Thursday 9.25.08: Superhero seeks date

Sum & Niles, a.k.a. the Super Blario Bros. Sum was standing on the DJ podium. Niles wasn't.

LAST THURSDAY WE GOT A VISIT FROM OUR BUDDY, NILES. His family hails from the industrial wonderland of Manchester, England, which may explain his World War I-era name, and his talent for making a beer disappear just by laughing loudly. To use the parlance of his home country, he's tall as shite, which could go a certain way toward explaining why he is a world-class karate champion, currently training to compete as a boxer in the 2012 Olympics. He is also a computer genius, which is how he got a job with one of those new companies that gets paid tractor trailers full of cash by ailing record labels to create and plant those files on illegal download sites which you think contain your favorite band's entire catalog, but are in fact viruses that cause your computer to explode in a puff of smoke. [Interesting note: this actually happened the other month to Sum, who turned in despair to Niles, who promptly fixed the problem since it turns out the offending file was one of his creations.] Like any internet brainbox worth his salt, there are several unmarked servers scattered throughout Eastern Europe pumping questionable code into the information superhighway from which an increasing amount of his income derives, so he doesn't really even need a formal job. But, as any man will tell you, you'll find more hot women in an office building than you will in an apartment full of vintage pizza boxes.

Which brings me to the crux of this post. Over our third or seventh drink, Niles and I decided that life is going pretty damn well for him at present. So, like a true friend, I set about trying to find something he was missing to make me feel better about myself. And after a little inquiry, he conceded that there was indeed something absent from even his amazing life: a woman. He has been so busy connecting the lonely men of the world with automated email bots pretending to be single young women that he forgot to get a real one for himself.

So if you're a single lady between the ages of 18 and 1,888, and Niles sounds like the kind of fella you'd like to get to know betta, drop us a line and we will set you guys up on a Thursday evening at Saints. The first round of drinks are on us. After that, you'll have to wring booze money out of the cheap bastard yourself. But he's tall, dark, foreign, well-to-do, intelligent with an air of shadowy intrigue, and has an extra super power that you'll have to discover for yourself. Oh, and did I mention that he's one of the top five best Street Fighter II players in the world?

Friday 9.19.08: A Bar Full of Topless Men....Who signed us up for this sh!t?

Ok.

We've seen Jess hop up on the bar in a leopard-print thong.

We've seen Jorge get sprayed down after crawling across the bar with no shirt and heels on (earning him the alias "Brian Seltzer").

We've even been flashed by the choicest pair of purchased tittays, which I think were blasting fruit-colored lasers from the nipples if I remember correctly.

But what happened on Friday was new ground. I mean guys, you really outdid yourself this time.

THE NIGHT STARTED INNOCENTLY ENOUGH....
Who were we to think there was anything strange about the periodic yells of men at the other end of the bar? Surely, there's nothing strange about Jess taking his shirt off and screaming....with Burlymon joining in. What's weird about that?

But as the screams gained momentum and started happening with a disturbing rhythm....we saw the ghastly trend. The painful prospect of more and more grown men losing their shirts and screaming.

It went from this....


to this...



and next thing we knew, half of the bar was a sea of chest hair and manly screams...



But I guess what kept us from tossin our cookies were the few kind ladies who made the valiant effort to balance the valleys out with their mountains, hills and mounds of concern for our well being. Truck included.... we luh ya guh.



but next time could ya warn ya boys? We were confused.
And the funniest shit is that after the excitement died down and the novelty was over....the Shirtless Brigade was just kinda standing there trying to act like they had shirts on....you know, "nothing strange over here...oh that? just my taco meat falling into my Stella...you know, same ol' same ol"

9.18.08: And so The Palms Weekend Album Begins....

Yo!!!! Palms Weekenders.....this past Thursday we played mad new beats... you heard me...beats. New beats for The Palms Weekend Album. You say, "Palms Weekend Album?". We say "Oh yes". The ultimate neighborhood party album, dedicated to the locals, regulars and the monkey-sweat of the busiest Friday night at Saints. With Malk and I rappin all over the shit. And maybe even some guest appearances from the likes of Baron Von Krahn aka Jess aka "The Original Lord Mustachio".

Yezzzz....Album. It make Malk smile.



The album will go from hip-hop to punk and back again. We do it for you. Yezzz, it make Malky smile, then get drink from Bart. And then Malky dance to the styleez.



The fun is astonishing. The beats from X-Man, Pudge, and Swish....make Malk do shuffle in astonished frenzy. Must get drink from Bart to cool down.


Mm. Drink from Bart make it right. Malky smile in happiness and anticipation.


Ready for the ruck!!!??? Another round please, let's get this motherbeech started!!!! Here we come...

The Palms Weekend Album, Landing in Irish Car Bombs and Hellfires at your local bar, 2009

Friday 9.12.08 : Four Ways You Know Sum Is F*cked Up

So yeah, I'm back from getting married. I was gone for almost a month, and it showed in how weak my tolerance was when I got back. On Friday night, Cooper, Truck and several regulars obliterated me into pieces of a man. I was drunk as a fuck.

I talked to Ian the next day and told him I was drunk as a fuck on Friday night, and he was like "Really dude? I couldn't tell. Oh wait, you were freestyling when I left and it was the worst freestyle I've ever heard". Yeah.

I get that "Oh really dude, you were drunk?" alot, so it made me think that maybe in the interest of the safety, well being and health of those around me, I'd give you guys a few hints so you can know when I've had enough.

CLUE #1) I START GROPING MYSELF




















Friends and family.... please cut me off if you look up in the DJ booth and see me rubbing my own arms and elbows. Unless I'm sweating or riddled with hornet stings, this means I am drunk and loving myself too much. Stop me before I go home and do something with myself I'll regret in the morning.

CLUE #2) I DO AN EXTENDED POP LOCK ROUTINE AFTER A SHOT
Kinda like this guy, but imagine him as a grown black man with a drink in his right hand and standing next to James:

CLUE #3) I START RAPPING BUT NEVER FINISH A LINE
I like to build dramatic tension in my written rhymes and freestyles...so I'll take long pauses between connecting thoughts. But when I'm drunk, the thoughts just never connect, so I'll just say some stupid shit like "The Korean assassin hobbled out of the trailer........................." and then just start smiling. Cut me off.

CLUE #4) I START COMING UP WITH ALIASES FOR EVERYBODY IN SIGHT
Dr. Candyshots, Creepy J, The Fat Tire Phantom, Edward Biggerhands, Burlymon, Mustachio, Mustachio's Intern, Captain Kickout....the list goes on. If you've been to Saints more than twice, James and I prolly got an alias for yo' ass too. It's what we do.

Come through this weekend though and see what aliases we come up with next.....

Thursday 9.11.08 : The Wrath of Dr. Candyshots

Beware the Candyshots, my son!
The jaws that smile, while pouring shnapps!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The girly names and Bandersnatch!

She took her candy sword in hand:
To fill in while our Southy's out --
She rested by the Tumtum tree,
And stood awhile in thought.

And, as in uffish thought she poured,
The Candyshots, while blowing flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And poured us things with candy names!

Bazooka Joes! White Gummy Bears!
The candy blade went snicker-snack!
She slew us sweet, and left us asking
"dude, what the shit was that?"

"And, has thou slain the Saints DJs?
Come to my arms, my Baby Dragon!
What sneaky shots! Callooh! Callay!"
Ian chortled loudly laughing.

`Twas Swish was there, Nikiya too
Did gyre and gimble in the sweet;
Best mimsy up your borogoves,
if Dr. Candyshots you meet

While I Was Away....

Whaddup weekenders, "the black DJ that wears the different hats" (as some cocktail waitresses refer to me), is back. I'm freshly ringed, vowed and married up...and instead of trying to describe what my wedding adventure was like, it's best summed up in this hurr video:



ATL, you're the shit.

Friday 9.05.08: CH-CHINNNNNNNNNG

Yo. Yooooooo! YOOOOOOOOOOOO.

Last night was back to business. Like wall-to-wall, sweaty-neck, who-puked-broken-glass-in-the-men's-room? type business. Within ten minutes of walking in I had been fed three shots back-to-back and Jorge had tried to kiss me at least as many times. By 11:00 Truck and Cooper were visibly sweating as they churned drinks out under the google-eyed gaze of a sea of rubbernecks, credit cards aloft. Jorge pulled his infamous Goodbye Headfake, where he bids long, maudlin farewells to everyone within ten feet, only to return thirty minutes later in a hat and poncho. The place lost a little weight around the midnight hour as the funk and hip-hop began to wear on the white folks; one blast of George Michael and I couldn't see the front door by the time the song was done. The night's status as a bona fide blowout was certified by the rarest of sights: Truck actually came outside the bar for several minutes after closing, something I think I've only witnessed maybe one other time. Maybe. I guess the woman needed some air. 

Practically the entire cast was present; Jason, Matt & Carol, Janet, Zarani, Max, my boy Freddy, Ferren, the Mustachios, Lyndsey, Heat, Isaac, and Greg, whom I beat soundly in an after-hours whistle-off to the tune of Guns 'N Roses' "Patience". No shame in that, brother: everyone has one God-given talent, and whistling is mine. DJing is just a side hustle to buffer my expenses while my career as a professional whistler takes off. Anyone know a good manager?

The big missing piece of the evening, of course, was my recently married compatriot Sum, who returns from Atlanta tomorrow. So my return to Friday nights was somewhat bittersweet. On the other hand, I do make double the money when I DJ alone. So I shall console myself with this extra $100.

DAMAGE (memory permitting): (1) vodka & cranberry, (1) Irish Carbomb, (1) shot of green stuff, (1) rummy mixed drink Ian made me (2) Coronas, (2) Jagermeister & Redbulls, (1) shot of tequila), (1) shot of anonymous sweet liquid courtesy of Truck.

What is happening to me? This time two years ago I could barely finish three beers without lots of breaks and deep breaths. 

My facial hair is growing extremely fast lately. My fingernails too, come to think of it. 

I got an email the other day from a graphic designer named Maurice who said he is a Friday night regular of sorts, and wanted to design a new flyer for us. Amazing timing, since we were actually in the process of working on new flyers anyway. So here's what he came up with. Let me know what you think, and check more of his work out at http://www.moedigliani.com/.

"HMM HMM HIIIIIM" [songaday]

LAST NIGHT'S SET WAS A PERSONAL MILESTONE: it was the first night in a long time that I didn't play "Anna" by Arthur Alexander. Mr Alexander was a singer/songwriter who came to minor fame in the early Sixties as one face of the country-soul sound, a fusion of - you guessed it - country and soul music, that was pioneered by the musicians and record labels of Muscle Shoals, Alabama. Of his stage performances, the Alabama Music Hall Of Fame says "a tall, awkward figure with slightly Oriental features, he stood onstage for 30 minutes, sang ‘lf I Had A Hammer', looked at his watch and marched off in mid-song." He had a few successful regional hits, faded into obscurity following an unnamed illness, was a bus driver for thirty years, recorded an album in 1993 called Lonely Like Me, and died a month thereafter.

I found "Anna" while combing through mp3s online one day a few months ago and recognized it instantly. But not because the Beatles covered it. Because it's Al Bundy's favorite song.

Married With Children: the "Hmm Hmm Him" episode

Took you back, eh? You're so old. Here's the song. Thank me later.

2008: THE SUMMER OF LOVE.

Sum & Nzinga - August 30, Atlanta, GA

Nikiya & Jimmie - August 23, Negril, Jamaica

Takes me back to my wedding day.

Great trip. Jamaica to Atlanta: from the land of booty to the land of more booty. People actually drove crazier in Atlanta than they did in Jamaica; we narrowly escaped a head-on collision with some moron in an Explorer thanks to Cece (skill, girl) on our way to Sweetwater Creek for Sum's cookout. Hurricane Gustav chased me from the Caribbean to the South, but I already danced with Katrina, so the Russian wasn't fazing me. When we walked into Strokers (link) a.k.a. Rap Video Heaven, the strip club in Atlanta that Sum had his bachelor party at, Kool Keith was at the bar in Bono shades with a purple sequined cloth around his neck that looked like the cape from a child's Halloween outfit. We also went to Pin-Ups, another strip club across town, but it had nothing on Strokers. Actually, the world in general has become considerably less interesting post-Stroke.

Sum's back from Atlanta on Sunday, so I'm flying solo today and tomorrow. Squalor at your buoy.