Hello All,
Props to first time rock contributor Jerico for today’s song. Here’s what he had to say about it:
So here’s what I think about the track:
Straight from HBO’s Entourage, this track finished the episode this past Sunday. As always, they have many sleeper cuts on this show + bring back some goodies that people slept on 1st time around.
This track by Alice Smith just oozes with soul. Its just so fuckin’ smooth...the breaks in the beginning of the track just make you move - makes you all geeked up if you got a girl to enjoy it with and got you feenin’ for one if you don’t.
Live Easy and Enjoy.
Feenin, indeed.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/xffdrqzpfz
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Roommate Search
Hello All,
I’m looking for a roommate:
Facts
$800 + utilities (usually no more than $30 a month)
Marina Del Rey (3 minute drive to work, 20 minute bike ride to the beach, 1 1/2 blocks to Al Tomizawa) Move in September (or last week of August)
2 bd, 1 ba – you get the bigger bedroom and your own parking spot
Month to month
About Me
Personality – easy going, neat and all the sensibilities of a respectable roommate
I listen to a lot of independent music, watch indie flicks and documentaries
Not really into sports, KROQ, TV or myspace (but whatever, that’s what makes me feel like a princess)
Don’t smoke, drink occasionally (we can talk about other vices later)
I like to go out and party and stuff, but I prefer to keep the place as a sanctuary.
But the place is always open to friends and travelers.
Don’t mind sharing food/drink, just don’t kill it....hopefully same applies to you.
What I look for in a roommate
Someone that can keep the place tidy and pay bills on time, blah blah.
Trustworthy and respectful of privacy.
Discreet enough to resist the urge to gossip about my prosthetic leg, subscription to Tiger Beat or gingivitis. If we can be friends, then great. If not, then that’d kinda be awkward, wouldn’t you agree?
Thanks all, -- Roe I can send you pics of the apartment (probably with inebriated people posing in it) if you’re interested.
I don’t quite have any pictures of the place yet, but here’s a PowerPoint rendering to give you a more accurate sense of the place. 
That’s a picture of me, enjoying a lemonade, and welcoming YOU as a potential new roommate.
That’s right.
You.
-- Roe
I’m looking for a roommate:
Facts
$800 + utilities (usually no more than $30 a month)
Marina Del Rey (3 minute drive to work, 20 minute bike ride to the beach, 1 1/2 blocks to Al Tomizawa) Move in September (or last week of August)
2 bd, 1 ba – you get the bigger bedroom and your own parking spot
Month to month
About Me
Personality – easy going, neat and all the sensibilities of a respectable roommate
I listen to a lot of independent music, watch indie flicks and documentaries
Not really into sports, KROQ, TV or myspace (but whatever, that’s what makes me feel like a princess)
Don’t smoke, drink occasionally (we can talk about other vices later)
I like to go out and party and stuff, but I prefer to keep the place as a sanctuary.
But the place is always open to friends and travelers.
Don’t mind sharing food/drink, just don’t kill it....hopefully same applies to you.
What I look for in a roommate
Someone that can keep the place tidy and pay bills on time, blah blah.
Trustworthy and respectful of privacy.
Discreet enough to resist the urge to gossip about my prosthetic leg, subscription to Tiger Beat or gingivitis. If we can be friends, then great. If not, then that’d kinda be awkward, wouldn’t you agree?
Thanks all, -- Roe I can send you pics of the apartment (probably with inebriated people posing in it) if you’re interested.
I don’t quite have any pictures of the place yet, but here’s a PowerPoint rendering to give you a more accurate sense of the place. 
That’s a picture of me, enjoying a lemonade, and welcoming YOU as a potential new roommate.
That’s right.
You.
-- Roe
Monday, July 30, 2007
"Foundations" - Kate Nash
Hello All,
Rachelle was wrong! I like this song. Here’s what she had to say about it. (Thanks, you crazy nut).
--- Sonnyred
Hi Roe,
Here is the song I was telling you about at dinner on Saturday. (I said she’s a little like Lilly Allen, who you said you didn’t like, but that I should send you the song anyway.) I’ve listened to the song a few more times, and I actually don’t think it sounds much like Lilly Allen any more.
It’s called ‘Foundations’ and it’s by a lady called Kate Nash. Here’s what she looks like:
(I like to see what singers look like.)
I don’t have much to tell you about it, except that it is a very real observation about what relationships are like when they are coming to an end. You know you don’t want to be with someone anymore, and in fact, you are really starting to hate everything about them, and yet you don’t leave. I think it’s a lovely little ditty.
Anyway, sorry if you hate it, but you asked for it. :)
http://www.box.net/shared/9f410be7il
Rachelle was wrong! I like this song. Here’s what she had to say about it. (Thanks, you crazy nut).
--- Sonnyred
Hi Roe,
Here is the song I was telling you about at dinner on Saturday. (I said she’s a little like Lilly Allen, who you said you didn’t like, but that I should send you the song anyway.) I’ve listened to the song a few more times, and I actually don’t think it sounds much like Lilly Allen any more.
It’s called ‘Foundations’ and it’s by a lady called Kate Nash. Here’s what she looks like:
(I like to see what singers look like.)
I don’t have much to tell you about it, except that it is a very real observation about what relationships are like when they are coming to an end. You know you don’t want to be with someone anymore, and in fact, you are really starting to hate everything about them, and yet you don’t leave. I think it’s a lovely little ditty.
Anyway, sorry if you hate it, but you asked for it. :)
http://www.box.net/shared/9f410be7il
Friday, July 27, 2007
"Bring It Home to Me" - Sam Cooke
Recipients: Heidi, Sara, Go, Jerico, Julia, Rob and James Starr
Message: I’m high and listening to music right now and I’m thinking, “Damn!!!! I love this shit so much…and damn!!!!!! I’m higher than a mugga fugga. That’s the word…”
Responses:
Jerico: And that is living!
James Starr: Renees?
Go: It’s a beautiful thing
Heidi: Mugga futha
http://www.box.net/shared/7fuskkkxug
Message: I’m high and listening to music right now and I’m thinking, “Damn!!!! I love this shit so much…and damn!!!!!! I’m higher than a mugga fugga. That’s the word…”
Responses:
Jerico: And that is living!
James Starr: Renees?
Go: It’s a beautiful thing
Heidi: Mugga futha
http://www.box.net/shared/7fuskkkxug
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
"Welcome to the Terrordome" - Pharoah Monche
Hello All,
I have no trouble admitting that I’m real glad to be back in Killa Kali. I missed everything about this beautiful city. I missed the ocean. I missed the Mexican food. I missed the Mexicans. It’s funny because when I was in New York or Chicago and saw a Mexican (really, only identifiable by the shirts that said “Mexico” on it) I felt like I was seeing a distant relative (only that I might get jacked or jumped for not being Mexican). But for real, I went to a Mexican food joint in Chicago late night Sunday and saw they had carnitas and al pastor on their menu so I was like, “Firme!” I get the al pastor nachos, walk back to the lab to grub down and opened the container. I should’ve taken a picture but I was too drunk to think about it. Well, the al pastor I swear was some pollo asada, it came with tomatoes, store bought tortilla chips, and NACHO (muthafucking) cheese. What? No real cheese? I should’ve known better because that authentic Mexican food also boasted a menu of authentic Pizza and authentic Hot Dogs. And when I asked if they had any Tapatio or Cholula they were looking at me like I was some type of crazy chino.
Sunday in Chicago was insane. I got in touch with a girl that I met a month ago (at your BBQ, Andrew) that lives there and is into hip hop. So, she took me out to this Zune concert thing that was dope...Little Brother, Bilal and Kweli performed. Rumor had it Mos was also going to perform with Black Star again. I was going ape shit over it. I mean, right when Raleigh brought forth the magic that LB are being that I was really, really into BS. Wow! I almost cream puffed my pants. So I was standing near the back of the front of the stage (you know what I’m saying, at the back of the front section, where like if shots rang you could still run and jump a fence and bounce without feeling pressured for being a snitch when the cops show up) and saw this one cat smoking the herb. Now a week into my trip I was like, “Dude, I’m quitting. I want to do this writing gig and I need to focus.” But of course I became another VICTIM of circumstance. I had to see what Chitown was like. It was aweeee(yawn)ite. Nah, it was decent and it was free. But after two bowls and a pound and little dosie of that pat on the back quick, manly hug thing I bounced. The girl I was with then hooked it up with some backstage passes so we went to go grub on some Chitown BBQ, drink some dranky drank and just chill out. Of course I had to go speak my mind to some of the performers. So I got to see/engage with: Little Brother, Bilal, Black Star and Rhymefest. Turned out that the big baller that was responsible for hooking me up and throwing the event and I are connected. 10 years ago (fuck, Roy, can you believe it’s been that long) I ran with this street team that is based out of LA (N5!) and the dude (named Chris) used to collab with our crew back in the day. Beautiful how small the hip hop community really is. I felt a big sense of pride and a little bit of shame. It sucks that I had to fall out of the game and give in to the reality of life. I commended him for pushing the art forward and continuing to bring real hip hop to the masses. I swear, I’m committed to doing helping the culture elevate (hopefully keeping the corporate politics and bullshit to a minimum). Side note, props to Jerico for pushing for Mos to appear in one of the PSP ads. Mike, as a producer I’m sure you do your thing too. Well after that big ol festival, we went to go see this band that Chris was managing at the Double Room in Wicker Park. I really wasn’t feeling the group (named BSTC or something) so I told him what I thought Ozomatli had that they didn’t or what I feel they could do to make the sound more compelling (adding vocals, per se). But Elaine (the girl that hooked me up) was like, “Yeah some girl name Rez is also performing. But I think she goes by Reece.” Damn! Res headlined it; pretty dope and sexy neo soul act, so it really just blew my mind.
I met a lot of cool cats that Sunday night. Real hip hop, mature hip hop heads (not a backpacker in sight) and a smoky, dark lounge. In between acts, the DJ started off with “My Posse’s On Broadway” and this cat this is the conversation that took place:
Cat: Aww, you don’t know this shit, it’s a little too raw.
Me: What? Sir fucking Mix A Lot from Seattle? You going to tell me I don't know this shit? (Roy, didn’t we promote one of his wack ass albums)?
Cat: Yeah man. He’s from Seattle?
Me: Hell yeah (I’m not even too sure, but I said it with so much conviction I could’ve said he was from Candyland and it would’ve been believable). Man, the only reason anyone besides white chicks loving that “Baby Got Back” song ever listened to him was because his songs bumped like a motherfucker! You don’t even have to like his rhyming, when hear that bass drop you’re like “damn!!!!!!!!!!!!” It alters your heart rate. And you know by the time he came out, we were all tired of listening to that weird ass reversed Beastie Boys bass drop. Shit, I remember connecting them 8 ohm, house speakers to my amp just so I could bump. What you talking about?
Then we just busted up laughing. Then, Rakim (I Know You Got Soul), Gangstarr (You Know My Steez), Eastflatbush Project (Tried By Twelve), EPMD (Crossover), Goodie Mob (Cell Therapy) and Beat Nuts (Do You Believe) all came on; I proceeded to mouth the words while he was left a little dumbfounded. To that I told him, “Aww..you don’t know this shit. It’s a little too raw.”
You wanna fuck what? Jump up and get bucked. If you’re feeling lucky duck, then press your luck.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/sbxslyvzmx
By the way, if you guys like this joint, then I suggest you buy the entire album. It’s dope. Pharoah Monche even got a great review in The Onion (and you know how Hip Hop the Onion is). But sure crowd pleaser with the nod to Public Enemy and what not. I was bumping this album my entire trip. It’s dope! He’s the only MC that I think might be able to stand a chance against Eminem (and that’s just a maybe). But the way he rhymes and plays with words, damn lyrical genius.
Here are some pics from my bunk ass camera phone:
Talib Kweli
Bam! Fucking surprise performance with Jean Grae (my second favorite female MC, ever. Second to Lauryn Hill of course..and no, L Boogie is not racist against white folks).
Nice Chicago Folks at Union Square Park
Black Star. At this point, Mos Def was yelling “Lordddddddddd” right before breaking into Definition. The song that really defined my love for hip hop. Back in 96, hearing the song (I sent it before so check your iTunes). I think this song epitomizes the peak of underground hip hop. What kind of sucks it that Mos Def totally fucking hogged it up at the end of the night; doing his eclectic shit and not doing as many classics or Black Star shit. Mos, you’re artistic and talented, but learn from your homie Common’s “Electric Circus” album. You can’t do what Andre 3000 does, end of story.
This is the group that the dude Chris is managing. BCTS or something like that. I’d say use the acronym only after they’ve gained more fanfare; until then when people hear your name all they’ll be able to think about is ordering a sandwich with bacon, lettuce and tomato. Add some vocals. And as for the sexy saxophone solos, if you ain’t John Coltrane, then you’re Kenny G.
Res performing at the Double Door. Funny thing, her song “Golden Boy” is about Mos Def, who actually fathered her baby. And they were in the same city at different venues. Maybe they hooked up.
I have no trouble admitting that I’m real glad to be back in Killa Kali. I missed everything about this beautiful city. I missed the ocean. I missed the Mexican food. I missed the Mexicans. It’s funny because when I was in New York or Chicago and saw a Mexican (really, only identifiable by the shirts that said “Mexico” on it) I felt like I was seeing a distant relative (only that I might get jacked or jumped for not being Mexican). But for real, I went to a Mexican food joint in Chicago late night Sunday and saw they had carnitas and al pastor on their menu so I was like, “Firme!” I get the al pastor nachos, walk back to the lab to grub down and opened the container. I should’ve taken a picture but I was too drunk to think about it. Well, the al pastor I swear was some pollo asada, it came with tomatoes, store bought tortilla chips, and NACHO (muthafucking) cheese. What? No real cheese? I should’ve known better because that authentic Mexican food also boasted a menu of authentic Pizza and authentic Hot Dogs. And when I asked if they had any Tapatio or Cholula they were looking at me like I was some type of crazy chino.
Sunday in Chicago was insane. I got in touch with a girl that I met a month ago (at your BBQ, Andrew) that lives there and is into hip hop. So, she took me out to this Zune concert thing that was dope...Little Brother, Bilal and Kweli performed. Rumor had it Mos was also going to perform with Black Star again. I was going ape shit over it. I mean, right when Raleigh brought forth the magic that LB are being that I was really, really into BS. Wow! I almost cream puffed my pants. So I was standing near the back of the front of the stage (you know what I’m saying, at the back of the front section, where like if shots rang you could still run and jump a fence and bounce without feeling pressured for being a snitch when the cops show up) and saw this one cat smoking the herb. Now a week into my trip I was like, “Dude, I’m quitting. I want to do this writing gig and I need to focus.” But of course I became another VICTIM of circumstance. I had to see what Chitown was like. It was aweeee(yawn)ite. Nah, it was decent and it was free. But after two bowls and a pound and little dosie of that pat on the back quick, manly hug thing I bounced. The girl I was with then hooked it up with some backstage passes so we went to go grub on some Chitown BBQ, drink some dranky drank and just chill out. Of course I had to go speak my mind to some of the performers. So I got to see/engage with: Little Brother, Bilal, Black Star and Rhymefest. Turned out that the big baller that was responsible for hooking me up and throwing the event and I are connected. 10 years ago (fuck, Roy, can you believe it’s been that long) I ran with this street team that is based out of LA (N5!) and the dude (named Chris) used to collab with our crew back in the day. Beautiful how small the hip hop community really is. I felt a big sense of pride and a little bit of shame. It sucks that I had to fall out of the game and give in to the reality of life. I commended him for pushing the art forward and continuing to bring real hip hop to the masses. I swear, I’m committed to doing helping the culture elevate (hopefully keeping the corporate politics and bullshit to a minimum). Side note, props to Jerico for pushing for Mos to appear in one of the PSP ads. Mike, as a producer I’m sure you do your thing too. Well after that big ol festival, we went to go see this band that Chris was managing at the Double Room in Wicker Park. I really wasn’t feeling the group (named BSTC or something) so I told him what I thought Ozomatli had that they didn’t or what I feel they could do to make the sound more compelling (adding vocals, per se). But Elaine (the girl that hooked me up) was like, “Yeah some girl name Rez is also performing. But I think she goes by Reece.” Damn! Res headlined it; pretty dope and sexy neo soul act, so it really just blew my mind.
I met a lot of cool cats that Sunday night. Real hip hop, mature hip hop heads (not a backpacker in sight) and a smoky, dark lounge. In between acts, the DJ started off with “My Posse’s On Broadway” and this cat this is the conversation that took place:
Cat: Aww, you don’t know this shit, it’s a little too raw.
Me: What? Sir fucking Mix A Lot from Seattle? You going to tell me I don't know this shit? (Roy, didn’t we promote one of his wack ass albums)?
Cat: Yeah man. He’s from Seattle?
Me: Hell yeah (I’m not even too sure, but I said it with so much conviction I could’ve said he was from Candyland and it would’ve been believable). Man, the only reason anyone besides white chicks loving that “Baby Got Back” song ever listened to him was because his songs bumped like a motherfucker! You don’t even have to like his rhyming, when hear that bass drop you’re like “damn!!!!!!!!!!!!” It alters your heart rate. And you know by the time he came out, we were all tired of listening to that weird ass reversed Beastie Boys bass drop. Shit, I remember connecting them 8 ohm, house speakers to my amp just so I could bump. What you talking about?
Then we just busted up laughing. Then, Rakim (I Know You Got Soul), Gangstarr (You Know My Steez), Eastflatbush Project (Tried By Twelve), EPMD (Crossover), Goodie Mob (Cell Therapy) and Beat Nuts (Do You Believe) all came on; I proceeded to mouth the words while he was left a little dumbfounded. To that I told him, “Aww..you don’t know this shit. It’s a little too raw.”
You wanna fuck what? Jump up and get bucked. If you’re feeling lucky duck, then press your luck.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/sbxslyvzmx
By the way, if you guys like this joint, then I suggest you buy the entire album. It’s dope. Pharoah Monche even got a great review in The Onion (and you know how Hip Hop the Onion is). But sure crowd pleaser with the nod to Public Enemy and what not. I was bumping this album my entire trip. It’s dope! He’s the only MC that I think might be able to stand a chance against Eminem (and that’s just a maybe). But the way he rhymes and plays with words, damn lyrical genius.
Here are some pics from my bunk ass camera phone:
Talib Kweli
Bam! Fucking surprise performance with Jean Grae (my second favorite female MC, ever. Second to Lauryn Hill of course..and no, L Boogie is not racist against white folks).
Nice Chicago Folks at Union Square Park
Black Star. At this point, Mos Def was yelling “Lordddddddddd” right before breaking into Definition. The song that really defined my love for hip hop. Back in 96, hearing the song (I sent it before so check your iTunes). I think this song epitomizes the peak of underground hip hop. What kind of sucks it that Mos Def totally fucking hogged it up at the end of the night; doing his eclectic shit and not doing as many classics or Black Star shit. Mos, you’re artistic and talented, but learn from your homie Common’s “Electric Circus” album. You can’t do what Andre 3000 does, end of story.
This is the group that the dude Chris is managing. BCTS or something like that. I’d say use the acronym only after they’ve gained more fanfare; until then when people hear your name all they’ll be able to think about is ordering a sandwich with bacon, lettuce and tomato. Add some vocals. And as for the sexy saxophone solos, if you ain’t John Coltrane, then you’re Kenny G.
Res performing at the Double Door. Funny thing, her song “Golden Boy” is about Mos Def, who actually fathered her baby. And they were in the same city at different venues. Maybe they hooked up.
I'm Not Trying to Get Married
July 23, 2007 – I’m Not Trying to Get Married
So rather than write out all the events the unfolded in Chicago on the daily, I figured, “screw it. There’s so much work I have to do; no time.” Hmm, I’m wrapping up the trip right now on the flight back to LA and crap, I must say that I really miss home and all the beautiful women that reside there. Now I know what Biggie meant when I said, “Going back to Cali strictly for the women, weather and the weed.” First impressions of Chicago were whatever. As for the city, I always had this preconceived notion of the city being really nothing more than a giant, robusto cigar. For some reason, I don’t know, it just came across as stale, stuffy and like charcoal heather gray for me.
And I was definitely wrong. The people there are definitely big-pimping. Like some people were just as wide as they were tall. As I was walking down the airport terminal I started to imagine how I would’ve escaped death if some type of catastrophe were to occur. I’d simply find a big mama and just roll her ass down the terminal to clear a path, a la giant boulder in Indiana Jones. Fuck, Meghan is going to hate me for this, but I’m kinda calling the city “The Land of the 20 mores.” I’m not going to explain the meaning behind it those that like to bust my balls will know what I’m saying.
However, the people are very nice and very warm and genuine. Walking out of the El, like four people said “good morning” to me. I was like, “Wait a minute, what choo want from me?” Yes, the people are nice. And the city is very clean and pretty safe (considering the size of it). Would I want to live there? I don’t know. I will live there if it means I’ll get a job and learn and build and do good work, sure. Someone told me it has all the good things about a city without any of the bad; completely true. I was able to get around the city with no clue or no map, everything is explained in clear, concise detail. The coffee shops there don’t mind if you were to stay there for hours. The food in the coffee shop I was at was bomb grub. It has the neighborhoody feel that lacks in New York.
The city must have known that I was coming from New York and decided to bring out the fine china for me. I left the thunderstorms of Manhattan and came to find that the weather in Chicago was insanely nice all weekend. The loft I stayed at just doesn’t exist in LA (check out the blog for more pictures of Chicago and what I found so right and wrong with it). The loft was really, really, reely (like fishing reel) big. In comparison to Chiat’s office, I would say the living room alone was bigger than the Playstation/Visa area. Right in the heart of Wicker Park and that wasn’t including the rooftop, 6 bedrooms, second living room area and huge ass kitchen…in the heart of Wicker Park. I was at a park music festival and tired, I placed my ears to hear the earth talk to me. It said, “Chicago is a great city. Look! Believe us! You should want to live here! We’re the best of both worlds!”
I’ll tell you what the city is. It’s the perfect girlfriend. It’s compatible and easy going, doesn’t complain or nag, shares the same values as you, lets you hang out with the guys, and has an aspirin and a glass of water waiting for you at your bedside when you go out drinking. Chicago is the girl you marry. In the end, Chicago will leave you with Dockers, a green lawn underneath your feet and a baseball cap to cover furrowed brows.
New York. New York is the girl you leave your wife for. I would love to explain more but that’s really the essence of the city. You can’t qualify it any further. New York is the girl that will absolutely ruin your life and leave you in shambles. It’s as constant as a river; where fishing for stability will leave you with nothing more than a rumbling belly. New York is Scarlet, New York is Sharon Stone in Casino, New York is “The Widow.” But at the end of it, you’ll be left an evolved person that carries no regrets.
LA. Los Angeles is the high school sweetheart that you never marry, but never quite get over, either. It’s the city that will mold you and help you become the person you are. It’s that whiff of Victoria’s Secret body spray that will mentally cue you in to all those distant memories that have since long become extinct. It’s the burger joint you drive through where you had the first date. It’s the highway you sped on when you were damn, fucking pissed off at her. Damn. Fucking. Peest (off, mang).
Ha! But I left Chicago and ended this trip in the best way possible. Riding the train, 5 in the morning, where the ketchup sun was young enough for me to challenge it to a staring contest. I really enjoyed my stay, and I would love to do some good work there. I would let her court me, I would let her into my heart. But in all honesty, I’m not trying to get married.
So rather than write out all the events the unfolded in Chicago on the daily, I figured, “screw it. There’s so much work I have to do; no time.” Hmm, I’m wrapping up the trip right now on the flight back to LA and crap, I must say that I really miss home and all the beautiful women that reside there. Now I know what Biggie meant when I said, “Going back to Cali strictly for the women, weather and the weed.” First impressions of Chicago were whatever. As for the city, I always had this preconceived notion of the city being really nothing more than a giant, robusto cigar. For some reason, I don’t know, it just came across as stale, stuffy and like charcoal heather gray for me.
And I was definitely wrong. The people there are definitely big-pimping. Like some people were just as wide as they were tall. As I was walking down the airport terminal I started to imagine how I would’ve escaped death if some type of catastrophe were to occur. I’d simply find a big mama and just roll her ass down the terminal to clear a path, a la giant boulder in Indiana Jones. Fuck, Meghan is going to hate me for this, but I’m kinda calling the city “The Land of the 20 mores.” I’m not going to explain the meaning behind it those that like to bust my balls will know what I’m saying.
However, the people are very nice and very warm and genuine. Walking out of the El, like four people said “good morning” to me. I was like, “Wait a minute, what choo want from me?” Yes, the people are nice. And the city is very clean and pretty safe (considering the size of it). Would I want to live there? I don’t know. I will live there if it means I’ll get a job and learn and build and do good work, sure. Someone told me it has all the good things about a city without any of the bad; completely true. I was able to get around the city with no clue or no map, everything is explained in clear, concise detail. The coffee shops there don’t mind if you were to stay there for hours. The food in the coffee shop I was at was bomb grub. It has the neighborhoody feel that lacks in New York.
The city must have known that I was coming from New York and decided to bring out the fine china for me. I left the thunderstorms of Manhattan and came to find that the weather in Chicago was insanely nice all weekend. The loft I stayed at just doesn’t exist in LA (check out the blog for more pictures of Chicago and what I found so right and wrong with it). The loft was really, really, reely (like fishing reel) big. In comparison to Chiat’s office, I would say the living room alone was bigger than the Playstation/Visa area. Right in the heart of Wicker Park and that wasn’t including the rooftop, 6 bedrooms, second living room area and huge ass kitchen…in the heart of Wicker Park. I was at a park music festival and tired, I placed my ears to hear the earth talk to me. It said, “Chicago is a great city. Look! Believe us! You should want to live here! We’re the best of both worlds!”
I’ll tell you what the city is. It’s the perfect girlfriend. It’s compatible and easy going, doesn’t complain or nag, shares the same values as you, lets you hang out with the guys, and has an aspirin and a glass of water waiting for you at your bedside when you go out drinking. Chicago is the girl you marry. In the end, Chicago will leave you with Dockers, a green lawn underneath your feet and a baseball cap to cover furrowed brows.
New York. New York is the girl you leave your wife for. I would love to explain more but that’s really the essence of the city. You can’t qualify it any further. New York is the girl that will absolutely ruin your life and leave you in shambles. It’s as constant as a river; where fishing for stability will leave you with nothing more than a rumbling belly. New York is Scarlet, New York is Sharon Stone in Casino, New York is “The Widow.” But at the end of it, you’ll be left an evolved person that carries no regrets.
LA. Los Angeles is the high school sweetheart that you never marry, but never quite get over, either. It’s the city that will mold you and help you become the person you are. It’s that whiff of Victoria’s Secret body spray that will mentally cue you in to all those distant memories that have since long become extinct. It’s the burger joint you drive through where you had the first date. It’s the highway you sped on when you were damn, fucking pissed off at her. Damn. Fucking. Peest (off, mang).
Ha! But I left Chicago and ended this trip in the best way possible. Riding the train, 5 in the morning, where the ketchup sun was young enough for me to challenge it to a staring contest. I really enjoyed my stay, and I would love to do some good work there. I would let her court me, I would let her into my heart. But in all honesty, I’m not trying to get married.
I'm Full Of Chlorophyll
July 21, 2007 – I’m Full of Chlorophyll
Now that I’m in Chicago my idea of solitude is solidifying more and more with each passing train stop. I’ve been up and down New York and Chicago and of course Los Angeles; perhaps the three most interesting cities in the most important country in the world and I’m still left in search of something I can’t quantify. I’ve found many places inhabitable and I’ve sought shelter and was able to find it with relative ease. But refuge and a place to call home…still yet to be found. And the only thing the spurred this entire entry was that I was talking to Ted and Meghan about whatever this morning. They were talking to me from across the room, their bodies in front of the windows with only their silhouettes distinguishing one from the other. And it was a weird revelation and a great analogy as to how I see myself in relation to the world -- it’s the same existence and the same exchange but it’s much different in terms of perspective. One party sees people in striking detail – their textures and colors and what not. However, the other party really doesn’t know anything more than the basic shape and surface of the other. Same existence, different understanding. And the more I think and the more I write the further I perpetuate myself into this enigmatic status. I’m digging myself a hole with my words.
I am seeking comfort and solace. But in reality, I’ve abandoned all of it for the sake of clarity. And looking back three years when I made that decision I can say that I’ve learned a lot about the world and life and myself, certainly. And I can’t really say I regret it; of course I don’t. Imagine if I were still with M_____, what kind of miserable life would that have been? Imagine if I were still with D_____, even still I think it’d be miserable and boring.
But I don’t know. I think it’s tough and difficult. Clarity is such an endless pursuit because even if you do see the forest through the trees; if the brush clears, then what? Eventually your eyes will make it through to the desert, then the tundra and frozen landscape. It’s infinite. It doesn’t end. My hand is on a calculator, and I’m frantically entering 1 + 1 =, =, =. And even with the exponential growth of it; with me typing in 1 x 10, =, =, =. It helps me gather more information and develop a better understanding of the intangible, but damn me and my pursuit for something that can never be captured. What the fuck did I get myself into?
Happiness, on the other hand, something very fucking hard to obtain, but at the same time available to all. That’s what I love about it, I guess. There’s no price affixed to it, it may cost the smile of a stranger in passing, it may even cost the price of a huge ol’ yacht or whatever. It’s wonderful and torturous at the same time and it’s a damn hard thing to obtain; it’s not a journey, it’s a fucking accomplishment, you’ve slain the dragon. Happiness is great and I love it and I feel it going through my veins but I’m not it as much/often as people may believe. It’s warm and fuzzy, but then it does breed content and complacency. Or maybe I should flip it; I’m not content. Happiness is something I don’t necessarily seek as much as I do necessarily long for it.
I’m not sure what the answer is, really. I fanatically observe the behavior, values and actions of people who I think are happy. Being the cynical person that I am, I’m still hanging on to this notion that all happy people are really just sad folks wearing great poker faces. But you know, the old folks that smile at you, there’s a lot to be learned from that mere act, alone. I don’t know what the lesson is, but fuck I want to know what it was that got them to work all those facial muscles with such natural ease to make them smile. And in comparison, what it was that brings the grumpiness out of the older men. Maybe a lifetime of suppression and emotional restraint? Maybe complacency? Either way, in life one experiences an enormous amount of turbulence and ups and downs and in betweens, but they end up in opposite ends of the spectrum. Surely, it must be more chaotic and way more complex than just a roll of the dice.
But not being content with what you have definitely sucks, too. Maybe I should just accept the imperfections of the world and what’s wrong with life and what can’t be fixed and just say, “fuck it.” Maybe if I released my grip, happiness will fall into the palms of my hands the way autumn leaves fall when there is no more chlorophyll to nourish the tree it came from. But fuck! I’m burdened with this clarity thing, and I’m being held captive by my own unrealistic belief that I can still change the world and make just a world that isn’t just. Happiness is nothing more than a knot in the rope of clarity; but when you’re climbing vertically up that motherfucker, that slight pause can certainly be a welcome relief.
I try to free my mind and it flies like a poorly folded paper airplane; bursting into confetti that falls onto the shoulders of the masses, celebrating joyously with no clue to the tragedy that took place just moments before.
But again, realism never fazed me and I’m full of chlorophyll. And I guess until the tree that is my world dwindles or gets chopped down I’m going to keep on trying to fucking be relevant to it.
Now that I’m in Chicago my idea of solitude is solidifying more and more with each passing train stop. I’ve been up and down New York and Chicago and of course Los Angeles; perhaps the three most interesting cities in the most important country in the world and I’m still left in search of something I can’t quantify. I’ve found many places inhabitable and I’ve sought shelter and was able to find it with relative ease. But refuge and a place to call home…still yet to be found. And the only thing the spurred this entire entry was that I was talking to Ted and Meghan about whatever this morning. They were talking to me from across the room, their bodies in front of the windows with only their silhouettes distinguishing one from the other. And it was a weird revelation and a great analogy as to how I see myself in relation to the world -- it’s the same existence and the same exchange but it’s much different in terms of perspective. One party sees people in striking detail – their textures and colors and what not. However, the other party really doesn’t know anything more than the basic shape and surface of the other. Same existence, different understanding. And the more I think and the more I write the further I perpetuate myself into this enigmatic status. I’m digging myself a hole with my words.
I am seeking comfort and solace. But in reality, I’ve abandoned all of it for the sake of clarity. And looking back three years when I made that decision I can say that I’ve learned a lot about the world and life and myself, certainly. And I can’t really say I regret it; of course I don’t. Imagine if I were still with M_____, what kind of miserable life would that have been? Imagine if I were still with D_____, even still I think it’d be miserable and boring.
But I don’t know. I think it’s tough and difficult. Clarity is such an endless pursuit because even if you do see the forest through the trees; if the brush clears, then what? Eventually your eyes will make it through to the desert, then the tundra and frozen landscape. It’s infinite. It doesn’t end. My hand is on a calculator, and I’m frantically entering 1 + 1 =, =, =. And even with the exponential growth of it; with me typing in 1 x 10, =, =, =. It helps me gather more information and develop a better understanding of the intangible, but damn me and my pursuit for something that can never be captured. What the fuck did I get myself into?
Happiness, on the other hand, something very fucking hard to obtain, but at the same time available to all. That’s what I love about it, I guess. There’s no price affixed to it, it may cost the smile of a stranger in passing, it may even cost the price of a huge ol’ yacht or whatever. It’s wonderful and torturous at the same time and it’s a damn hard thing to obtain; it’s not a journey, it’s a fucking accomplishment, you’ve slain the dragon. Happiness is great and I love it and I feel it going through my veins but I’m not it as much/often as people may believe. It’s warm and fuzzy, but then it does breed content and complacency. Or maybe I should flip it; I’m not content. Happiness is something I don’t necessarily seek as much as I do necessarily long for it.
I’m not sure what the answer is, really. I fanatically observe the behavior, values and actions of people who I think are happy. Being the cynical person that I am, I’m still hanging on to this notion that all happy people are really just sad folks wearing great poker faces. But you know, the old folks that smile at you, there’s a lot to be learned from that mere act, alone. I don’t know what the lesson is, but fuck I want to know what it was that got them to work all those facial muscles with such natural ease to make them smile. And in comparison, what it was that brings the grumpiness out of the older men. Maybe a lifetime of suppression and emotional restraint? Maybe complacency? Either way, in life one experiences an enormous amount of turbulence and ups and downs and in betweens, but they end up in opposite ends of the spectrum. Surely, it must be more chaotic and way more complex than just a roll of the dice.
But not being content with what you have definitely sucks, too. Maybe I should just accept the imperfections of the world and what’s wrong with life and what can’t be fixed and just say, “fuck it.” Maybe if I released my grip, happiness will fall into the palms of my hands the way autumn leaves fall when there is no more chlorophyll to nourish the tree it came from. But fuck! I’m burdened with this clarity thing, and I’m being held captive by my own unrealistic belief that I can still change the world and make just a world that isn’t just. Happiness is nothing more than a knot in the rope of clarity; but when you’re climbing vertically up that motherfucker, that slight pause can certainly be a welcome relief.
I try to free my mind and it flies like a poorly folded paper airplane; bursting into confetti that falls onto the shoulders of the masses, celebrating joyously with no clue to the tragedy that took place just moments before.
But again, realism never fazed me and I’m full of chlorophyll. And I guess until the tree that is my world dwindles or gets chopped down I’m going to keep on trying to fucking be relevant to it.
Friday, July 20, 2007
"Kidney Thief" - P.O.S.
July 20, 2007
What up, everyone?
Sitting here in Wicker Park right now just maxing out. You know, just doing some coffee shop contemplating; trying to beat out existing shit. Anyway, Jerico’s on it with the Common and Lily Allen shit:
http://www.rappersiknow.com/?p=82
Another thing. Raleigh, thanks for all the praise on my write ups (and what not) and thanks for forwarding the ones you like to your friends. Jerico, thanks also and all that good stuff. Well, it was only a matter of time, but with you guys helping me build my confidence; I think it’s enough to start blogging my shit for the MASSES! So the thing is, all these shops that I’m showing my book to are a little concerned that I might not be able to form a sentence, so I need to erase any doubt for those cats. And on top of that, they all want to know other creative pursuits outside of advertising that I partake in, and so I need to exploit this list for a second.
Insane, I tell you. All these things that I’ve done for the love of Hip Hop (the street team shit, concert promoting and this email newsletter). I’ve done it all simply for my love for it (imagine if I was a Jesus freak). Now, I think it might come full circle and help me now that I’m in need. If you guys can tell your friends I’d greatly appreciate it. I’ll always to keep it true, always talk to only a few of you guys (my friends), and always send what I send or type what I type for my own self-expression. Any momentum I can get will be great, so that way I can throw it in their faces like, “Yo, I don’t do viral, homie. Muthafucka, I am viral. Now take off your kicks before you come into my house, sucka. Wait, what the fuck do you expect? Just because I grew up Mexican and listen to ‘Black music?’ I’m fucking Asian bitch (I’ll pull down my pants to prove it).”
Here’s a link to my blog. Share it with friends, bookmark it, masturbate to it:
http://sonnyred.blogspot.com/
Lord, kill me. Anyway, also...Little Brother’s blog on Myspace is funny as hell..Phonte is crazy. That’s the only thing I really check up on. Also, my blog is really more me on a TLC tip. But I swear, soon I’ll stop being full of my own bullshit and start talking about the music again. Alright, fuck, let’s see. For today I need to talk about P.O.S. A few days ago, I emailed Roy and the homie Jay:
Hey Roy,
How you doing? Anyway, fuck...that POS shit is fucking dope. You gotta burn it for Jay. Jayfagski, here’s a sample....
Anyway Roy, big time surprise....i love that shit, big time. Fucking dope ass hip hop. Thanks for the hookup.
-- Roe
Well, whatever. I like the way he attacks the mic. I like it. It’s raw and honest; like Slug...actually kinda sounds like him and bit his style (would you agree/disagree)? That age old,, “I’m better than...” technique of rhyming doesn’t really apply anymore. Besides, I don’t think any artist is going to come out anytime soon and flip that angle in a way that will make me go, “Holy shit. I never heard that metaphor/simile before! Fuck, did you hear that? He said he’s so dope he’s like a Kraft Jet Puft Marshmallow and that other MCs are like the fake muthafucking Swiss Miss ones that only expand when they’re soaked in hot water. That’s gangsta. Next level shit, son! Yes indeedy! No doubt, no doubt. Word is bond, yo!” Well, I think he does sound a bit like Slug and I’m sorry if you disagree, but I might have to argue that to the point where we get all mad at each other and like just greet each other with head nods from now on, instead of the hip hop etiquette dap/rocks style. And then maybe just get drunk and just apologize to you later? I hate it when I argue my self-righteous views, it’s just they’re always wrong. I fucking argue it to death and then when I apologize, often times it’s not even truly an apology-apology. I really do feel sorry, but I have baggage and justification with it. Like when someone apologizes, it should be: “I’m sorry.”
But most of the time, when people apologize they say, “I’m sorry. It’s just that....” or “I’m sorry, but it’s because....”
No, cut that shit. I’m sorry if this cat doesn’t sound like Slug-o.
I only said it because...because motherfucker does sound like Slug! Fuck you, fucking diarrhea breath.
-- Sonnyred
What up, everyone?
Sitting here in Wicker Park right now just maxing out. You know, just doing some coffee shop contemplating; trying to beat out existing shit. Anyway, Jerico’s on it with the Common and Lily Allen shit:
http://www.rappersiknow.com/?p=82
Another thing. Raleigh, thanks for all the praise on my write ups (and what not) and thanks for forwarding the ones you like to your friends. Jerico, thanks also and all that good stuff. Well, it was only a matter of time, but with you guys helping me build my confidence; I think it’s enough to start blogging my shit for the MASSES! So the thing is, all these shops that I’m showing my book to are a little concerned that I might not be able to form a sentence, so I need to erase any doubt for those cats. And on top of that, they all want to know other creative pursuits outside of advertising that I partake in, and so I need to exploit this list for a second.
Insane, I tell you. All these things that I’ve done for the love of Hip Hop (the street team shit, concert promoting and this email newsletter). I’ve done it all simply for my love for it (imagine if I was a Jesus freak). Now, I think it might come full circle and help me now that I’m in need. If you guys can tell your friends I’d greatly appreciate it. I’ll always to keep it true, always talk to only a few of you guys (my friends), and always send what I send or type what I type for my own self-expression. Any momentum I can get will be great, so that way I can throw it in their faces like, “Yo, I don’t do viral, homie. Muthafucka, I am viral. Now take off your kicks before you come into my house, sucka. Wait, what the fuck do you expect? Just because I grew up Mexican and listen to ‘Black music?’ I’m fucking Asian bitch (I’ll pull down my pants to prove it).”
Here’s a link to my blog. Share it with friends, bookmark it, masturbate to it:
http://sonnyred.blogspot.com/
Lord, kill me. Anyway, also...Little Brother’s blog on Myspace is funny as hell..Phonte is crazy. That’s the only thing I really check up on. Also, my blog is really more me on a TLC tip. But I swear, soon I’ll stop being full of my own bullshit and start talking about the music again. Alright, fuck, let’s see. For today I need to talk about P.O.S. A few days ago, I emailed Roy and the homie Jay:
Hey Roy,
How you doing? Anyway, fuck...that POS shit is fucking dope. You gotta burn it for Jay. Jayfagski, here’s a sample....
Anyway Roy, big time surprise....i love that shit, big time. Fucking dope ass hip hop. Thanks for the hookup.
-- Roe
Well, whatever. I like the way he attacks the mic. I like it. It’s raw and honest; like Slug...actually kinda sounds like him and bit his style (would you agree/disagree)? That age old,, “I’m better than...” technique of rhyming doesn’t really apply anymore. Besides, I don’t think any artist is going to come out anytime soon and flip that angle in a way that will make me go, “Holy shit. I never heard that metaphor/simile before! Fuck, did you hear that? He said he’s so dope he’s like a Kraft Jet Puft Marshmallow and that other MCs are like the fake muthafucking Swiss Miss ones that only expand when they’re soaked in hot water. That’s gangsta. Next level shit, son! Yes indeedy! No doubt, no doubt. Word is bond, yo!” Well, I think he does sound a bit like Slug and I’m sorry if you disagree, but I might have to argue that to the point where we get all mad at each other and like just greet each other with head nods from now on, instead of the hip hop etiquette dap/rocks style. And then maybe just get drunk and just apologize to you later? I hate it when I argue my self-righteous views, it’s just they’re always wrong. I fucking argue it to death and then when I apologize, often times it’s not even truly an apology-apology. I really do feel sorry, but I have baggage and justification with it. Like when someone apologizes, it should be: “I’m sorry.”
But most of the time, when people apologize they say, “I’m sorry. It’s just that....” or “I’m sorry, but it’s because....”
No, cut that shit. I’m sorry if this cat doesn’t sound like Slug-o.
I only said it because...because motherfucker does sound like Slug! Fuck you, fucking diarrhea breath.
-- Sonnyred
"Books From Boxes" - Maximo Park
July 19, 2007
Hello All,
Funny chain of events took place over the past 24 hours. As soon as I thought I was leaving New York, I find myself here, at JFK, at 5:47 in the morning (I left the Upper West Side at 3 fucking am, yes it took this long to get here....through all the subways, transfers, airport security, breakfast burrito consumption) waiting to catch a 6:45 flight to Chicago. Told you, so. Somehow the children’s book style sun with its puffy cheeks blew some of those storm clouds a little too hard and my flight got cancelled. I called JetBlue and said, “Shit, that kind of sucks. I sorta have some interviews set up, also.” She apologized and said that I was one of the nice ones and thanked me for understanding. I guess I should’ve lashed out at her like, “What choo mean the flight is cancelled? Get me a damn pterodactyl (hey, that’s how spellcheck said it’s spelled...also a nod to Heidi) and let it sink its talons into my spine and transport me there if you have to.”
Then I hung up the phone and imagined that if I were living in a Disney movie, I’d somehow ride an Indian elephant with ivory tusks down Lexington Ave. with just enough time for me to catch a yellow and red striped hot air balloon. Somehow, after elevating a few hundred feet, for some reason barely escaping the clutches of a clumsy pair of criminals I’d release sandbags onto their heads and they’d sprawl out onto the ground (somehow, managing to escape death from the direct blow).
Well, I wish I could say that there was a more dramatic ending to my stay here. Sorry Roy, I was on my way to Crif Dogs but some steam pipe burst and killed someone and created this gaping hole in the street and suspended subway service for many hours. Though, I’m sure they’re delicious, I’m just not sure if they’re worth the hassle of walking down 80 blocks, having some unlucky guy die and making millions of hurried New Yorkers even more hurried and pissy. But then, I’m sure the hot dogs are good. I’ll just take your word for it. I’m sorry New York.
Also, the person whose place I’m staying at didn’t come home at the usual time from work last night so I was thinking, “Holy moly. The only person I know in New York is the person that fell victim to the steam.” Needless to say....screw it, it’s needless so I won’t say it. Either way, the nerve of me to think that even the most random of events are somehow related to me. Kind of like the way sports fans think their team will lose if they don’t watch the game. Admittedly, I did briefly think to myself, “Wow, this thunderstorm took place because I’m destined to live here. This dude died so that I couldn’t have Crif Dogs! I wonder what would’ve happened if I went there. Maybe I would’ve stepped on gum or run into a drunken Mike Tyson in a dark alley.....(lordy lord).
Well either way, I have written anything too specific about the songs because the way I process them is rather painstaking and meticulous. The way I really like to listen to music for the first time is to hole myself in a wall, throw on some decent headphones that allows me to hear every little sound, pull up the lyrics and turn off the lights. It’s sensory deprivation and sensory emulsion all at the same time. This music thing, I seldom read articles about them, look them up on myspace or anything like that. It’s about me and my intimate relation with the song. I do look up meanings though, just to take a lot of the guesswork out of it. But lately my personal endeavors have seeped through onto my list and I apologize if I don’t paint as vividly as I used to. Whatever, it’s my list but I’ll try to really seek out dope songs. Truth is, I just haven’t been too impressed with anything that has come my way lately. But alas, I’ll try. Well, I think Maximo Park fits in the same pair of shoes as The Kooks, but I think Maxi-mo-betta. I’ll think you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.
(Sigh)...the narcissism of altruism.
Morsels of human truth, free of charge.
-- Sonnyred

Hello All,
Funny chain of events took place over the past 24 hours. As soon as I thought I was leaving New York, I find myself here, at JFK, at 5:47 in the morning (I left the Upper West Side at 3 fucking am, yes it took this long to get here....through all the subways, transfers, airport security, breakfast burrito consumption) waiting to catch a 6:45 flight to Chicago. Told you, so. Somehow the children’s book style sun with its puffy cheeks blew some of those storm clouds a little too hard and my flight got cancelled. I called JetBlue and said, “Shit, that kind of sucks. I sorta have some interviews set up, also.” She apologized and said that I was one of the nice ones and thanked me for understanding. I guess I should’ve lashed out at her like, “What choo mean the flight is cancelled? Get me a damn pterodactyl (hey, that’s how spellcheck said it’s spelled...also a nod to Heidi) and let it sink its talons into my spine and transport me there if you have to.”
Then I hung up the phone and imagined that if I were living in a Disney movie, I’d somehow ride an Indian elephant with ivory tusks down Lexington Ave. with just enough time for me to catch a yellow and red striped hot air balloon. Somehow, after elevating a few hundred feet, for some reason barely escaping the clutches of a clumsy pair of criminals I’d release sandbags onto their heads and they’d sprawl out onto the ground (somehow, managing to escape death from the direct blow).
Well, I wish I could say that there was a more dramatic ending to my stay here. Sorry Roy, I was on my way to Crif Dogs but some steam pipe burst and killed someone and created this gaping hole in the street and suspended subway service for many hours. Though, I’m sure they’re delicious, I’m just not sure if they’re worth the hassle of walking down 80 blocks, having some unlucky guy die and making millions of hurried New Yorkers even more hurried and pissy. But then, I’m sure the hot dogs are good. I’ll just take your word for it. I’m sorry New York.
Also, the person whose place I’m staying at didn’t come home at the usual time from work last night so I was thinking, “Holy moly. The only person I know in New York is the person that fell victim to the steam.” Needless to say....screw it, it’s needless so I won’t say it. Either way, the nerve of me to think that even the most random of events are somehow related to me. Kind of like the way sports fans think their team will lose if they don’t watch the game. Admittedly, I did briefly think to myself, “Wow, this thunderstorm took place because I’m destined to live here. This dude died so that I couldn’t have Crif Dogs! I wonder what would’ve happened if I went there. Maybe I would’ve stepped on gum or run into a drunken Mike Tyson in a dark alley.....(lordy lord).
Well either way, I have written anything too specific about the songs because the way I process them is rather painstaking and meticulous. The way I really like to listen to music for the first time is to hole myself in a wall, throw on some decent headphones that allows me to hear every little sound, pull up the lyrics and turn off the lights. It’s sensory deprivation and sensory emulsion all at the same time. This music thing, I seldom read articles about them, look them up on myspace or anything like that. It’s about me and my intimate relation with the song. I do look up meanings though, just to take a lot of the guesswork out of it. But lately my personal endeavors have seeped through onto my list and I apologize if I don’t paint as vividly as I used to. Whatever, it’s my list but I’ll try to really seek out dope songs. Truth is, I just haven’t been too impressed with anything that has come my way lately. But alas, I’ll try. Well, I think Maximo Park fits in the same pair of shoes as The Kooks, but I think Maxi-mo-betta. I’ll think you’ll enjoy it nonetheless.
(Sigh)...the narcissism of altruism.
Morsels of human truth, free of charge.
-- Sonnyred

Wednesday, July 18, 2007
"Oh No" - The Concretes
July 18, 2007
So I guess this is it, my last day in the big “Manzana” (shit, see what ethnic food does to you? It doesn’t only give you smelly breath and make your pores smell like microscopic garbage disposals, it also makes you roll your R’s and shimmy when you pronounce ethnic words). It was kind of peculiar, actually. I’m in amidst of reading this novel on I-don’t-know-what-yet but it takes place during WWII and as I went to bed, bombs were being dropped and stuff. Well, this morning I woke up to a crazy thunderstorm. And when you’re half asleep/half awake it really fucks with your head. I mean, I thought I was in WWII (just out of curiosity, do you guys read that as “WW2,” “World War 2,” or “WW Eleven?”) with bombs dropping! I woke up and was like, “holy shit, where the fuck is the attic? The Nazis are coming. I’ll kick Anne Frank the fuck out if I have to. I have so much more to live for!”
Anyway, guess what? After going on yelp.com to type in “cheap food” I found a bunch of little places that offered good food. There’s a place in Chinatown called “Fried Dumpling” where I got 2 veggie eggrolls, 5 dumplings, 4 pork buns and a cup of soy juice for less than $3.75. Dude, that’s cheap! Then I went on to a falafel spot where I got a pita and cup of tamarind juice for $4. Yesterday, I was walking around Brooklyn and got a beer and a small pizza for $3. Holy moly, no wonder there are so many fat bums in the city. I think I’m returning to LA with 4 stomachs, like a cow. Who knows, maybe in a few years I’ll be successful and type in “food expensivier” and go to those places where people with good credit eat. Or maybe in 10 years, I’ll even type in “food, moexpensivethanamothafucka” and eat like, Mermaid lasagna or Jessica Alba’s toenail clippings. Tell me you’ve never used your toenail clippings as toothpicks and I’ll tell you you’re impractical. Dude, it’s fucking man vs. wild. If I was in the Amazon basin and I just hunted down and roasted a baboon, and its blue-pink cheeks got stuck in between my teeth, first thing I’d do is go for my pouch of toenail clippings and pick the shit out of those fucking teeth.
Now that I think back on this morning’s thunderstorm, it now seems to be more than just shitty New York weather. This morning, I heard the city cry for the first time…perhaps for me not to leave. I can only hope so.
-- Sonnyred
So I guess this is it, my last day in the big “Manzana” (shit, see what ethnic food does to you? It doesn’t only give you smelly breath and make your pores smell like microscopic garbage disposals, it also makes you roll your R’s and shimmy when you pronounce ethnic words). It was kind of peculiar, actually. I’m in amidst of reading this novel on I-don’t-know-what-yet but it takes place during WWII and as I went to bed, bombs were being dropped and stuff. Well, this morning I woke up to a crazy thunderstorm. And when you’re half asleep/half awake it really fucks with your head. I mean, I thought I was in WWII (just out of curiosity, do you guys read that as “WW2,” “World War 2,” or “WW Eleven?”) with bombs dropping! I woke up and was like, “holy shit, where the fuck is the attic? The Nazis are coming. I’ll kick Anne Frank the fuck out if I have to. I have so much more to live for!”
Anyway, guess what? After going on yelp.com to type in “cheap food” I found a bunch of little places that offered good food. There’s a place in Chinatown called “Fried Dumpling” where I got 2 veggie eggrolls, 5 dumplings, 4 pork buns and a cup of soy juice for less than $3.75. Dude, that’s cheap! Then I went on to a falafel spot where I got a pita and cup of tamarind juice for $4. Yesterday, I was walking around Brooklyn and got a beer and a small pizza for $3. Holy moly, no wonder there are so many fat bums in the city. I think I’m returning to LA with 4 stomachs, like a cow. Who knows, maybe in a few years I’ll be successful and type in “food expensivier” and go to those places where people with good credit eat. Or maybe in 10 years, I’ll even type in “food, moexpensivethanamothafucka” and eat like, Mermaid lasagna or Jessica Alba’s toenail clippings. Tell me you’ve never used your toenail clippings as toothpicks and I’ll tell you you’re impractical. Dude, it’s fucking man vs. wild. If I was in the Amazon basin and I just hunted down and roasted a baboon, and its blue-pink cheeks got stuck in between my teeth, first thing I’d do is go for my pouch of toenail clippings and pick the shit out of those fucking teeth.
Now that I think back on this morning’s thunderstorm, it now seems to be more than just shitty New York weather. This morning, I heard the city cry for the first time…perhaps for me not to leave. I can only hope so.
-- Sonnyred
"Subbing for Eden" - Pinback
July 16, 2007
Hello All,
Hope you had a good weekend. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t afford to get drunk. However I did get a chance to get my photography on. I was walking around the West Village and was like, “holy shit, I can smell the salt in the air.” I swear, this overwhelming of familiarity just came over me; and in between blinks, I swore I could see Andrew and Go snaking all my waves again. Yes, it was like a strobelight nightmare.
Well, fuck, I miss the ocean. I feel a little bad — knowing that I’m going to return as a different person. Yes, I now have a vagina and my name is Roberta. Just kidding (but can’t all guys use some vag at their disposal)? I also think I’m going to quit smoking weed, which is insane because, well, because I fucking love smoking weed.
Well, my time is running out in New York and I see how big and vast and monster truck it is; and I do like it. I’ve never eaten so much bomb ass, ethnic food. I won’t miss being cramped on the subway in rush hour though -- you have no idea how many crotches I’ve sniffed while riding the 6 downtown. Some were even unintentional and I couldn’t help but feel like I was on “To Catch A Predator.”
Anyway, so the shops here all want to know other creative pursuits I’m in and I was like, “holy shit. Other than ads, I guess I have this music thing. So I think I might go public with it and set up a blog? I don’t know, do you think posting this stuff with the songs will buy me any favors to showcase my writing/personality/pain/anguish? I’d greatly appreciate the feedback. Either way, today’s song is a depiction of the beautiful ocean that awaits me back home. It’s dope here, I can’t stress it enough..but fuck, a public pool as your only option? That’s, I don’t know...it’ll be hard to accept that the weird thing I just felt wasn’t indeed, seaweed.
Well, here’s a pic I took of the Hudson. I never saw so many guys, sprawled out on grassy knolls, with thongs on and Rollerblades. It was great. The courting process was like a Bee dance. Single guys would be at the edge of the pier. Guys would cruise by on Rollerblades (and thongs....lord knows where the bowties were) and do some spins and twirls in front of the single guys to impress them and see who would take notice. Then it’s like, one quick look and BAM!!!! They swoop in on then and hit them up. I tried imagining what the Rollerblader would have said to the bait, but I would only think that it’d include the word “sailor” in the first sentence and somehow end with a snarled upper lip and a “purrrrrrrrr” -- the kind that would send chills down anyone’s spine. ANYONE’S spine.
On a related note, here’s a pic of a Plastic Company. Peculiar name for the business...
(Maybe for the aforementioned Rollerbladers to slip by airport security undetected?)
Ok, well, since a few of you now don’t know/remember how gorgeous of a person I am, I’m going to end this email with a self-portrait I took with my camera phone. Here I am in the Flatiron district, confirming the “best” Cuban restaurant in Manhattan (Café Habana). And yes, the diarrhea from this restaurant will still taste a million times better than Versailles. I wish I had my camera, camera. It would’ve turned out a lot cooler, and I would’ve been able to Photoshop Vin Diesel’s arms on me.
Either way, enjoy.
-- Sonnyred
Hello All,
Hope you had a good weekend. Unfortunately, I just couldn’t afford to get drunk. However I did get a chance to get my photography on. I was walking around the West Village and was like, “holy shit, I can smell the salt in the air.” I swear, this overwhelming of familiarity just came over me; and in between blinks, I swore I could see Andrew and Go snaking all my waves again. Yes, it was like a strobelight nightmare.
Well, fuck, I miss the ocean. I feel a little bad — knowing that I’m going to return as a different person. Yes, I now have a vagina and my name is Roberta. Just kidding (but can’t all guys use some vag at their disposal)? I also think I’m going to quit smoking weed, which is insane because, well, because I fucking love smoking weed.
Well, my time is running out in New York and I see how big and vast and monster truck it is; and I do like it. I’ve never eaten so much bomb ass, ethnic food. I won’t miss being cramped on the subway in rush hour though -- you have no idea how many crotches I’ve sniffed while riding the 6 downtown. Some were even unintentional and I couldn’t help but feel like I was on “To Catch A Predator.”
Anyway, so the shops here all want to know other creative pursuits I’m in and I was like, “holy shit. Other than ads, I guess I have this music thing. So I think I might go public with it and set up a blog? I don’t know, do you think posting this stuff with the songs will buy me any favors to showcase my writing/personality/pain/anguish? I’d greatly appreciate the feedback. Either way, today’s song is a depiction of the beautiful ocean that awaits me back home. It’s dope here, I can’t stress it enough..but fuck, a public pool as your only option? That’s, I don’t know...it’ll be hard to accept that the weird thing I just felt wasn’t indeed, seaweed.
Well, here’s a pic I took of the Hudson. I never saw so many guys, sprawled out on grassy knolls, with thongs on and Rollerblades. It was great. The courting process was like a Bee dance. Single guys would be at the edge of the pier. Guys would cruise by on Rollerblades (and thongs....lord knows where the bowties were) and do some spins and twirls in front of the single guys to impress them and see who would take notice. Then it’s like, one quick look and BAM!!!! They swoop in on then and hit them up. I tried imagining what the Rollerblader would have said to the bait, but I would only think that it’d include the word “sailor” in the first sentence and somehow end with a snarled upper lip and a “purrrrrrrrr” -- the kind that would send chills down anyone’s spine. ANYONE’S spine.
On a related note, here’s a pic of a Plastic Company. Peculiar name for the business...
(Maybe for the aforementioned Rollerbladers to slip by airport security undetected?)
Ok, well, since a few of you now don’t know/remember how gorgeous of a person I am, I’m going to end this email with a self-portrait I took with my camera phone. Here I am in the Flatiron district, confirming the “best” Cuban restaurant in Manhattan (Café Habana). And yes, the diarrhea from this restaurant will still taste a million times better than Versailles. I wish I had my camera, camera. It would’ve turned out a lot cooler, and I would’ve been able to Photoshop Vin Diesel’s arms on me.
Either way, enjoy.
-- Sonnyred
"Twinkle Tune" - Eberg
July 13, 2007
Hello All,
So I’m wrapping up my first full week at New York and so far so good. I was eating “the best burger” in town tonight in the East Village and I must say that I’d rather inhale someone’s In-N-Out burp over this self-proclaimed best burger. I really like the city, yes. And NYC is better than LA in many aspects (art, culture, music, drinking, insanely beautiful women with that somewhere to go persona, etc). But I’ll tell you right now, LA is the bomb when it comes to burgers, sushi, autonomy and Mexican food.
That’s for real. I bet the tacos here use like Velveeta cheese or something. Either way, tonight isn’t one of those long, drawn out prose nights for me. I’m just too lazy. The weather has wisened up a lot, though. It was beautiful today. The laundry here costs $2.50 a load. That’s pretty insane. And the toilets here don’t believe in those paper ass gaskets, either. Even the Chiat New York office doesn’t have it. And a roll of paper towels costs $2. That’s for one roll. And it’s not 700 thread count pima cotton either. Just plain ol’ coniferous I imagine. But tonight at the bar, I heard Cat Power. Cat Power!! What the fuck is that magical creature of a coincidence? My favorite artist in a random joint? It’s like going to get a pack of smokes and running into Clay Aiken. Dream come true. And that’s that. I’m fucking tired of beach culture. Ok, I love beach (intentional bad grammar), I love beach activities, I hate beach culture. I hate wearing board shorts just because. I fucking hate those drinking games that place at those bars near the beach (don’t make me rant about drinking games, I hate them all and I’m sure I’ll lose a lot of friends if I were to go on an unadulterated rant about them...yes yes...just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean blah blah...blah...ok here goes a little blip). You play games to drink a lot? Yet you win by making the opponent drink more than you? Why can’t we just sit around on some milk crates with some music and talk about music and drink? Tell you what....tonight I think I’mma order the friend combo with extra drinks, but let’s substitute the finger pointing, hoorahs and chest bumps for some actual engaging conversations that delve into each other’s souls and further solidifies the bond between all of us? Or let’s get drunk and massage each other and see where the night takes us? Or let’s go cut tags off mattresses or club some baby seals for shits and giggles?]
Either way, today’s song is the result of what happens when My Little Pony writers go on acid trips and a piece of dental floss gets frayed in their teeth and they can’t get it out (no matter how hard they try). That parenthetic comment is called “playing up the drama.” The quotation marks was the verbal, witty equivalent of wearing black, plastic framed glasses and salt and pepper colored hair.
Enjoy
-- Sonnyred
Oh yeah, other things I hate about beach culture is fucking JIMMY BUFFET! And I have to admit, I used to love them, but FUCK SUBLIME. And I have to admit, Like, fucking jukeboxes at home have fucking Jimmy Buffet, Sublime, all those classic rock joints, and like Bob Marley Legend (fuck that album too, now). You seriously going to tell me that good music hasn’t come out since then? Fuck you! You’re telling me music hasn’t been the same since “Cheeseburger in Paradise?” Fuck you! You going to tell me that “Santeria” is the only song you can sing along to? Fuck you! That shit was good when it was relevant; but sorry, it doesn’t deserve the longevity that Beethoven or Bob Marley or even Elvis has. And if it does, I don’t think SWEET CAROLINE would be conducive to a good time. Like, I never heard DESPERADO by The Eagles and automatically wanted to get all freaky or wish I could do the splits like Jean Claude Van Damme. But here, out of nowhere I hear Cat Power, Wolf Parade, Tribe Called Quest, and Bob Marley’s Songs of Freedom, like what??!?!?! I must say, this place has dumps like a truck truck.
Thighs like what, what.
-- Sonnyred
Hello All,
So I’m wrapping up my first full week at New York and so far so good. I was eating “the best burger” in town tonight in the East Village and I must say that I’d rather inhale someone’s In-N-Out burp over this self-proclaimed best burger. I really like the city, yes. And NYC is better than LA in many aspects (art, culture, music, drinking, insanely beautiful women with that somewhere to go persona, etc). But I’ll tell you right now, LA is the bomb when it comes to burgers, sushi, autonomy and Mexican food.
That’s for real. I bet the tacos here use like Velveeta cheese or something. Either way, tonight isn’t one of those long, drawn out prose nights for me. I’m just too lazy. The weather has wisened up a lot, though. It was beautiful today. The laundry here costs $2.50 a load. That’s pretty insane. And the toilets here don’t believe in those paper ass gaskets, either. Even the Chiat New York office doesn’t have it. And a roll of paper towels costs $2. That’s for one roll. And it’s not 700 thread count pima cotton either. Just plain ol’ coniferous I imagine. But tonight at the bar, I heard Cat Power. Cat Power!! What the fuck is that magical creature of a coincidence? My favorite artist in a random joint? It’s like going to get a pack of smokes and running into Clay Aiken. Dream come true. And that’s that. I’m fucking tired of beach culture. Ok, I love beach (intentional bad grammar), I love beach activities, I hate beach culture. I hate wearing board shorts just because. I fucking hate those drinking games that place at those bars near the beach (don’t make me rant about drinking games, I hate them all and I’m sure I’ll lose a lot of friends if I were to go on an unadulterated rant about them...yes yes...just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean blah blah...blah...ok here goes a little blip). You play games to drink a lot? Yet you win by making the opponent drink more than you? Why can’t we just sit around on some milk crates with some music and talk about music and drink? Tell you what....tonight I think I’mma order the friend combo with extra drinks, but let’s substitute the finger pointing, hoorahs and chest bumps for some actual engaging conversations that delve into each other’s souls and further solidifies the bond between all of us? Or let’s get drunk and massage each other and see where the night takes us? Or let’s go cut tags off mattresses or club some baby seals for shits and giggles?]
Either way, today’s song is the result of what happens when My Little Pony writers go on acid trips and a piece of dental floss gets frayed in their teeth and they can’t get it out (no matter how hard they try). That parenthetic comment is called “playing up the drama.” The quotation marks was the verbal, witty equivalent of wearing black, plastic framed glasses and salt and pepper colored hair.
Enjoy
-- Sonnyred
Oh yeah, other things I hate about beach culture is fucking JIMMY BUFFET! And I have to admit, I used to love them, but FUCK SUBLIME. And I have to admit, Like, fucking jukeboxes at home have fucking Jimmy Buffet, Sublime, all those classic rock joints, and like Bob Marley Legend (fuck that album too, now). You seriously going to tell me that good music hasn’t come out since then? Fuck you! You’re telling me music hasn’t been the same since “Cheeseburger in Paradise?” Fuck you! You going to tell me that “Santeria” is the only song you can sing along to? Fuck you! That shit was good when it was relevant; but sorry, it doesn’t deserve the longevity that Beethoven or Bob Marley or even Elvis has. And if it does, I don’t think SWEET CAROLINE would be conducive to a good time. Like, I never heard DESPERADO by The Eagles and automatically wanted to get all freaky or wish I could do the splits like Jean Claude Van Damme. But here, out of nowhere I hear Cat Power, Wolf Parade, Tribe Called Quest, and Bob Marley’s Songs of Freedom, like what??!?!?! I must say, this place has dumps like a truck truck.
Thighs like what, what.
-- Sonnyred
"All Fires" - Swan Lake
July 12, 2007
My relationship with the big, Granny Smith apple is slowly turning into my relationship with the big, Fuji apple. It’s getting better with each passing day. It was weird today. It was super hot again (I’m thinking I should just wear a suit made of sponges) and very humid, and then I’m just hanging out and all of a sudden a ginormous (by the way, that word just got added to the dictionary) thunderstorm breaks out and people are running around like cockroaches with the lights turned on.
Anyway, I just came back from a bar where I had three Guinesses and the bartender treated me to the fourth. The city just doesn’t front. They know how much it costs to live and drink here and they’ll subsidize you if your intentions are virtuous. That’s pretty great. I’ve frequented Abbott Kinney and all that jazz for many years now and ran up $150+ tabs and never once had a drink on the house. Well, I think it hit me last night, cruising for some cheap, ethnic eats around the East Village (I settled on Roman cuisine in the form of a Chicken Caesar Wrap) that I am surely falling in love with the city (could it be true, could it?). Sure it’s sweltering hot; I cannot stress it enough, it’s hotter than an Arizona rooftop (ok, I stole that from a hip hop line). It’s actually more like those movies, actually. Like New York is this badass person (Avril Lavigne, perhaps?) and I’m a little nerd. I hate it and what it stands for (like....HEAT for example...I fucking hate it...I want to gouge out the eyes of the sun). But just like the movies, you kind of just see it and accept it for what it is -- and there’s this pulsating feeling in your head; what used to be the stressed out vein on your forehead slowly becoming the pulsating feeling in your heart) and you have to acknowledge it...you want to be a part of it. Every day, riding on the train I feel like there’s a movement taking place and I want to be a part of it. God, New York is great. And a friend once told me, “If you can make it in New York you can make it anywhere.” I totally agree, but in my head, I always countered with, “Shit, if you get all of those New Yorkers, 99% of them wouldn’t make it where I’m from.” In fact, 99% of people from my city don’t make it out. New York is its own race, sure, but I’ve shown up in shackles and I’m ready to bring the heat. The heat in terms of determination, not in terms of moist testicles.
Either way, like the badass that New York is, there is a rumbling in my heart for the city. And perhaps before I leave, I’ll get the chance to fuck the shit out of it. But at least for this night (tonight), it did end with a sweaty, slobbering kiss.
-- Sonnyred
ALL FIRES
You have a father
There is another
You have a sister
There are no brothers.
You have good friends
You have a lover
When friendships end
You will still love her
But it’s Teresa they love the best.
There was a flood
A world of water
The mason’s wife
Swam for her daughter.
One thousand people
Did what they could.
They found the steeple
And tore out the wood.
Five hundred pieces
Means five hundred float.
One thousand people means
Five hundred don’t.
And it’s Teresa they love the best.
I’ve said it before,
And I’ll say it again.
All fires have to burn alive.
All fires have to burn alive.
From near his heart,
He took a rib.
All fires have to burn alive to live.
From near his heart,
He took a rib.
All fires have to burn alive to live.
So it’s Teresa that I love the best.
------ End of Forwarded Message
My relationship with the big, Granny Smith apple is slowly turning into my relationship with the big, Fuji apple. It’s getting better with each passing day. It was weird today. It was super hot again (I’m thinking I should just wear a suit made of sponges) and very humid, and then I’m just hanging out and all of a sudden a ginormous (by the way, that word just got added to the dictionary) thunderstorm breaks out and people are running around like cockroaches with the lights turned on.
Anyway, I just came back from a bar where I had three Guinesses and the bartender treated me to the fourth. The city just doesn’t front. They know how much it costs to live and drink here and they’ll subsidize you if your intentions are virtuous. That’s pretty great. I’ve frequented Abbott Kinney and all that jazz for many years now and ran up $150+ tabs and never once had a drink on the house. Well, I think it hit me last night, cruising for some cheap, ethnic eats around the East Village (I settled on Roman cuisine in the form of a Chicken Caesar Wrap) that I am surely falling in love with the city (could it be true, could it?). Sure it’s sweltering hot; I cannot stress it enough, it’s hotter than an Arizona rooftop (ok, I stole that from a hip hop line). It’s actually more like those movies, actually. Like New York is this badass person (Avril Lavigne, perhaps?) and I’m a little nerd. I hate it and what it stands for (like....HEAT for example...I fucking hate it...I want to gouge out the eyes of the sun). But just like the movies, you kind of just see it and accept it for what it is -- and there’s this pulsating feeling in your head; what used to be the stressed out vein on your forehead slowly becoming the pulsating feeling in your heart) and you have to acknowledge it...you want to be a part of it. Every day, riding on the train I feel like there’s a movement taking place and I want to be a part of it. God, New York is great. And a friend once told me, “If you can make it in New York you can make it anywhere.” I totally agree, but in my head, I always countered with, “Shit, if you get all of those New Yorkers, 99% of them wouldn’t make it where I’m from.” In fact, 99% of people from my city don’t make it out. New York is its own race, sure, but I’ve shown up in shackles and I’m ready to bring the heat. The heat in terms of determination, not in terms of moist testicles.
Either way, like the badass that New York is, there is a rumbling in my heart for the city. And perhaps before I leave, I’ll get the chance to fuck the shit out of it. But at least for this night (tonight), it did end with a sweaty, slobbering kiss.
-- Sonnyred
ALL FIRES
You have a father
There is another
You have a sister
There are no brothers.
You have good friends
You have a lover
When friendships end
You will still love her
But it’s Teresa they love the best.
There was a flood
A world of water
The mason’s wife
Swam for her daughter.
One thousand people
Did what they could.
They found the steeple
And tore out the wood.
Five hundred pieces
Means five hundred float.
One thousand people means
Five hundred don’t.
And it’s Teresa they love the best.
I’ve said it before,
And I’ll say it again.
All fires have to burn alive.
All fires have to burn alive.
From near his heart,
He took a rib.
All fires have to burn alive to live.
From near his heart,
He took a rib.
All fires have to burn alive to live.
So it’s Teresa that I love the best.
------ End of Forwarded Message
"Heinrich Maneuver" - Interpol
July 10, 2007
So, being in New York now for my fourth day, and experiencing “the grind” for two of them, I have mixed feelings about the city. First of all, it’s fucking hot. No two ways about it. The weather is Freddy Krueger and it’s really such a bitch for me. Last night, I stayed up till 3:00 in the morning. Not because I was out partying with East Village hipsters or doing lines of coke off their butts, but because it was sweltering hot (and I would imagine those East Villagers’ butts would have smelled like rotten eggs.)
Last night, I learned a new sleeping technique--for the next few weeks I’ll have to surrender my usual “sleeping on your belly with your arms spread over your head like you just got caught stealing a VCR.” I’ll also have to abort my much loved fetal position (pun intended). So, my last resort is what I call the, “Gimme an X” position. It helps if you’re a cheerleader, you simply lie on your back and expose every possible nerve ending: armpits, palms of hands and bottoms of feet. I would imagine it’d be even more effective if you could do the splits so that your asshole gets some nice ventilation. I would imagine that Jean Claude Van Damme wouldn’t have a problem living in New York. Hell, he probably evolved into the position from living in New York; kind of like the way roaches adapt to nuclear fallout.
I also came up with another theory about New York and New York pizza and what makes it so delicious. It’s the sweat and hard work of New Yorkers. Literally. It’s actually a great filtration process. The sweat from the people that live here roll of their bodies and trickle down into the groundwater. In turn, the reclaimed sweat water used to make the pizza dough is actually what makes it so delicious. It’s kinda like slow drip coffee, only you start with sweat and end up with a peetzuh pie.
I had a lot of time to do a lot of thinking since I’m sick, running round the city and lame. Most of you might not get this one but I’ll say it anyway. If you don’t want to read it, skip this paragraph and breathe in some of that ocean air for me. Ok, well I also devised a plan to settle all the East coast hip hop beef. You know, Queens is like “Hip hop started here.” Bronx is like, “No, it started here.” Brooklyn is just kinda all peace about it. Well instead of bickering about what borough is harder or tougher or more original. They should address the heat here. Like, if that was the foundation of the argument, they’d all be winners. Queens can be like, “Yo sun, it’s hotter than Jean Claude Van Damme doing the splits here.” Bronx can be like “Yo kid, it’s hotter than the rotten egg butt smell of an East Villager out here.” And Brooklyn can be like, in the most peaceful way possible, “It is indeed hot.” And then all of a sudden Bin Laden will appear like, “I just played a round of golf with Dick Cheney in Arizona and it is indeed hot.” Oh well, at least it’s not Las Vegas. Shit, I think I’d rather live in Orange County than Las Vegas.
What else? Oh yeah, I’ve been sleeping on Matt’s floor because his couch gets hot easily and my body plays hot potato all night (after playing couch potato all afternoon). I think tonight I’m going to rub Vick’s Vapo Rub all over the bottom of my feet and place it in front of a fan and see how that goes.
So, being in New York now for my fourth day, and experiencing “the grind” for two of them, I have mixed feelings about the city. First of all, it’s fucking hot. No two ways about it. The weather is Freddy Krueger and it’s really such a bitch for me. Last night, I stayed up till 3:00 in the morning. Not because I was out partying with East Village hipsters or doing lines of coke off their butts, but because it was sweltering hot (and I would imagine those East Villagers’ butts would have smelled like rotten eggs.)
Last night, I learned a new sleeping technique--for the next few weeks I’ll have to surrender my usual “sleeping on your belly with your arms spread over your head like you just got caught stealing a VCR.” I’ll also have to abort my much loved fetal position (pun intended). So, my last resort is what I call the, “Gimme an X” position. It helps if you’re a cheerleader, you simply lie on your back and expose every possible nerve ending: armpits, palms of hands and bottoms of feet. I would imagine it’d be even more effective if you could do the splits so that your asshole gets some nice ventilation. I would imagine that Jean Claude Van Damme wouldn’t have a problem living in New York. Hell, he probably evolved into the position from living in New York; kind of like the way roaches adapt to nuclear fallout.
I also came up with another theory about New York and New York pizza and what makes it so delicious. It’s the sweat and hard work of New Yorkers. Literally. It’s actually a great filtration process. The sweat from the people that live here roll of their bodies and trickle down into the groundwater. In turn, the reclaimed sweat water used to make the pizza dough is actually what makes it so delicious. It’s kinda like slow drip coffee, only you start with sweat and end up with a peetzuh pie.
I had a lot of time to do a lot of thinking since I’m sick, running round the city and lame. Most of you might not get this one but I’ll say it anyway. If you don’t want to read it, skip this paragraph and breathe in some of that ocean air for me. Ok, well I also devised a plan to settle all the East coast hip hop beef. You know, Queens is like “Hip hop started here.” Bronx is like, “No, it started here.” Brooklyn is just kinda all peace about it. Well instead of bickering about what borough is harder or tougher or more original. They should address the heat here. Like, if that was the foundation of the argument, they’d all be winners. Queens can be like, “Yo sun, it’s hotter than Jean Claude Van Damme doing the splits here.” Bronx can be like “Yo kid, it’s hotter than the rotten egg butt smell of an East Villager out here.” And Brooklyn can be like, in the most peaceful way possible, “It is indeed hot.” And then all of a sudden Bin Laden will appear like, “I just played a round of golf with Dick Cheney in Arizona and it is indeed hot.” Oh well, at least it’s not Las Vegas. Shit, I think I’d rather live in Orange County than Las Vegas.
What else? Oh yeah, I’ve been sleeping on Matt’s floor because his couch gets hot easily and my body plays hot potato all night (after playing couch potato all afternoon). I think tonight I’m going to rub Vick’s Vapo Rub all over the bottom of my feet and place it in front of a fan and see how that goes.
"Gold In the Air of Summer" - Kings of Convenience
July 8, 2007
Hello All,
Hope you all had a good weekend. This is going to be more self-serving than usual because this will actually supplement my journal entry tonight. How is it so far? I must say, the weather here sucks (95 today with 30% humidity). It’s so hot here you feel like an Ironman triathlete without even moving. I have no idea how I’m going to do it tomorrow, on the subway with all these packed people wearing wool suits. Lord, hang me. I miss the ocean, I would rather spend a day surfing with my friends than going to a concert/farmers market/bar/etc). But I see the forest through the brick and mortar, and I have to say I love it and a few chapters of my life should be written here. If only I can bring with me the prevailing winds of the west and maybe a handful of you guys, also.
Last night I had dinner with Matt, Libby and Jen (both on this list) and a stranger I met on my flight and it was all good and stuff but I couldn’t stop thinking, “Never would I have thought fate would have it that we’d be eating here, together thousands of miles away (especially with Libby living here, and Jen and I in LA).” And that’s the thing about New York. It’s a place where destinies manifest. Like, we witnessed some poor guy suffer a seizure a few tables over and I had a slight revelation. I’m starting to figure out that the beauty of New York is that it’s so condensed. And with millions of souls occupying such a small space, fate visits — far more frequent and drastic (or subtle) than anywhere else in the world. Needless to say, we got super trashed. The shower pressure this morning was insane and sobering; with the might of the water serving to scold me for my antics the night before.
-- Sonnyred
GOLD IN THE AIR OF SUMMER
Without giving anything away,
I can say it's by the sea.
It's a house that used to be the home of a friend of mine.
Without giving anything away,
you'll find ships inside of bottles,
and the garden's overgrown,
the house is white but the paint is coming off.
I didn't know if you wanted to,
when I came to pick you up.
You didn't even hesitate,
and now you and me are on our way.
I think I've brought everything we need,
don't look back,
don't think of the other places you should have been
it's a good thing that you came along with me.
Gold in the air of summer,
you'll shine like gold in the air of summer.
Hello All,
Hope you all had a good weekend. This is going to be more self-serving than usual because this will actually supplement my journal entry tonight. How is it so far? I must say, the weather here sucks (95 today with 30% humidity). It’s so hot here you feel like an Ironman triathlete without even moving. I have no idea how I’m going to do it tomorrow, on the subway with all these packed people wearing wool suits. Lord, hang me. I miss the ocean, I would rather spend a day surfing with my friends than going to a concert/farmers market/bar/etc). But I see the forest through the brick and mortar, and I have to say I love it and a few chapters of my life should be written here. If only I can bring with me the prevailing winds of the west and maybe a handful of you guys, also.
Last night I had dinner with Matt, Libby and Jen (both on this list) and a stranger I met on my flight and it was all good and stuff but I couldn’t stop thinking, “Never would I have thought fate would have it that we’d be eating here, together thousands of miles away (especially with Libby living here, and Jen and I in LA).” And that’s the thing about New York. It’s a place where destinies manifest. Like, we witnessed some poor guy suffer a seizure a few tables over and I had a slight revelation. I’m starting to figure out that the beauty of New York is that it’s so condensed. And with millions of souls occupying such a small space, fate visits — far more frequent and drastic (or subtle) than anywhere else in the world. Needless to say, we got super trashed. The shower pressure this morning was insane and sobering; with the might of the water serving to scold me for my antics the night before.
-- Sonnyred
GOLD IN THE AIR OF SUMMER
Without giving anything away,
I can say it's by the sea.
It's a house that used to be the home of a friend of mine.
Without giving anything away,
you'll find ships inside of bottles,
and the garden's overgrown,
the house is white but the paint is coming off.
I didn't know if you wanted to,
when I came to pick you up.
You didn't even hesitate,
and now you and me are on our way.
I think I've brought everything we need,
don't look back,
don't think of the other places you should have been
it's a good thing that you came along with me.
Gold in the air of summer,
you'll shine like gold in the air of summer.
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