KARMA CAN TONGUE MY BALLS

Some people are into religion. Some people are into spiritualism. Some people are into existentialism. Me? Well, I am into myself. Simply put, I am my religion. I worship at the alter of myself. I pledge allegiance to me. It's a scientific fact that 99.9% of the population are utter fuck knuckles. It must be true, it's on Wikipedia... I know, because I put it there.

Last week I went to put some change into the machine that tops up Oyster cards, and to my annoyance it refused to accept the last pound in the long succession of coins I busily stuffed into the little bastard. After trying 3 times, I gave up and wiggled my arse in front of the reader to finish the transaction. While stood on the escalator that slowly took me deeper into London's lower intestine - the Victoria line - I had a minute to look more closely at the pound coin that had delayed my journey by an unacceptable 45 seconds. It was round like a pound, it felt like a pound, in fact when it kept dropping out of the machine not 30 seconds earlier it sounded like a pound, but as I raised the gold disc towards my eyes the problem became obvious. The print was shoddy, the colour slightly off, the design worn. This was a fake pound!

According to Wikipedia around 1% of all British pound coins in circulation are counterfeit. In 2005 there were 1,452,000,000 £1 coins floating around, so that makes £14,520,000 in fake quids! I know this now, but as I walked along the platform, fingering the coin and bringing it up to my eye like a Jewish diamond appraiser, I was awe-struck at the audacity of pirating a pound. My mind raced with images of Sheffield steel workers angered at losing their jobs in the 80's and deciding to skip the middleman, fire up the furnace and print their own money. Or evil Al Qaeda members hell bent on subverting the British economy by descending on London's kebab shops en-masse to buy Halal donor kebabs with pockets stuffed full of shady spondoolics.

I arrived at my destination and was suddenly struck with a thought. I couldn't change it at a bank. I didn't want to spend it in a shop for fear of it being noticed and not accepted. I couldn't spend this pound in any kind of vending machine, I had already proved that. My demeanour suddenly changed from being fascinated by the strange coin, to being supremely annoyed that I could actually be out of pocket. Suddenly, the world presented me with a solution. Stood before me, in the doorway of the station was a blind man collecting money for charity. Without hesitating I walked up to the man, barging other members of the public busily dropping small quantities of 1p and 2p coins into a pot out of the way, and placed the coin, still warm from my hand into his palm. As the blind man felt the familiar weight and shape of a whole pound coin he looked up at me, his lame eyes focussing a few meters beyond me, and raised a massive smile. "Thank you so much" he said beaming, "that is so kind of you". "Would you like a sticker?". To emphasise my supremely benevolent act even more I said quietly "no thank you. have a nice day", slipped my £110 aviators down over my eyes and walked out of the sun-drenched doorway.

Karma doesn't exist, because if it did, I would be dead by now. Struck down by whatever deity patrols these things. Instead, I am here now, recovering from an amazing weekend and relaying my story to you, dear reader. Go forth and celebrate. Ignore young mothers struggling down stairs with 3 wheeled prams. Give tourists comedically incorrect directions. Don't refill the loo roll in the office toilet. Don't hold the bus door open for that old lady with the heavy shopping bag.

Be part of the 0.1% and join me in saying Karma can tongue my balls.

This is the word of the lord, and the lord is me. Amen.

Mobile phone soundsytems

So, I'm sitting on a bus, minding me own, when the world famous Mobile Phone soundsystem sits behind me. What an honour. Luckly, they decided to give an impromtu one off set. Whoohoo!!! Lucky me. I wonder if they've got any R KELLY.

Now don't get me wrong, I love a tune. God knows, I love a dance but come on... Mobile phones are called such because they're designed for making and recieving calls. THEY ARE NOT CALLED MOBILE SOUNDSYSTEMS FOR A VERY GOOD REASON... THEY SOUND TERRIBLE.

So after one formulaic R n B track after another, we get a sound clash... Team Samsung get on. But they're into grime... terrible grime... with no bass. Rather predictably, a loud argument ensues over who has the right to play no bass, crap music for the, ahem, entertainment of the other passengers. Fantastic.

"Here's an idea!" I said after enduring this intollerable cacophony for long enough. "Why don't you all clear off?!" delivered in my best old codger tone. The odd thing about is was, they actually did a minute of silence later. All except one of the original team, who thought he had a new pal. On yer bike son.

StarbuckWILD...

Sometimes I feel like Starbucks has a personal vendetta against me. I'm not as paranoid as this crazy motherfucker, but I feel as though that they are attacking me on all sides lately. First, my wallet. In London, a Frappucino is the price of a decent lunch (and c'mon now, who can afford lunch at the end of the month in this unfeasible city?). Second, my tastebuds. The lushness of a Starbucks coffee makes it so easy to justify financing their globalized takeover. One foamy caramel macchiato doesn't really hurt anyone, right? Thinking about their aggressive "cancerous"expansion techniques (hyperactive growth of chains; they're happy to crush one of their own branches as long as they take someone else down in the process) always makes my Chai tea latte a little hard to swallow...but damn, it still goes down so smoothly. Third, my eyes: that fucking logo is everywhere. There are FOUR Starbucks within a 2-block radius of my office in central London - say what?

And now, most recently and most offensively, the 'bucks has even hit my ears. Starbucks' record label has been paining me for obvious soul-destroying reasons, the further degradation of the music world and what not. But, to add insult to injury, Starbucks keeps picking musicians I once held so morally high - artists that have nothing to prove, that already have more money than they could spend in one lifetime. In the words of AniDiFranco, "everyone is a fucking Napoleon." Paul McCartney came as no surprise, that man and his fugly ex-wife will do anything to get noticed...but Joni Mitchell? That's where this shit gets personal. Her albums are pretty much the soundtrack to my formative years; I still have yet to find anything quite as heartbreakingly beautiful as 'Blue.'

Flashback to 6 months ago, when Joni talked about how 'ashamed' she was of the music industry: "I just think it's a cesspool. I would never take another deal in the record business, which means I may not record again, or I have to figure out a way to sell over the internet or do something else...It's tragic what MTV has done to the world."

Hypocritical sell-out or not, she's still the shit.
Joni Mitchell - Woodstock

There's also rumors of Prince (the artist formerly known as credible) and James Taylor being signed up. And then today I read about Dave Matthews and Starbucks teaming up on some sort of yawnworthy live release - how's about that for a corporate wet dream? Whatever, I gotta go...my latte's getting cold.

Jessica Alba would TOTALLY do me

I happen to know Jessica Alba would TOTALLY do me if she knew I existed.

Moona Lisa

This is Nick. He did a stencil on the wall of Cargo on Friday
















Nick's from Bristol and has being doing stencils since back way back...
















His daughter helped him out. The stencil took him just under an hour.


















I got asked twice as I was taking the photos...

"is that Banksy?"

I said "no."

Is it wrong to hate little guys?

Well I reckon R Kelly would have been proud of the way I had managed to squeeze all of my junk in an undersized trunk the other day, as I swayed down the tube station, smiling to myself and thinking that anyone walking behind me was probably getting hypnotised…Sure enough, I ended up feeling like someone's eyes were litteraly burning through my ass - imagine my surprise when I turned around to find a "little person" (I believe that's one of the acceptable terms) positively staring at my behind, which of course happened to be right at eye level for him, the little bastard.
I couldn't help feeling flustered and a little annoyed - and a little guilty right after that, let me reassure you. The issue was not so much that the guy checking me out was a dwarf (though to be fair that does not necessarily call for a great amount of bragging, despite the assumptions often made about little people's sexual capabilities and appetite), but the fact that he was doing it with that sort of "watchyagonnado" air of someone who knows he's beyond criticism, by virtue of being part of a minority.
It got me wondering - would it be entirely unacceptable for me to slap him on the back of the head and mutter "what you looking at, you pervy little freak?" - yeah, probably. And yet, should I not expect that in the same way we full-growns teach our men not to throw themselves at women's boobs everywhere, little mammas tell their boys that it's not polite getting so far up a girl's ass you don't even know?
One of the things I adore about living in the post-feminist age is that I can pretty much tell any guy who's getting on my nerves to jog on, regardless of how much flirting I may or may not have indulged in with him previously: as a 21st century girl, that's my prerogative. And yet, some men remain immune from our wrath, because we somehow feel a little sorry for them, or uncomfortable about making our views known to them: the dwarves, the disabled, the old, the seriously ugly…Now that can't be right.
I say, let's stop with all the political correctness. Let's call pervy little dwarves exactly that, let's tell the seriously ugly to get out of our face, let's tell the Disabled Jewish Black Lesbian who just got on the carriage that she ain't getting this seat, sister, because I wants it. And whenever some freak manages to make us feel as bad as the asshole who harrassed my girl Samantha the other night, let's remember we remain in control of our bodies and minds no matter what.
Surely there's a place for honesty, even when it's directed at someone who may feel victimised because of what I have to say. I say tough luck, shorty. Now get out of my ass.

P.S: I should probably add that I do have some love for all you dwarves, jews, blacks, disabled and lesbians out there. Of course I do.

"And every time I scratch my scalp, I get this gook of nasty dandruff under my nails." - Tyra Banks

Speaking of reality shows done right, I nominate 'American's Next Top Model.' Fill a room with egomaniacal women and it's like entropy: no scripts or gimmicks needed, the madness unfolds effortlessly. And of course the lunatic Tyra Banks is like the cherry on top of the chaos cake.

Has anyone ever seen Tyra freak the fuck out? Bitch be crazy. I love when she gets all gangsta out of nowhere, neck snapping wildly as she talks about her mama...

Watch 'em swing, watch 'em swing...

I woke up this morning thinking about E-40. It's not often I rise with thoughts of the Ambassador of the Bay, but today my first concious thought was: why hasn't hyphy kicked off in the UK? With genres like dubstep/dnb/grime being so prevalent on UK airwaves and dancefloors, isn't it strange that the hard-hitting, bass-heavy, electronic-fused sounds of crunk and hyphy aren't understood here? Across the Atlantic, support reaches all the way to the Oscars. On this end, Londoners are always asking me who Lil' Jon is (i.e. asking me mid-crumpet "Pardon me love, but pray tell - who is this Lil Jon bloke you always go on about?"). And when Shadow came through town a couple weeks ago, everyone and their media dog was panting about their hate (read: misjudgement) of 'The Outsider.' I mean, how could you watch this video and NOT want to dedicate your life/career to stunna shades and shakin' dreadlocks?



Great retaliatory shout from Shadow: “At that point in my career, I was looking to do something different and didn’t really care what people thought, so I began to reach out to the people involved, trying to make something happen. As far as I’m concerned this movement comes in two halves: before 'Tell Me When To Go' and after. That’s why I was so glad to make my mark before it really crossed over. I remember last year driving through Oakland, I’d just released 'Three Freaks' and heard a bunch of kids coming out of school singing it. That was fantastic, because, when you think about it, who would you rather make hip-hop for — men in their thirties or the kids who are really part of it?”

Whenever I ask UK-based people about their lack of love for regional stateside hip hop, I tend to get some sort of lackluster response along the lines of "In the UK, we support UK music." Hmm. I've got reservations about UK hip hop personally. Icey so coldly (and beautifully) once put it: UK hip hop is a fucking parasite. I'd say it's more like US hip hop's little brother, an underdeveloped carbon copy that hasn't quite figured out its place in the real world yet. I want to patronizingly pinch its cheeks and ruffle its hair like, "aww, look - it thinks it's a veritable genre, how sweet." But that's a story for another day. Today is payday, after all - as such, I'll leave you with this banger...

Lil' Jon feat Three 6 Mafia - Act A Fool

Sometimes the filth in London is just too much for me to handle...

So the other evening I am coming home on the Tube after a night out with some friends. Ok - well that isn't that interesting... but at a certain point, my journey home took a turn for the worse as I was standing at the train doors in anticipation of my approaching stop: someone comes up behind me and starts to pant heavily in my ear, telling me how beautiful I am, as he proceeds to grind himself up against me.

I was wearing leggings.

And I could feel everything.

I was stunned, frozen, and couldn't react - it was a very out-of-body experience because all women will tell you that if they are being harassed (and most of the time, by the other sex), they will vehemently react in the most aggressive and violent way; because, after all, this is a violation of your physicality, and some would argue, the very essence of yourself as a woman. Yet when it's actually happening to you, it's very difficult to instantaneously pull yourself together in the span of the 30 seconds that it actually takes place, and freak right the fuck out.

Well, as soon as the train doors opened, and fortunately my train pulled into the station seconds after this non-member of the human race commenced acting out his most personal and vile fantasies on me, I booked it out of the train and cried the entire way home.

I know I'm not the only one that this has happened to, and in certain cultures, everyday commutes are fraught with this kind of unacceptable misbehaviour: Japan immediately pops into my mind where they have apparently created women-only cars to deal with the issue, but I find myself wondering why these actions are perpetuated here in a Western setting, and why no one on the Tube ever seems to notice and if they do, are too fearful to speak up, or just utterly and completely jaded by the state of affairs in the Big Smoke.

Which leaves us with very few and rather unrealistic options: a rather militant, feministic approach when it comes to dealing with dudes like my new best pervert, or the typical English stiff-upper lip reaction where one must cope, no matter what the circumstances. Neither really appeal to me.

Do me a favour though - next time you see me scared shitless on the Tube because some creep has decided my ass is going to be his shiny, brand-new tool of masturbatory choice, help a sister out.

Thoughts, anyone? Or more like food for thought...

Meet the Angel of Death

Meet the new unofficial Angel of Death, Oscar the cat. It seems this wacked-out little fucker can sense when somone is about to die and shows up just in time. No one is really sure if Oscar is present for people's last earthly moments to comfort them or make sure the job is done. Since I hate cats (except pan-seared in olive oil), I like to think this guy is like the Pauly Walnuts of the cat world and he's the last face you'll ever see for a reason.

Can I get a lil' bit of L-O-V-E?

In the spirit of the ongoing freestyle-rnb-athon, I have a further question relating to the KP and Enyvi video: is the love interest in the video a Bone thug? I have a suspicion it's Layzie Bone, but Im not 100%.

Exhibit A is the new Bone Thugs N Harmony video. Is Layzie Bone (wearing rad skeleton outfit in the clip) the same guy who plays the tenderoni in Swing My Way?

BTNH's new vid is for a track called 'Lil' Love'. It claims to 'feature' Mariah Carey. Refusing to merely 'feature', clearly Mimi proceeds to take over the whole show, complete with 'MC' marble inlaid flooring and all her classic moves: outfit changes, one-sided facial close-ups while lying on a couch, photoshopped leg shots, and insane Louboutin heels.

I love the way Mariah has fully embraced her status as slow jam queen. You might compare her to a female R Kelly on some levels. I dont know another female artist who would dream up an alter-ego named Mimi with which to re-launch herself into the public eye following a mental breakdown. She just dont give a what. Truly epic fabulosity.

But yeah, any thoughts on the Layzie Bone situation, holler...

Random Wiki - La Catedral

La Catedral prison

This season on HBO's hit series Entourage, the main character Vince films the movie Medellin about the life of Pablo Escobar. After watching this episode a few weeks ago my curiosity kicked in and I wanted to know about the man who Forbes magazine listed as the 7th richest person in the world in 1989. Below is the excerpt I found most interesting.

In 1991, after declaring an end to a series of previous violent or terrorist acts meant to pressure authorities and public opinion, Escobar turned himself in to the Colombian government in order to avoid extradition to the United States or assassination by a rival cartel. Escobar was confined in what became his own luxurious private prison, La Catedral, which he was allowed to build for his confinement in return for turning himself in. He negotiated an agreement with the Colombian government whereby he would be jailed for a mandatory five-year sentence and guaranteed no extradition to the United States, if he stopped any further drug trafficking activities. Before Escobar gave himself up, the extradition of Colombian citizens had been prohibited by the newly approved Colombian Constitution of 1991.

However, La Catedral prison was actually more of a country-club fortress, and he showed little regard for the sanctity of his sentence there. There have been allegations, many of them unconfirmed, that he was often seen outside of the jail: shopping in Medellín or at parties, soccer games, and other public places.^{[citation needed]} After an account appeared in the local media showing photos of his lavish jail/residence and claiming that he had murdered several business associates (the Moncada brothers) when they came to meet him at La Catedral, public opinion forced the government to act. When the government attempted to move Escobar to another jail on July 22, 1992, he escaped, fearing that he could be extradited to the United States.

So the moral of the story is if you have to go to prison just cut a deal with your government that allows you to build your own prison.

Below is the link to Pablo Escobars Wiki page.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pablo_Escobar

Reality show's done right

In England, we have Big Brother where a bunch of wannabe celebrities get put in a house together. The most exciting thing that happens is that someone calls someone a name they shouldn't (which I am not condoning people!) and then gets evicted......

Now in the U.S they do things differently, they take a bunch of people who want to be professional fighters, put them in a house together, give them access to alcohol and we get to watch the results....ladies and gentlemen I give you the genius that is 'The Ultimate Fighter'.

Here is a clip to show what (inevitably) happens when their name calling starts....


when can we get these into the Big Brother house....that would make it more exciting!!

One more tune...

All this talk of Ghost Town DJ's, KP & Envyi and such has got me jonesing for more of this sort of sweet, freestyle/r&b perfection. But seriously, the third installment in this stylistic trifecta is undoubtedly Inoj's "Let Me Love You Down." I've probably rocked this very three-song combo no fewer than 50 times before body-to-body Wicker Park bars full of writhing hipster girls. Its just too easy. Its a 1-step solution for drunken, bar-wide insta-karaoke.

Unfortunately, I couldn't find a video for it so the youtube link essentially just acts as a one-track mp3 player in this case. Its all good though - the jam still rocks.

It also deserves note, particularly for some of you UK folk who may not have received the entire breadth of the 80's-early 90's R&B phenomenon on that side of the Atlantic, that this track was lifted from a Ready For The World (them of "Oh Sheila" fame) tune of the same name. This video hits unfathomable levels of cheesiness and really makes you realize that without the tougher drums, this song is simply not as effective at halftime. The slap bass is pretty hot though and homeboy's got an unfuckwithable jheri curl.

KP & Envyi

Watching the Ghost Town DJs video, just made me think of this song (probably because I was cruising around on Easter with my friend listening to a mix cd with both songs on it!). I'll also include a bonus version by the C High Color Guard, because i think it really gives the original a run for it's money! or it might be WAY WAY BETTER!

Haterology 101

Ooh. I'm having one of those days where the hate just comes too easy. Maybe it's the weather, as Icey Cold was saying earlier, seeing as how sunshine feels like something of the past. Global warming can kiss my fine ass - it ain't SHIT! When is the 'warm' part coming into play? Waiting at the rainy bus stop earlier, amongst the curious blend of tight-lipped suited people and far-gone alcoholics slugging Stella (welcome to London), I found myself eavesdropping in on a conversation about Facebook. FACEBOOK. Dunno why, but that shit well and truly freaks me out. Who would willingly give that much personal information out? First Facebook, then microchip implants. In other unrelated rants, first the smoking ban, next the government will be regulating the number of pints you can drink per night "for health reasons." 1984, anyone? Not to get all political on your asses, but some days I can't help but feel like we're like little ants jumping from screen to screen - from flashing billboards to the computers in our cubicles to the phones we never let out of our sight (the new found callus on my thumb is testament to how many texts I send out) to the horror of images we call television, and so forth. So there I was, on a stinking bus, thinking all of this when suddenly the book I'm reading started speaking to me: "Historical fact: people stopped being human in 1913. That was the year Henry Ford put cars on rollers and made his workers adopt the speed of the assembly line. At first, workers rebelled. They quit in droves, unable to accustom their bodies to the new pace of the age. Since then, however, the adaptation has been passed down: we've all inherited it to some degree, so that we plug right into joysticks and remotes, to repetitive motions of a hundred kinds." (Jeffrey Eugenides)

So I will end this shitter of a day with three words: FUCK HENRY FORD.
Hopefully all will be better tomorrow when last weekend's comedown has finally subsided and my serotonin levels are nicely leveled out. Til then, rant over, exit stage left...

Chicago erects spiraling, serated razor cock

... Not that this is really current news to anyone, but in the next 3 years, Chicago will be home to a giant, spiraling phallus known as the Chicago Spire. Believe me, this building is a really fucking cool, unparalleled architectural marvel - I just find it funny that it comes packed with such weighty Freudian subtext.

The city of Chicago, in all its glory, suffers from a permanent, unwavering inferiority complex. The fact is that few outside the United States think of Chicago as a real center of international intrigue. New York hovers over Chicago's subconscious like some kind of accomplished older brother it will never live up to. Afterall, its not actually called 'The Windy City' because it is windy; its called 'The Windy City' because its people don't shut the fuck up about how great it is.

When new towers are constructed in cities like Dubai that dwarf Chicago's previously world-renowned architectural accomplishments like the Sears Tower and John Hancock Building, plans are quickly put in place to re-establish our spot on the international radar as the world's most outlandish skyscraper mecca.

So hear you have it... Chicago's newest penis in a skyline littered with them. The soon-to-be-latest entry in the global big dick contest. Chicago's 150-story boner.

Jacco Macacco Celebrated Monkey Gladiator

I spend alot of time wandering around on Wikipedia. Why you ask? For a combination of reasons. A mild case of ADD combined with a curious mind that absorbs useless knowledge like a sponge. But most importantly because I have an unsatisfying desk job. So today I bring your my first post of The Random Power Of Wiki.

Jacco Macacco Celebrated Monkey Gladiator.

The English were always keen for something new to challenge their dog fighting breeds. This resulted in rather strange fights, in part with completely surprising outcomes. 'Dog versus Monkey' was shown to be such a match-up.

The monkey proved to be a formidable opponent for the canine warrior; owners and handlers of fighting dogs frequently underestimated the monkey's abilities. The monkey's intelligence, dexterity, unorthodox fighting style and gameness proved to be overwhelming for many canine opponents.

His mode of attack or rather of defence was to present his back or neck to the dog and to shift or tumble about until he could lay hold on the arm or chest, when he ascended to the windpipe, clawing and biting away, which usually occupied him about one-and-one-half minutes and if his antagonist was not speedily withdrawn, his death was certain. After the bait the monkey exhibited a frightful appearance, being deluged with blood. The toughness and flexibility of his own skin rendered him impervious to the teeth of the dog. After fighting several battles in this manner, Jacko, improving his style from experience, changed his system of tactics and adopted the plan of jumping upon his adversary's neck, where with greater security and perfectly at his ease, he dispatched his opponent in normally three minutes.

I think we can all agree that Jacco is not only a hero to all Monkeys but to all of England. I believe to be fact that if Jacco were to have fought Maximus in the move Gladiator he would have destroyed him with the stick he was provided. This brave Gladiator should have been Knighted long ago. So today we salute you Jacco Macacco.

Here is the link to the Wiki page. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Monkey-baiting

It's On

Say what you will about Billboard (dry - as - the - sahara - rag - chronicling - the - final - gasps - of - a - bloated - anachronism perchance? Just a thought) but when they bring us news like this... let's just say it puts things in perspective.
C'mon, there's a character called Randolph for fuck's sake...

Welcome to Atlanta, where the players play

In light of the insanity that has apparently come to pass for British 'summertime' (see above), don't it make you yearn for the good old days? The days of real summer? Like they seem to have in Atlanta - all cookouts, humidity, battyriders and Jermaine Dupri. Possibly a Bone Thug or two.

Why, me and Junk were rolling around town just the other day, when the natural summertime urge to bust out the bikinis and gratuitously lather up the jeep grabbed us...only for the vibe to be dampened by a sudden downpour. Sad.

I guess it falls once again to the A.T.L to showcase what a real summer should look like.

Ghosttown DJs, we salute you...