THEY'RE HERE

Have you ever seen a sexier doorhanger? Sure you haven't. This is a revolution, folks. If your rusty doorknob receives the honor of having one of these beauties hanging from it, you should immediately frame and place it beside the family portraits. These belong in the Hall of Fame for marketing, and hanging off Oscar De La Renta's front door for sheer style. And as a pre-emptive 'pause', I only know who he is because I was in the waiting room yesterday at my uncle's orthopedic practice and picked up a copy of Latina Magazine with this model named Arlenis Sosa on the front. Holy cow. Then Unc injected hydrocortizone an inch into my left foot. Something called Morton's Neuroma. Franamami says it sounds like a Martin Scorsese movie. Being Persian comes in handy in general, but especially when you have no health insurance. It would be nice if he wasn't just a bone doctor though. He wasn't much help with my flu.

Anyway, I just got back from picking up a thousand of these puppies from NextDayFlyers.com, located in Rancho Dominguez, a.k.a. the section of Compton the corporations bought and renamed so Becky and Brad wouldn't know they were on their way to The Hood until they were driving by rusting car wrecks and swerving to avoid pugnacious inner-city roosters. I tried my hardest not to, but am ashamed to report that I rapped Ice Cube's "Straight Outta Compton" verse from the freeway offramp to NextDayFlyers. I did, of course, vocally bleep out the n-bombs. I promise.

The doorhangers come courtesy of Bamboo Restaurant, the site of our new Thursday night gig which last night was composed of maybe four guys and a bunch of girls dancing with each other, as usual. Again, it would behoove (ding!) you fellas to stop sucking each other off just long enough to come through on a Thursday and get a piece of this. Assuming you like women. Which is apparently not such a safe assumption these days. I figure 1,000 will be enough to plaster the neighborhood and then some, so any of you who's been waiting for the right time to jump on the Palms Weekend bandwagon and write for the site - you know, after I've built a brand and done all the legwork with this nerve-damaged foot of mine - now is your time.

Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice Blvd. I'm on at ten, and my left foot is just starting to realize that a piece of metal went into it yesterday, so I may need a few drinks.

Does JetBlue fly out of Compton Airport?

This Just In: Sum Doesn't Miss Douchebags At Saints

The spirit of Marc Mark Marque

Sum here.

I really don’t know who that guy is, but when you do an image search for “Real Live Douchebag”, his picture comes up. That fool looks like an ashy ketchup packet.

I’m googling real live douchebags because it’s fun to do at work. But also, because I was looking for an image that would capture the spirit of a dickhead named Mark (or Marque, or Marc) that haunts Saints and Sinners on the occasional Friday night. This is a man in his late 40s who works in the music industry in various capacities and claims to know everyone who has ever made music. When I was DJing there regularly, he’d do all kinds of strange shit like tell me he could put me in the studio with some German producer with millions of dollars. He’d request really fucked up songs, then tip me with a rolled up $10 bill coated in fresh cocaine crumblings. He’d stand behind me in the DJ booth and mimic my movements. If I breathed in deep, he’d breath in really deep and loud. If I scratched my beard, he’d stroke his chin. He was always drunk as hell, and his breath smelled like a flaming roach nest.

Namedropping is his main thing.

Couple weekends ago, I covered for Malkajames, who continues to take lightly my ‘how to avoid a hangover’ advice. Of course Mark Marque Marc is there, standing next to the booth ready to rub my shoulder, nod off-beat to 'some of the hip-hop' and other douchebaggery. About an hour into my set, he requests that I play a CD of his artist. His pitch is that I’ll be the first DJ in LA to play her shit. My pitch is that I’m not a DJ, so I could care less. He moves on to then tell me for the next five songs that he “worked on this song”. Pet Shop Boys, David Bowie, and a bunch of other classic 80s shit. “Oh yeh, I worked on West End Girls.” After a light investigation, turns out buddy was like an 80s key grip and Bowie’s woodshop intern.

Saints, I love you. But I’m glad I aint DJing there every week no more. My tolerance for Mark Marque Marc types is almost non-existent.

See you Friday…on the other side of the laptop.

"FLOSSY" f. IAMOMNI | SUM | P.U.D.G.E. | FELIX (produced by GRAZZHOPPA)

the seventh song from the new mixtape AYATOLLAH PRESLEY
recording and releasing a new song every Monday.

If you like this song:
post the link on Twitter and tag your friends and me
post the link on Facebook and tag your friends and me
forward this email to your friends and cc me

THE 2 PEOPLE WHO SHARE IT THE MOST WILL HEAR THEIR NAME IN NEXT WEEK'S SONG.

here's a tweet to copy/paste if you're lazy:


The new @MalkovichMusic joint "FLOSSY" f. @iamomni @dj_pudgemcee @iamsumkid Felix and @DJGrazzhoppa at http://ht.ly/2hoqE. RT RT RT

The power's out, and I smell sauerkraut
why you so confused, bro? carry on usual
do something, you know, make yourself useful
cats blowing up my phone, stay off the Dudesicle.
the chick I brought home last night saw it in the light and said it looked like a huge missile.
this is the part where I should shout my girl out
it's just rapper talk baby, don't take it too literal
the lawyer of rap, and my hours all billable
the Beatles of rap, taking over like Liverpool
you left yourself open to ridicule
now we smacking yall with the towel like this was school
this is cool, somebody find a hipster
Grazzhoppa threw us the beat, quite a pitcher
big Malkovich, I paint quite a picture
like a penthouse suite with an island vista.

BREAKFAST ON THE PALMS RIVIERA

IT'S BEEN A WEEK OF EPIPHANIES FOR ME. The kind that have been obvious forever but you refuse to act on them until your own stupidity has you pinned to the floor, knee on throat. You know. My most recent: capitalism is the new slavery and I'm unshackling myself, starting with cutting down the money I spend on restaurants and bars. If I save more, I can work less and rap more and get rich faster then I'm buying you all tiger steaks. I say we do 80% of all this eating out at restaurants because we have nothing better to do with our time, our money, or each other. Eff that. I got dreams that extend beyond a $30 plate of pasta. I'll be in the lot with the metal flask. See you inside in a few.

To that end, we took our asses to Habib's Market instead of the breakfast joint yesterday. We laughed with our butcher. We squeezed avocadoes. We exchanged pleasantries with Ali the cashier. I won't bore you with the details of what we made, but there was feta cheese and mixed olives and pickled garlic and we ate on the balcony to the Saturday Night Fever soundtrack then had siesta and it all felt very Euro. And that's what the Palms Weekend is: life as vacation. Foreigners everywhere, rattan balconies, ramshackle housing, sparse use of deodorant. Pinch me.

MALKY 1, HANGOVER 76,853,765

THIS IS THE LABEL TO A 1-LITER BOTTLE of Monopolowa potato vodka. It's definitely not the "two to three airplane bottles of mid-shelf vodka" I [almost laughed as I] promised to confine myself to last night at Bamboo. But it is $10.96 after tax after Trader Joes. As of Friday 1:52pm, there's half left (not counting the Revenge Shot I just had after Janet showed me a Prohibition-era photo of cops busting a winery), and I have no hangover. So take a cue from a wise Asian of yore (or lore, whatever you like) who once said: stiff trees break against the wind. Supple trees bend with it. Principles are all well and good, but flexibility is survival. and nothing gets you flexible like a coffee mug of peppermint schnapps before lunch.

The men-to-women ratio last night was insane, by the way. Pudge, Excite, Gogo, Tha Conclusion, Mantron and I were basically the only men in the joint. And Bamboo was not empty by any stretch. So I don't know what you dirks were doing with your Thursday night, but if you like alcohol, music and attractive members of the opposite sex, you may wanna keep Thursday nights at Bamboo Restaurant on your radar. Just a thought.

Saints & Sinners tonight, and I got a real chip on my shoulder. Lotta new songs, a reinvigorated liver, and I did a bunch of push-ups yesterday so I'm gonna look mildly buff until at least Saturday afternoon. I'm on at 10.

PUDGE TO SPIN AT BAMBOO TONIGHT, MALKY'S LIVER CRINGES IN FEAR

THE HANGOVER I INCURRED FROM LAST THURSDAY'S BAMBOO SHINDIG seemed unremarkable when a car alarm woke me the following morning, like it always does. Alarm clocks don't sell well in Palms. My head was thumping, but my stomach felt fine, and my hangover headaches tend to be short. So a curious rotation of moans of pain and curses of disbelief could be heard from my bedroom as sunset came and went and my hangover did nothing of the sort, hence my absence from the Saints & Sinners DJ booth that night. At one point I thought I would be smart and take the opportunity to pen a masterful description of hangover agony, one that would be quoted one day alongside Emerson and Dickens. Here's what I came up with before I started crying.

my head feels like a head-sized thimble
my head feels like someone injected gasoline in it
my head feels like i've been reading for a year straight

Tonight I return to the scene of my dishonor for this week's Bamboo installment featuring deejays Spye, Excite, and the birthday boy Pudge, who will no longer be spinning at Bamboo next week since he just booked a flight to NYC. I'll save you the empty pledges we all often spew after a Big One (see A New Understanding) and skip to the Solutions section of this rant. Tonight I shall be equipped with two to three airplane bottles of mid-shelf vodka, and you are to strike me without warning if you see me drinking any liquid you can't see through. We're on at ten.

MY NEW NEIGHBORS ARE DEFINITELY SPORTS FANS.

TO CLARIFY, MY NEW NEIGHBORS ARE THE COOLEST OCCUPANTS of the adjacent three-bedroom unit since our ex-Crip ex-landlord Fuji, and a quintillion miles cooler than the flinty lesbians that just moved outta there. Beer and pizza has been consumed in the name of neighborly love, and they threw a housewarming party that sounded like a rager from my bathroom floor, where I spent Friday night thanks to Bamboo's sugary drinks, in case any of you were(n't) wondering how I managed to transform into a black man named Sum for last week's Saints & Sinners set. You're not a Westwood Block resident until you've been shatten on at The Palms Weekend, so if you guys are reading this, take this as a sign that you're part of the gang now. And you'd better be reading this, because I only mentioned my blog like three times to you guys in three conversations. Then again, the more times people ask me to check their work out, the more determined I become to never even acknowledge its existence. So hopefully you're nothing like me.

You guys aren't half as bad as the Mexican kid who plays on his father's car horn all day. Or the fat lady across the driveway who hacks like she inhaled a tennis shoe. Or LeafBlowerMan, who's so small and old that I sometimes entertain wrestling the leaf blower from him and blowing him away and keeping the leaves. I understand you guys are from Chicago, which is to sport what Afghanistan is to terrorism. Pudge got stabbed last year, and never once looked a sliver as angry as your brother did the other week after that Dutch soccer player flubbed that kick in the Finals. And the non-stop clapping and yelping can be almost invigorating at times; makes me want to rip my shirt off my chest with one hand and peel off an Alp-shaking yodel. That, or I'm trying to look on the bright side so I don't get jumped by a bunch of sports fans. So yeah, keep up the noise, and Go, Team. Throw the cylindrical object with vigor. Beat the opponent soundly.

PS: an extra special thank you to Peter for the acting tips. This time next year I'll be in the background of all kinds of doomed sitcoms. If I'm lucky.

"WTF" produced by DIBIA$E

the sixth song from the new mixtape AYATOLLAH PRESLEY

recording and releasing a new song every Monday.

Instrumental originally released on Dibia$e & P.U.D.G.E.'s All City Series 10" vinyl.

If you like this song:
post the link on Twitter and tag your friends and me
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forward this email to your friends and cc me

THE 2 PEOPLE WHO SHARE IT THE MOST WILL HEAR THEIR NAME IN NEXT WEEK'S SONG.

here's a tweet to copy/paste if you're lazy:

The new @MalkovichMusic joint "WTF" prod by @DaRealDibiase is up on his site for d/l. Get it at www.malkovichmusic.com

It’s the kickoff
now girl don't say no silly shit unless you like your dick soft
I hit the Shaw in a rickshaw
two chicks at the bit, strong jaws
I’m slovenly as a matter of policy
my style shows up in your piss test like poppyseed
the emperor, just back from Denver with Deborah
her daddy wrote my citizenship letter and he got cheddar
trendsetter, wailing on mics like Eddie Vedder
for yall cats who think yall can do any better
ten herbs outta ten hate what I make, I take that as a compliment
your voice got a lotta pomp in it but bottom line is, you incompetent
kick back, cop a drink, network, politic
play the rear, we gon take it from here
your boy got rhymes for years and they shine like De Beers
let's switch gears, kaleidoscope, tightrope, blindfold, mind control
my flow, hyper soul, fly in the biodome
Malkovich, Indiana Jones on microphones
swore on a bible that I wasn't George Michael
just a greasy middle easty mufuka with style
turn the dial for a while or a minute, spontanaeity my core tenet
just name it and I'm in it, like George Tenet and corn syrup
in your area like malaria or the Bay Area
I born lyrics and yall fortunate
so raw with it yall don't even wanna put a fork in it
fireside chats, driverside raps, makin it crack like cyanide caps, bite that
one of them "I'm dope like this and like that" raps.
DJ Empty and my girl Kat, work that
Fresh Jive, get live, Malky got a verse for that
shit is fly as a bluejay
so catch it Tuesday on Blu-Ray, it's Malkovich Movies.

CEE BROWN & GOGO tonight at BAMBOO.

AS USUAL, I JINXED SUMMER IN LATE MAY (see Hey Summer), but it sure did step on us real hard yesterday. Standing here with my shirt off holding a pear, it seems like it might keep its foot on us for a while to make sure we're dead, like when you step on an extra tough cricket. I always say summer doesn't start until mid-July in conversations anyway, so I was wrong even according to myself. I was so loved as a child; what happened? Anyway, instead of blogging about the disgusting hacking sounds my fat new neighbor makes all day (more on that soon), I hit the pool, then had the pork plate at Versailles, which has lifted the preposterous $6 split plate charge it was running with last year until the owners came back from vacation in Havana to find their restaurant empty. Self-employment: your bank activity graph may look like a kid playing with a yo-yo, but that's the price of freedom.

Cee Brown and Gogo deejay tonight at Bamboo in West LA as we get into our second month running Thursdays there. Cee Brown (of the Bodega crew rocking this Sunday at the Far Bar in Little Tokyo) is such a great deejay that I gave him his own story (see CEE BROWN, The Most Slept-On DJ In LA). Gogo is one of the old school homeys, and a hardworking deejay who killed it at Bamboo a couple of weeks back. We got an outdoor patio that feels like a Colombian holiday without the $1000 plane ticket. We got a full bar and the best mojitos in the west. We have a full-service kitchen serving the best Latin-fusion food around. Party starts at 10, and it's free. Come bask.

how to make PALMBO.

WE BACHELORS ALL HAVE OUR OWN NAMES FOR THE MEAL WE end up with when we throw all the old food in our fridge into a frying pan before it has the chance to maim loved ones. I call mine 'palmbo', a hybrid of 'Palms' and 'gumbo', which, like palmbo, is soupy and fishy. Plus, I had gumbo file in the spice cabinet. You don't need my ingredients; the glory of palmbo is all in the application. But here they are for posterity:

salt (2 mm of blood pressure's worth)

potatoes (I dunno, a couple)

tomato (1)

spinach (some)

tinned herrings (1)

garlic (tons)

olive oil

chicken broth

turmeric

chili flakes

gumbo file

limes (a few)

sun-dried tomatoes

bella mushrooms (according to Pudge, they're supposed to look old and nasty. Not sure if they're supposed to be partially uncovered for three days though)

alcohol (to keep the cook entertained, and in case the palmbo disappoints)

• Bung the potatoes in a pot of water and throw it on high. Get on Facebook.
• When you start to feel pathetic, log off and check the potatoes, which are nowhere near done. Crush the garlic. Now it's not a wasted trip.
• Actually, go ahead and get all your ingredients out of the fridge and ready to cook now, because by the time those potatoes are ready you're going to be grandma-stabbingly hungry and every second will count.
• Wash the mushrooms. Look at them, squinting suspiciously. Wash them again.
• Throw the mushrooms in a pan with the crushed garlic and some olive oil on high. Meanwhile, cut the tomato in half and throw under the stove in the broiler pan with some olive oil on it, since your sister Franky used all your tin foil. Turn the heat high on the broiler and pan until you realize they're both gonna be ready way before those FACKING potatoes at this rate, then turn both off.
• When you're confident the potatoes are soft enough for consumption, or when you don't care anymore, turn the pan back on and add the spinach. Meanwhile, open the tin of herrings. Don't bother trying to dodge the herring water that will get all over your clothes when you open the tin. Nobody ever has and you won't be the first. Add herrings and herring water to the pan.
• Say fuck it (out loud, not just in your head) and throw everything else in the pan, then season to taste. Don't be shy with the chicken broth. Any problem, just throw salt, limes, and garlic at it.
• Take a shower or have your current outfit dry cleaned, depending on angle and severity of herring water runoff.

"WIPEOUT" produced by ABCDEFG

the fifth song from the new mixtape AYATOLLAH PRESLEY
recording and releasing a new song every Monday.

If you like this song:
post the link on Twitter and tag your friends and me
post the link on Facebook and tag your friends and me
forward this email to your friends and cc me

THE 2 PEOPLE WHO SHARE IT THE MOST WILL HEAR THEIR NAME IN NEXT WEEK'S SONG.

here's a tweet to copy/paste if you're lazy:

The new @MalkovichMusic joint "Wipeout" is up on his site for d/l. Get it at www.malkovichmusic.com and thank me later

CATCH ME RAPPING ON THE WAKE UP SHOW (POWER 106) THIS SUNDAY AT 11PM PST WITH ABNORMAL AND HOMEBOY SANDMAN... BIG UPS KING TECH...

Malkovich in this bitch
on some James Brown shit, my shit gets The Big Playback
saw some freaks in the line, where they at
saw my peeps in the line, where they at
west LA’s on the map like a coffeestain
we got writers, what up Kofie
we got emcees, what up Omni
we got crew, BLX posse
then you got me, networking, the dress shirt king, I’m bossy
permanently cracking, how my spots be
my flyer is fire, hit ‘em with the glossy
New York, I’m running with Mazzi
scheming on that green like Ponzi
stealing on these paunchy-ass Chauncey mufukas, we see ya
we slicker, we leaner, you know the demeanor

And I’m one of a kind
producers, I’ll tell you when I’m done with my rhyme
youngsters, fashion is fine
but skills are still kind of a big deal, you’ll find
old cats, you’re only old in the mind
fresh off 30 and I’m in my prime
Ice-T didn’t drop OG till 29
now his watch so rocked up he can’t tell the time
read the signs or get reassigned
your flow is sleepytime and it’s only three to nine
yall cheese and wine cats, recline back
we in the house, squeeze a lime that, rewind that
malkovich music dot com, redesigned
so log ya ass on and prepare to be surprised
be advised, stepping to me and mines
you’ll be waiting so long you're gonna have to pee in line

310 prefix, we passing out leaflets
Cali gladiators, the word of the day is major
old school, rocked a pager till '02
straight drinker like who the fuck drinks O'Doul’s? Old dudes.
and what the fuck is soju? No clue, just pour me another one
act like you knew, I'm back like the flu
better get you some tissue
off trees and tabacky my frees is nasty
unforgettable like the theme from Taxi
incredible like the weed in Cali
so now chicks rush my shows like Santee Alley
three pair, ten dollar, Malky got that good shit
inshallah, hot shit, holla
Los Ankheles - from where your accent is
grown man griz – watch ya man get biz.

I LOVE FRIED CHICKEN & BLACK COFFEE.

Coffee company name strategically greyed out. I don't wanna give anyone free advertising. Especially Coffee Bean.

WOKE UP BRAINDEAD THANKS TO LAST NIGHT'S MOJITO OVERLOAD at Bamboo and hadn't a clue what to write about, so I went out for fried chicken and black coffee instead. Now I know what to write about. My more sage-burninger Facebook friends might say that's an example of Letting Life Guide Me. I just hope Life isn't Guiding Me to a triple artery bypass. Then again, that would make for an interesting post. I wonder if the surgeons will let me use my Blackberry during the operation.

Fried chicken and black coffee first met in my mouth last year, when the smell from the Ralphs deli overpowered me during one of my morning trips to the Coffee Bean that used to be inside the Culver Plaza branch across Venice (see Coffee Up). FC&BC signify the elusive union of crunchy and soupy, my two favorite food adjectives. They fill you up without the food coma, and I always welcome even one less battle with the Norse god of Itis, my mortal enemy since childhood. Countless are the nights I laid in bed as a lad, pale and naked, gasping for consciousness as kebab meat engorged my very soul. Fried chicken and coffee is my Renaissance. Plus, it's cheap as hell.

Ralphs chicken is a little wet for my taste. Popeyes in New Orleans is high cuisine, but my last piece of chicken at Popeyes on Hollywood and Cahuenga tasted like a deep fried wallet. Pioneer Chicken gave me the only meal I've thrown away in my entire life. KFC is fashionable to poo-poo nowadays but I'll take an extra crunchy two-piece over most gourmet dinners. Plus, my mom's boyfriend looks kind of like Colonel Sanders. I'm a thigh man - more crevices, more crunch. Starbucks coffee is a little tarter than most, which compliments the salt. Take a bite of chicken, hold it in your mouth while you sip some coffee, swoosh it around in your mouth like you're in Napa Valley, then try not to fall to your knees as starbursts of taste sensations dazzle your eyesight with each furtive chewing motion. Then definitely go brush your tongue.

Saints & Sinners tonight! 10899 Venice Blvd., between Overland and Sepulveda. I'm on ten pee em to one forty-five ay em. No cover. Strong drinks. Good music. Good people. Come get human again.

BAR REVIEW: THE CORK

The Cork, 4771 W. Adams Blvd., L.A. [Yelp]

BLACK GUYS DON'T SING ALONG TO OLDIES AT THE BAR ANYMORE. At least, not right away. They sing Robin Thicke songs into their drinks with the passion of twelve-year-old girls, and grimace through Marvin Gaye and Curtis Mayfield like dogshit's in the air until they throw a couple more back, realize it's a Saturday afternoon and there are only two hot girls here, and embrace their inner Pendergrass. If you're a jukebox addict, this adds up to about seven bucks of your money in the Cork's digital jukebox, which you're better off spending at once instead of a dollar at a time, lest your drink get warm and your company get cold while you spend twenty minutes looking through 20,000 albums to find your forty favorite songs of all time. Options: the joy and the agony.

The Cork's jukebox ain't cheap either: two songs for a buck. Actually, for a hood bar, not much about the Cork is cheap. Their menu's price section is a vast column of four-digit numbers. A banner on the back wall proudly announces tacos for $8 each at happy hour. I've heard of monkeys that drive cars with their feet. I've never heard of an $8 taco. But Modelo Especials were five, and the friendly Midwestern bartender with the jewfro gave us a couple of free tequila shots. A nice old white lady named Colleen told me I look like Burt Reynolds, which is not unprecedented (see Burt Reynolds Vs My Dad), but I was still so chuffed I still haven't trimmed my beard. The Cork is like a strip club without poles, which of course made me feel instantly at home. And we just stayed away from the jailhouse patio, which a patron supposedly squeezed a few bullets off in last month, according to Yelp. So no harm, no foul. The real reason The Cork is so pricey is not so much because of the prices, but more because you'll probably have such a good time that you'll drink way more than is necessary on a Saturday afternoon. That, or any hospital bills you may incur on the patio.

BAMBOO TONIGHT. DJs Spye and Yoshe on the tables. 10835 Venice Blvd., next to Cafe Brasil in Palms. Mojitos, full bar, best food on the West. I'm on ten to eleven-ish while the superstars settle in. Until then, I'll be at home trying to get Abba's "Dancing Queen" out of my head. Two weeks and counting.

FUMIGATION, THE SEQUEL

I LOVE EMAILS WHERE PEOPLE TELL YOU TO DO SOMETHING REALLY annoying in like three words flat with no punctuation or capitalization, like the one I got this morning from our building manager Lesley regarding today's exterminator visit.

"9-12 clear the kitchen"

Last week she told me this was a gel job. If you're now telling me I have to move half my house ten feet to the left in the next eight minutes before noxious fumes coat every surface in my home, it would be nice if those chubby fingers tapped out a few extra words to soften the blow before grasping for your third piece of coffee cake.

I also love it when people call you and instantly launch into a long monologue, then get huffy if you try to turn it into a two-way conversation with a point and a duration that allows you to swiftly get back to what you were doing before you unwittingly assumed the role of agony aunt. Janet has commandeered building management to fix, among other things, the shininess of her bathtub and the angle of her kitchen counter. Plus, she's known as a particularly particular person by most standards. So I think I can be forgiven for harboring the idea that she may have been overreacting when she ordered the entire building fumigated last month (see Fumigation Day At The Mayoral Compound), a job brazen in its naked half-assedness. I had never seen more than a handful of roaches (imagine that) in my unit until we were fumigated. Now they're everywhere. And from the facial expression on the Mexican Mafia member with the spray gun who I left in my home this morning, today's round of poison shouldn't do much more than give my place that Cellular Holocaust smell that makes a home so inviting. So Janet, I love you like that Persian dish with the boiled limes, but I don't feel like hearing the person who sent roaches to my home complain about the roaches in her home. I'm a pawn in a chess game between two sociopaths: one who doesn't talk enough, and another who talks too much.

Sorry if I'm grumpy. I just had to move my kitchen for a bunch of roaches that will be back next week. Plus I just heard famous atheist Christopher Hitchens has throat cancer, which doesn't bode well for atheism.



Getting some love on my new song with Gotham Green. Check it out at ChinkyeyedLA. "I got some farmland in Turkey that keeps my mama's back furry."

Spye and Yoshe doing the honors this Thursday at our new weekly at Bamboo Restaurant. Mojitos and ceviche, whaddayant.

"MALK & GREEN" f. GOTHAM GREEN

the fourth song from the new mixtape AYATOLLAH PRESLEY

recording and releasing a new song every Monday.

also on HAZE DIARIES VOLUME 3 by GOTHAM GREEN & QUICKIE MART. featuring Planet Asia | Freddie Gibbs | El Prez | Tunji | Jes Hudak | gothamgreen.wordpress.com

If you like this song:

retweet the link on Twitter

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then show me your retweets/posts/forwards

THE 2 PEOPLE WHO SHARE IT MOST WILL HEAR THEIR NAME IN NEXT WEEK’S SONG.

Wanna marry me, better have that thousand G dowry
I show up to the altar with my shirt all flowery
my best man strapped with his nose all floury
better tell ‘em bout me G
—
In the winter I’m a winner
in the summer I’m a stunner
fall and I’ma spring on your spot, governor
chasing chips is cold as London
yall fish for them chips, I’m going for lump sums
conundrums, best laid plans come undone
the wind blows in and death becomes them
my uncle washed my mouth out, I was used to crumbs
fresh kicks and guest list, guess it’s juice to some
—
my work ethic’s ethnic, keep the threads silky
bread filthy, all for the family
throw a few Gs overseas
I got some farmland in Turkey that keeps my mama’s back furry
—
Malky, holla at me
bills get stacky and I get dollar-happy
Big Brother come knocking, watch me get all Iraqi
in the foreign account go all the Os
and the loose bills in my daughter’s clothes
keep the door closed
through the ages my life been through various stages
now times are serious so it’s about the papers.