move your body politic

Sasha’s extensive drilldown on the run-ins and run-outs of our eve, including the true haps on JimJam and Haiku (the F.I.T. sophomores we nearly drop-kicked whilst new-old-jack-swingin’). Those two, by the way they were dancing together–eyes locked, mimicking the slow grace of tai-chi and maraca shoulder-shimmying as the rhythm pattern shifted– I thought they were practicing fusion body-motion, or that they were modern-dance students just getting to the last half of ’70s and working it out in the bar. But actually, I think they were just taking ecstacy.
On the floor at eye-level, M.I.A.‘s first show was wicked Olympia basement party –her co-performer, whose name I did not catch, was even wearing spandex. They were both approx. 4’11”, ebullient, and aside from the sound system, which was 1/4 notch above assy Aiwa boombox, it popped like the recorded stuff. “Galang”, galang, galang, all summer long. Here are Nick Catchdubs’ photos from the actual event. Photo #2: you can totally see my arm.
My First Fashion Week in the city, I have learned models are freakish, and it is ridorkulous they set body standards for tweens everywhere. I know this is like Women’s Studies kindergarten 101, but it doesn’t really hit home until you see your first in-person 12-yr-old, seven-foot-tall, 84-lb Swede in head-to-toe pink tweed who is emaciated enough to pass for a crack addict or an I, Robot.
To the people googling “Is Cam’ron gay?” and “Cam’ron is gay.” Of course he is gay; not because of the pink and the sizzurp and the strong affection for Carmina Burana. It’s because of his Strom Thurmond-like contempt for women and homosexuals. He only hates himself because he does not yet know how to love himself.
Streets are feeling him, ’cause the hot new shit is total acceptance of every person. It’s on the mixtapes.