Mac Miller makes me uncomfortable.
Clarke’s Three Laws are three “laws” of prediction formulated by the British writer and scientist Arthur C. Clarke. They are:
1. When a distinguished but elderly scientist states that something is possible, he is almost certainly right; when he states that something is impossible, he is probably wrong.
2. The only way of discovering the limits of the possible is to venture a little way past them into the impossible.
3. Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic. (via Kiezpro)
Catullus 16: The Original Ethering
After Furius, a poet who had an affair with Catullus’s boyfriend (yo homo), called out the man for coming soft with his verses, Catullus shot back with this scathing sonnet. In it, he also attacked Aurelius, a Roman senator at the time and a hater of historical proportions. According to Wikipedia, this poem was considered so obscene, a proper English translation wasn’t published until a few decades ago.
If you ask me, Hov got off easy. Although every time I hear his name, I can’t help but imagine him—in a sweatsuit on the couch—bobbing his head to Billy Blanks videos.
It’s a little embarrassing that XXL beat me to the punch on this cat. Sure, I dug Black Hippy’s youtube channel enough to download their mixtape, but I never got around to listening to it. As for Kendrick, every okayplayer message board lurker has had his name on repeat for the past 3 months, but a cursory listen to his OD tape left me feeling like he was a capable jazz-rap rapper with two feet in the past and none in the present. Hearing him over this beat, though? Goosebumps. And the beat isn’t revolutionary in the least. He just wrecks it.
It’s a goddamn shame he’s making a record with J. Cole. If he collaborated with the Low End Theory folks right in his backyard, he could make some serious brain feed.
Radiohead Insta-Review:
Vaguely gorgeous and disaffected dishwashing music for the new humanity.
If I learned one thing from Ghostface’s list of Valentine’s Dos, it’s that Killah Priest is on the twitter. Also, the fact that he (or, god help us god, an intern) retweeted a shirt-shilling twot so many times that the link was taken down for suspected spamming, on myspace of all places.
All my teenage spiritual awakenings
seem somehow hollow now.
The irrepressible Revok got nabbed in Melbourne after a weekslong graffiti spree. The cops were tracking him via his tweetfeed. Now, I’m an old head, and if this were a young kid coming up, I would undoubtedly bash him for such twitterpated idiocy. But this man is a legend—the type of cat who goes out to paint with a climbing rig—and honestly, he’s so damn charming you just have to laugh.
Especially when he relays this story: “Something like 10,000 kids went out to Melbourne from all over the country when they heard what was going down. They painted like 70% of all of the trains. The mayor came out and declared a state of emergency.”
I’ve been laid up with a fractured fibula for a couple months now, and without my lady, I probably would’ve starved by now. This is probably the closest my autobiography will ever come to Ghost’s. You know, except for the gun sales and the implied violent coke fits.
In a wildly random connection, Moira actually grew up in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn, down the block from Gza and Masta Killa. Apparently, they shared a spot with a bunch of questionable/ unsavory cats, and she would catch them drinking on the stoop pretty often on her walks home from school. 1991 shit. No lie.
Rumpology or “bottom reading” is a pseudoscience performed by reading the lines, crevices, dimples, warts, moles and folds of a person’s buttocks in much the same way a chirologist would read the palm of the hand.
Some folks are more willing than others to submit to the amateur meanderings of the aspiring rumpologist. Luckily, in my life I’ve found more than a few.
