Decade's End Party: New Year's Eve at Saints & Sinners. FUCK THE CALENDAR, WE'RE OUT

2009 WAS WEIRD. A vaguely black guy became president. I turned 30. Michael Jackson croaked. I got a steady girlfriend. The world economy collapsed. I became an extremely minor Youtube celebrity. My friend Pudge got stabbed while deejaying. Saints & Sinners management opened a bar a block away from... Saints & Sinners. Sum and a bunch of my friends dubbed themselves The Milky Way and started running around town in wigs and facepaint. And my parents are flirting with each other after 15 years of divorce. Mama said there'd be days like this. I just didn't expect her to be sitting on my father's lap when they came.

I don't want to get too deep into my feelings on the decade. It's gonna be a few more years before we get enough distance from it to really understand what a satchel of turd it was. But for now, consider:

• N'Sync broke an album sales record that many say will probably never be topped.
• And the buck-toothed guy from Mad Magazine stole the presidency for eight years.

For now, that's all I got. And really, that's all I need.

Gregorian calendar rules dictate that decades begin on the 1, not the 0. Fuck a Gregory. That's a gay ass name and this was a ridiculous ten years. The new decade begins Thursday night at Saints & Sinners. Entry is free. Midnight champagne is free. I'm on the tables all night. Everyone who shows up to Saints that night will spend 2010 basking in the radiance of a new beginning. Everyone who doesn't will have condemned themselves to another 365 days under the shitcloud listening to Kelly Clarkson and trying to figure out in what part of town you're least likely to get the shit smacked out of you for wearing a kufi (hint: stay north of Hyperion). See you next decade, bitches. Well, 126 of you anyway. Don't need the fire department coming up in the bar. Especially with the fireballs and all.

SMOKEY ROBINSON, "THE AGONY AND THE ECSTASY" [songaday]

"Agony" can be found on many of those oldies compilation CDs covered with drawings of lowriders, crying clowns, Latinas in Jessica Rabbit dresses and various other images you may find across the average Mexican Mafia member's chest. Mildly acclaimed LA rapper Defari's nod on '98's "Keep It On The Rise" ("I like the oldies / like 'Agony & Ecstasy' by Smokey") is 90% of the reason I half care about him. I forget the circumstances under which this song got lodged in me, but I recall a crisp winter and whisky in the morning. It's about accepting a fucked-up situation, it's an affirmation of an immutable law of love, and it always seems to come on just when you're dancing with someone you have no business dancing with and that's how you know you're getting older.

Wikipedia: Smokey Robinson

IF YOU DRIVE A MUSTANG, I PROBABLY HATE YOU.

Now don't you feel stupid.

IT WAS THE EARLY- TO MID-NINETIES WHEN INSECURE PRICKS OF AMERICA WERE AT LONG LAST INTRODUCED TO THEIR CHARIOT. American-built, with none of the rice-in-the-tank feminism of the Japanese fin rides, and all of the little-dick stench. In the greater Los Angeles area that William "oops where'd my cigar go" Clinton presided over, the sleek curves and insistent growl of a then-new Ford Mustang were the last two details to wash over one's senses before some extra-short son of a successful attorney would jump out of the driver's side and start yelling at someone while vaunting himself chest out around the perimeter, MC Eiht foreshadowing the bloody beatdown from stock Kenwoods, and a phalanx of his bandana'ed up "friends" itching to trampoline on some poor kid's corpse in the name of their current sponsor.

But that's not why I hate Mustang owners. I was never that kid, and besides, who doesn't enjoy witnessing a horribly mismatched ass-whipping every now and again. I hate them because they drive like suicide bombers on their way to a Holocaust museum. We've all been there. You're driving down the freeway, playing the game. You have a bowl of chili waiting for you at home and you just want to live. Cars in your rear view mirrors look steady. Then out of nowhere, Bruce fucking Wayne roars an asshair past you as he weaves through the minute gaps between an eighteen-wheeler, a Prelude and your car to cross four lanes at once. They do all this, of course, under the assumption that nobody else on the road hates their life half as much as they do, and therefore won't make any sudden moves that, when paired with their sudden moves, would mean at least two people less who won't have to wonder about whether the new healthcare plan will actually have a public option or not. But all someone has to do at the moment Lil' Napoleon slaloms past is reach for their coffee, or look at their phone, or pick their nose, or - God forbid - forget for even a second that the roads are full of idiot Mustang drivers, and it's gonna be three hours before they haul off that miserable yellow wreck and traffic can get going again. So yeah, fuck at least 90% of Mustang drivers. I'm trying to live over here.

I'm deejaying Saints & Sinners Christmas night! Come through bitches.

CHRISTMAS NIGHT AT SAINTS: COME PARTY WITH (JES)US.

JESUS AND MY GIRLFRIEND ARE BOTH CAPRICORNS. Figures. They both have dreadlocks. They're both "practical and hardworking". They both have a talent for making me feel like Satan. And they have both found spots in the grubby petri dish of my heart. Yes, I have found Jesus. But not in the way that most people find him, i.e. finding a reason to live, or finding a reason to not smoke crack or beat your mother up because she keeps asking you why your wife never comes around anymore. For me, it was more like the way one finds an interesting book - which that day was Love Without Conditions, a slim paperback stuffed between the self-discovery manuals and huge jars of colonic powder crowding the bookshelves of a 'spiritual advisor' whose rat-infested Kauai home we rented when we visited Rojeanne and Brick last month. Now, ask me and I'll tell you all religions are Stone Age fairytales invented to keep the butcher from boning the preacher's wife. But I'll be damned (ha) if Jesus - or his ghostwriters (ha ha) - wasn't/weren't/aren't onto some revolutionary shit. I'd have a beer with the guy anyday.

And what better day than Christmas Day? I love buying people birthday drinks. You get to enjoy the gift with them. All anyone really wants is a damn drink anyway. When your best friend of thirty years mentions that it's their birthday at the bar, it's an easy way to make it seem like you remembered. It's bound to be cheaper than whatever other crap you probably would have bought them (if anything). And what better location to have a drink with the son of George Carlin than Saints & Sinners? They'll be cheaper than Bimbo bread and boxed wine for me (employee discount). I'll be playing James Brown and Black Sabbath's Christmas albums. And the joint is named after the both of us. Case closed.

So if any of you should find yourself on your knees in front of your or someone else's bed tonight or tomorrow night, do me a favor and let Young Beardly know that there's a few drinks with His name on them Friday night at 10899 Venice Blvd. in West LA. It's free to get in, and I'll be sure to have Ian blow his fireballs toward the back of the bar. I bet those locks of his would go up like a polyester sweater.

Oh, and the rest of you are invited too.

exclusive: Archeologists uncover CULVER WOMAN.

Archaeologists have found what may be the footprint of the first humanoid to ever exercise. It was found at the Culver City branch Of Bally Total Fitness, on the penultimate step of the stairway between the changing rooms and lobby. The slender, well-rounded shape of the footprint suggests that the humanoid was female, hence her nickname 'Culver Woman' in the press. The footprint was pointed in the direction of that one treadmill in the corner that only goes up to 6.2. The fact that the foot left a permanent impression in a stucco stair suggests that Culver Woman may have had an abnormally high bone density, or may have been a superhero of some sort.

That, or she was a woman with the kind of foot funk that could burn through plastic. Or maybe she stepped in a nice puddle of that Bally staph infection I keep hearing about. I think the CDC put it in the books last year. Or maybe she was running from one of the perverted personal trainers so hard that she ran a hole in a fucking stair. (Staph infection and staff infection? Twofer!) Forget project stairwells, the Bally stairwell will get you killed.

P.S: There is not, and has never been, an apostrophe-s on the end of Bally.

MALKOVICH & SUM, "ORDER ANOTHER ROUND"

Beat by X-Ro. Video by Sal Green. Filmed at Saints & Sinners. Download at www.malkovichmusic.com.

The Return of BLX

Sum here. Now unless you've been up under a rock with a thumb in your mouth for the last two years, you've probably figured out that James and I rap. And we're pretty damn good at it, if I must say so myself. Might be a tough sell to some of you, but I say we're better rappers than DJs. I know we're geniuses with the mixing, and our library of popular and current music is staggering but I'll take no arguments on this one. We get busy on the mic.

What most of you don't know is the epic, Star Wars-like saga that put James and I in that DJ booth every week. It's the stuff of legend, and one day the tale will be told in all it's tragic filth and glory. For now, it'll suffice to do a quick Sum up and get to the point.

The Beginnings

For as long as I can remember, my favorite artists have always been cats I know. When people ask me who my favorite rappers are, they get a list of strange and obscure names like "Monn Jones", "Pudge", "Felix" or "Jak Progresso". This is because when you've been rapping as long as we have, eventually everybody you know is a rapper or carries weed for one. When you know this many rappers, some of them are bound to be really good. And out of those good ones, a few of them are giants. I know dozens of gargantuan giant colossal muthafuckas.

My boy James AKA "Malkovich" is one of them. I'll get back to "The Persian Perversion" in a second, but back in yonder-year, he co-founded a crew called BLX.

Hip-hop has always been a system of fraternities that we call "crews". My maiden crew is called The VJC, and we're a bunch of knucklehead nerds from different spots on the map. I'll tell the VJC story another time. We formed in L.A. in the mid-90s around the same our evil cousins were born, BLX.

The connection between BLX and The VJC lies in a strange young lad we call Felix. In the picture above, he's in the white jacket. One day the world will know him, as a mighty educator and MC. He will one day shake Barack Obama's hand. He will then accidentally trip on a feather and break his fall on the button that says "nuke". Felix was a founding member of BLX and later joined The VJC.

I often compare our comraderie to De La Soul and A Tribe Called Quest, but really, it goes back even further than that for us. Our crews grew up together, bumped into each other tagging the same walls, and cracked open stink bombs in the same detention halls. Eventually, The VJC founders graduated from high school and ventured out into the world to find new recruits for our army, while BLX stayed the course at home to plant a grizzled and gnarly flag deep into Los Angeles soil.

While The VJC were off in different states shrooming, fending off rabid cougars, recruiting cats like me, and being hunted by Southern drug cartels, we would hear endless tales on the wind about the havoc BLX was reaking on L.A. Strange word combinations like "hammers and shopping carts", or "fist fights in the session" and "he dipped his dick in a cup of tea" were the stuff of everyday updates about our Cali cousins.

But then we'd get these BLX albums that were nothing short of virtuoso. BLX was making the equivalent of punk music back when the indie-hop revolution began (Lyricist Lounge, Rawkus, etc) in the 90s. This is when alternative hip-hop actually made the mainstream airwaves and you might hear Juvenile and The Roots back to back. And looking back on it, they were kids. Hell, we all were. But for all their pirate antics and skullduggery, the BLX boys were pumping out albums that were grand in scope. The rhymes, the beats and the concepts were layered and multi-dimensional.....thoughtful, rugged, manic, aggressive, masterful and way beyond their years. And all executed with a sinister grin and ghoulish sense of humor.

(A young Molman, on the set of "Jacuzi Gustapo")

Crag Malkovich, Omni, Molman, Monkeyshine McBrain, Krok, Milx, ABCDEFG, Cee Brown and a host of other characters populated the BLX roster and did things that no other MCs in Cali were doing at the time. These days their legend speaks for itself. If you mention BLX to any self-respecting hip-hop head in Los Angeles, you'll get the most respectful of nods and goonish grunts.

And so the alliance between families has been forged in many years of blood, sweat, tears, beats and verses. We've been fans of each other and collaborating for over a decade.

And now here James and I are with you, putting up toasts in a den of fire-breathing alcoholics, playing the nastiest music on earth. Which brings me back to James...

Malkovich

You guys at the bar look at your reflections in James' hair and laugh at the drunken quips falling from his beard and take for granted that you're in the presence of one of the nastiest lyricists this generation has ever seen.

If you don't own it already, do yourself a favor and make arrangements to purchase his debut album Skeletons next time you see him. If you really want a treat, go back and do your homework on BLX's entire back catalogue (VocabuDrab Sessions, Veganz Want Beef, Sunch Punch, all the Omni solos, Milx's solo Elevator Music, etc). That way you can really appreciate the growth and master craftsmanship of the comrade I fly this Palms Weekend flag with.

Which leads me to the point of this whole post.

The Future

We've all grown up now (kinda). The hammers have been put down, the shopping carts have been parked, and the Dick Tea Soup has been poured down the drain. The chi has been focused and steeped in oaken scotch barrels. Our allies have been chosen, our enemies have been sized up, and the walls of the music industry are crumbling to the tune of Armageddon. The timing is perfect. Our mission has been set before us, we've seasoned our blades to perfection and set our stunners to "revenge". The branches, cabinets, infantries and special forces have been informed and placed.

The legend of BLX is beginning a new chapter, and the next page reads "Palms Weekend". James and I have teamed up to bring you Tales of the Bars by the Block. And the first gem from that project is our song "Order Another Round" (produced by founder of The VJC, X-ro, and mixed by VJC alumnus Belief).

And that song comes with a brand spankin' new and spiffy video...

The video premieres this Friday at Saints & Sinners. Midnight.

See you there.

THE BUILDING SNEEZE: A WHODUNNIT.

During the last 200 or so weekends we have all spent together (mostly) unsuccessfully trying to induce alcohol poisoning, a sizable portion of you freaks have been to my apartment building. (Speaking of, someone on Yelp referred to the crowd at Saints & Sinners as a 'freakshow'. What a swordswallower. Yelp is ruining fun, one geek at a time. If you've written more than three Yelp reviews containing the words 'lackluster' or 'tasteless', do yourself a favor and ask the person nearest to you to smack the shit out of you, preferably until a light strand of drool is dangling about three inches off your lower lip. Then tell them I said thanks. And maybe even post a review of the experience while you're at it.)

Anyway, for those of you whose lives haven't officially started yet, my presidential compound is a cross between a frathouse, INS detainment center, rapper hostel and The Carter from New Jack City with medical marijuana and Captain Morgan spiced rum replacing crack rock. It's a place of sights; children playing tag to the sounds of the neighbor's porn videotapes turned way up. It's a place of smells; Cafe Brasil garlic funk wafting through my shower window and getting stuck in my hair. And it is a place of sounds, the most puzzling undoubtedly being a phenomenon that has come to be known as The Building Sneeze. And I am going to hack my head off and fry it lightly in olive oil if I don't find out who is responsible for it, and soon.

The Building Sneeze echoes through our courtyard-cum-driveway a few times a day, and never without remark. Visitors' eyebrows raise. Dogs halt mid-bark. I imitate it immediately and loudly, hoping my mimicry will eventually shame its perpetrator out of sickness. Whoever it is has to have been ill for about three years now, and sometimes I think they're deliberately staying ill just to annoy the neighbors. It sounds like someone is trying to cough a small animal out of his or her throat, which they may possibly have inhaled during the inevitable previous sneeze. It must be a scary thing to see a beloved family member, host of so many life-affirming moments, morph momentarily into an altered beast at the dinner table and then go back to talking about how their day was. What does that do to a child?

SUSPECTS.

It's neither of my sisters. I refuse to believe that anyone with my DNA could make that sound. Except my Uncle Dariush.

It ain't Janet, because you would hear a "DAGNABBIT" or something immediately afterward.

All other tenants are too new for consideration, which leaves:

JESSE THE PARKING LOT BUM KING. Jesse is to the Cafe Brasil parking lot what I am to the neighborhood: its unquestioned overlord and mascot, regardless of what the irritating Arab guy who owns the lot seems to think. At night a sound not unlike sneezing can commonly be heard from the lot, but his is less acute, more phlegmatic, like he's trying to hock up some bad memories. Besides, the Building Sneeze is clearly louder from within the building courtyard.

MRS BROWN. I love her more than lentils at 4am, but she can barely get across her living room, never mind muster the energy to make a sound with that kind of force.

THE PAKISTANI FAMILY DOWNSTAIRS. As time passes, my suspicions weigh ever harder in their direction. But I just can't imagine that kind of sound coming from the husband or the wife, which means, of course, that it could be either of them. They have a teenage son, who is urged to confirm or deny this claim in the comments section.

THE LANDLORD OF THE OTHER BUILDING. A wide, bearded Pakistani man perpetually clad in a Muslim prayer cap and grubby off-white tunic who looks like a wizard attempted to turn Abraham Lincoln into some kind of forest creature but only got it half right. Hitler would probably have had people shot for making less disgusting noises than I've seen this man come up with, but he's just not around the building enough for him to be the sole perpetrator. So I'm stumped.

By definition, a sneeze is a hard thing to track. It's not like I have the time to sit around my courtyard until I catch the culprit in the act. Well, I guess I could do an hour or two a day. Maybe a system of surveillance cameras? I have to do something. If humans backfired like cars, it would sound like the building sneeze. It sounds like one of Jabba The Hut's minions belching at a Mos Eisley concubine for more wine.

It sounds like something's trying to die.

Operation: Die Tyrese, Die

A little over a month ago, I dropped an album with my cohort Belief (Sum and Belief are....The Lone Wolf). Some of you may recall the quaint and laid back release party we threw at El Cid in celebration. What most of you don't know is that we had to barrel through two madmen and an ADD/OCD sound engineer to make that party happen.

One of the two madmen was an older white gentleman with no eyelids that spoke in measured barks. He was clearly ex-military and had suffered some kind of injury that I'm sure resulted in him cashing in on some kind of disability settlement after discovering he could only speak in buttery growl. That settlement, I believe, was angled towards the purchase of El Cid by he and his band of merry goons. So the old Silverlake establishment that once upon a time only hosted acts with a considerable draw now books everything cool and indie..... from the Root Down to events like Feast of Fetus shows, Lone Wolf release parties and all kinda other crazy shit.

Speaking of Feast of Fetus, they rocked there a few nights before we booked The Lone Wolf at El Cid, which leads me to my second madman (and the point of this whole story).

The second madman was a big burly dude from Arkansas by the name of Zedric. This dude was a class act, and a classic Southerner....I picked up on it immediately. Real folk, firm handshake, open talk, strong-spirited, good-natured...you know, kinda like me. Zedric almost vomited on my forehead when I told him I knew the Feast of Fetus guys, and I think we almost didn't get the show. This was a dude who was probably raised in a church on the dusty outskirts of Texarkana and could probably throw a bull-calf at a helicopter in mid-flight. He's country. So you know, the whole Feast of Fetus band name thing....it made his chin quiver. You've never seen a wholesome Bible-belt type squirm until you tell 'em you're cool with Feast of Fetus.

Needless to say, we got the show.

The point of all this is that Zedric's day job was playing a stunt double. He was pretty amped about this new opportunity he had on the table to play B.A. Baracus' stunt double in the new A-Team movie. For those who don't know, Baracus is the character played by everybody's fav black dude wearing a shark's weight in gold and rocking a fro-hawk, Mr. T.

Zedric was only gonna get the stunt-double role if some no-name actor got to play Baracus. The only thing that was standing in his way was a muthafucka named Tyrese....for Tyrese was in the running for the role.

This all happened a few months ago, and according to my most recent research, it looks like Tyrese IS going to be playing B.A. Baracus in the new A-Team flick, and my man Zedric will be stuck booking indie rappers in Silverlake a little longer alongside the vet who talks in cautious barks.

Maybe Tyrese is a good actor, but since when has good acting had shit to do with anything featuring Mr. T? Anybody who can open a can of garbanzo beans can play B.A. Baracus...so this isn't an issue of acting skill or ability. It's an issue of Tyrese being too soft and pretty for the role. This is not to mention his tender and murky music video past, where he has been seen vigorously rubbing his naked chest chest in the shower. Great. The ladies love it. But B.A. Baracus is a character for MEN. Hollywood, you're trying to pull MEN out to see the A-Team, not Mindy who loves "The Hills". As boys, we would watch the A-Team and then jump through 2nd-story windows instead of walking through the front door to go play. We would pick up toy vans and throw them at girls. We'd set bushes on fire and run away from them in slow motion. Now, those boys have become grown MEN!! And you give us TYRESE?

I hate you, mainstream Hollywood. And now, to add insult to injury, I hear that Tyrese is going to be playing Panthro in the new Thundercats flick.

I mean...at this point, they might as well dress up a piece of human dookie in a Thundercat costume and have Tina Fey do a voiceover. Then stab me through the heart. With the Sword of Omens.

the PALMS WEEKEND'S GREATEST BOOTINGS

a montage of pics from what turned out to be our last Saturday at Stinkers.

by trevortraynor.com

WHEN YOU'RE A DJ, PERSONAL EMAILS FROM MANAGEMENT normally only mean one thing. So when I got one the other day including the words "Stinkers" and "revamp", my first thought was "well, at least I won't be skipping work when I go to Vegas next Saturday."

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we are no longer the Saturday night DJs at Stinkers. We had several crappy nights recently, an unseemly trend which the twin forces of recession and expansion both fuel, yet leave precious little room for. I'll miss my Saturday nights in Hipsterlake: Geoffrey (pronounce it Jofri) and his drunken Angels, the farting skunks, waking up in the back seat of my Civic at 6:30am on Sunset, the bacon-wrapped hot-dog lady. Well, she sells hot dogs wrapped in bacon. If only women were made of hot dog meat and wrapped in bacon! Anyway, best of luck to the house iPod, who I'm told will be succeeding us. I heard it's a little nervous, so buy it a shot or two. Then drink 'em yourself.

Our most recent deposing got me to reminiscing on all the old gigs we've had and lost during our three years or so as the busiest non-DJs on the Los Angeles DJ circuit. Thus, I give you the Palms Weekend's Greatest Bootings: The Anthology.


THE GOOD HURT
Spirits were high as plans were drawn for a weekly Thursday night event under the supervision of the Good Hurt's manager, a man we called Darth Shmoe, whose curious blend of bland and blunt made me think of plastic forks every time I saw him. We were to share the evening with a local DJ/promoter who shall remain nameless. We had flyers galore, a three-man team, and a roomy local venue. Problems:

a) the flyers were cheesier than a triple cheeseburger with no meat, extra cheese, and slices of cheese in place of bread
b) the other DJ was a total wanker who spent ten minutes laughing at our laptops and telling us we were the most amazing DJs he had ever seen with a big sneer on his face one night at Saints, as if Sum is as blind as I am. I notice nothing. He notices everything.
c) Entry was $10. For a club in the middle of nowhere. On its first night. That only serves beer, wine and that imitation Korean wine-vodka they feed to schoolkids.

The turnout was 'sparse', and Darth Shmoe was immediately on the brink of canning the whole thing that same night. I feel he could have been talked off the cliff, but Sum pulled an executive move and withdrew our participation on the grounds of irreconciliable differences, a.k.a. you guys are wankers. Last I heard, Shmoe is no longer manager, and that local DJ/promoter is still nameless.


THE ARSENAL
See the post Arsenal, Fin (link)


THE GARTER
This gig landed in our lap thanks to Truck, who was bartending there, and used her signature grizzled charm to persuade the higher-ups to give us Thursdays for a trial month. On arrival, there were a few sullen types occupying chairs at the bar, and a handful of weak-kneed college kids on the dancefloor. And that's pretty much the way it stayed until closing time. Nevertheless, I was surprised when I got The Call from management the following weekend. It takes time to cultivate a crowd, especially on the Westside, something so many bars seem unable or unwilling to understand.


CARBON
Carbon's managers gave us Wednesdays like they were giving us a stick of Doublemint. And they let us ride it out for almost a year before pulling the plug, to their credit and our dismay. Despite our best efforts at promotion - i.e. a mass email a week, a bunch of text messages and me handing out flyers to pretty women at Ralphs - turnout was almost bipolar, going from near-packed one night to the fourth floor of the library the next. The total number of times I spent my whole night's profit on a burger and fries at In-N-Out across the street is a figure I never want to know. I was an overpriced Jack and Coke away from calling management myself when a mysterious number finally appeared on my cellphone, and a mysterious man on the other end of the line introduced himself as the new manager, and proceeded to fire us like he was giving us a stick of Doublemint. We didn't belong there anyway; the default Carbon crowd likes the musical selection a bit more mainstream than we can stomach. It's the only bar where I felt like I might get assaulted for having no Beyonce songs.

But on my way out, I did recommend DJs Panamami and Dizam to management (as if I was in any position to recommend DJs), who have been rocking Sunday nights there ever since, and are celebrating their final Sunday there this weekend before they move to Saturday nights, where I will be the resident host. Cee Brown (see the post CEE BROWN, the most slept-on DJ in LA) will also be on the tables weekly, as will P.U.D.G.E., who we are throwing a benefit concert for this Wednesday at the Little Temple after he was stabbed for playing the wrong beat at Project Blowed last month (not making this up). I joke about getting assaulted for having no Beyonce songs, but this man is living it. Sum and I are performing along with many other of our talented friends, and $5 entry fee goes to Pudge's bills, which are considerable, since a DJ with one healthy arm has the cards stacked against him somewhat. So do the right thing and come on out this Wednesday. What, you thought you were getting out of this post without a shameless plug? Dream on, dreamer.

this Saturday in West LA: the SEND MALKOVICH FAR AWAY PARTY

A COUPLE OF MONTHS AGO, Brendan a.k.a. Looney, our Bostonion compatriot with the shiniest dome west of Disneyworld, hipped me to an internet radio station called Hunnypot (link). Most musicians would probably have more of an audience playing their new record loudly out of their apartment window than they would appearing on the average internet radio show, as many of those as there are these days. So I usually file a visit to a new one somewhere between 'get a real job' and 'alphabetize my underwear' on my to-do list. But my interests in Hunnypot were piqued by my twin weaknesses, convenience and alcohol. Every other Monday night they record a new installment of the show live at their headquarters, a comfy little crib right in the hood on Venice and National, where the musical guest performs live for everyone lucky enough to get an invitation, which the following Monday included me.

Several members of the Wild Men of Borneo were already flitting about the patio when I got there, so I didn't even bother to check the keg. From the patio, the entrance to the house was through the kitchen, which was crammed with people craning their necks to catch a look at a folk band performing in the middle of the living room, which looked like... someone's living room, except with two sets of turntables in the corner and a bunch more people surrounding the band. When the band packed it in, a deejay fired up some hip-hop, people started passing a pipe around, and I thought to myself that I should really talk to these guys. I could only find one restroom, and I don't do the ones with two doors.

So I talked to the guy who runs Hunnypot, and turns out they're cooler than a bag of downtown mangoes. We've been looking for somewhere cool to throw a house party to raise money for some plane tickets to Japan and Australia, where we have show dates and hotel rooms waiting for us. So this Saturday afternoon, roll your musty ass on over to the Hunnypot HQ between two and darkness to catch your boys Sum and Burnie on music selection, along with several of Hunnypot's finest, all buffered and made merry by cheap drinks, of which the proceeds will send me far away for quite a while. I'm sure quite a few of you will come for that reason alone.

What the hell does Tommy do?

For the young pups out there who might have missed the reign of Martin Lawrence on primetime TV for about three years, let me give you a little background.

Martin had this friend named "Tommy Strawn" that was fairly worldly, very tall and pretty Black. His shirts were always of the silkiest texture, and his bald head boasted the shiniest of sheens. He was the voice of reason in the cast of madcap and crackishly fun adventures of Martin and friends. His biggest quirk was that nobody knew what the hell he did for a living. Everytime somebody asked, he got cut off mid-explanation, or he spoke in abstract terms and avoided the subject. It was a little like Kenny dying in every episode of South Park.

In the years following my termination from a career watching television (seriously...and the shit paid well), I strode off into the murky swamps of self-employment and gorilla hustlin'. In that time, I have ofted felt like the good Tommy. I would have a hard time explaining even to a mirror what the hell it is I was doing.... It's been kind of a mad mixture of freelance writing, DJing, licensing and publishing of music, private tutoring, copy writing, lifeguarding and waiting for Hillshire Farms money to appear in my mailbox (right on time, like it always does). It all kind of mashed together into the "SumCareer" which, although not lucrative as of yet, still keeps the ship afloat with enough room to spare for romance, adventure and debauchery. Ultimately, all those things I do have mashed into one big clusterfuck of an idea that I had almost two years ago called The Good Look. The idea was simple. Pay me three bucks a month and I'll give you everything I got musically, as well as produce a monthly newsletter for you and a blog that'll inform you about the indie lifestyle. The Good Look turned into a videomag that pretty much wraps everything I do up into one nice ass package. That essentially is a model to release my music, market my peoples and cultivate the science of connecting people slathered together through subscription and advertising dollars. Now, I really don't have to explain shit. You just watch it. Checkmate, Tommy. I'm free of your curse.

The Good Look :: Julune Edition, Bundle 1 from Sum Patten on Vimeo.

The first part of The Julune Edition of The Good Look video magazine (TheGoodLook.Net)

CEE BROWN, the most slept-on DJ in LA.

photo by Kyla for BlackNBling

CEE BROWN IS MY BOY. Specifically. You got your friends, who you could take to tea with mother and are pretty boring for precisely that reason (well, more like YOUR mother - mine is a riot). Then you got your dogs, who are good fun, but you only recognize them when they're standing next to a keg with a red plastic cup in their face. Then you got pals and buddies, which I don't have because they sound a bit gay. But your boy is all-purpose: knows when not to use the word 'motherfucker', will buy you a beer without you having to remind him about that twenty he still owes you, and has a craft: something he brings to the table at which we men of enterprise draw up our dreams. I've known Cee Brown since high school, and Cee is my boy. His craft is rocking parties. He's been doing it non-stop since then, and he just keeps getting better.

Cee is a throwback to the old school party DJ of yore, who kept every record some kinda funky, kept no record on too long, and kept moving till everyone in the place was moving too, and then kept moving some more. My deejay routine consists of me pressing buttons on my laptop between drink orders. This guy works up a sweat on the turntables. The shit's like fucking aerobics. And your dancin ass will be pretty greasy by the time he's done too. Cee Brown plays party music - that hip-hop, funk and r&b nobody can resist. A lot of overrated deejays play a lot of goofy ass music these days, but Cee turns out every event he's at, and he doesn't have to play French elevator music to do it.

You can catch Cee Brown in motion every Sunday night at Phat Laces, a weekly jam at Carbon where I hold down hosting and toasting duties alongside deejays Panamami, P.U.D.G.E. and Dizam, who aren't exactly chopped liver on the tables either. Entry is free, and Cee brings extra amplifiers, so it's like the speaker room at Best Buy in there. The bass makes the ice cubes in your drink quiver.

Poll: Roshsum vs. Brolic Whippet Rossum

Palms Weekenders, meet Wendy. Her breed is whippet. You can read more about her here:

http://www.dailymail.co.uk/news/article-467985/Meet-Incredible-Hulk-Hounds.html

James and I have a strange fascination with dogs. This preoccupation with man's best friend most likely stems back to a glorious magic 'shroom trip we took back in the year 2003 deep in the heart of Brooklyn at the historic Fort Green Park. In short, the sun was setting, the shrooms were settling, and off in the distance we saw a strange red light zipping through the park. This light was attached to a small beast. The beast was low to the ground....low enough to be a rat. However, it had the sleekness, grace and stealth of a possum. We called it a Rossum. The Rossum was a marvelous thing to wonder at.....why attach a flashing light to it? Why is it in a sweater? Is there a bell on the ankles? The word "rossum" is much more than just a nickname for dogs....it's a moniker that signifies the odd relationships that people have with dogs.

Since then, every canine bears the royal crest of Rossum in our eyes, and you can't tell us shit different.

I love dogs and animals as much, if not more, than the next man. Always have. However, some folks go overboard..and you know who you are. I don't want to see a glamour shot of Russell and Patches over your fireplace or catch you feeding them Alaskan-shipped eagle-meat, while you bus your children to a crappy school and pump them full of sugar before bed.

If your dog is fat, I hate you.

But I digress. The point of the matter is this. Every once in a while, James and I will exchange interesting Rossum images, articles and other paraphanalia. Yesterday, he hits me with Wendy.

This bitch has a genetic condition that gave her double the muscle in certain areas of her body. She looks pretty mean, but apparently is quite sweet and prefers to move slow. She'll probably also die prematurely, because her heart is not strong enough to feed all those muscles with enough blood or carry all that weight around. She has a super-whippet body, but alas only a regular whippet heart.

My question is, quite simply...do you think I could whoop this dog's ass?

I would never harm a dog that wasn't attacking me or my family. But if I came across Wendy, and we were both hungry with no options, something's goin' down. That's at least two solid weeks of eatin' on her bones, especially if we were in an icy climate where I could store the Whippet meat, or somewhere with plenty of salt to preserve her fresh flesh. I already have a strategy for how I would beat her.

First of all, I don't care how muscular you are, overweight is overweight. And if you're overweight, you don't stand a chance against me, unless you're bigger than me, have Down's Syndrome, or you are a wildcat. This dog couldn't even turn around fast enough to catch my sidestep. By then, it would be too late, because I would have already grabbed that bitch by her hindlegs, swung her around a few times and let her go flying into the nearest tree. Fight over.

But I'm not trying to sway any votes, I'm just openly brainstorming here.

Totally interested in your thoughts.

Peace, Love and Whippet Meat.

MICHAEL JACKSON, JAMES BROWN AND (a very high) PRINCE - LIVE, 1987. a.k.a. BEST YOUTUBE VIDEO EVER. [songaday]

Maybe MJ's finest taped moment. And that's saying a whole lot.

A SCENT FOR OUR AGE

MERCHANDISING, BITCHES. Can't download cologne. So we have branched into the man-musk market (pause just because). Until it too was unceremoniously swallowed by the financial black hole nipping at all our heels, one of Sum and my myriad side jobs was working on and off at a perfume lab (pause 5x) in Marina Del Rey, courtesy of tailor, astronaut and apple of my bloodshot eye, Zainab Outlaw. The owner was a study in contrasts: a true-blue hippie who did business like he had stolen and swallowed Gordon Gecko's beating heart whole, yet answered to the name Delight. The lab was filled with a rotating cast of pretty, furry-legged young women who would toil in his perfume mine daily while gossiping about witchcraft as payment for living at his Topanga Canyon commune. As it turns out, a lab of any kind also needs one or two people on deck who can pull off feats like picking up objects over five pounds in weight, or working for over forty-five minutes without a guitar and poetry break, so Sum and I were drafted in to handle the hard labor. It was here that we learned the ins and outs of creating smells: decanting, sterilizing, ignoring suspicious knocks at the door, lots of Captain Beefheart.

So it is with great pride that we present our flagship fragrance, a product that we have put our blood, sweat and tears into. Actually, that's pretty much all Recession is: mostly sweat, but a little blood from when I cut my finger while chopping onions to put in the spaghetti for lunch. Oh, the tears are from the onions too.

Cookin' Healthy, Cookin' Drunk.

One of my favorite things to do is to get shit-faced, go home and cook a glorious gourmet meal. I'm a former biology major and fan of the internal arts (tai chi, chi kung, yoga). On top of that, I'm a weekend warrior with the pop physics and culinary arts. So on any given day, I'm levitating in the kitchen doing aerial push-ups, reading a cookbook and moving the pages with my mind. I've always been into experimentation...as a youth, I used to grow rocks in a fish tank and eat spoonfuls of glue and paste for the sake of science. My room was a lab. After I got my Bio degree, I chose the microphone over the microscope,.....so the KITCHEN is my laboratory. It's where I keep my head straight. For the past year or two, I've been deep in the science of food combining (Herbert Shelton wrote the book on it, "Food Combining Made Easy", you should check it out) and the Ayurvedic diet. What I made last night was from this book...

Ayurvedic is simply an ancient way of saying "holistic", for all points and purposes. The science was developed alongside yoga to support and enhance yogic practice and an excellent lifestyle. It takes into account things like time of day and year, how to cut a carrot so it will follow you on Twitter, and how different types of soaps, fragrances, fabrics, exercises and sexual techniques will keep your mojo swinging.. Most importantly it observes how to eat according to your age, gender and body type. These body type are known as "doshas" in Ayurvedic science, and there are three of them: Vata, Pitta, Kapha.

If you're a Vata, you might be slender, excitable, and able to outrun a woodchuck. You may also prefer warm climates where you can be outdoors and constipated in relative peace.

If you're a Pitta, you might have an athletic build, dream in color, love all meat, and have flexible but strong toenails. You might also emit a small, puffy cloud of seahorses from your ass if you miss a meal.

If you're a Kapha, you might be more on the heavy-set side, you are a deadly combination of stubborn and rarely thirsty, money is easy to save for you, and the only way you will remember a dream is if it was about bread.

I'm mostly Pitta myself, with heapin helpins of the other doshas.

Last night I made my first stab into the realm of Ayurvedic cooking. Up to now, my culinary arsenal has included Southern/Soul Food (my macaroni & cheese has given sight to a blind Senegalese man and raised a dead Texan baby from the grave), Carribean, Chinese, Mexican, stews, pastas and even some experimental tinctures, potions and elixirs. They've served me well so far, but now I'm ready to go maniac with the cooking. And it's about time I learn how to cook things of a more royal and divine nature for my royal and divine wife.

The Ayurvedic technique took me a while to get to, because it's kind of intimidating...even just the base ingredients, seasons and spices you have to get. They might included (but are not limited to):

-"Ghee", which is basically Clarified Butter from an Enlightened Cow
-Black Mustard Seeds shat by a fiery phoenix
-Mandras Curry beat from the rugs of the Mothership
-Cleric-pressed Sunflower Oil
-Ginger root from the set of the first Terminator movie

Shit's easier to find than you might think.

This first dish I made was tridoshic, which means none of the doshas will get heartburn, nightmares or bleeding ankles after eating it. Actually, if they're so lucky, a small droplet of golden ambrosia will appear at the corner of their eyes afterwards. In that droplet will appear a vision of Dave Chappelle in a pair of goat pants, playing a flute. And he will murmur God's one true name in French.

The short of the concoction was this: broccoli, cauliflower, string beans, and green peas in a curry sauce completely fashioned from scratch. Served over a bed of aromatic herb basmati rice....with a side of fresh tomatoes and red bell peppers.

The helpful properties of this meal:

The cooling qualities of peas balance the warming qualities of the curry and spices, bringing balance to the heat element in your body.

The small amount of yogurt in the curry, thinned by water, aids in digestion.

The cauliflower, chopped gingerly, activates the Bailey's from the Irish Car Bomb.


When it was all said and done, this was one of the best meals I've ever had in my life, and was a fine way to soak up the three pints of Guiness and two shots of Jameson I had used to align my chakras a couple of hours before. Special thanks to Vishnu, Dr. Candyshots and the cast and crew of the first Terminator movie.

A PETITION TO RENAME WASHINGTON PLACE.

why?

CITY PLANNING IS A CURIOUS THING. The fact that any city can function on any level, even somewhere as fundamentally fucked as Calcutta, or say, Upland, is a testament to the wonders of the human brain. Judging by the evidence, people in olden times couldn't figure out how to treat a broken arm without chopping it off, but they had relatively little issue planning, funding, organizing and executing the creation of a damn city, with homes and streets and parks, and years later with electricity and trash pickup and LA Xpress vending machines on every corner. I'm still amazed that the average building doesn't just collapse a week after it's built. Do I have low expectations?

Alas, with humanity's triumphs come its failures, part and parcel. Granted, in most any situation a minority of flaws are impossible to avoid completely, people being slightly stupid and the world being something slightly stupid people run. But I'm talking about easily avoidable errors - in this case, confusing street names. Looking over a street map of Los Angeles, one can imagine our founding fathers clustered around a table in a candlelit room in the wee hours of the morning, ink dripping from a quivering quill as they assigned name after name to all the streets that play host to our lives. One can also quite literally point to the exact areas where George Washington pulled the flask of whiskey out from under his wig, took a heroic swig, grimaced slightly, and slurred the words "fack it, name this one after me too."

I am referring, of course, to the quandary of Washington Boulevard and Washington Place, two major streets in Culver City that are parallel and not more than five blocks away from each other even at their furthest points. As it is, Culver City already looks like its chief architect was the guy from Memento, so when you put the two factors together you end up with the scene that plays out many times daily: cars full of people driving around in circles as they frantically re-Google directions and curse the sunny skies.

So I have taken the liberty (thank you George Washington!) of penning the petition below. I would list reasons why I think we should replace Washington Place instead of Washington Boulevard, but after fifteen years of living here I still don't know which is which. I vote we keep the Washington with all the Mexican spots on it. Whichever one that is. If you agree, please post CO-SIGN in the comments section. Suggestions for a replacement street name are also welcome.

DEAR CULVER CITY,

I'm tired of looking stupid in front of my friends when looking for an address on the two Washingtons. Please rename whichever Washington it is that is all apartment buildings asap. Actually, I don't know anyone who lives there so just bulldoze it if you have to. The other Washington has some really good mom 'n pop Mexican restaurants that would get a lot more business if we could just fucking find them. And they always have the good salsa with the big tomato chunks and sometimes they'll even sell you some beer if you know a little Spanish. Please remedy this problem. I just want some tacos.

Sincerely,

____________________

DOES THIS MAN REMIND YOU OF THE GAME?

SO EVER SINCE THIS GUY BECAME FAMOUS, every other month or so a friend of mine (none of who know each other) will remark that I look kinda like him. And yes, my black friends, black people have said so too. A couple of days ago someone else said the same thing, so I threw the question on my Facebook page, which sparked a nice little round of reactions (and if you haven't added me yet, click here and get on with it). So let's figure this out once and for all. Kindly peruse the photos below and vote in the poll to the right. I see the resemblance. It's not huge but it's there. But what do I know; it's not like I've had this face for thirty fucking years or anything.

The profile shot. Note jawline and general facial structure.

He's sitting on a solid gold hubcap and I'm sitting on a deckchair in Palm Springs, but beyond that I cannot tell one difference between us.

I think his picture was taken just after he dropped his grotesquely large bottle of Jack Daniels. Lightweight.

Oh woops. Guess I got myself confused with myself. Well lucky you. Now go vote please. And come to Saints tomorrow between 6pm and 10pm. It's our last Thursday there, so I'm gonna do it big. And I think you know what that means.

Bon Voyage, Palms Thursdays :: The End of an Era

So the time has come. We always knew one day it would. But as much as James and I love making enough money on Thursdays to buy a post-shift brew, we must bid a warm adieu to our maiden DJ shift. For almost three years now, we've been skipping up to Saints in the daylight hours and stumbling home at night, our liver meat spruced and made ready for Fridays. It always struck us as strange how many Friday regulars DIDN'T know we DJ'd on Thursdays....but that's where we got our start, and in alot of ways, Thursday has been our favorite night. It was the perfect training grounds. Unfortunately, there are tours and shows to book, albums to release, empires to put finishing touches on, and Westwood babies to feed soon...so we gotta chalk up what aint makin cents.

So next Thursday, June 4th, we invite those of you who have never hung with us on a Thursday afternoon to come see us make magic happen one last time. And if you're one of our Thursday regulars, come on through for old times sake.

To give you guys a little historical perspective, here are some Phun Phacts about Palms Thursdays that you might find of interest. And yeah, I typed "Phun Phacts", what the phuck is it to ya.

Phun Phact #1)
Chip James Gave Us Our Break

Yeh, that guy. So one crisp Indian Summer day in 2006, I walked in to Saints & Sinners to follow up on a mix CD that James had dropped by the bar. It was my second time at the bar, my first being the night before, when Nzinga and I breezed through impromptu to be spellbound by the demonic charms of Jeffrey Dammit. For the newbies, I can only describe Mr. Dammit as a hellspawned scarecrow with a voice like two baby tigersharks rubbing against each other in a sandbox. He poured at least two pints of Jameson in his mouth that night while Q Lazzarus' "Goodbye Horses" played for what seemed like hours. Needless to say, I was sold on the bar and had to DJ there.

The next day, I walked in to follow up on the CD and Chip James was there. I think I said "Hey man, my boy dropped off a CD here a few weeks ago and hasn't heard back from you...." or something like that, and he just replied with a curt "Well, I didn't like your boy's taste in Rock so much, but fuck it, you guys are hired. You start next week." I couldn't understand how we got hired so easily.

At the time, I thought it was because I was a bearded Black dude in a shirt that said "Brooklyn Brewery" and a hat that said "Harlem" and I was reeking of New York City. Maybe he figured I had to be at least a half-decent DJ, which he would've been grossly incorrect about at the time. But now, looking back, I think he just saw in me a chance to endlessly request Rappin' Fortay's "Playaz Club" every gotdamn week and sexually harrass James.

And he did both, and continues to do so whenever he sees us.

So we started that next week, and the rest is history. Thanks, Uncle Chip. This one's for you:

Rappin Fortay - "Playaz Club"



Phun Phact #2) We Had A Palms Thursday Commercial

Ever seen it?


Phun Phact #3) I Didn't Know Crazy Jason's Name For Like, 2 Years

As indicated by this flyer I made, in which I tagged him as "Chris", nearly a year after we had been kickin' it. Judging by his face, he could give a flyin rat's ass what I was calling him.

Phun Phact #4) Jorge's Real Names are "Kaptain Kickout" and "Brian Seltzer"






On a Thursdsay night near the beginning of our tenure, a night that reigns as the Valhalla of Jorge antics, our fair local fairy earned two names. "Brian Seltzer" was the first. On this night, one of our regulars brought through a lady friend of his, who by the end of the night was basically masturbating in a chair and sucking the skin off some random dude's fingers while a topless Whore-hay groaned and massaged her ankles. In an attempt to keep some civility afoot, Chip sprayed Jorge with the soda-gun, which prompted him to get on the bar and start furiously rubbing seltzer water into his chest. It was some Passion of the Christ shit.

Minutes later, Jorge was rubbing on himself all over the bar, entirely bathed in water.

Chip kicked him out.

And Brian Seltzer/Kaptain Kickout was born. I think we figured out that his name was Jorge a few weeks later.

Phun Phact #5) DJ Lee Would DJ After Us

Just thought yall should know. We never really mentioned it. I guess better late than never.

Phun Phact #6) One Summer, We Brought $1 Tacos to Saints & Sinners

Yeh, now THAT was a magical summer. Southy on drinks, me and James on decks, and regulars galore. And we had tacos to make you punch ya moms in the face on the patio....if you weren't there, sorry ya missed out. We had plates like this for four bucks. Shoot yourself:

And the most killer Lemon Drop in the business (courtesy of Southy, the OG Thursday crew bartender). Those were the days....


So come hang out with Nick Amado and ya boys for our last two Thursdays at Saints. We'll put up some toasts to old times and welcome the new, as we open up some time an energy to figure out new ways to entertain you while simultaneously killing ourselves in a new setting when Big Foot West gets crackin' down the street. Ever heard the sound of a coffin opening?

COFFEE UP

kindly note the worker not behind counter.

UNTIL RECENTLY, I ALMOST ALWAYS FIXED MY MORNING CAFFEINE DOSE AT HOME on my Tarje coffeemaker, a.k.a. Fisher Price's My First Coffee Machine. A carton (well, cylindrical container) of coffee from Trader Joes is $7, and that normally lasts me a couple of weeks, unless it's Crunch Time, which it's never not. But for the last few months, I have been acquiring my morning mug 'o mud from the new Coffee Bean stall inside the Ralphs in the Culver Center across the street.

Now, why would the man whose last post made it clear that his finances are currently best measured in cents spend almost ten dollars a week on coffee? Three reasons. First, the coffee I make at home tastes like shit. Hot, heavily diluted motor oil comes to mind. Obviously, or maybe not so obviously, I've never (yet) drank hot, heavily diluted motor oil, but it comes to mind nevertheless. Second, since I "work" from home, that morning walk down the block is often the only air I get all day that isn't loaded with marijuana smoke, swine flu germs and the scent of beagle-chihuahua crap. Finally, the Coffee Bean stall in Ralphs is a fucking hoot, from the lawn furniture thoughtfully placed in front to the surly young security guard who eyes me murderously whenever I walk in wearing my blood-red Alife shoes.

Consider this morning's outing, if you will. Waiting for me at the sliding doors was a crusty, middle-aged man of homeless origin, looking and acting distinctly less insane than he was last time I saw him in much the same spot, yammering away to himself through slobbery lips, dressed something like Jesus after a long fall down a filthy hill.

In a stroke of luck, Dolly, the woman who works the Coffee Bean stall, was behind the counter when I walked up. Normally when I show up, several grumpy people are milling around the cashier area straining to look like they're not being helped, at which point one of the Ethiopian or possibly Eritrean deli women will beg Dolly at least several times via supermarket intercom to return to the CB counter. Eventually she will show up, explicitly remind everyone in line of her daily break time, which always changes, and serve us our drinks in cups bearing the faint yet unmistakeable aroma of Marlboro Red.

When I got there today she was chastising a man in fluorescent shorts for spending thirty minutes taking the morning paper apart, reading it front to back and attempting to stealthily place it in a crumpled mass atop the pile of neatly folded newspapers he picked it up from. Then she regaled me with a story about a loud kid with Down Syndrome who was really getting on her nerves in the doctor's office yesterday.

But this morning's highlight was when the aforementioned hobo suddenly left his post by the sliding doors, sailed past me and Dolly at the CB counter and strode purposefully through the swinging kitchen doors behind the deli counter to a chorus of wails from the deli women. Seconds after Dolly tore him a new one via intercom, he walked sheepishly back out, claiming he "didn't see anyone behind the counter to pay". Mild disbelief aside, none of the staff seemed to particularly care. They even let him buy a chicken wing, which he ate on one of the lawn chairs. He left the bones on the table.

I kinda didn't wanna leave.

OK, IT'S REAL

I'LL ADMIT IT. I didn't think much of this recession. BMWs still in the streets, and no babies floating in the river (and any parent who would throw their baby in the L.A. River is a special kind of sick), so to quote Sum, shut ya bloodclot whining. Well, today I see it like this: you can't eat a BMW, but you can eat a baby. So maybe it really is time to jumpstart the Westwood Baby project, even though I think we've missed the train for this Thanksgiving, even if two of us were to get started now. The fact that I have begun to subconsciously separate all the physical objects around me into what can, cannot, and could theoretically be eaten makes things plain. A man on talk radio was, um, talking about how his pet grooming service is on the skids the other day, and the host said people nowadays are more likely to eat their dog than pay to get it groomed. And truthfully, it does have me looking at my sisters' chihuahua/beagle in a different light. C'mon, you guys know you're tired of the little fucker.

Yep, I'm broke. No, I'm braowk. And while the last two weeks have been even more of a juggle than usual, the severity of my predicament didn't become clear to me until my grocery run this morning, which was inspired by a look in my refrigerator, whose contents then were:

limes (3)

garlic (cloves, 2)

unsweetened soymilk (half carton)

Greek peppers (half jar)

pasta sauce (quarter jar)

Korean quince tea sauce (jar)

South Indian mixed pickles (half jar)

barbecue sauce (half jar)

Some crunching of numbers thereafter, I concluded that a trip to the market was essential, even if it did mean some essential bills were going to remain unpaid by 5pm. They would have remained unpaid anyway, so hey. An hour later, I returned with

water (1 gallon)

corn flakes (1 carton)

oranges (3)

potatoes (5)

green beans (1 handful)

I prefer broccoli, but today's selection was all stem and no floret, and I can't be paying for all that dead weight.

salsa (1 jar)

tinfoil (1 roll)

paper towels (2-pack)

total: $14.06

I think I was pondering buying toilet paper AND paper towels or just paper towels since they're good for, you know, everything, when I realized I was at probably one of the lowest points in my 30 years of life. Which means I'm not having such a bad life. But still. Then I ran into Janet, who told me she went to sleep at 8:45pm last night because she had nothing to eat. The final straw was the news that Coppelia's has raised the price on their rotisserie chicken from $5.95 to $7.95. Granted, six bones for a succulent winged lizard was such a good deal that it bordered on the suspicious, but I still feel violated.

The term 'overdraft' is one that I remember hearing a lot in my household from as far back as memory serves me. Even hearing the word reminds me of my old Paddington Bear bedsheets. Debt is a fact of life - at least, a fact of MY life - and ultimately I'm at peace with my load. I live alone; single income, and nobody to split costs with. I'm self-employed and a bit daft, so a lot of my money goes into promotional projects that at least in the short-term seem ill-advised at best, like going even deeper in the hole to press up a shit-ton of copies of a record called Bankruptcy, and giving it away for free. Section 102.88 of The Hustler's Code says "a bad week only means you're one week closer to a good one", so next time I see you I may be back to my usual self, laying on a pile of bacon and avocado paninis while a buxom woman tries to aim truffles into my open mouth. But as for today, I'll sign off, as I think my potatoes are almost ready.

Legends at 30 Years Old...and Beyond

Sum here. Being that I'm an artist, I happen to hang out with a lot of artists. Not just rappers and DJs, but actors, photographers, film makers, and other various other creatures from Bohemia. Now that we're all getting a bit up in age, I'm starting to hear alot more whining about ticking clocks. Especially from rappers. In the hip-hop, there is some kind of unspoken rule that once you're over 28, it's time to throw in the towel. Understandable, because hip-hop has traditionally been the voice of the youth. At least that what it was when it started. But hip-hop is now a statesman among genres, and it's time for that to change. Especially if Sumkid has anything to do with it.

With all that said, I could give a fuck about being a 32 year old rapper, or rhyming at 58. It's what I was put here to do. Carpenters don't stop cutting wood, fishermen don't stop trapping trout, and the sun don't chill. So why should I? And I guarantee that I'm always going to be fresh, on the edge and one-of-a-kind. And I'm confident in this fact because I wouldn't be the first to hit with a gray hair in my beard. Here's a gift-list of influential and legendary artists that got mother's milk off their breath before they snatched their respective crowns.

Artists, shut ya bloodclot whinin', and take note.

Ghostface Killah


Ghostface was exactly 30 years old when his seminal sophomore LP Supreme Clientele dropped in early 2000. A twenty-something couldn't write Apollo Kids. Nowadays, he's easily the most consistent and heroic MC of our era...and it sounds like he just keeps getting better. He's on some Howlin' Wolf shit.

Joe Strummer



Joe Strummer, lead singer for The Clash, activist and spokesperson for the downtrodden was exactly 30 years old when Combat Rock dropped, widely considered his and The Clash's best piece of work, and definitely made the most waves. You might remember a single from that album called "Rock The Casbah"

George Clinton (w/Parliament)



George Clinton was 29 or 30 years old when he officially FORMED Parliament, and it was at least a year or so before they made real noise.

James Brown

James Brown was exactly 30 when he released his self-financed Live at The Apollo project, which effectively blew him up and began the waves of modern funk.

Johnny Cash



"The Man in Black" was 32 when he finally hit the charts with "Ring of Fire", hands down his biggest hit after years of trial and error.

Bruce Lee


The "Little Dragon", a martial artist but artist nonetheless, spent his whole life training for his 30s. He finally perfected his own style and workout, then maximized his strength by 31. He was deadliest at the time of his death, while filming his most popular film Enter the Dragon. He was just hitting his stride at 33.

Fela Kuti


The "Father of Afrobeat" was 29 when he dropped his legendary album Zombie and continued to make noise well throughout his 30s, revolutionizing music and message.

Marvin Gaye


Sure, Marvin had been around doing his thing since his 20s, but all the joints we really care about, he didn't write until his 30s. What he wrote as a youth made him a star, what he wrote in manhood made him a legend. He was 29 when he penned "I Heard it Through The Grapevine", and 32 when he scribed "What's Going On", the first in a string of masterpieces he would create in his 30s.

Muddy Waters



Muddy didn't get on until he was FORTY. He kept trying for two whole decades and kept running into road blocks. He moved back and forth between Chicago and Mississippi like twenty times and ate shit from the bottom of no-name blues players shoes'. But I guess that's what you gotta go through to become the Father of Chicago Blues. Can't get that kinda crown easy.


Martin Scorsese

Scorsese was 34 when he dropped the iconic Taxi Driver on us. It took him a while to get rolling, even though he was rollin with filmmaking royalty and had mad hook ups.

Tom Waits

Tom Waits was making albums forever before he got recognized for it. And much like Marvin Gaye, everything he did before Swordfishtrombones was just practice. He was 42 when he dropped that album, and from there, he became the experimental legend we know him as today. And it was at 42 that his career took off.

Willie Nelson

The "Red Headed Stranger" was 29 when he penned and dropped his first real hit "Crazy" with Patsy Cline. From there, it was smooth sailin, fresh braids and only the stickiest bud.

Leonard Cohen

I mean, Leonard Cohen didn't even THINK about recording music until he was 33.

And finally,

Chuck D


Where would we be if Chuck D told himself he was too old to rap? Dude didn't start his professional career until he was 28 when It Takes a Nation of Millions to Hold Us Back dropped and 30 when Fear of a Black Planet hit.

Now...let's put some things in perspective...