“novice like the left side on my old control of my atari”

i’m just sketching and stringing.
Crack scooped me on “hoes hoes hoes hoes hoes,” in form at least, but for punctuation’s sake: Last night, poor sloughed DJ Assault, live, absurdly talked along to his own tracks; into the mic: “broke. ass hoes. broke. ass hoes. hoes hoes hoes hoes hoes hoes hoes,” the din of bass distracting from the relentless lack of syncopation. “We’re gonna take this one back to ’97,” he announced, but I think we were thinking it all along: i mean, he OPENED his set with “Ass N Titties.” More than anything, I wanted to know what happened to his old partner/mastermind Mr. De, whose fucking genius post-assault release “electronic funkyshit” (2000) fused gossamer r&b with detroit ghetto house chutzpah, enriching my life for, i dunno, like 2 1/2-5 years. Assault’s set, full of classics but lacking in melody, felt a little hollow and a lot outmoded, particularly following the dense chunk of club tracks (b’more, y’all) the Hollertronixzesz spun.
The early evening, though, with Peedi and Bun, was epic: The former, my betrothed. The latter, my father.
More on this somewhere else. Novelized?
The new pharrell track, featuring gwen in her best “shelley duvall as olive oyl” impression, sounds better on a sound system than my crappy stereo; I’m into it, but the first time I heard it I thought the bridge had questionable flow, choppy from self-awareness (i.e. the point where pharrell thought to himself, “oh, snap, i am supposed to be flying the Enterprise, so I better do something unexpected… right… *here*”). But under the corporeal hypnosis of the subwoofer, it clicked.
Who am I kidding. The corporeal tug of the subwoofer = practically everything clicks.
Then Nicholas I.S. Catchdubs and Seanathan Fennessey, infinitely charming fellows that they is, regaled.
I love my friends.
My friend Marianna Ritchey, another friend who I also love, today she wrote to me this:
“Lovin’ with an apostrophe: implies sexual content.”
She is funny.
The following falls under the category of other:
nick sylvester: only mand who bought a nano?
right now in the courtyard across the way, someone is blasting their ’80s “from the heart” mix–luther then michael mcdonald then whitney now bangles “eternal flame”–next is totally gonna be phil collins’ “groovy kind of love”–p.s. shout to diplo for spinning the phil collins-penned “there’s something goin on” by frieda–
the woman blasting her ’80s mix is also singing along very loudly and very off-key, her voice ricocheting off the ting of her barbecue grill and into my room.
i am getting choked up.
or maybe i’m emotional cause Dale Davis, Rasheed Wallace = UNITED AGAIN! And the Spurs finna change their name to the Strokes.
“THE END OF CRITICISM”?/thoughts
i borrowed some books from the ’90s from the library, including katha pollitt’s 1994 “reasonable creatures: essays on women and feminism,” wherein ms. pollitt is blurbed by novelist/memoirist mary gordon as “bracing, while always maintaining a wonderful lightness. She is the gin-and-Campari of the women’s movement.”
Mary Gordon’s memoir The Shadow Man, the New Yorker wrote, is “irradiated by flashes of lyric brilliance.”
from another book, jean genet’s the declared enemy, a kind of response: “journalists like to throw around words that grab our attention, but they have little concern for the slow germination of these words in the minds and consciences of individuals.”
hoes hoes hoes hoes hoes hoes hoes hoes