FIVE FEET, HOMIE

because when someone calls you "homie", you're probably not theirs.

maybe they knew something we didn't? Damn New World Order-ass...

IN MY BOOK, YOU'RE NOBODY IF YOUR HANDSHAKE IS LAME. Women who shake my hand by the fingertips automatically get X'ed. Ladies, I don't care how lopsided your waist-to-buttock ratio is; if you shake my hand like you're grasping for a chicken drummette, we have no future. Men with the clammy palm and no fist-bump follow-through aren't really even men to me. But I prefer no follow-through a million times over the pattycake-style hand-tap to my fist-bump. My nuts just crawl up into my back when someone does that shit to me. Where the hell did you learn that? Is there a specific town we can burn down?

If you're a man I've had at least a handful of good laughs with, you usually get the firm handshake with other arm around your back, followed by a firm fist-bump. If you know me, it's what you've come to expect. That's why I'm writing this blog to inform all my friends that in light of this swine flu situation, I am drastically scaling back my handshake policy. From now until this flu thing calms down, it's fist bumps only. For everyone. So don't take it personal. I'm also known to be pretty liberal about sharing food and drinks. My motto is, As long as there are soldiers in Iraq, I can give you a bite of my sandwich. But I'm placing a moratorium on that too. And anyone coughing around me might catch a Civic key to the throat. Either that, or you will turn back to face me after turning your head to the side to cough (assuming you have any manners, you derelict) and see a faint outline of dust shaped sort of like me, in the place where I was standing only half a second prior. I think we should all drink as much hard liquor as possible until this thing is over. Alcohol kills flu germs, so I'm assuming it will do the same thing in the mouth. I'm really serious about this. Keep a bottle of 151 on you at all times, people. For the good of the nation.

I used to see this Brazilian girl who is a world-class breaker (that means breakdancer, alt-kids) and undercover total genius. I met her in the chat rooms at SoulSeek, that ill-fated illegal download site where I procured half the songs you all enjoy every weekend at Saints and Stinkers, and our first date was in the research lab at Cal State Northridge, where she showed me her Maderas cockroach farm. Yeah, it was love. Anyway, she attends John Hopkins Medical University in Baltimore now, and she says they are hoarding antiviral medicine something serious today. In the Palms mayoral compound that houses me, Janet, Rojeanne and a few other familiar faces, we have a phenomenon we call the "building sneeze": a sharp yell that can be heard every forty-five minutes on average that sounds kind of like a man getting his kidneys stolen, which is actually a sneeze. Until now, it's been more annoying than worrying, but I think we are gonna have to find out who it is now. I hope I'm not related. I'm not trying to pull a Michael Corleone.

I understand that these type of people tend to not have Internet connections, but if any of you reading this should happen to run into any impoverished farmers on any subsequent trips to any Third World countries, could you please tell them to stop sleeping with their livestock? It's really just fucking everything up. Oh, and afterwards, try not to come back to L.A. for at least a year.

I can feel some psychosomatic aches and pains coming on, so I'm off to pick Jorge up and go bowling at Lucky Strike with the rest of you bar folk. And then maybe some food after. Pork sounds good.

introducing THE PALMS WEEK.

THIS SUNDAY WILL BE OUR FIRST TIME DJING SUNDAY NIGHTS at Saints & Sinners. Sunday nights at Paints & Thinners has traditionally been Jorge's domain, so Sum and I are not sure why the BatPhone rang yesterday requesting our special brand of services on the day of rest, but we have graciously accepted the offer extended to us. Hitherto, the Palms Weekend has been three days a week, a phenomenon teetering Wile E. Coyote-esque on the brink of monopolizing the majority of our nights in a week, but still managing to keep one furry toe gnarled around the edge of annihilation. No more. The cartoon beast has been flung off the side of the fucking canyon and is hurtling headfirst toward hard, cracked desert- or, in my case, hard, concrete Saints floor. Just pour the rest of my rum & coke on me if there's any left. These clothes aren't as expensive as they look, and I heard the pores in your skin can actually absorb a little alcohol. At least, mine can.

Hey, I'm single. I'm just the idiot for this job. It's Sum I'm worried about. He's pretty good about keeping the drinky-drinky in check, but marriages require quality time to flourish. But again, my concern is probably unnecessary; he's pulled the Get To Saints Late Free Card many a time in the name of marital harmony. Matter of fact, he won't be at Saints today for our set at all, as it's NZINGA'S BIRTHDAY (so next time you see her, by her a drink - and don't let her talk you out of it) and they're celebrating at World on Wheels. If that sounds like fun to anyone, meet me at Saints a little before ten and bring an automobile, preferably your own. I will not be in a driving state, and I can't let Nzinga down. She will have no fun without me. My usual chauffeur (hi Franky) will be busy watching some team called the Lakers play basketball (sp?). I'll even buy you a drink. But only one. You have to drive.

As for Sunday's musical direction, my first thought was oldies, and Sum's first thought was boogie, which apparently is the name for the genre situated at the taint between the onion ring of disco and the beanbag of old-school hip-hop - the Blondie, the Malcolm McClaren, the Incredible Bongo Band, et al. And this, coming off the heels of Heavy Metal Sundays. So we'll see how it goes. On drinks will be the venerable Cooper, whom fate seems to have sent us into a cosmic alcoholic alliance with, as we now do our jobs together three nights weekly. And why not? We do it well. Bravo fate. See you Sunday...

Bomb Ass 60s Divas : May God Bless Them All

I think the 20s is my favorite decade in American history. The Harlem Renaissance, the Jazz Age, WWI, Delta Blues, my grandparents were being stirred and baked.

I think the 80s is my favorite decade that I've actually lived in. I don't think there's too much I could write that would add to the volumes of shit already out there about that era, except for the fact that between the years of 1980 and 1989, the Mass of My Balls (or, "Ball Mass Index" in snooty circles) increased roughly 93%. I'm pretty sure that hasn't been written yet.

The 70s are my favorite decade to try and imagine what it would've been like to live in that shit. The birth of hip-hop and punk, everybody's hot and sweaty, gang warfare was brewing up, people were flying out into space on a regular basis and crack abuse was born. Although I am not crack, I was born in the 70s as well.

But I don't think any era was more chock full of the sexiest, most juiciest and ferocious women than the 60s into the early 70s. I get a kick out of ALL women from that era, but got a soft spot for Black women back then. They were really killin' shit. Talk about the perfect balance of style, funk, flair, sass, thickness, density and soul....sheeeit

Minnie Ripperton






Diana Ross




Donna Summer





Roberta Flack






young Tina? Forget about it
(hard to find any pics of her without Ike in em, gazing at her....or...something...with husbandly affection)






Ann Peebles



And Cher's lil cute skinny Armenian ass woulda got broke off too....you know, back in the 60s.





Ok, some of those are kinda scary, but yall catch my drift. Ladies in the 60s and 70s...they had the answers, man..they had the answers.

The Gambler finally craps out, fuck a Subway samich.

I've never lost a bet in my life.

And I come from a family of gamblers. On my Pop's side, that is. Well, I guess on both sides if you count the Bid Whist addicts on my Mom's side. But those are kind Southern folks who would never throw money on the table.

My Pops was calling me on bets from the first time we sat down at a dominoe table. I was 14. That side of my family is all Chicago gamblers, hustlers and street cats. Most of them don't know too much about a diploma or degree, but they keep guns in hollowed out Bibles and played mad dice, dominoes, pool, cards and chess between the 50s and 80s. The Second Golden Gangster Era.

Matter of fact, my Grandmother (R.I.P!) met both of her husbands over a pool table. They were both pool champs. One's name was Willie, the other was Leon. They called Leon "Frog", and of course, Frog was my biological grandfather. Never met him, but from what I've heard, he never had a job in his life and made his whole living from winning local pool tournaments and flipping the prize money in investments. When he passed away about five years ago, he was buried with his lucky pool sticks and dice.

Anyway, even though I never got into that street shit, the gambling streak is genetic. I've never lost a bet, because I always bet the sure shot. Until a couple of weeks ago, when motherfrackin Ian "get Sum drunk and bet him" Dangerous broke my 32 year winning streak.

In case you guys didn't know, we now have a Subway in the neighborhood. Right over there in the Culver Center on Overland and Venice, nestled between a Robeks and a Starbucks. There used to be a Quizno's there, and it's gone now, thank the sweet lord, because anything from Quiznos tastes like fried monkey feet on wheat.

I won't get into the details of the bet, but I will say this. I was drunker than I have been in months, there was some tall, leggy, pretty blonde in the DJ booth and I was hungry and a little bit distracted by Jess Cron's billowing chest plume, which was heaving at the sight of the leggy blonde ( Yo Jess, did you crush? I saw you walkin her home, don't hold out on me man....). I think Ian saw the "I don't give a fuck" in my eyes and totally manipulated the situation. I'm not saying he's not a great boss, he's a great boss. He's just a lousy cheat who only bets drunkards surrounded by women, liquor and other evils. Other than that, Ian's one of my favorite people.

By a show of comments, if yall know the corner I'm talking about, tell me which comes first when you're travelling south down Overland from Venice.....the Robeks, or the Starbucks?

PALMS SINGLES: Bachelor One.

FOUND THIS TAPED TO A LAMPPOST YESTERDAY, and felt compelled to share. I can't count how many times I hear my female friends complain about not being able to find them a man. You officially have no excuse to harp when there are upstanding men like these literally campaigning in the streets for your affections. Besides, I'm a sucker for a good sales pitch.

TAKEOVER. BREAK'S OVER.

Port of Spain's local crematorium. Just in case you happen to die while in Trinidad (which is not impossible) and need somewhere to set fire to you in a hurry. Notify your cab driver in advance.

THIS PHOTOGRAPH REPRESENTS 33% OF THE TOTAL AMOUNT OF PICTURES I took on my ten-day trip to Texas, Florida and Trinidad & Tobago (which, for you math underachievers, means I took seven pictures). Not only did I forget to take my camera, but I didn't even realize until I saw a baby robbing a German tourist with a plastic fork in downtown Port of Spain and thought it might make a cute picture, and stuck my hand in my pocket for a camera that turned out to not be there. I guess it's not impossible that I myself got jerked for my camera by some conniving Trini toddler unknowingly, but I am looking at a Canon here at home that looks quite like mine, so I'm letting this one go. But you never know.

In a nutshell, an enlightening trip. Hit the South By Southwest Music conference in beautiful Austin, TX with 500 of my new Bankruptcy CDs (which you can download free at malkovichmusic.com/bankruptcy.zip, plug plug), watched performances from Asher Roth, Diplo and many other overrated artists, and ate beef brisket three times daily.

From there I continued on to Miami for the Winter Music Conference, which I didn't catch much of, since I was only in town until the weekend, which I now know is when the conference really starts swinging. But I did get to hang out with some interesting cokeheads, my ace boon coon DJ Quickie Mart who got me carte blanche in both cities and is now officially my dog for life (his mother irons a mean shirt too), and a foxy journalist who had better be reading this.

By the time I made it out of the airport in Trinidad I was piss drunk and had a date with Estelle, who hands out the free rum shots at the duty free shop. I spent my days hanging out with a gospel soca singer and married mother of two named Cindy Sammy, who works the front desk at our hotel and is going to be bigger than US Steel. My evenings were chiefly spent at the club, protecting my youngest sister from flying beer bottles and leering Rastafarians, one of whom commissioned a knock-kneed Tobagan hooker to offer me a spiked drink. Pah! I invented that move. Any free drink I ever bought any of you was spiked.

Yes, it was a colorful trip. A necessary trip. And now I'm back, bitch. Barely back a week and I've already started a new album, sued someone, and done more drinking than I did my entire trip. That's that Palms living. I feel bad about only having one picture to share, so I will compensate generously with this picture of a drink perched on Brick's ass. Just so you know I mean business.

Palms, CA.. the Endless Summer.

THE ROAST VIDEO.

My historic March 12 roasting at my 30th birthday bash at the Mint, edited down to meet Youtube's 10-minute maximum clip length. Everyone enjoys watching a comedian bomb, but Jorge's clusterfuck of a roast attempt is so unsettling to watch that it had to be edited almost completely out. In observance of Murphy's Law, the video camera's battery died just before the undisputed titans of the evening, Brick and Sum, got their chance to deliver. And that's probably a good thing for me.