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?

Sexy 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.



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

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.

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.

See the post Arsenal, Fin (link)

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'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:


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.

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