I'd overlook him being an awful husband and make myself forget that I'm just the latest in a strong of young blonde things too if my man produced “Outa-Space.”
melody wranglers,
Kanye, Pusha T!, and I think a couple other people, “Good Friday.” This was clearly supposed to have been released in June so it could ride the radio airwaves all summer. Industry politics, I guess.
Chris is a free man, he has a right to be at events of his (PR people's) choosing, and he did have to take some legal/financial/karmic punishment for what he did, but it'll take me a while to forget The Incident and I have the right to keep bringing it up for as long as I want to. “Hop in the game knowing the risk,” the mighty Dante said once. The risk, in this case, is incurring the wrath of a nerdy blogger in her tiny Los Angeles apartment by daring to show up at a charity game with a goofy grin and some stylish no-look passes.
The event looked fun, though. And in some feel-good news, David Banner was there, and Nelly is still alive.
- DJ A-Trak doing one of the final performances at Fat Beats NY. A-Trak is ok, but he is just ok. He was the best option we had available? No Caz? 9th Wonder? BOBBITO? Maybe a Beat Junkie or two? Everyone else was out of town, apparently. A-Track was a risky choice because it brings Fat Beats' management dangerously close to alienating its fan base. Luckily, the new fan base with its mp3s and childish computer games far out-influences and out-spends me and all my crotchety old friends.
- Using the word “motherfucker” after finding out its disgusting history is risky, because everyone might hate you. Yesterday Toure linked to a review of HBO's Boardwalk Empire describing the origins of the word, and the entire Internet shook its fist in anger and said We’re never using that word again. My darling offended masses: before you knew its history, the fact that the word refers to someone fucking a mother was not enough to make it deplorable? We had to discover its connection to our history of slavery in order for everybody to pause? I’ll still use it (on the Internet, not in real life; I'm a lady) because I'll need some more information before I believe its history as told by some producer of some TV show, and because nothing else comes close to the purity of the term motherfucker. So I will clutch it hard and won't give it up easily. It is just so beautiful in its accuracy. Muhfuckaaa. Bulls-eye! Motherfucker. The thought of “Method Man” without it hurts me a little, right in my gut.
(The C-word is still never ever OK, though. I mean, it is, just not if you are ever hoping to see me without my top on.)
- Record companies putting out deceased rappers' music is risky. Album sales aside, this usually has tragic results, soiling a good man's legacy by flooding the market with every vocal snippet, every answering machine message left. I said usually, though. (RapRadar)
On the last episode of Mad Men, Peggy said, “I can't tell the difference anymore between something that's good and something that's awful.” That about sums it up for me too, sweetie. But right now I'm leaning toward this being gooooood since I cannot stop playing it. My ears hardly ever make bad choices.
Big E makes another beat suitable for snapping your fingers to. Pimp C says shit like sheeeit. Something called Gator Mane ends his verse with the words “tabernacle, holy water” and it makes perfect sense. E-40 coins the term “yay-per trail.” Feels like I'm driving a '73 Cutty when I hear this, even though it's really a late-'90s Japanese compact. Yes. It is good.
- Black Mountain, “The Hair Song.” Risky: being a rootsy woodsy earthy Canadian band with catchy hooks and beards. This band already existed once, and it was called The Band. THEEEE BAND, motherfucker (!). The name says it all.
(I love Black Mountain, though. “Lucy Brown” was my walking-down-the-street theme song 2 summers ago!)
Also risky: me, trying in vain to join the rag-tag girl gang introduced at the beginning of the video, a group of ladies armed with their thrifted-leather-cross-body-bags and old Dolly Parton records as shields (that's what they're looking at in the record store--I recognize that album cover! My darling nerd brain, you never let me down).
Becoming a member requires straight brown locks past the shoulders and a straight brown curtain of bangs. Girls with highlighted long unruly Celtic hair cannot make this look happen--some of us are cursed to look our best only with thick Farrah waves (please refer to the photo at the top of this post). I'd rather hang out with the boy, anyway--he almost landed that kickflip and he's way prettier than any of the girls.
It's risky to use a slice of country music to build your rap song around. It doesn't translate well. The exceptions to this rule are Johnny Cash at the end of “The Magic Number,” Johnny Cash at the end of the Helloooo Brooklyn part in “B-Boy Bouillabaisse,” and the not-yet-made Swishahouse musical beast that you'll play in your vehicle (is “slab” still the term, or do I need to update from '05?) which will get its melodic backing from “Houston” by the Gatlin Brothers.
- Gibbs plus Auerbach, Bun B, Chuck Inglish for some reason, and Chip tha Ripper, “Oil Money.” Here we have Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, and Texas--representatives from the Big 10 and the Big 12--meeting somewhere other than a college football field/basketball court. Oh dear! Regional beefery could ensue! It's a Big Risk (ha). But then you remember that all of these guys are making money, and you see Bun B with his Undefeated hat and big ass wedding ring and just overall foxy demeanor, and you can't help but SWOON. Don Cheadle will star in the Gibbs biopic coming in a few years, mark my words.
(I can't keep up with the changing standards for rap video girls--are the pale black-haired ladies on display here the new attractive? My own standard for female beauty was set by the "Next Episode" video--beautiful shiny skin, pole acrobatics, round body parts both real and fake, sequins, thighs, cherry-vanilla scented everything. Straight males, please advise as to whether this, below, is still the hottest thing in the world)
It's early September so here comes the NFL. In the springtime, Ronald Artest has the power to make me forget that football even exists--but when fall begins and Chris Berman starts bellowing on the TV and all the stores start carrying boots and trenchcoats even though it's too hot in LA for any of that, I realize how much I've missed it.
I love and participate in Fantasy Football. I go at with my signature no-holds-barred style, I take no prisoners, I leave it all out on the field and I give it slightly more than 100% on any given Sunday. The fact that I always make fun of fake things should be disregarded. I hate fake rappers and fake nerds, fake NYC accents, fake rappers, fake producers, fake producers. The only good fake things are Biggie's Twitter and fake football, and so I'm jumping into this season's fakery with a full heart and a clear head. I just got my Fantasy roster, assigned to me by the robotic, soulless machine that is Yahoo! Fantasy Football automated system (I tried drafting my own guys last year, and it turns out I'm no good at it). I care about each of the randomly-assigned men below so much, but only to the degree that they remind me of a musical figure with a similar name or back story.
E-40's still rapping, Funk Flex still hasn't learned voice modulation. I'm still underdressed on the Internet. Rae's still rapping. Scarface, Ghostface, Metal Face: still rapping. People do what they're used to. The familiar is easy, comfortable, like they say on commercials for Wrangler jeans. Brett Favre, with his familiar face and his arthritic joints, is suiting up again this year, because Brett Favre still plays football. He retired a couple years ago. I remember, because Jay-Z was on his farewell tour at the time. But, you know. People just do things they're used to. It's hard to walk away.
Upon seeing my Fantasy roster, I started a spirited text conversation with my mom (also in my Fantasy league). "I got Bretty for QB!" I wrote on my tiny keyboard. "OMG, did you know he is old?" she sent back. Then I stopped playing. It started out as such a fun thing, and then somebody had to go and hurt my feelings. Fuck off, Mom. (sorry, Mom!) The concept of a (nearly) 41-year-old QB is the kind of thing everyone laughs at until everyone sees that it's just crazy enough to work. I have a strong feeling that Brett Favre, sometime subject in Weezy* and Jeezy** songs, shall lead my squad to victory.
Brett Favre's middle name is, like every good ol' boy from Mississippi, Lorenzo. Odd and fascinating, that's what that is. I'd like the story behind it, please. Brett Lorenzo has a 73-year-old body. He wears Wranglers, drives a truck, can't handle his booze--a real live walking stereotype, except lovable. He continues to be worn and creaky, but still very very clutch—the E-40 of the NFL, rather than the grouchy, bloated old KRS, thank the lord.
(KRS has no current NFL equivalent...if it were the '70s, maybe sad, elderly Namath when he played for the Rams? I don't know; let me work out the analogy some more in my head).
* And I never miss a game, no Shaq O'Neal/More like Brett Favre, just like Brett Favre (“Get High, Screw the World”).
** Watch for goonies when you got it, n---as wanna rob/And pull a staff and quarterback 'em like Brett Favre (“Trap or Die”).
Santana Moss. In terms of music, who does his name evoke? Well, Carlos Santana of course, and that hideous creature who calls himself Juelz. But there's also Now for 10 years, we've been on our own/And moss grows fat on a rollin’ stone (“American Pie,” Don McLean). Don really enunciates that F--ffffffat. It's unnecessary and wonderfully stylish. Anyway, a rolling stone gathers no something something; Santana, roll it back to '05 and let's have a thousand-plus-receiving-yards season, buddy.
Brandon Marshall. NO, not Marshall Mathers. The Marshall Tucker Band! The beautiful “Can't You See” was on the Blow soundtrack, but I was already familiar with it due to childhood time spent frolicking in my parents' record collection. It was released by Capricorn (of course) in '73 and it therefore sounds like weed, Jim Beam, big belt buckles, and getting hugged by my dad. And it's got a flute solo!
Ronnie Brown. Ronnie from New Edition, sure, but since I am a California girl dipped in honey and bronzed by the sunshine, I instantly think Ronnie Hudson and his “West Coast Poplock.” Worldwide, let 'em recognize from Long Beach to Rosecrans.
Owen Daniels. Owen Pallett, that weirdo who's obsessed with Final Fantasy. Charlie Daniels, that guy who used to be SO hip hop on account of his storytelling technique but then started showing up on Fox News to weigh in on foreign wars and the reasons Obama is leading us all down the big global toilet. On a side “everything's connected” note, however, Charlie Daniels did a lot of collaborating with the Marshall Tucker Band in the '70s. Let's hope that Owen Daniels does some collaborating with Brandon Marshall when the EP Eagles take the field--mostly I just want Owen to let Brandon get all the touches, since tight ends are worthless in Fantasy Football but the system forces you to play one anyway.
Devin Aromashodu. First of all: Who? Second: based on his name, I believe that he is of Nigerian descent. And third: NIGERIA!, now and forever. I don't understand how such a small county is so fertile in terms of epic humans, but I've worked out the analogy in my head that Nigeria is to countries what Georgia is to American states--unfairly, disproportionately rich in musical geniuses (Fela, Sade, + a hundred more from Nigeria; Ray Charles + a thousand more from Georgia), writers (Achebe, Wole Solinka; Alice Walker, Carson McCullers), and physically stunning people (Oluchi; T.I.). I've never heard of this Aromashodu fellow but the signs tell me that he will surely kill it every week.
Jabar Gaffney. It's painful to admit, but the little elves that run around inside my brain piecing together music trivia and rap lyric ephemera came up with nothing when I saw his name. It evokes nothing music-related. Luckily, all's not lost because Jabar Gaffney is just a great-sounding name for a man. It's got an adequate amount of syllables, and the stresses fall in all the right places. Quentin Jammer is the current holder of the best name in the NFL (Earthwind Moreland had the honor until '05), and Black Milk is the current champ in terms of names on rappers' birth certificates that now only the DMV and their grandmas call them by (Curtis Cross). But Jabar. That's a nice goddamn name. Solid, with all those consonants. It makes me think of Kareem, and that's nice. And if I'm to believe what some man on the Internet whom I've never met says, Mr. Gaffney is likely to be a sleeper Fantasy point-getter this season. Denver's offense needs to make up for Brandon Marshall being gone (a real workhorse, Marshall now splits his time between the Dolphins and the Echo Park Eagles) and maybe Gaffney will get something thrown to him now and then. He's got seniority among the team's receivers and he's supposed to do things, big things, this year.
Cedric Benson. Also a great name. It's cinematic and comic-book-hero-sounding. Makes me think of George Benson. And Cedric Brooks, I think, was a Jamaican musician (?).
New Orleans' defense. Everything about New Orleans reminds me of music, I love the Saints, and their defensive squad is ranked around #8 or 9 at the moment, so I'm happy I got 'em. “Football is violence and cold weather and sex and college rye,” said the great sports writer Roger Kahn. Football is also, let's hope, teams from battered and beaten-down cities rising triumphantly in consecutive seasons.
No need to impede The High and Mighty mystique/That shit would be as ignorant as Jimmy the Greek.Soundbombing II hardly ever shows up on those stupid best-of album lists that clog up the Internet every 10 years. I think everyone's still mad at Rawkus and we're being babies by not giving it accolades. But we should. It's a great compilation and I wore the CD out that summer ('99). It's ranked in my personal stupid best-of album list that I carry around in my head. What/What, what, whaaaat.
Now I’m in the limelight due to the fact that I rhyme tight, and also because of my vast knee-high/thigh-high sock collection. These pics are from that one day when Biggie informed my outfit choices, and I strutted around in my red-and-black lumberjack and my pixellated-Biggie-face slouchy tank top, and nobody dared fuck with me. WE DID IT, BROOKLYN.
I miss this individual and his solid technique of verbal intercourse. And yes, my wistful memories and corresponding photograph are appropriate in this post because houndstooth is a form of plaid. Fall back, pattern police.
“Livin’ Astro.” When rap's Sun Ra tones the weirdness down, he has a Chris Wallace sort of lyrical bent. This could be a Biggie verse, no?
I got my shades, big rock star compared to Elvis Signin autographs for rappers, while girls move they pelvis Write songs quickly, for Elton John or Lionel Richie Call up my butler, get clothes washed by the maid Ivory soap, this is clean, feel like Cascade I count the bills, roll to Detroit in Sedan DeVilles I throw my skully on, big robe like Marvin Gaye Step in the front row, primetime I move your way Budweiser Fest soundcheck, demanding more respect I come correct through the Metro, and turn y'all petrol I'm up here early bitin donuts sippin on espresso.
Isaac Hayes displays how stunting is, in fact, a habit. That is all.
Just found out they fucking play Pavement at Urban Outfitters. Not counting the fun I had singing along in my head when I walked around, this was a bad experience. My stress level really suffers because of these kinds of daily intersections of commerce and musical purity. Who cares if the 15-year-old next to me is hearing Pavement on account of shopping in a store headed by a conservative capitalist entrepreneur? She's 15, and it's Pavement, and this means that the music will seep into her and inform all of her choices in life. She might not hear it otherwise, until years later when Natalie the roommate plays it for her during freshman year at UCSB. My mom says it's bad for me, all this mental anguish. But she also says that my sassy mouth is the reason I'm unmarried, so what does she know. Look at Steve there, though. That's a pretty nice haircut (har!). I love the purple v-neck, too. Fashion, baby.
This. That is all.
If you can rap like this, and we all know you can rap like this, how come you don't rap like this all the time? There's the crushing grind of the rap game, the pressure of feeling pressured. I know the work won't always be sublime. I have a tiny bit of sympathy. But overall, I'm tired of the games and the distracting sidework, Nasir.
I’d rather die in a box than live safe in witness protection Gotti was a racist, but he still get praises We don’t give a fuck—gangster is gangster.
Abbey Lee Kershaw has that gap-toothed, tiny-facial-featured beauty that I will just never be able to master. It's frustrating. Fashion loves skinny and white, and I'm both of those, but sadly, fashion does not care for hips and that's why my modeling career peaked when I was 12, then plummeted and landed with a resounding thud. I have confidence that I could pull off something like the look in this photo, though, because I can master nakedness under a plaid button-up, I can master having an adorable bellybutton, and I sure as hell can master a bored expression in front of the camera. This picture is oddly sexy and I can't understand why, although it's that criterion that generally applies to anything sexy. My point is, just please, someone: manipulate an electronic image of me, and give me cartoon antlers.
The Great Typo Hunt has been all over NPR, and the concept is kind of cute--these 2 guys who get little to no ass embarked on a journey to fix all egregious misuses of grammar in signs, ads, and articles. They then wrote a book about their, uh, adventures. I’m kind of like these guys, except with sloppy rap songwriting and production. I see it and I have to call it out; I'm on a mission from God. Maybe one day I’ll write a book about it, and then you’ll all be sorry you ever made fun of me.
Oh look, here's our first example. That awful Game and his buddies Swizzy and Jay Elec (whose presence here confuses and upsets me) have made a song called “Higher,” which is bad and which flips and bounces Bob Marley's “Iron Lion Zion” incorrectly. “I'm gonna be higher,” they believe the chorus goes--except somebody didn't pay attention to the fact that the song is called “Iron Lion Zion,” and there is no mention of the word “higher” in there. It sounds like “higher” because Swizz, I guess, cannot understand Jamaican patois, but all he had to do was consult the title of the song he chopped up and looped. This is just lazy songwriting, and more proof that the best thing Swizz Beats ever did was play hypeman to DMX on Chappelle's Show. That's where he excelled.
Ciccone Youth!
Mike Watt is never not lumberjackin', sartorially speaking. Always with the flannel button-ups, that one. But you know, you're in San Pedro, you got the onshore flow, it's overcast. Dress in layers. They did a piece about him in the LA Times over the weekend that was entertaining and delightful. His feelings about Iggy Pop and, more importantly, BASS, are summed up below. Watt will always be the same, even with creaky bones and gray hair, just like Adam Yauch.
“Iggy's a great cat, as a music person, but he actually knows a lot about culture. He's very intelligent. I've learned so much about being a better bass player from that guy. There's these guys that don't operate machines, they have different perspectives of the sound; they're more like conductors, almost like a bridge to the people. So they can help you, especially with bass, because it's kind of mysterious how bass works. It's not just a guitar. It's a weird thing, kinda like grout between the tiles.”
OHSHIT SONNNN. Gallo's a disgusting Republican jerkoff but he keeps good company. VMAs, '94. Snoop must've magically risen from that wheelchair.
First of all, this is just an excellent photograph. It's full of joy and movement. Who knew Jehovah's Witnesses could swagger so convincingly.
Second, it's MJ's birthday. That's why “Human Nature” was all over popular radio today, even though they should've been playing “The Way You Make Me Feel” (late-'80s MJ), “Say, Say, Say” (early-'80s-underrated-pop-duet-banger MJ), “You Haven't Done Nothing”* (mid-'70s-backing-Stevie-Wonder-with-his-brothers MJ), or “I Wanna Be Where You Are,” from the heartbreakingly-innocent-face era of MJ. OH, or “It's Great to be Here.”
There's the Stevie Wonder mention, the rapper-who-can-produce and producer-who-can-rap factor, and, of course, the undisputed mightiness of DRUM LOOPS (front and center in every Black Milk creation). And after watching it 12 times, I've noticed that this video work that's been commissioned by Black Milk to accompany the music has every fantastic thing about life, large and small, that makes all the rotten things about life worth dealing with.
An overall masculine carriage. Seeing a handsome young gentlemen from a major metropolitan area executing the getting-out-the-car move, followed by the look-behind move, all in one fluid mating-call performance. I don't wanna get into or think about the complicated and heavy history between the black man and the white woman in America; I just wanna say Be still my shy, nerdy, suburban-raised heart when I see this, have my heart swell with appreciation and a little lust, and then I wanna move on to the next thing. Watching this part in the video, which is of course in slow motion, I know exactly what all the girls must've felt like seeing David Ruffin on stage.
Body needlework in a place that must've been painful. Facial scruff. Glasses.
The hero shot.
Legendary humans. Fitteds. Appreciation. Buddies. Bowing your head in reverence to those greater than ourselves.
Feelin like Jesus/Superman. Rooftops.
Ah yes. HERO SHOTS.
Something well-built and shapely that is not a girl in a bathing suit. (although we love those, too). Bending corners. Sunshine on chrome. That shade of blue. American sturdiness (when cars were metal instead of plastic). The city of Detroit. This is also the part where Royce says he's old school like Dean Pritchard.
Diners.
Fluffy nimbus clouds and the bright blue sky. People applying themselves (At 1:47, Royce's voice suddenly takes on a loudness and urgency, like he just realized he's on a track about slaying individuals lyrically and that song happens to be produced by Black Milk. So, you know, time for the A Game.) Large egos that are deserved due to one's skill set (“I don't even write seriously; I just fuck around”).
“Pockets go green like it was Earth Day.” Cash.
German cars. A pop of perfect blue against gray and black and concrete drabness.
That shade of blue! (looks better in the video; this pic can't quite capture it) White Ts on dudes. (Gentlemen, you’ll never understand it. I don’t understand it. But when they are wrinkle-free and have that freshly-laundered smell, they are pure aphrodisiacal magic.)
Social criticism. Parodying dummy right-wingers. (from the way this is framed in the video, it's clear that this sticker is ironic and the whole shot has a mocking tone. At least, that's how it appears to me. But I'm right about most things.)
Rappin in sync with your friend(s) while driving! Is anything better? (No.)
Pausing for introspection. Thinking about yourself and where you fit in this crazy world.
Gerard Victor Atillo, don't know how you did it but I'm glad you did. Just, next time, try to include Ron Artest, my mom, bathing suits, Nutella, and kittens.
Aside from the ones that are so obvious we stop even noticing—Glenn Beck, Andy Breitbart, Shark Week, CNN, the design of all Trader Joe's parking lots—there are many stupid things that surround us, and I need to call 'em out. When people exaggerate they use the adjective “countless”; there are countless stupid things in this world, one might say. I was able to quantify all the stupidity from last week, though, and then I placed my findings in a handy list for you.
- This news that Fat Beats is closing in NY and LA. What's so stupid is not just the punch in rap history's stomach here, but additionally: WHERE ELSE can I go to purchase Living Legends 12”s while dressed like a stripper librarian and being overly self-conscious with my heels clicking on the wooden floor? As is always the case in my times of stress and heartache, I only want a member or close ally of CoFlow to provide me with consolation; Mr. Len, thank God, stepped up. His eulogy is about 2 sentences long, but he deserves a break because he's writing from a place of stress and heartache. And he manages to work in “Internet you crafty son of a bitch you win again,” a little ray of comic sunshine in an otherwise sad news story (Atlantic Monthly).
- Madlib x overpriced coffee, courtesy of Intelligentsia. No way in hell could Madlib ever be stupid, or say or do one stupid thing, so this gimmicky nonsense is clearly Chris Manak's doing. Gimmicks are stupid, especially when they are tie-ins with crowded and sense-overloading coffee depots that frighten hip-blessed nerdy girls with social anxiety disorder. And OH THE IRONY, since Madlib has no need for stimulants of the caffeinated sort--he is holed up in his bunker most of the time with his 12"s and subsides only on Nitrogen atoms from the sky above and acai extract that he got from a shaman atop Corcovado.
PS, Monchie’s been telling his bros about Madlib because Monchie, I guess, thinks that his bros haven't heard of Madlib? It appears that Monchie believes it is currently 1996. (I do too, though, so it’s ok. The Score is a great CD! Can't wait for the Fugees' next 3 or 4 albums).
Asked about the appeal of the look to the opposite sex, Mr. Hunter said, “It just gets a dirty idea in your head. Like, 'This girl is wild,' or it's just very sexual, like, 'Let's degrade this person.'”
- Mark Hunter, on the appeal of the "dirty girl" look to the opposite sex
- “Dirty Girls.” The NY Observer's story on them is about 4 years too late (they interviewed the Cobrasnake), but the siren call of the unwashed ladymuse does not appear to be waning in its power. The quote above is outrageously stupid, but I approve of the trend because it expands the definition of female beauty--physical imperfections show up in V mag and we realize they are lovely, not unlike ourselves and our own numerous imperfections. It’s like the Rawss phenomenon among suburban kids—you listen to him and you’re like Hey! I could do that! Makes you feel pretty good. It’s too bad we need imperfections to show up in V in order to realize our own imperfections are lovely, and it's too bad that you're only allowed to pull off this look if you are a thin girl and a white girl, but that’s a topic too vast and wide for me to cover here. I’d like to point you in the direction of a Naomi Wolf or bell hooks essay, thank you.
- Fabulous' “Body Count”? So stupid! These “dead people” of which he speaks are former US presidents and statesmen whose faces adorn the currency in his pocket. This is a cute concept, and I'm surprised nobody thought of it before (go Brooklyn!) The stupid part (aside from his monotonous voice and complete lack of microphone-related charisma) is the line where he describes unworthy adversaries as such: The competition is a skinny bitch: no body. This is not so much “Loso, you’re stupid” as it is “Loso, you hurt my feelings”; as a skinny bitch with hips and a soft pillowy bosom like pow, I am particularly qualified to point out that there are outliers among us bony featherweight types. Even if we account for the fact that 98% of us who are skinny do lack body, we should remember that lacking body is not a bad thing according to a thousand Tumblrs. Fabolous clearly has not seen those photoblogs in which underweight white ladies are presented as silent, topless, bird-like creatures that you are supposed to want to make vigorous love to. Worship her until her beautiful smooth-skinned shell cracks and she transfers her magical life elixir into your breath and bloodstream. Then give her a sandwich and encourage her to stop smoking, 'cause it's just not ladylike. Also, Loso, failing to mention of Ice-T even once in a song called “Body Count” is stupid.
- Lawsuits. They are not stupid on their own, but when formerly virile New York MCs are the plaintiffs in lawsuits, they quickly turn into sad and stupid exercises. I'm referring here to Method Man suing vast quantities of something called “Juggalos” and/or their representatives.
Many moons ago, before the Clan got torn asunder on account of death and bickering, Meth was the biggest and the toughest, a real ladykiller with that charisma and sense of humor. Dudes had a crush on him, too. But years of record industry foolishness has apparently taken its toll, for now he is a bitter old man who does not realize how foolish he looks, nor the comedy gold inherent in a chubby 19-year-old in Iowa being able to brag to his boys, "Method Man sued me!" The least possible G thing you can do is sue somebody, followed closely by “make up a criminal past just to see if people believe you” and “hustle for followerz.” Lawsuits are for cranky old men and celebrities afraid of being called gay. The hardheaded never learn. Stop actin stupid, Mef.
(there I am on the left, pretending to make out with Robert Fripp. OMG, look at my prepster chic ensemble and new espadrilles! Cuuuuuute.)
- The “Power” remix is stupid. No, not Swizz’s ridiculous and pointless part where they just let him yammer on for a while, loudly shouting annoying hypeman platitudes to Kanye from the booth—although that part is really stupid. What I’m referring to is Kayne Omari rapping about sex, in the least-convincing collection of rhymes since Rawss talked about kilos and work and gunplay. Aw Jesus. It's so stupid because WE DON’T BELIEVE YOU, SIR. Nobody thinks you actually return home from the club with something to poke on! (sorry Mom). Murakami and Jeremy Scott raps are where you excel and nobody can take that away from you. Let's stick with what we know. I don't think that's actually you on Twitter, neither, but that intern does a mean impression of you.
These delicious and dreamy MiuMiu stripper-librarian oxblood ankle-strap 5-inch penny loafer platforms are called Amarena colored in the store (amarenas are Italian cherries). In apt. 15, I prance around in ‘em and feel so smug that they match my ox blood Porsche, which of course match my rims--and those, in turn, remind me of blood hitting his Timbs. Still, my intellect will win out, I'm afraid. Paying September’s rent is smart; buying a pair of shoes that are equivalent to September’s rent is stupid. I’m too fiscally responsible to buy these at full price so the prance-around-the-apartment scene will remain a fantasy. But I have exceedingly good breeding and knowledge of social graces, so I’ll curtsy and say “Thank you, kind sir” if/when you present them to me. Then I’ll put ‘em on so I can keep it sleazy while in the stacks, returning books to their proper home according to the Dewey Decimal System.
- Everyone please calm down about that tragic Biebs/Rae/Kanye thing that appears to be actually happening, maybe; you're being stupid. (I'm posting this from my bunker with my Living Legends 12”s where I'm writing letters in blood to Daniel Dumile, begging him to impregnate me so that something good and pure and real will emerge out of my body and remind me that there’s still beauty in this cold, dead world. And yet, it's you all that I'm telling to calm down. Heh. Stupid.)
- People tell me that there is a hiphop fest called Rock the Bells. What's stupid about that? Everyone loves hundred-degree heat, expensive bottles of water, and rappers past their prime. The stupid thing here is that there is a hiphop fest called Rock the Bells, and LL has never performed at this fest, which is called Rock the Bells. This seems impossible, but I did some fact-checking and it's really true. I wasn't there but believe me, here's what it looked like yesterday when the Remnants of the Wu took the stage.
Ha! Thanks for indulging me. I’m being stupid.
- Raekwon'sGold SuperfantasticEdish of OB4CL2 has a Travis Barker remix on it, and that's stupid. Mr. Barker has some kind of odd stranglehold over the rap collab and remix world, and I really feel out of it, like I missed the boat entirely. I'm lost. Crawling back into my bunker soon. But at least there's no Biebs on the album, and at least it's more Rae being released into the universe, and at least there's this song, which turned me into a weed smoker after years of remaining abstinent, even though I went to college at UC Santa Cruz! It's called "Rockstars," featuring GZA, the production work of GZA's cousin, and Inspectah Deck doing a dopeish Bun B impression, and I need to know from whence that guitar snippet came, before it got chopped n' looped n' caressed into this.
Mac Dre - “Get Stupid.” It was either this or any one of E-40's songs--but I feel like this site already heartily supports E-40's songs. The women like me—I’m dipped in butter/I’ll rob your brother, pimp the blood out your mother. This is where the definition of "stupid" suddenly changes. "Stupid" is now "great" and "knocking," because this song is fucking stupid. I mean, really really dumb. Nearly retarded.
Caramel complected/body like heaven (ummm no). Your favorite nerdy bikini-clad sarcasm peddler.
Tomboyish tendencies in a girly package.
Music nerd making my way in the world. The more emotion I put into it/the harder I rock.
I bow at the altar of Phil Spector, Rick Rubin, and Large Pro.
I find that I can amuse myself to no end. I got front & back, and side to side. I am a real person and NOT viral marketing for Stones Throw. I also have a government job so please don't tell too many people I'm in my bathing suit on the Internet.
Nothin else to tell, really.
Me, in a daydream I had at work today.
I'd overlook him being an awful husband and make myself forget that I'm just the latest in a strong of young blonde things too if my man produced “Outa-Space.” 
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