Boogie Down Productions

Phone rings amidst subtle synthesiser interference. Receiver lifted: “Yo Kris I really knocked the boots on these two big butt females last night…Yeesh. I’m on my way to Latin Quarter to find two more freaks…WORD…”

That’s the late Scott La Rock relaying a tawdry message to his proud partner KRS-One at the intro of Boogie Down Productions’ Super Hoe, Kris then goes on to rave about his partner’s prurient, panther-like prowess for the next four minutes.

I first heard the South Bronx pair on Portland Community Radio. KBOO had a monster reggae hour, dishing crackly 60s echo chamber dub straight into my earhole with good, old-fashioned alacrity. My interest in reggae stemmed from an interest in the Patrick Ewing, dominant Georgetown Hoya center. I learned he liked reggae because he played a lot of it when he guest hosted MTV, an episode I taped and watched over and over again (He was also from Jamaica, which might have helped). He played a version of Bob Marley’s Jammin’ intercut with footage of him slam-dunking the basketball. I pictured myself making rum and running guns in the Caribbean with some disgusting renegades. It was kind of funky.

Reggae was a gateway into rap, which would prove to have an even greater affect on my quality of life. The KBOO rap show was on after midnight on school nights. When I remembered to set my alarm, I woke up and recorded it. Damn it was so good. The show introduced me to some of the mid-80s greats: Just-Ice, King Tee, Gigolo Tony, TLA Rock, Mantronix (my hero) and Audio Two, to name a few. Boogie Down Productions’ Criminal Minded wasn’t the first rap tape I ever bought, but it proved to be the most formative in expanding my ever-widening hardcore gangster persona.

I picked it up from 2nd Avenue Records in downtown Portland on my 14th birthday. It was me Mike, Ben, Jimbo and damn if I can remember who else, chaperoned around by my Mother. We were inside McDonalds eating lunch when we saw her fall down in the middle of the street. We collapsed from laughter our mouths crammed full of cheeseburger. Certainly a low-point in this teenager’s life.

Ramblin' Man

The laksa available from Blue Chillies lunch special might be a tad too coconutty, but the trick is to not slurp the whole soup (which I’ve done regrettably and got a hiding by my internals), but merely gorge on the solids. Chomp down hard on the spongy tofu and the spicy coconut flavour explodes in your mouth with bombastic aplomb. After lunch, we were lucky to find one of those trendy shops on Gertrude Street giving away stuff for almost nothing. I came away with a t-shirt and de campo a dress, this gave us plenty of momentum, then we bought a clock, four trucker caps ($4), some mosquito repellent in the form of a low-frequency sonar device (50% off) we were on a roll! Picked up a six-pack of beer ($13.95), then I made pizza dough, the outcome was okay but there were a few false starts. Watched Wolf Creek, which is not a disgrace, nor is it anything special either. Certainly rubbish compared to America’s Next Top Model.

FrankenMcCain

If I was McCain's campaign manager (arguably the most loathsome job in America), I would have instructed him to pull his sport coat over his face anytime Obama was speaking. Although this may cast the image of unnerving pervy guilt, it would probabaly have played better in Columbus, Ohio than the maniacal face gestures, eye rolling, and tongue lolling antics that Mccain subjected us to. You would think after three debates some might have told him how he comes off in a split screen image.

For Halloween, I am going as "FrankenMcCain". I have got a McCain mask, bolts for the neck, green make-up and a sash that calls me "FrankenMcCain an erratic monster". Elizah will be wearing a "Miss Alaska" sash (or an Idaho journalism major sash. The jury is still out). The only mechanical question, is how do I pull off drinking my Makers, considering that I can't lift my arms above my belt? Long Twizzle straws.

- email from H

Check out my new watch

It’s flipping fabulous. Just don’t ask me what time it is.

Deerhunter, Microcastle

I have had Deerhunter's Microcastle downloaded for over a month now. A new genre has been born, "Prurient Power Pop". Lilting melodies and great rave-ups often obscure the fact of how creepy Bradford's lyrics can be. Kind of like that inscrutable van parked ominously down the block. It can either a guy in a clown suit handing out candy to kids ... or even worse, the government ala "Burn After Reading" staking you out.
By all accounts, Deerhunter tore up NXNW. Someone in the crowd asked how much Bradford weighed, violence almost broke out, the cool younger Benicio del Toro-esque guitarist puked behind the amplifier, continued to swig Makers and then they tore the roof off of Holocene with their set.

- email from H

My Dad Falls Down, My Old Leather Jacket Turns Me into a Tosser, Ashton Kutcher Plays Himself and a Horse Gets Overly Friendly Before Bedtime

Two dreams I experienced lying down last night, they may have been the same dream but I doubt it, the only constant was the presence of my dear old Dad, and there’s also the issue that one took place during the day and the other at night, so since day comes before night I’ll tell you that one first, I’m standing in the bedroom I grew up in and Dad comes in stinking drunk and sunburned from playing golf, he falls into my wardrobe and is laying there in a heap cackling and I get a little worried because I know his knees aren’t the best.

I leave the room in a huff not because of Dad’s behaviour but because I’m a jerk and I’m depressed as hell and I’m a serious artist living with my parents in the suburbs and Ashton Kutcher is in the dining room and he’s in my face all ebullient and he’s trying to get my attention and it takes awhile to register just who this annoying jackass is, and even when I do, I do not acknowledge him in any way, I snub him because I am an arrogant jackass and I got so much angst to burn and I’m wearing the leather jacket I bought in London in ’96 on Portobello Road that I ended up leaving there because it was deadweight and I guess I kind of miss it and it’s fitting me here more comfortably than it ever has and I’ve got my anti-nuclear power t-shirt on and I’m brooding my way through the kitchen and there’s Ashton’s Dad Gary, my Dad’s golf partner, who was a bearded guy I actually knew back in high school and he worked for the Portland Police Department and he’s all giddy, I don’t acknowledge him either as I move through the kitchen and into the family room where I sit down on the couch in a heap staring at my crotch with an overwhelming sense of numbness to it all.

Next I’m in an anonymous barn on the top floor and it’s dark and I’m laying down among the stacks of hay and Dad is with me and he’s really impressed that my horse (colour:brown) is such a friendly feller, sleeping next to me and licking my face like a dog and I’m thinking horses are just the most affectionate creatures in the world and then the big fella, who has most of his weight on me, which surprisingly doesn’t hurt, has to get up and relieve himself like we all do at night sometimes but this guy he really has to go and he goes all over the side wall and Dad and I look at each other like oh man and then the big feller lies back down beside me and together we fall fast asleep.

THE END