on the mic like it's still '96.


- “Raekwon slumped against the opposite wall, looking humble, grateful and worn out.” This, a description of our hero while Busta appeared on stage and then went on and on with praise about him. Love it. So evocative, can't you just see it? Rae as Jimmy Conway, fatigued by life, hair turned gray and sporting a tracksuit at the end of Goodfellas.



I'm just a girl who hopes with a '93 vengeance that Rae and I will end up together, doing the NYT crossword on Sundays and bickering adorably about which NFL game to watch (our NFL Sunday Ticket hasn't been set up yet). He and I can surmount geographic separation but there's still the matter of him looking for ass on the side. I wanna love him...but WHAT IF he hurts me?



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* I have no proof; I can just feel in my heart that he does.



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Almost time for the annual “Christmas in Hollis” video post.

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Except I'm skipping it this year. Instead, I have chosen to use this space to promote the fact that Global Giving and Tony Hawk have partnered to raise money for a skatepark at the Watts Towers (Watts is way wayyyy south of apt. 302 but in the same city).



The total funding goal is $20,000, and as of this writing, about $1,500 has been pledged. This annoys me, because Tony Hawk made $18,000 in the time it took me to type this sentence, yet he's asking ME for money even though I have RECORDS to BUY. Poor form, Tony. Poor form.



But still - this park should be built and the Watts Towers are wondrous; next time you come to LA I'll take you, and I'll casually point out the 1 square foot of concrete at the skate park that my paltry donation money paid for (money that was supposed to buy some more old Masta Ace 12"s. Goddamn kids and their goddamn hobbies and their cute faces.) If I said 92% of my motivation to donate was based on the face of the boy in blue, second from left in the picture above of those Watts kids, would you say I'm corny? (the other 8%: a combination of Sheffey, Jason Lee even though he's a Scientologist now, the dudes at FTC always being super nice, and the Mouse soundtrack).

PS, trivia: the towers were built by epic Italian man Simon Rodia, who also appeared on the cover of Sgt. Pepper's (upper right corner, next to Bob Dylan). Cash Cab, here I come.



Ain't I'm clean? Rufus Thomas, Wattstax 1972, stopping time with his sheer virile man-force, despite the pink shorts. A much more original musical accompaniment to this post than citing that tired old “California Love” (in the citayyyy/of good ol' Watts). Sorry Pac.



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Life is a Chappelle's Show sketch.

“Shaolin Temple's kung fu monks prepare IPO.”

[Daily Telegraph]

IN. OUT. GET. GRAB. BONG.

“The 1,500-year-old Shaolin Temple, the birthplace of kung fu, is preparing for an initial public offering (IPO), government sources have confirmed.

‘The joint venture will promote tourism in the region,’ said the source.

According to legend, the destruction of the temple by its enemies in the 17th century helped to spread martial arts across China as five fugitive monks carried their kung fu with them.” And then there were tigers and a bunch of chambers, and porno flick bitches, and that part when the little kid's dad cuts off all those heads of lords for the shogun and then leaves his samurai life and becomes a demon.
(Gary Grice obsession, '93 - present.)

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Things that make Boston great other than Guru and the fact that they have an airport named after me.

A Hindu woman devotee offers prayers after taking a holy dip in the waters of river Ganga in the northern Indian city of Allahabad May 4, 2009.
(REUTERS/Jitendra Prakash)

"The Big Picture," The Boston Globe's annual best-of photo feature, AKA its annual playing-with-my-emotions feature.
Deadspin, I'm nothing without you. Thanks for the link.

Rows of 7.62 mm bullets are shown, ready to be shot by Afghan National Army recruits as part of their daily training at the Kabul Military Training Center in Kabul, Afghanistan on July 19, 2009. A massive effort is underway to train thousands of new troops to join the fight against the vicious Taliban-led insurgency. But the task is hobbled by the lack of mentors and high levels of illiteracy among the recruits.
(AP Photo/Emilio Morenatti)

Military and forensic experts inspect the body of a man who was killed outside a nightclub in the border city of Ciudad Juarez, Mexico on August 31, 2009. A man was handcuffed to a fence and shot several times by drug hitmen outside a nightclub, according to local media. The assailants also left a warning message, known as narco mensaje, at the site of the shooting.
(REUTERS/Alejandro Bringas)

Supporters of ousted Honduras' President Manuel Zelaya clash with soldiers near the presidential residency Tegucigalpa, Monday, June 29. 2009. Police fired tear gas to hold back thousands of Hondurans outside the occupied presidential residency as world leaders from Barack Obama to Hugo Chavez appealed to Honduras to reinstate Zelaya as president.
(AP Photo/Esteban Felix)

An empty wheelchair belonging to quadriplegic Patrick Ivison, 15, sits idle on the beach while Ivison, his mother, and friends prepare for another surf ride at the Cardiff State Beach in San Diego, California on October 6th, 2009.

(AP Photo/Lenny Ignelzi)

An Israeli boy takes cover under a desk in a bomb shelter at a school in Jerusalem June 2, 2009, after a siren was sounded during a nationwide civil defense drill simulating a rocket attack.
(REUTERS/Ronen Zvulun)

U.S. Navy Chief Petty Officer Bill Mesta replaces an official picture of outgoing President George W. Bush with that of newly-sworn-in U.S. President Barack Obama, in the lobby of the headquarters of the U.S. Naval Base January 20, 2009 in Guantanamo Bay, Cuba.
(Brennan Linsley-Pool/Getty Images)

Wadee Daoud, a five-year-old visually impaired Palestinian boy, reacts to light after a teacher opened the window blinds in his classroom at the Helen Keller Center for blind and visually impaired children in the East Jerusalem neighborhood of Beit Hanina September 10, 2009. The Center was founded as a home for blind girls by English missionary, Mary Lovell, in the 1890s.
(REUTERS/Yannis Behrakis)

I'm guessing this one hits you especially hard, since it hit me especially hard and we agree on most things. You are some kind of beast if it didn't...maybe not quite a rabid animal, but certainly not human.







Gangstarr - “Zonin'.” Look around, leaves are brown, and the sky is a hazy shade of winter. It's cold out (62°F in my city), and this warms me up. Plus DMX's voice is always comforting.
Additionally: Guru likes to bone. He's similar to many other rappers, and Tiger Woods, and every dude ever, in this way.

mp3.




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