Reading Hunter Thompson letters will make you buy stamps.
Could be Mercury Retrograde. Could be the tides. Could be the migration. Could be pollen. Could be the water from the tap. Don’t worry. Nothing is fucked. We have brand new ones.
I AM THAT LOVE THAT I AM
MY PALM IS FULL OF JELLY
TOUCH THE MOON DARLIN’
A MILLION BAGS OF SUGAR
JUST GRIN, BABY
Pal didn’t expect this.
He thought Yorke was regressing towards non-melodic chants over phony metallic synth beats, like a pale English Trent Reznor. He detailed a dream he had of Yorke reading aloud from his notebook of chorus-less trash to Jonny Greenwood as the guitarist sat in the parlor half-listening, head in the next Paul Thomas Anderson script about Jesus performing miracles as an aluminum siding salesman in 1960s Ohio. Jonny, without looking up, simply waved his hand in indifferent approval.
But no. That never happened. This is pretty. Even the plaything stop-motion stuff is confection.
Because it’s always sensible to avoid sounding like a jagoff.
If you plunked down $100 (about £68) on Leicester City to win the Premier League at a godforsaken Vegas sportsbook before the season started, you would’ve won a mountainous $500,000 (about £339,520) on Monday.
If Jonathan doesn’t pick up, pick up, Laurie sleeps, sleeps, sleeps in a coil.
When Pal walks down to feed the ducks at the park, he doesn’t give them the whole loaf. He breaks it up and doles it out in small pieces. The thing is though, it’s not bread he’s divvying, but fodder he cooked up himself. Nosh that’s left the waddling waterbirds sleepless and corrupt.
It’s not like he had a towel. Or a dry rag. He couldn’t toss the handle in the dryer, because he was digging in. So, he used his pouch.
By the way, the George Constanza Yankees are officially gone. Nothing but reruns and Jay Buhner lines to parrot.
Had no idea that Beyoncé ripped the title of her new album from something Jay-Z’s 90-year-old grandmother said (the old adage about how to make the sweet, pale yellow drink)?
That’s syrupy. Mawkish.
Pal thinks Becky is Beyoncé. When the remark was shot from the sky, he doubled down and said “think — in Bey’s mind, who among us has the top clump?”
Pal likes this. One orange is on top of the other orange and another on top of that and so on and the pyramid is made whole and doesn’t want anything from anybody. Ripe. Full of redeeming ascorbic acid. One part pomelo, three parts mandarin.
This is a piece of conceptual art, housed in the United Kingdom. It’s from 1967 and called “Soul City”. It was constructed by Roelof Louw, a sculptor originally from Cape Town, South Africa.
Pal trying to do Prince is like Sinead trying to do Rapunzel. But it’s still America, so let it jiggle and puff.
The material stings. Like a fucking beehive.
Years after selling love to get Americans to buy nylons, they sold coitus. And the promise of a handful. The ad above is from 1971. It’s for trousers made from a lusty cotton twill fabric.
Levi Strauss had three sons and never married. He never once wore his own jeans, which weren’t called “jeans” until the 1950s.
Of course we can. Pal’s got it.
Pal was saying he read that there’s only about 10,000 pay phones left in the five boroughs of New York City. There were something like 25,000 as recent as 2008.
Apparently there’s a short film being shown at the Tribeca Film Festival that features the demise. It’s called “Dead Ringer”, and its main character is a self-aware, nostalgic old Brooklyn pay phone.
“For decades, we handled all your drug deals, love affairs, runaways, pimps, crime tips, cranks, heavy breathers, and emergencies.”
And WFAN trades.
Russell Westbrook Jr., 27, was hired by the Oklahoma City Thunder of the National Basketball Association back in 2008 out of the University of California, Los Angeles to play point guard for their basketball club. He’s very good at his job.
When Kilimanjaro finally erupts, no one will speak with it.
Everyone will just watch. From afar. Continue reading
Cleanliness is next to godliness. So said the ancient Hebrews and Babylonians. Maybe your grandmother too?
But push aside being clean for a second. Anyone can meticulously wash and be pristine. It doesn’t necessarily mean they’re human deities. There’s no correlation.
Kramer: ” Hmm! Oh! Yeah. I’ll tell you who is an attractive man; George Will.”
Kramer: “Yeah! He has clean looks, scrubbed and shampooed and….”
Elaine: “He’s smart….”
Kramer: “No, no I don’t find him all that bright.”
But being an artist? Being an artist — creating — is truly next to godliness. Because what does an immortal do? They make things.
Peaks and valleys. At its best, the experience is tactile. The players are soft and lithe, and not a sense is spurned. A rise. A flat. Fingertips spark a blaze that’s extinguished by a virile amalgam.
Pal’s been poaching the tiny desk this month like a Roosevelt on safari but it’s fine because the thing you’ll hear if you press on the clip above will pulverize all that’s blest in that little busted strongbox you call a soul.
Ladies/gents, from the Ninth Ward of New Orleans, it’s Christian Scott aTunde Adjuah on trumpet, Elena Pinderhughes playing the flute, Braxton Cook on alto sax, Lawrence Fields tickling the keys, Dominic Minix with the sledge, Kris Funn on the bass and Corey Fonville percussing.
First number is called “TWIN” from the 2015 album Stretch Music.
“I love music that has a nutritional value … and all those things.”
This morning, Prince Nelson Rogers died in an elevator. He was 57. Continue reading
Purchasing an automobile is like going to a greenhouse to shake a strange old man’s hand for five hours until both are so clammy they fall in on themselves, collapse, give birth to a stellar black hole so dense that its immense gravity stretches you like spaghetti. Instantly you’re malleable, defenseless and at the mercy of the cologned fogy who grabs your worthless hand, puppets it with a pen, and signs your name in triplicate.
Your wish is granted.
Do you want to know about women? Ask Roger. Do you want to know about getting trolleyed? How to sip? Probe Rog. Do you want to know about business? Google it. Do you want to know about war? Call Rogerino. Hearts? Fire? Mystique? Rrrrrrrrroger. Sunrises? You’re good?
“I told him to be himself. That was pretty mean I guess.”
Wiseass musicianship at its absolute zenith. Born Benjamin Scott Folds on September 12, 1966 in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, he turned an angsty tale about a little person becoming famous into a chef d’oeuvre.
You know you’re good when even the Urban Dictionary has nothing but nice things to say about you:
a brilliant man and musician who understands the way the world works and shares his knowledge through his baldwin.
i’m going to a ben folds concert tonight, it will blow my mind
Quite possibly the foremost rock pianist of the last ten years.
He may be good, but he’s no Ben Folds.
Didn’t think we worked blue, huh? Looks like we just stepped on that idear.
Squish. Continue reading
Be nice to your mother. Even if she’s from Philly. Continue reading
By its own account, Andalusia is a location in southern Spain that has things like flamenco dancers and tapas food and matadors and living bulls and bullrings and picadors and dead bulls and steak.
This week, it hosted a golf tournament, the Spanish Open. The winner of the contest, crowned today, was this Englishman, named Andrew “Beef” Johnston. He’s from northern London.
And while you can down easily booze in Andalusia, Beef would rather do it back home. Like One-Armed Keith or Fat Paul or Mickey Two Suits or Julia Tant or Flat Cap or Danny Miller/Danny Partridge or Miller.
Meditation and intuition for the Cathode ray. Crack your porthole and tally the dwarf planets. If drops come, number ’em as they fall into the loch. Chirp. Hum. Bump. Continue reading
There was this experiment. Maybe ten years ago. And the subjects had names like Ira Wolf Tuton and Anand Wilder.
You envision this being read in inked newsprint, from the fresh gray paper that smells like morning. Perhaps one day we’ll reclaim that tactile, sensory experience. But, for now, finger click and open your ears to a pop song distilled from Con Edison, heartbreak and glacé exasperation.