30.4.07
Maybe it's because I had so much fun in the last six days, first in New York City with clients / friends (my nails look so good), then racing home on the red eye to get to the Vanguard in Hollywood to rock the shit out of the shiny shirts, then straight to Sundays on the Patio where we killed it all afternoon to the dirty basslines of Dave Spoon's finest beats spun by me, Saynt and Blue, all a swirling whirlwind of taxi's and mani's and fun and sun and drunk and dirty and dangerous and funky .... ending in a giant "plop" as heads rolled with the Monday grind sharpening into an axe sharper than steel and coming down hard....Man I feel like crap today and I have no voice whatsoever. Lemon and honey tea for me, tea for me, tea for me....
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Jer the wild man lettin' loose like a rockstar, Sunday.
24.4.07
So I went to my first Dodger game this last weekend. They played Pittsburg, and really, I didn't care about the teams (if I had to root for a team I'd root for Oakland or SF.) I used to be a fan, and I'd spend many nights watching the games with my dad on TV. Fifteen years ago baseball went on strike and broke my heart, and I never really went back. I was on to other things that did not include whiney, fat, overpaid professional baseball players who refused to play.But it was a weekend off and we got great tickets, plus, my girlfriend had never been to a professional sports game of any kind. (She grew up on an island out in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, so she's excused.) Me on the other hand, I grew up playing sports of all kinds and generally know each game's ins and outs. It had been a long time and I wanted to go sit in the sun (it rained) and enjoy a warm afternoon outside (it was windy and 60 degrees outside.)
So we are sitting Field Level a few rows up from the field, near the right fieldman, who, apparently, can't catch. Is it my imagination, or are outfielders paid to do two things: 1) catch fly balls and 2) get on base. Millions of dollars and he can't do half of his job. I know a great six year old who can catch just about anything I throw him. AND HE'S A DOG.
Anyway, so, I'm explaining the properties of the game to my girlfriend as it goes, top of the inning, bottom of the inning, strikes, balls, outs, full counts, bases loaded, the rules of fly balls and stealing bases, why they pat each other on the bottom, etc and she starts to get it. She starts to turn and look at the ballcount on the scoreboard, she pays attention each time the batter is up, etc. It's really cute. She's all into it and using the lingo and she says, "I got it from here." Impressive! So I figure it's a good time to leave her alone for an inning and stand in line for some scrumptious and golden Gordon Biersh garlic fries that they sell behind home plate. I come back and say "What did I miss?"
She says, "The other team scored a goal."
= = = = =
20.4.07
18.4.07
Hello, I'm totally featured in Citybeat this month: We Are the One
Within the numerous volatile hives of L.A. music, the Next Big Thing is just around the corner oralready out the door
~ By RON GARMON ~
Photo by Kevin Scanlon
Read the whole article here: http://www.lacitybeat.com/article.php?id=5085&IssueNum=194
Dirty Breaks and Dark Streets
~ By RON GARMON ~
Photo by Kevin Scanlon
Read the whole article here: http://www.lacitybeat.com/article.php?id=5085&IssueNum=194
Dirty Breaks and Dark Streets
~ No More Drama: DJs Porter Tinsley (top) and Wolfie ~
Photograph By Kevin Scanlon
Celebrity is a different thing in the deep underground, where rockers and indie kids are seen in noticeable strength. The underground DJ party circuit I chronicled in these pages late last year made a short-lived Westside beachhead in Cre8tivity, an arty event space situated in the wild borderlands between Venice and Marina del Rey. Ere fire marshal’s edict, the warehouse hosted parties with music spun by the subterranean-superstar likes of Ali, Dr. Bombay, and DJ Wolfie. The latter is a soft-spoken rock-breaks specialist with a room-filling rep and a cult leader’s blissed-out charisma; his dominion is extended through his Hipgenesis crew, which he describes as “an artistic, mythic, and musical collective where a bunch of intelligent rebels invent their own molds and pour themselves into them. We invent the realities we want to live in and share them with partygoers.”
How to find a suitably desolate place for a Hipgenesis event? “People come to me with them, and I’ll sometimes pay a bounty for finding a site I use,” says the DJ with a grin. “We hit on three levels: 1) great music, 2) engaging psychological concepts, and 3) inviting hidden spaces. Our next party will take place at some off-planet resort colony where the sun rises and sets every 45 minutes, an other-planetary spa where you can cram seven sunsets into one day.”
Like any aggregation of divas, there are often issues. “Being a girl, I’ve never known the male-to-male aggression in the community,” allows Porter Tinsley, a vivacious brunette DJ with a media rep’s flow. “I got to skirt around the male pissing contest: posturing, fighting over time slots, etc.”
Calling her sound “dirty electro-tech,” Tinsley is quite candid about her derivative art. “I sometimes produce my own tracks, which is like bleeding out of your eyes, it’s so time-consuming. I look at other DJs with these big rockstar egos, and they’re playing someone else’s original creation! I can totally understand the L.A. punk scene, where the bands are these rockstars, but for DJs to strut around like gods makes no sense to me.”
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12.4.07
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE – OFFICE OF THE PRESS SECRETARY – EXECUTIVE BRANCH April 7, 2007
IRAN HOSTAGE CRISIS: President's Call Berating Britain's Sissy Prime Minister Over Wasted Chance to Kick Off Armageddon
[RINGING]
PRIME MINISTER: Allo?
THE PRESIDENT: Tony it's me, George.
PRIME MINISTER: Good to hear from you, old sausage!
THE PRESIDENT: Tony, what the fuck's going on with this Iran hostage shit?
PRIME MINISTER: Wot? Blimey!
THE PRESIDENT: Listen you limey fruit, we had a fucking deal! Winston Churchill sold your sorry-assed island to my Grandparents fair and square. Shit, England is basically the 54th State, right after Japan and Israel. So who the fuck gave you permission to deal with the fucking bad guys?
PRIME MINISTER: I beg your pardon, Mr. President. But I'm afraid I haven't the foggiest notion why you’re so upset. What's wrong, guv'ner?
THE PRESIDENT: Oh, I don't know, what could be wrong? Maybe the one miniature toy country that allows me to absurdly claim America is leading a great multi-national alliance against Super-EvilTM, the country whose ass we saved a hundred years ago in totally awesome Dubya Dubya Dos, that country, and I'm talking about ENGLAND, has gone and fucked me over. We had a perfectly good setup for the Apocalypse, man! And you blew it by making nice-nice with Iran!
PRIME MINISTER: Oh dear, and pip, pip, George! I believe my government dealt with the entire hostage situation with reasoned discipline, and in the end, diplomacy saved the day instead of meaningless bloodshed.
PRESDIENT: Yeah. How does Ahmedinadingdong's shit flume taste?
PRIME MINISTER: Criminy, George. I'm sorry, but I had little choice. The truth of our times is thus: in an increasingly multilateral world, it is simply unrealistic to coerce other nation states with violence, especially all the time, in every single circumstance. Not to mention, this formerly splendid little war of ours has made me as popular as a hot cup of piss here.
THE PRESIDENT: Homo says what?
PRIME MINSTER: What?
THE PRESIDENT: Homo says what?
PRIME MINISTER: I'm not amused.
THE PRESIDENT: Jesus, Tony, have you finally gone all Eurofaggot on me? What happened to the United Kingdom? When I studied history at Yale, I always loved how you Brits were the first in line to cock-slap uppity negroids, dot-headed injuns and camel jockeys. I mean, you pasty creeps once made the world your bitch, but now lookit you! Maybe Uncle Dick is right about you crooked-tooth island tea drinkers: centuries of sailing around the world in boats with nothing but rum, lashes, and ass fucking makes for a whole of race of girly biscuit munchers!
(Sigh.)
But this Iran thing? This is too much. Tell me the truth: was it Diana, Tony? I mean, ever since that bleach-blonde bitch and her A-rab boy toy chomped concrete in Paris, you people have become a bunch of hysterical pussies crying blood out yer vaginas.
PRIME MINISTER: I'm awfully sorry you feel that way.
THE PRESIDENT: Couldn't those fifteen sailors – excuse me, THAY-lors – have refused playing table tennis for the Iranian cameras? I mean, that ONE thing? Would it have been so hard for your Royal soldiers to politely decline when them Iranians were all "You are our prisoners! Now play ping pong for the world to see!" I mean, what were they so fucking chicken-shit about? It's not like the CIA captured them. Thing that boggles my mind: why the hell y'all call these fifteen brats heroes, when plenty of you Englishese have bravely absorbed shrapnel on behalf of the multinational energy industry?
PRIME MINISTER: I can tell that you are quite upset, Mr. President. Over the years, I have learned to respect your transparent, tough talking swagger. As a career political hack, I have often been awed by your shameless audacity, especially when it comes to convincing economically disadvantaged families to thank you for sending their children into a human wood chipper, a war that exists, and continues to exist, just to validate your preening ego and narrow world view. I salute you sir; never have I observed a politician who so truly does believes his own lies.
THE PRESIDENT: Uh-huh. We're breaking up, Tony.
PRIME MINISTER: Well, maybe one day we can all look back on this and have a grand old laugh. I'll probably be living in Las Vegas then, seeing as I’ll have been railroaded out of the Kingdom by an angry mob by then.
THE PRESIDENT: You fucked me. What am I supposed to do?
PRIME MINISTER: Just close your eyes and think of England, love!
[CLICK]
[END TRANSCRIPT]
- - -
Awesome: http://www.whitehouse.org/news/2007/04/british-hostages-iran.asp
10.4.07
The Associated Press reported today that Snoop Dog was recently arrested on drug and gun charges. They write,"PASADENA, California (AP) -- Snoop Dogg was charged Tuesday with felony gun and drug counts, Los Angeles County prosecutors said. The 35-year-old rap star was scheduled to be arraigned Wednesday in Pasadena, California, prosecutors said in a statement. Snoop Dogg faces charges of gun possession by a felon and sale or transportation of marijuana."
How is this even news? I'm in PR, and I have always thought "news" was that which was interesting, informative, impactful, or unusual. Reporting on Snoop Dog having a gun and weed is like reporting that Lindsay Lohan got in a car accident. Bitch wrecks her car like once a week! How is this news?!??!? Who's even interested in what Snoop Dog does, and why is he even still a celebrity? When was the last time he had a hit song anyway? He's like the Danny Bonnaducci of the rap community.
And on the subject of media, I noticed today at the neighborhood Rite Aid the exact reason I know that Lindsay Lohan crashes her car once a week. Ever notice how the shittiest, lamest magazines are the ones up front by the register at Rite Aid or the SuperMarket? Why is that? Why is the crappiest tabloid news the shit that EVERYONE has to look at? What are we saying about our values as a culture? We're basically telling society that finding out Britney Spear's settlement (13 million) is more important than "10 Ways to Green Up Your Life" (and coincidentally, save the Earth and slow down our wasteful impact.)
Who's in charge of putting the same seven magazines at cash registers? Sun, Enquirer, Star, Soap Digest, TV Guide and US Weekly. Why not just US Weekly and Star, plus a VARIETY of magazines like Discover, Forbes, Health and Sports Illustrated? How much impact do you think it would have over the course of ONE YEAR to replace those shitty useless magazines with magazines that are actually intellectually substantial? So that just once, maybe just ONCE, that 22 year old girl with her TWELVE CHILDREN in line at Rite Aid picked up Forbes Annual Investment Guide and realized that it's NOT HARD TO SAVE MONEY FOR YOUR CHILDREN'S COLLEGE FUND.
I'm not ever having kids. That's my contribution to the world. I'm not breeding. One less kid around in ten years. But if I *did* have kids, I'd give one who DIDN'T have a home a shot at being somebody and adopt one. Speaking of adopting kids, apparently, I read today that Angelina WALKED OUT on Brad Pitt. Can you BELIEVE THAT? After they adopted nineteen children together? It's true, I saw it on the cover of one of the magazines in line at Rite Aid.
Oh and also, have you met Wolfie's new girlfriend?
5.4.07
Earlier Rumors
