March 31, 2004 (0) Comments

N*E*R*D*'s show last night was hinged entirely upon the life-force that is Pharrell Williams' sexual magnetism. Period. While this is not entirely a bad thing, because Pharrell's sexual magnetism is a hot blast of nuclear light from unexplored (and dangerous!) parallel universes, and succeeded in mesmerizing me* for about four songs (three, if we must perpetuate my impeccably virginal/mo'nastic reputation). But the fact is, when it comes down to it, we just want to love Pharrell for his brain.

Unfortunately, his brain is Spymob.

Spymob, the murderously innocuous pop band from MN who back up N*E*R*D* on a regular basis, seem to believe that "funk" is what one discovers underneath a brawny paper towel--something ICKY and UNSEEMLY... nay, something UNSANITARY! Even the awesome death-grip of Pharrell's diva Id can't cart the hefty weight of their sensible shoes for a whole show. Even 2000 women, girls, and gay boys, peeling out under the pressure of their lust like the screaming wild breath-letting of a helium balloon, cannot disguise the fact that Spymob is boring white male midlife crisis music, and that Pharrell employs a band of such mediocre talent in order to amplify his irrepressable sexy-sexy-uhhh-hoooah.

Freed from the distraction of the music, we were left to concentrate on Pharrell's game-sharpening: unrelenting witty quips/pun segueways ("You know what I love about Portland? The ladies really want to move") and his constant insistence (as first reported by Teen Vogue) that he's just "looking for a girlfriend." Ultimately, even my steely libido grew weary of giving Pharrell its undivided attention, and what was left? Spymob's three pop songs like a brokeass Ben Folds, which evoked puzzled looks from the entire audience (barring a SOLE CONSERVATIVELY DRESSED FAN, who danced and sang every word vehemently). The show was sold out, but by the end, half the crowd left**: the remainder of the audience being 14 yr old girls, myself***, and about 400 top-tier Nike employees.

Inexplicably, most people actually left after Black Eyed Peas; renewing Oregon's Hippie plaque/plague for 2004 (although there's no telling where that TONE-DEAF CHEESY NO-BEYONCE fits into the picture). She did, in fact, mutilate the chorus of "Crazy in Love" while the rest of BEP POGOED and shouted "Let's get retarded! Let's get retarded!" The obvious retort was "you already are!"--opportunity for low-blow heckle very few people around me let pass.

*I admit--this particular style of mesmerization included watery eyes and nearly passing out.

** Including my friend R Kelley, who called me while I was still at the show. "I don't want to fuck Pharrell, so I got bored and went home," he explained.

*** I do not necessarily consider myself outside the idiom of "14 yr old girl."

March 29, 2004 (1) Comments

For the past three days, when friends inquire how I am, I have regularly been responding, "My brain feels as though it is being squished open like a zit with a waffle iron." Today, I felt like Atreyu riding that winged-dog monster through space, as I handed a box containing what is tantamount to THE GRAND FUTURE OF MY LIFE'S TRAJECTORY--a magical box of firecrackers, all the sparkles in my blood, and "THE PEARL OF MY YOUTH"--over to the Fed Ex lady. I GAVE MY FUTURE (plus $35) TO A WOMAN WEARING BLUE MASCARA, A FAKE FRENCH MANICURE, AND SUN-IN.
Now I just want to cry, scream, and pee all at the same time. Have you ever FedExed something that in a way determined your whole life? It is terrifying. I feel like I'm on the Oregon trail. I crossed myself in front of the county courthouse (pure coincidence; it's next door to the FedEx hub). Because, despite declared agnosticism, my not-so-latent affinity for La Virgen has got me calling on her holiness for help with the most important stuff: i.e., NCAA fantasy tournaments, my Future in a Box, and the prompt delivery of the new Gift of Gab solo record. And, that when I finally get around to watching it, that the choreography in the Britney "Toxic" video is at least as good as the choreography I have appointed to it, both in my mind and in my kitchen.

See? Me now crazy.

Back to pop culturisms soon, when time loosens. You should go see what Jay Smooth has been writing on hiphopmusic.com lately, because it's all really good.

March 27, 2004 (1) Comments

Though we rarely see one another in the flesh, my four-blocks-away-neighbor Jeremy Devine and I love to rant/debate music b.s. on the phone. Today's topic: the new issue of Alternative Press, in which Eyedea and Abilities are erroneously described as the "Shaq and Kobe" of hiphop (with the byzantine qualifier "except they're on good terms")--such a ridiculous assertion, we didn't even discuss it, except to postulate who may be the ACTUAL Shaq and Kobe of hiphop. My answer, the obvious one, was that it's Kanye and Jay-Z; Jeremy countered, "Or Eminem and Dre... no, Em and Dre are more like the Tanya Harding and Jeff Gillooly of hiphop."

We then agreed the new D12 single has incurred new standards of wack, and that Eminem wants to run this circus like Ring-a-ling, but has ended up somewhere between the bearded-lady tent and the elephant poo with his uninventive Slick Rick carnival fetish.

Meanwhile, I missed the Blazers-Sonics game tonight (we won in overtime!) in favor of work obsession, but Connie called with the following breathless message: "It was hiphop night at the Rose Garden! They weren't accurately representing hiphop AT ALL, but we stayed at the game late because Dale Davis' label, WAR Records, was having a show afterwards, and it was SO BAD!! It was just these four, like, Beaverton suburban-adolescent boys in Blazers gear, pretty much like B2K but not even as good, singing a song called 'Take Your Pants Off'! There were all these little kids there, grabbing their balls and singing, 'take--yo--pants--off!'" Let's hope lil Jimbrowki's wearing a hat.

March 27, 2004 (0) Comments

Would I owe rosaries if my fave record this year was B2K's Greatest Hits? I'm not saying it is... I'm just asking.

March 26, 2004 (0) Comments

Woke yesterday at 8 am, to the sound of J Hoppa on the "Milkshake" ringtone, calling to relay best-friend secrets that stay on the phone, in the phone. This is a declaration to our best-frienditude: no one, absolutely no one, but Jessica may call me between the hours of 3 am and 9 am and expect an answer, unless it is news of death, lottery-winning, four-alarm fires, or a Trail Blazer sighting (and then only starters). Booty-callers are evaluated on an individual basis, and may be called out on my outgoing message if proper respect is not paid. (What up, Nate Preston.)
Jessica's phone call was yesterday's stupendous event #1.
Stupendous event #2:
My previously mentioned dear friend/ex-housemate Jay Winebrenner is lackadasiacal RE: his hygiene, but is so charmed/-ing he is allowed to tend bar at an upscale restaurant on the Westside. In general, his customers love him, despite his being a self-described "scrubby weirdo." One such customer is the also previously mentioned world-renowned mitochondria guy, Keith, who invited us to his flat last night to discuss a $10,000 painting he was thinking about buying.

In certain ways, none of them having to do with misogyny or violence, Keith is the Bukowski of mitochondria: sarcastic and sloshy, smoky and rough-hewn. He is upscale barfly, and a genius, and owns a 16th-century harpsichord. I did not play the harpsichord, thank god, because a key was stuck and it is awaiting time and love from the harpsichord doctor. I narrowly escaped playing Scriabin on his grand piano by pleading deformed hands, which is true; I have two short ligaments and two short fingers, which makes the octave stretch impossible under duress. The finger stumps saved both Jay and I nightmares-long embarrassment; my arpeggios are dumpy, and my Opus 8 has checked in at 8:12 minutes over the clock for about three years now. As Keith put it, "Well, you'll never play Liszt."

Apparently, owning a harpsichord is nothing extraordinary, because Keith's friend, Ian--a British botanist/mitochondria researcher with a penchant for The Well-Tempered Clavier--also owns a harpsichord. Ian's harpsichord, however, needs no love doctoring, because it is not from the 16th century. It is not from the 16th century because Ian actually built the harpsichord himself. He does not play it, but he knew that if he had it around, eventually someone would come over who would. As such, it gets used every 15 years.

The painting, a modern impressionist work made of pasted letters and envelopes and overlaid in red (Ian called it "too lipsticky") was unremarkable in comparison to the rest of Keith's art (a pre-Raphaelite fantastical lithograph, a vaporous representation of fog over the Hudson by a woman named Lynch, a profound dark surrealist image of a woman in a bonnet). But it looked good over the mantle. Some of Keith's students came by, Suksma and Sarang, and a lengthy discussion of vegetarianism ensued after Keith ridiculed us for not having any salami with our goat brie and crostini. Ian brought up the Indian Mutiny; we all agreed that cartridges are bad, but worse when greased with animal fat, in general. Keith's addendum: chicken fat is okay.

Ian explained why he is not a fan of 20th Century music--that there is a reason its audiences are smaller than audiences for, say, Bach. “Roses and daffodils don’t just smell nice to humans, you know,” he said. “They’re meant to attract moths and things, and animals like their smell, as well. This is why I believe there’s something we all have in common, something in popular music that resonates with our most basic instincts. You can intellectualize Schoenberg, but I’m more interested in human beings—why does the man on the street like Beethoven over Kurtag?”
He put it more eloquently, but this conversation led me to believe I need to discuss music with botanists on a more regular basis.

After Jay ate all the goat brie, and told Keith he ate all the goat brie, and Keith ribbed him for it, we all moved onto the balcony. We complimented Keith on his flat and he told us he was sweating it for a bit, because his house was still on the market when he moved in, and that, “At one point, I was a million dollars in debt.” He laughed like he thought it was the dumbest thing he’d ever uttered, and took a drag of his cigarette. “I think the place upstairs is on the market, you two should pool your money and move in.”

Keith is my favorite mitochondria genius millionaire ever.

Stupendous Event #3:

Last night’s Diverse/Lyrics Born show was the best show all week—LB is pure charisma, pent-up and sparkling; Joyo Valarde has a voice with wings; Diverse came and conquered an initially disinterested audience—he tried hard, it paid. He charms, too--complimented me on my earrings, said I was wearing my hearts on my ear, yet he’s “wearing his heart on his sleeve.” Awwww. But the best part was Quannum sneak-peek: LYRICS BORN, D-SHARP, JOYO, VURSATYL, JUMBO AND SHINES FROM LIFESAVAS, AND DIVERSE, ALL FREESTYLING TOGETHER AS ONE, ON THE TINIEST STAGE THAT’S LIKE, THE SIZE OF MY STUMPY FINGER.
Every day, my mind breaks a little more with all the magic. There is no denying that I am lucky, and blessed.

March 25, 2004 (1) Comments

My extraordinary housemate Connie has been vacationing/housesitting for some rich people in le West Hills (mere blocks from Sheed's vacated mansion) and so last night, pre-Aceyalone, we enacted our own temp. version of cribs in the upstairs den (attached to the master bath, swank) and watched MTV on the flat plasma screen thingie. After being there, I can see how it's possible for wealth to be taken for granted, simply due to sensory overload; they had so much amazing stuff it was impossible to process--a palette of so many sheer items, I felt blase. If I lived there, I think all I would do is sit on the balcony on a rocker, wrapped in a ralph lauren home non-fur throw, watch MTV, read books I bought off the internet, and look out upon the twinkle-lights of the city. And chortle.

Cable television as vestigal accoutrement is, apparently, an insane concept, or so I have been told; this was cemented last night as I got my first dose of the Chappelle show--the first dose that wasn't re-enacted in detail by friends, anyway. An entire cast of puppets representing STDs (crabs, the clap, the herp) sang cautionary tales to actual 10-year-olds. The gonnorhea puppet was purple, and conical. The line "I'm gonna beat my dick like it owes me money," was sung in melody of the showtunes variety.

But what I'm here to tell you: there's somethin else. The new Beyonce video. For "Naughty Girl." On some 9 1/2 Weeks, you-can-leave-your-hat-on stripper outtakes; Beyonce is wearing a garter belt and negligee which looks like Barbra Streisand's 1971 slumber party. The Usher/Beyonce courtship freaking is hot, but even for a song as steamy/breathless as "Tonight," it's an overextension when a woman as unequivocally talented and beautiful as Beyonce is pouncing around her video like she's gunning for lead extra in Stepford Wives remake: weirdly cheap. Slathering on the sexiness like storebought frosting in a tub. Maybe it worked for Donna Summer, but that was 1975, when "love to love you baby" was proving lady orgasms weren't feminist propaganda, if anyone was even having non-procreative sex at all. Beyonce in a negligee is too much, like items: excess results in moderate disinterest.
Props to Be's choreographer for the caterpillar vibe, though I will say her trad shoulder-pop as interpretation of bass hit is fairly spent.

If anyone wants to hire me to conceptualize/ choreograph their video, I work fast and cheap.

March 25, 2004 (0) Comments

NY party people: Mon ami E*Rock has an art show, the Lanky Weird Dudes Drawing Show, at Little Cakes in BK starting the 29th. It is not a lie; I can attest to his lankiness and weirdness (and dudeness). I can also attest to his total renaissance man-ness: on 4/16, he shall screen his inimitable flash animation, with your fave Mumbleboy, at Max Prototech Gallery, 511 W 22nd. He's also DJing on like, five radio shows while he is there, and visiting with his brother, E*Vax, whose records he releases, and who's making with the hotness in cresting mountainous guitar solos. With that one dude from the Dashboard Confessional Band.

E*ROCK #1

March 25, 2004 (0) Comments

Project Blowed chugs along--endless, boundless--and tonight, Aceyalone reminded us why he's the rock. (Although the sound guy was stoned/AWOL (not One, thnk gdns), so crazy-for-sub-bass Rhettmatic, god love 'im, sometimes drowned out lyrics.) All Balls don't Bounce is out again and they did "Arhythamaticulas," remix of "Mic Check." Les Good Bros. accompanied, and wore vague imprints of Acey's speed; that's talent, but his diction is what they're missing, on the whole, cause I had no idea what the eff half of their freestyles said. (To be fair, this could be the fault of the stoned/AWOL sound guy; by the end of the show, the bartender was fixing the levels.) The only reason I know they weren't reciting the Necronomicon is that no demons showed.
Accompanying Good Brother emcee No Can Do is promising, but has no done records yet, because he is apparently, like, 12 yrs old. When I asked, Bukue One looked at me cryptically, winked, and whispered, "Soon."

The Visionaries emcees are good on their own, especially 2Mex, but mashed together there are simply too many songs which require the crowd to spell out L-O-V-E. Not L-O-V-E as in L.L.; L-O-V-E as in, H-I-P-P-I-E.

March 24, 2004 (0) Comments

Katastrophe: friend of the Scream Club, FTM emcee, and possibly the first person to rhyme "massagin' me" with both "mysogyny" AND "androgyny."

Another reason: who else is putting in a brag about their 1 1/2 inch dick?

March 23, 2004 (0) Comments

If you love me, you are going with me to see one of my favorite singers of all time, Angie Stone, in Seattle on May 13, which I might add is right around the time of my birthday. Also around the time of my birthday, and an acceptable expression of love and friendship, is your accompaniment to the Ellen Allien show on May 28 at Holocene.

Spring is here, and I feel feral and unpredictable. If you do not agree to the above, neither of us know what I am capable of doing.

And, in one of the great tragidramas of our time: the Portland kick-off of the AMAZING Quannum tour is the EXACT SAME DAY as the Cold Crush show.

March 22, 2004 (1) Comments

Thanks to links from such places as planetout.com and outsports.com, Cowboyz 'n' has had a lot of web traffic for the Boycott Ride Snowboards entry (wherein we berated Ride Snowboards for their ad that said, "The worst part about riding a Burton is telling your friend you're gay.")

As a result, I've been receiving an el camino-load of comments like the one below:

"IP Address: 63.80.47.237
Name: stand
Email Address: stand1112000@yahoo.com
Comments:

I'm not a fan of Ride but that's funny as hell! and you all need to stop crying about it - Let's face it - If it read "telling a friend your lame" do you think all the people with leg disabilities would be bitching? I doubt it - "Gay" (like lame) has become embedded in our generations vocabulary to describe something uncool and that's not going to change - I wouldn't care if some homosexual run company had an add like that saying something about straight people if it was witty and funny like the Ride add - So take your "gay dollar" and replace the cock in your ass with it! - S"

Aside from unfortunate grammar/spelling errors, most everyone opting for the iffy "reclamation of language" stance on the word "gay" ends their comment in a homophobic statement (see above). Sorry, fellas; your "argument" doesn't work in this context, as the word "gay" is clearly employed to connote something "bad," not to mention snow/skate culture's (magazines') long history of hostility towards women and queers. So if you wanna talk empowerment via taking back the words, then let's discuss. But don't assume I'm whining just because I'm not down with a company--one that reaches huge amounts of impressionable kids--that perpetuates the notion that being queer is something to be ashamed of.

Also, the next person who calls me "P.C." gets a yard rake in the eye.

March 22, 2004 (0) Comments

What to do immediately upon returning from SXSW, but go see some bands? Saw Le Flange du Mal tonight, in Portland, in a hunormous, Repo Man-style parking garage 'neath Grand Central Bowl (ing Alley). Their audience, apart from myself and delinquent friends, included four high school goths and a quarter-pipe, though actual skaters and Sparkle Motion were notably absent. After too many disappointments in the land of the XXL Beef Brisket, Le Flange du Mal's birthday-party horrorcore, plus zombified marching-band brass section, turned a night of Hott Cadre withdrawal symptoms into wine. I was crazy for their anti-capitalist squall. And it was all rubbery from the echo of playing in a concrete venue the size of a city block.

It is funny to me, now, how so many evil-sounding, grating bands can bring me joy, dancing as though it's crunk. I like it better than many bands expressly focused on the dancefloor, who give cramps like watching Slash and Eddie Van Halen in the Back 2 Back reunion tour 2003. i.e. Go Go Go Airheart. Syncopation does not equal funk. Intent and genuine going-off-itude, even when surrounded by anti-capitalist screed and pursuance of evil, can do more for the ass-shake than infertile half-time on any high-hat.

Le Flange du Mal wore masks of tape. Since the summer of 2001-ish, when the Brians of Lightning Bolt rocked ski masks, I have been skeptical of masked-band fashion; it was reborn as signifier of the CRAZY, post-Locust NOISE bands that were coming out the Bay Area (and Ann Arbor, and Providence--no dis to Load Records or LB, at all) at that time. I got burned one too many times on directionless noize acts focused more on donning masks than writing music. (Or performing art, or whatever.) (Including, then Crack: We Are Rock, the band from whence Le Flange Du Mal's singer gets his paycheck, and/or free Tigerbeat 6 promos.) The mask is an obstacle to overcome, and not recommended. However, those donning masks because they are truly ugly will be granted an exception.

That's kind of 2001, though. Le Flange du Mal got brutal on synth, drums, dual-vox and trumpet, which lent messy misanthrope and section-8 vocal tactics a weirdly orchestral element. Orchestral as in, sophomore year jazz band, homies. When the singers--a teeny woman in a black dress howling into a mic taped to her trumpet, and a tall, haphazard man in black fishnets incapable of performing without a cigarette--began screaming "I want to live in America," excerpted from the best song in West Side Story, I was reminded that theatrics are never separate from theatrics, and four spazz/goth kids from SF are not that different from Yamil Borges* in the film version of "A Chorus Line." You know?

*another idol of mine, jazz singer/actor/dancer Yamil Borges starred as Diana Morales--clearly, the best part in A Chorus Line, because she gets to be sassy and sing a song appealing to Santa Maria to guide her away from her asshole theater teacher. Yamil also had a brief career as a TV extra in the mid '80s, starring as "Julia Arroyo" on an episode of The Cosby Show, and "Bianca Sandoval" on an episode of Miami Vice. As you may know, my performance idols are generally toughass Puerto Rican women who worked their way up--from the streets of Brooklyn/the Bronx, to Broadway or the big time. Rosie Perez and Jennifer Lopez included. ]

As last-night SXSW revelations go: The Murder Dog showcase showcased Dizzee Rascal as a great performer and emcee, with flow like tropicana: bananas. J-Kwon "Tipsy" beat sounds grimy (apologies to P. Sherburne) when DR's freestyling on it, but that's not right w/out some context. In between Dizzee tracks, watch 400 seventh-generation-ironic-trucker-hatted heads, in Texas, bounce to Jamison (the producer, not the whiskey) in a venue that was essentially a glorified volleyball court, on some 1999 Richie Vibe Vee vibe vee--
Well, that is what we call cultural trickle-down, or cultural fountainhead, depending on where you're standing.
Overheard later: two youngish indierock boys, presumably flown in by the Oberlin college radio station, effusing, "Dizzee Rascal was so great! He kinda reminded me of Aesop Rock!"

Lyric of the night, said by Chamillionaire and the Color Changin Click: "My sex is a weapon/ and it's aimed at you." Scary. But you have to hand it to them for being direct, as opposed to all these young emo rappers like (G Unit) who sidestep the violence inherent in their misogyny, treat it like it's a two-pronged equation (seperate but equal!). Let's hear it for paring away the bullshit and expressing exactly what you mean in 2004.

March 20, 2004 (0) Comments

Partymanica and i, bored of punks promoting atrophied antirhythms as funk and in search of metal madness pizza, with an agenda including far more country music than's been programmed in my blackberry since I chirped out of mom's nest, stumbled upon His Place.
Really, we were just looking for some crunk. And a speaker, placed on the sidewalk outside His Place, wondered, "Y'all ready to get crunk?" Crunk turned out to be one MC asking "Whose house is it?" and 40 kids answering "God's House!" They were serving cookies and Tang at this particular venue.

Later, a very convoluted/ out-of-our-control string of events placed us in the middle of a Vanilla Ice show, wherein Vanilla Ice emerged to a pre-recorded crowd-roar track wearing an Insane Clown Posse tee, trying to rep Austin and growling like Lil Jon, complete with drummer wearing some sort of green glowstick paint all over his body, and baring fangs while hitting the high hat in this sort of jerky, 1989 "I AM SCARY ROCK GUY" face. 300 drunk people screamed, but not loud enough to drown out the prerecorded scream track. It wouldn't have mattered anyway, as they were already screaming, on account of the Jello shooters. I felt genuinely bad afterwards. Not bad sympathy bad, but bad sullied bad. Dirty. Scathed.

I forgot to mention the show was free, and when the bouncer carded me, he said, "Give me a kiss on the cheek." I said, "I'm not giving you a kiss on the cheek." He said, "Come on." I said, "I am not fucking kissing you on the cheek." I should have walked back to god's place, then, for some xtian xrunk. During the concert, J. Hanahan leaned over and said, "The bad part about rubbernecking is that sometimes you actually see the accident." Cars kept piling.

March 18, 2004 (0) Comments

While the rest of you all were copping some Modest Mouse day-olds for fifty cents and an hour in queue, the sleep-eradicated Hott Cadre (plus one honorary member Young Elliott, who's too genius for Le Phader) stumbled upon Pete Rock--PETE ROCK--DJing to 20 people, drunk, and battling nostalgia for his earlier, happier youth, before Jam Master Jay and his dad died.
For free.

Magic does exist, little grasshoppers. And often it is not on the schedule.

March 16, 2004 (2) Comments

Listen: the word is out. I know some of you are using Kumari's cousin's prom photo as your Friendster image. I do not blame you, because it is so amazing. Kumari's cousin / date handmade a tux and formal dress out of Rasheed Wallace Blazers jerseys. The dude is wearing a white top hat. The lady is wearing tube socks. They are clearly the coolest people at the prom.

But they are not you; they are Kumari's cousin + date.

So the least you can do is vote for her to be the next Usher video dancer.

Onward.
EMAIL FROM KUMARI LOHAR-SINGH, aka my b-girl idol part 2:

"Hey everybody! Here is the deal: I had some spare time, so I entered a choreography contest for BET. It's called "Dance like Usher"; I thought, "Okay, sure. No problem." So I sent in my video and I am now one of the top contestants. Here is what I need from you.

In order for me to be one of the top 3 finalists (who get flown to NY to perform in front of Usher), I need all of you to vote online for my video. Go to bet.com. Look for the "Dance like Usher" contest and vote for KUMARI LOHAR-SINGH!

The top three dancers dance for him live on "106 and Park," Monday March 22. Then he picks the winner to dance in his next video."

March 16, 2004 (1) Comments

Sorry about the lack of non-pop cult related content lately, my brain's pulped like a grapefruit on that end, writing other, non blogging-related issues.
But soon, SXSW reports! Guest starring: J. Hopper & J. Caramanica (together we are HOTT CADRE), B. Fasman, J. Gross, R. Kidwell, les Nice Nice, and other faraway friends I totally adore from the bottom of my heart tendrils.

March 16, 2004 (0) Comments

Cause of this whole fukin cutie pie iPod thang, and the kitty purring noise my laptop makes when I upload a disc into iTunes takes about seven hours, I've been able to listen to two artists only on the daily morning walk for coffee: Erykah Badu's "Worldwide Underground," which is a far better, more subtle work, as a whole, than I thought it was at first. This reinforces my notion that I'm only getting better. As in "more mature." "Bump it" is a restrained song about losing it, the song that wafts in frozen moments underneath the floorboards, a voice behind the beats. What the party sounds like from outside. Oh, and Prince, a melange of him--sexy motherfucker, most beautiful girl in the world, seven (my fave prince era, heavy into the sexfunk mysticism), pop life, if i was yr girlfriend (w/really creeeeepy spoken interlude--even Prince trying to depants a lady in those terms comes stronger than Drakkar Noir at Cotillion), i cd never take the place of yr man. Solace in a weekend of bad dates and painful m-f interaction. Love connections were not made. I would rather have been at my desk, working on my curriculum vitae, than doing some of the things I did this weekend.

If you're a man, and you intend to court a woman, here is a list of things you must never do:
* tell her she dances like she is in the '90s, and expect her to believe you are not dissing her (unless you specify "'90s Fly Girl... you know, like Rosie Perez")
* tell her you don't understand why people like Justin Timberlake, or attribute it to irony
* embrace her as if you've been dating for 2 years, rather than having a first date--boundaries, people!
* dump yr probs---
wait.

So listen--I am very pro- emotional interchange. Measured spilling of guts as a slippery path to intimacy. Relationships die when secrets go untold. Or at least they turn concave, and pruney. BUT. Sharing is one thing; treating your date/girlfriend like a trash compactor for your personal angst is entirely another. What is it with certain grown men living in the 21st century--after such important and impactful developments as: couples therapy, Elisabeth Kubler-Ross, male support groups, bell hooks on relationships, "Miss Jackson"--and their persistence in turning the potential lovers in their lives to: be their mom OR be their therapist OR be their personal assistant/validation factory, while never having an inkling in the little specks of Peter Pan glint in their irises that PERHAPS they should RISE TO THE OCCASION and be all that they can be, get an edge on life and end this misery by TRYING to be as together/stable as they expect their women to be.
Unreciprocated saddling of your woman with your emo probs is the new "bitch get in the kitchen and make me a pot pie."

Of course this has much to do with the hooks-ian interpretation of self-actualization, and how women are required to self-actualize and indeed required to, simply, EXERT more in their lives than is sometimes physically possible--maternity leave, what what--simply to reach a normative/operative state of success. And how societally, men are in fact DIScouraged to seek balance between their desire for career/capitalist acceptance, and emotional well-being.
God forbid a law of order be toppled and we find parity in this desert, where two parties can function together in a tandem dance.

March 13, 2004 (1) Comments

My friend Natascha Snellman--artist, filmmaker, semi-star of Gus Van Sant's Elephant, essential interpretive dance partner--shall soon be lost to the city of angels. Her move hit me hard, last night, at Suicide Club, as we were dancing our usual interpretive/Rhythm Nation/vogue melange of goofy dancing, when she said, "I am so tired of all my dance moves. I thought I would be inspired by watching Alyssa Milano's Teen Steam again, but I just realized I already know every routine on there by heart." Jah bless Natascha Snellman. If you make the feelm in LA, give her a job.

March 12, 2004 (0) Comments

Technology is just plain stupid. As in stupid fresh. As in crooked bananurrs; as in, even my tonsils are sweating technology right now. I do not know if I have ever loved anything like I currently love my teeni tooni lil' PINK MINI iPOD. Even mean Ezra's knowing admonishment that "it's a better deal to get the middle-sized iPod" could not squelch the flutter of my heart, the blowing of my mind, the braining of my brain, the complete and somewhat painful (but ultimately triumphant) update to OS X. I am generally a foe of raving materialism and product-worship, but this... it weighs like 1/4 oz.! I can run on the treadmill with it, unburdened by the imposing bulk of CD walkmen. I am no longer subjected to my gym's heavy rotation of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun" vs. "Who Doesn't Love an Ocarina?" mixtape soundclash! I promise to never let this Steve Jobs 666 stuff pass me by again!

I'm supposed to be doing the intro skit for my place of employment's screening of the John Cusack suicide/redemption classic "Better Off Dead," but my boss didn't like my idea for a dialogue-free, performance art interpretation of the film (it would have involved darkness, me suspended upside down by an extension cord a la The Hanged Man, and my friend/coworker Aaron Beam playing a solo on his saxophone). My intro skit/brilliant idea got replaced with a cartoon, where a bunch of little furry animals get their eyes poked out.

Instead, I'll meet you at Suicide Club*, wherein Young Nathan HowTheHell spins everything Neptunes ever did, whilst donning a white bandanna, riding that ass like a Technics horsey.
(*Note: Suicide Club has no formal connections to Suicide Girls. Apologies to Jazzbo, and everyone else.)

Brace and the cast of Suicide Club can ride Pharrell's ass all they want tonight and I'm cool with it, but by decree of myself and the genius R. Kidwell, Bloodshy & Avant are the sound of the summer; they are definitely responsible for my favorite song at the moment--the song that, I NEED, to hear, RIGHT NOW, on MY super-hot, pink mini iPOD. NOW. Britney, herself, can take credit for the boom-sha-lok-lok punch of "Toxic"'s chorus, and its slippery coy interludes, even in her flim-flamputated helium/ nighttime-stuffy-sniffy-sneezy voice. B&A give her Alfred Hitchcock disco strings and a surf solo teleported in from Joey Santiago (but not Dick Dale). (The only bad part being that terrible, flange-drowned vocoder breakdown. That part is indeed bad enough to transport us back to the Britney-must-appeal-to-LCD real world. That part is a direct flight back from fantasy island, where the opaquest teen pop star-turned- like, chainsmoker, is purveying a number packed with the most intriguing production currently on the FM outside the V-Beach tirumvirate.) (No snap on J. Timberlake.)

And speaking of suicide, according to the employah of our own J. Patel, Britney ['s people] has removed the suicide plot from the video for "Everytime."
Videos are the new album art in the era of the iPod. Someone has probably said this but I recently figured it out, having only just now entered the new world order of iPod-dom; please give me space for my baby skin to thicken. It's not too shocking that Brit put in the suicide theme, nor is it surprising that she folded under the potential for PR bloodbath. Its inappropriateness for the MTV only underscores those who are in the habit of broaching the subject. For instance: Jamie Stewart. On the new Xiu Xiu record, Fabulous Muscles.

We are afflicted youth. It seems important that Kanye admits his insecurities not just because he's unique among his rapping peers; it's also because mental unhealth can be an accepted state of being; it goes unquestioned, unmentioned. And so, when people like Jamie Stewart write songs without any semblance of flinch--songs eyeing the truth of a situation like a starving person eyes a poison meal, songs about abuse, neglect and sexual violence in the tradition of Lynda Barry Cruddy and Karen Finley before her... it's disorienting, unsettling, unexpected and uncomfortable.
It can also come off like pain on a pedestal.

Can it? I know Jamie has said, to myself and to others, that every situation he writes about in his songs is based on some reality, either his own or his friends'. I do not believe he is lying. I believe he knows about misery. We once traded books; I sent him the collected works of Martha Gellhorn, and he gave me... he gave me a book on the Khmer Rouge, and another called My War Gone By, I Miss It So. It is a memoir about a photojournalist whose only reprieve from his heroin addiction was the constant violence and fear of Bosnia and Serbia.

What happens when an artistic truth is "I can't wait to tell you I punched your mommy in the chest in front of her new friends"? What happens when emotional/revealing Xiu Xiu songs, about deep sexual transgression, are in the same artistic landscape/MARKET as "emotional"/"revealing" Dashboard songs, about getting dumped and Damn That Sucks? (You Bitch!) Is authenticity more of an issue? Does any emotion on any emo album ever hit heavy, hit hard, ever again, after the lyric "kneeling down before the now familiar flesh of your deformed penis" has been written? Still, I really feel there should be more context for his lyrics--

Well, I mean, I guess one context is that Jamie Stewart promotes the integration of gamelan, new wave and house musics, and cites Henry Cowell as a major influence.
Did this come up when Finley wrote her prose about abuse?

I'm going dancing now.

March 11, 2004 (0) Comments

My Uncle Manny is the second youngest of 12 and thus, as memories get hazy and stories get grandiose, and mom changes her story but pretends she doesn't, or forgets, he seems the most reliable when regaling with stuff about my family.

Lately, he's been sending me beautiful black and white photos, of my grandma when she was young--oh in her early 40s, but had already given birth to 6 or 7 kids:

"Here's one of Mom in her kitchen--queen of her domain! One time, she saw a guy peeping in through the window over the sink. She grabbed a big knife out of her drawer and shot out the back door, chasing him down the street."

And my grandpa, who died when my mom was 16:

"Dad had a form of giantism called acromegaly. As he aged, his cartilage continued to grow, making his ears, jaw, hands, and feet abnormally large. Dad died in 1952 of a heart attack after suffering a stroke in 1949. He essentially killed himself from over-work. I have some of his railroad time books. In 1947, he worked 349 days, taking off only 17-31 August and 24 December. Many of those days were double shifts, 16 hours long! So much for lazy, good for nothing Mexicans!"

Manny is good at purposefully obtuse sarcasm. As it stands, we all share a trait known wryly as "the Escobedo Roll," which is an exasperated eye roll with a simultaneous "tch" of the tongue, hip cocked, often accompanied with a muttered "ay, chihuahua. The Escobedo Roll is employed to express disgust, dismissal, and annoyance. These are, generally, the three most prevalent states of existence in my family, after love and god-worship. Grandma was OG ER, as partially seen above.

My uncle Joe Velazquez passed away this weekend. Though an Escobedo by marriage only, he was the reigning master of the ER, but would only do it to prod the skeptics; no one tried to kill him for it because he was so intensely charming. As in, he had a lot of dignity. He was a teacher, dedicated his life to god, worked in a Jesuit school and eventually began counseling the troubled--marriages, drug problems, etc---basing his beliefs around the most pious and self-relinquishing* aspects of Catholicism. He believed that to have a good life, you must do good deeds. He and Aunt Bea had a ferocious love; as divorces and separations and too-soon deaths and hostility pocked the sacrament for the rest of my aunts and uncles, Bea and Joe shared a palpable tenderness, a palpable tenderness I doubt most people ever know, into their 70s. They were gentle. Joe put Bea through art school, at age 56. He supported them both, so Aunt Bea could get a degree. In pottery.
Now she makes clay pots, glazes them in Aztec patterns, and scatters them all over his garden.

*or self-abnegating

March 10, 2004 (0) Comments

Jim at Outsports, a gay and lesbian sports site, writes:

"We are grateful for this blog for bringing this to our attention and I used some of the terrific comments in my story."

C'n'P scooped on the Ride Snowboards Boycott debacle, and didn't even know it! How exciting.

March 9, 2004 (3) Comments

One Love Records in St. Johns has just expanded, and a man wearing Ben Franklin specs is now painting a loosely chronological mural of hip-hop's old-school greats (including the obligatory, Run-DMC Tougher than Leather stance, and a mushy image of DJ Hurricane emerging from a bottle of Budweiser). When I drove there last night—20 minutes from my house, a lifetime in Portland—the wall was still wet, the air pungent with oils. Octavius Miller, the store’s owner, had me take a photo of him coddling a turntable to his face like his newborn, and kissing it. He is an impressive melange of ideation, sweetness, and humility.

Octavius is the surviving brother of Seagram Miller, who released three records on Rap-a-Lot Records before he was murdered on the streets of Oakland in 1997—three months before Tupac Shakur died. That was the year Octavius turned to music as life-raft; otherwise, he says he might have embarked on a more destructive path. He moved to Portland ten years ago; he likes it. He says it reminds him of Oakland or Berkeley in the early days.

He tells me these stories with a palpable, self-assured pride; Octavius is, after all, the kind of man who talks big, but whose dreams indeed come to fruition. He’s been staging West Coast Peace Tours—huge hip-hop events in parks and woods—for ten years. The Peace Tour is how he hooked up with Fat Tony, from Fat Tone Records in Brooklyn; they're looking to organize something nationwide. Octavius also keeps a recording studio in the back of One Love; hosts the most-watched cable access show in Portland; and, this week, he and Fat Tony are holding a giant benefit for KPSU (1450 AM) with about 30 artists from all over the nation, a panel for artists on protecting themselves against the record industry (attended, ironically, representatives from all major record labels), an emcee battle, a raffle, and an afterparty.

He is also currently filming a remake of the greatest movie ever made, The Warriors. Do not worry! I have generously offered my rollerskating-in-a-baseball-uniform services, gratis. I will indeed mug loco on the MAX train, complete with lime green face paint and a carved-up luulvlle slugga.

Octavius Miller’s main goal in life, though, the one after which he will retire all other promotional endeavors, is RAPSTOCK, to be held on the top of Mount Hood: “Like Woodstock, but for hiphop.” He has the Woodstock Soundtrack record displayed prominently, next to flyers for R.B.L. Posse shows (“That was the last show Mr. Cee ever performed—dying after a show, it's the Portland curse”), photos of Octavius posing with Ice Cube and Too $hort, photos of Octavius with Bushwick Bill, who is rolling up the most gigantor nug of West Coast Carmelo Anthony I have ever seen in a Polaroid. With love, he opens the Woodstock album, a tri-fold, and shows me the photo from the stage. “I want to do this for hiphop. I want to make the biggest party ever. Even if that’s the last thing I do… Even if it's in 2007 or 2008.”

March 9, 2004 (0) Comments

Received in mail today, from unintelligible BKLN return address:

1 mini personal bible ("Verses of Comfort / Assurance / Salvation")
3 informational pamphlets ("Where are you going to spend eternity?", "...sinner who repents", "How to know god")
1 "Gospel according to John" fanzine, in broadsheet format

March 8, 2004 (0) Comments

General Consensus: Critics hate the new Liars record, musicians LOVE the new Liars record, across the board, based on casj weekend polling. Margin of error: ???

I personally love the EP, but could only get through about 3 1/2 songs on the full-length before I felt like I was being subjected to a purity test in a bucket of milk, struggling for my lack of breath through the sanctity of the cow's nectar. Liars LP: where the good will of Yahweh casts heathen critics to their eternal damnation.

I wish my weekend was full of witches and wardrobes, but mostly it was just CDs and file cabinets. Moved to a new house; moving is the lost chapter of The Inferno. Moving turns all else to grits. High points/non moving time, of course, featured Rjyan et chez Buehler, espesh magical Rjys' magical DVD of the magical 1973 jawn Holy Mountain, which is like Jan Fabre on some mystical mescaline tour. Jodorowsky hired little kids to play the crucifiers, ends up kinda Rosicrucian. Not to mention: lizards dressed up as Mayans, encroached upon by toads wearing crusader suits; deaths symbolized by tumbling pomogranates, sparrows flying from an open hole in a man's shirt; Jesus dagger-fighting an alchemist in a rainbow room; a woman covered in Hebrew tattoos stabbing a cello; a hippo in a bathhouse; a displaced swan; and the nine most powerful humans in the universe, representing the planets, on a journey for truth and enlightenment.
And A CHIMPANZEE NAMED CHUCHO-CHUCHO. (No relation to Herman Chim-Chim Anderson.)

Advice to Mel Gibson: don't hate, hire more animals.

March 5, 2004 (0) Comments

From my friend Nate's hourly pop trend missive:

"J--Have you heard the new Liars? I predicted the creation of this album one and a half years ago. Deceit by This Heat is the new Entertainment by Gang of Four, so tell anyone who might be interested, I'm selling my copy: N/M slight ring wear on jacket, asking $150.

Next prediction = Pop Group Y."

March 4, 2004 (0) Comments

Ashes 2 Ashes organizer/host Huy Pham, AKA Knuckles, at the battle: "Someone stole this dude's wallet... that's not cool, this is hip-hop... this is supposed to be a positive thing, you don't come to a jam and steal someone's wallet, turn yourself in! This is hiphop!... also, I got DVDs of the last jam for sale, make sure you get one."

For now, I'm giving up on the digital photos; they aren't super hot, as I was borrowing my soon-to-be-ex housemate Joe Faustin Kelly's piece, which has a 9-second lagtime between pressing the button and actually taking the photo, plus when I put the CD of jpgs he gave me in my computer, it essentially contains a giant flashing middle finger. I'll post them later if I can figure it out. There were a couple OK shots of the Circle of Fire vs. Massive Monkees standoff.

Yep: Massive Monkees swept Ashes to Ashes. To date, I have never seen them lose a battle. They were busting out old skool full-crew routines like you wouldn't believe, and this one time, Lil Lazy somehow flipped up and landed UPSIDE DOWN, on ONE of Twixx's shoulders. I have never yelled the words, "Oh, shit!" more in my whole life. By the end, I had no control over my lips; the "oh, shit!"s were just drooling out my mouth like I was Jazzbo screwing and chopping a handful of Ambien.

But Massive Monkees are the World B-Boy Champions. Thee best in the world, straight certified. You feel as though watching them is a sacred blessing from the b-god in the cypher above. Of course they won. But the fact they were allowed to compete in a Portland jam consisting mostly of up & coming local crews and a handful of extra-hot folks from Seattle, Tacoma, Sacramento, Las Vegas--what's up with that? They should have been exhibition battling, not battle-battling. So when they took the final round, swiped it from a Sacramento crew who would've otherwise woodchipped all those other dudes into $2.99 papyrus econo-pac, it was anticlimactic. The round itself was 50 kinds of nutzoid; you should totally buy the DVD when it's ready. But the Sacramento dudes should have won.

I am sorry I do not know the Sacto crew's name. If you are reading this and know, please fill out the comment form below.

Also: ZERO B-GIRLS. What?! My fave local b-girl, Melissa, had to babysit her 2 yr old cousin. Where my ladies at?!
(Melissa, by the way, is my total dance idol. She's a little green in the battles, but is, stylistically, Ford Prefect on some Mars Rover shite. She has no beef with hip-hop moves (perhaps more acceptable for b-girls than b-boys?), nor limber acrobatics/backbends, a la Sarah Jessica Parker in "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun.)

One More Thing, and it's a complaint, but I swear Huy did a fabulous job of organizing and it was thee best jam ever:
Was DJ MAgneto at the Blazers vs. Nuggets game, or what? Huy, repeatedly: "Manny, this is the FINAL ROUND, we need yr HARDEST BREAKS, the ones you've been SAVING FOR THE VERY END."

He played NU SHOOZ, "I CAN'T WAIT."

It inspired some nice parody moves, at least--as in, "Massive is making fun of yr selection on some Janet Jackson Pleasure Principal shit, oh quick someone get a folding chair for a prop, dude, somebody's doing the running man!" shit.

Complaints aside, there are few ways I'd rather spend a Fri nite. Bless all the b-boys in the entire world, except the mean ones, and the a-hole who stole that kid's wallet. And the homophobes.

March 4, 2004 (0) Comments

Tonight, rather unexpectedly, the well-dressed heartbreaker known as Mr. Matthew Dear drenched his every song in a sooty overlay, oiled up with nuevo house on the Motor City train. The final stretch, a 17ish-minute extendo version of "Dog Days," thickened until we thought we might break from its nasty funk--or bite off our own hands, it so lassoed our Neanderthalic awe.

I am typing this with my tongue right now.

March 3, 2004 (0) Comments

Two things:
First and foremost, Multnomah County is issuing same-sex marriage licenses. This morning 110 couples lined outside the Portland County Courthouse, in the freezing rain. Word to County Chair Diane Linn for making it happen. Her quote, according to my coworker Phil: "This feels right to me--not just legally, but spiritually."

Second: last night, I engaged in Portland's favorite pastime, karaoke, at The Paragon. The Paragon is like a gullier One-Eyed Jack's; you get the feeling that by merely entering, your chances of becoming a meth addict increase by 20%. There is a gate inside the front door and they buzz you in after a brief inspection, presumably making sure your face isn't xeroxed onto their extensive 86'd list. It is like being buzzed into evil-juju Narnia; everyone there is gambling, karaokeing, DTing or like, on the cell phone arguing with someone. I actually heard this pissed-off dude tell his lover, "What am I doing? I'm socializing, which is the same thing I was doing when I met you: SOCIALIZING."

However, thanks to its extensive book and dedicated crowd, The Paragon is a destination for PDX hardcore karaoke massive.

So last night, place was ON. My first song: "Are You That Somebody?" Those future recipients of the Muy Romantico CD (in the mail this week! Jessica Swears) will note that melisma is not my forte; during the "Are you responsibblahlehalehale" parts, the intent was there, but basically I sounded like I was barfing up a baby wren. My strategy, to distract from my mauling of sacred words: Aaliyah video choreography. When all else fails, dazzle 'em with your white-hot fan kicks.

Second number: "Heaven on Earth" by Belinda Carlisle, sung in the style of Katrina Ford. Full hardened goth diva steez, mugging like I'm leggy and supine on Nick Cave's piano; I get about halfway through the phrase, "to understand the miracle of living," when the KJ--wearing a Napalm Death shirt and, by now, visibly inebriated--actually begins FISTFIGHTING this dude in the corner booth.

It was a mini-fistfight, busted up fast, and by the end of my declaration that Heaven is anyplace on earth BUT the Paragon, dudes were making truce. I like to think this joyous reconciliation was brought on by the awesome power of Belinda Carlisle.

As a peace offering, KJ let Fighting Dude sing/rap Sir Mix-a-Lot's "Baby Got Back"; I was still up in the karaoke forum, so Fighting Dude had me guest rap on such rhymes as "Ladies--Yeah! Ladies--Yeah!" and "LA face with an Oakland booty." (Except he insisted we change "Oakland booty" to "Portland booty.")
It was amazing. I will probably not visit the Paragon for about 2-6 months.

B-BOY BATTLE UPDATE: coming soon, I promise! Having digital photo probs.

March 2, 2004 (0) Comments

Wow, I think THIS IS A PETE ROCK EXCLUSIVE, SOUL SURVIVOR II, FOR PROMOTIONAL USE ONLY, BABY I am really feeling SOUL SURVIVOR II, THE ALBUM, Y'HEARD? this AS WE PROCEED, MY NAME IS FATMAN SCOOP aka BIG COLORADO, I'M DOING THIS FOR NEW YORK CITY, I'M DOING THIS FOR MOUNT VERNON, I'M DOING THIS FOR PETE ROCK, SOUL SURVIVOR II, THIS IS THE ALBUM, NOW IT'S GOING DOWN WITH KARDINAL OFFISHALL REPRESENTING CANADA, SOUL SURVIVOR FOR PROMOTIONAL USE ONLY, BABY!!! Pete Rock album.YEAH! UH! DO YOU UNDERSTAND THIS SONG's MESSAGE? WHAT? WHAT?
GO! GO! GO! GO!

March 1, 2004 (0) Comments

Oh yeah, this is for the 1 or 2 fools who played hookey during the "Sasha is a genius" lesson. Have fun in sucka school, and watch out for the language, cause shit is sharp like the tooth-edge of a straight razor.

March 1, 2004 (0) Comments

Thanks to Cowboyz & Poodles Movable Type Personal Publishing System commenter Ben for the back-up and reviews.
Pomegranate!

March 1, 2004 (0) Comments

Update on Lil Jon's career path, from his label:

"Lil Jon will be expanding his Crunk empire this spring as a host for his own
syndicated radio show, "Crunk Radio". The 2 hour weekly Hip-Hop/R&B show
will be syndicated by American Urban Radio Networks (AURN) and pair Lil Jon
with Emperor Searcy, a popular Atlanta radio host.

The Lil Jon will also launch Crunk Energy Drink this summer along with an
adult DVD, "Lil Jon & The East Side Boyz American Sex Series." His highly
anticipated follow-up to the platinum Kings of Crunk will drop in September,
entitled Crunk Juice."

I am inclined to think this is full of shite, but until then I'm taking bets on potential Crunk Energy Drink flavors: Salt, Raspberry Jelly, Sweat. P.S. WHAT?!?