I'm not what you might consider one of those "current events" type people, those types that are always in the know about the latest catastrophes/natural disasters/presidential elections/Lindberg baby abductions. So I didn't know that the "Sing-A-Ma-Jig" is a toy from Christmas season 2010, I just thought it was a Japanese sex toy gone horribly wrong that had been incorrectly labeled and imported into the United States under erroneous falsified documents and somehow wound up in a Rite Aid in Brooklyn and subsequently found its way into my clammy masturbatory hands after I stood in line to pay $13.97 for it while wondering if I'd be less embarrassed to be buying the Trojan Vibrating Ring that was going for roughly the same price in the "impulse buy" section near candy and gum and playing cards and Abreva. I bought it solely to make the worst video ever, which I think I have done. Enjoy.
I want to make it into a "Feature Length Film" so please donate to the project on Kickstarter so your money will go to a good cause which will be me buying several more plants for my apartment, probably air plants to put in the eyes of my new cow skull hanging on my bedroom wall, or to fund some of the other meaningless whims and temporary obsessions that govern my so called life.
In other news, I have a big weekend coming up: I will be attending the North American Lionhead Rabbit Club's 2011 National Show in Columbus, Ohio. It's only a 9-hour drive from Brooklyn through Pennsylvania and Ohio; or, if you're going to be in the area, you should come too! I don't think there is any entry fee if you're just an average rabbit-loving obese person (like me) and don't have a bunny to show ($7.50 if you do), so you can just come in and walk around and judge rabbits on your own and drink Tab and eat olive loaf bologna sandwiches (snacks unconfirmed). Maybe you'll bid on a show-winning lionhead like one of these, all up for auction! Maybe you're just going for the $20 all-you-can-eat "Italian-American" banquet at Spaghetti Warehouse (15-layer lasagna) and the cheap hotel room with a vibrating bed (unconfirmed) and pool (unconfirmed) to escape New York for a weekend.
Maybe you want to see pictures from a recent Easter photoshoot starring my rabbit and Carlen's shiny rapist rabbit who, thankfully, has been neutered.
like a virgin
touched
for the very first time
(No rabbits were harmed during the taking of these photos, although I was hit with a tsunami of rabbit urine on my lap which, for the second time recently that I have been peed on, I thought was just the animal getting cozy and warming my body with its undying love...)
Speaking of "undying", Happy Easter everybody! Hopefully Zombie Jesus's cannibalistic search for human flesh didn't have him walking across water to eat your brains. Because I think that's the true meaning of John Carpenter's classic 1977 film "The Resurrection", a powerful film in the Catholic educational movie canon, although I haven't been to Sunday School in quite some time and my knowledge of Christian theology is shaky at best and tinged with disbelief and Hollywood and insanity.
A few weeks ago I stumbled across an amazing vintage turntable at Housing Works and decided to buy it. I know what you're thinking: How did you not have one before now? Aren't you a part-time barista, freelance editor and Brooklyn resident? You write a blog. Two blogs, actually, and one is about Maury Povich. Don't they hand those things out at the Bedford L stop? I get it. Stop yelling.
(Oh, also: If you're unaware, Housing Works is a well-curated thrift store whose mission is to end homelessness and AIDS, global problems that need every bit of funding they can get. But ... and I'm sorry for saying it, but am I the only one who finds it odd that in doing so they've created an orgy of discount-priced designer clothes, modern furniture and whimsical art? This seems counterproductive to the cause. Throw in a nice martini list and a tapas menu and you've got a Chelsea nightclub. Or why not just get those cool clothes on some hobos? A briefly sobered-up wino wearing a Valentino suit is ready for his Wall Street interview, and who wouldn't prefer their local flasher to reveal not only his hook-shaped penis, but also show off that soothing tan-red-black-white plaid from inside his newly donated, gently used Burberry trench? I know this is going to count against me at the Pearly Gates, Angelic Saint Peter pausing briefly to leer at me over his reading glasses then saying, "Remember when you wrote that thing on your blog? The thing that insinuated stereotypical prejudices about certain types of people?" I'll say yes and *poof* I'll be in the 'other' place roasting like a marshmallow. It's just that I need to know if I'm the only one who notices real-life irony.)
But back to the story for the zero of you who haven't quit reading: So although I have probably the most ostentatious stereo system to ever grace a 10'x10' shared college dorm room (at high volume, it could be heard 4 floors up), I didn't have a turntable until recently. As my preference in pant legs gets narrower and I patiently await my FleaBay'd leather jacket so I can finally emerge from my fat winter cocoon blob into a spring-weather-loving alcoholic unemployed stereotype, I have been repairing and restoring this turntable. I disassembled it, cleaned everything, put it back together and it works like new. Pat on the back for me. One of the biggest draws of my new hobby/obsession is that I live only a few blocks from the largest selection of used records in NYC, a junk store with — no joke — at least 100,000 records; I think it's way more than that but I'm being conservative. The guy who owns the place makes up arbitrary prices and I've never paid more than $2 for a single item in the shop. It's great, because I don't think he cares if he makes money, he just likes people coming into his store. He sold me this oil painting, in its frame, for two bucks.
it's like a stained glass window on acid
I always find a few great records rooting through milk crates full of vinyl. Yesterday, however, I stumbled upon a treasure from my early high school days:
luv 2 luv my nostalgia for this album
This album was the jam back in the day, and I believe "Luv 2 Luv Ya (Remix)" went on the very first burned CD I ever made. (In 9th grade, my buddy and I went halves on a CD burner because they were really expensive and we were really cheap, which is why we were buying a CD burner in the first place — to download music illegally from Audiogalaxy or Napster and burn CDs.)
Listening to this for the first time in probably 12 years got me to thinking about being a freshman in high school. I have a, let's say, "distinct" sounding voice: deep, slightly nasal and with a twinge of Southern accent. I didn't know I had a distinct voice until I was about 15 years old and guys on my baseball team did an impression of me, for me. When I was still writing for magazines, I showed up to an interview with a famous hip-hop/pop/R&B producer who, surprised to see Saltine cracker me waiting in the studio lobby, said, "When I talked to you on the phone, I thought you was a brotha." So I apparently sound a little bit black on the phone. I guess. But this is where I was going before I started asking questions bound to send me to hell: Was Magoo ever teased for his voice? Were any other rappers? I mean, Magoo's real name is "Melvin Barcliff", which sounds like the kind of name that could get you beat up while waiting for the school bus.
So here's my list of "7 Rappers With A High Probability of Childhood Teasing" who, in no particular order, also happen to be some of my favorites:
MAGOO: Timbaland & Magoo, "Luv 2 Luv Ya (Remix)"
CEE-LO GREEN: Cee-Lo is just more fun when he's rapping, not singing. His verse in Goodie Mob's "They Don't Dance No Mo" is the part I look forward to every time I hear the song.
CHALI 2NA: The deep-voiced dude from Jurassic 5, my guess is that kids would've been holding him down at recess and making him recite James Earl Jones quotes. He's the first one to rap on "Thin Line" and his voice juxtaposes nicely with the sweet-sounding hook.
ODB: A man who needs no introduction and a voice that cracks like a teenage boy going through puberty and eating animal crackers at the same time. ODB was great.
BIZZY BONE: I know for a fact that Bizzy gets made fun of for not only his voice but also his effeminate mannerisms (see comments here), but he is/was part of Bone Thugs and this song makes him manly.
KRAZIE BONE: Can't talk about Bizzy without his balancing act Krazie Bone, who also has a deep voice with a little country twang like me.
EAZY-E: Last but not least, Eazy has a high-pitched almost Urkle voice. I actually had to stop listening to Eazy's sex-laden lyrics for awhile — I had been listening to him a lot and thinking about sex constantly then had one of those "scares"... luckily she got her period and now I can listen to him again.
Maybe the world is ready for another white rapper: I'm calling myself Roscoe Listerine.
