2010 Whitney Biennial – it’s on.
Pardon my page-rank-splitting title, but, well, come on man. Given that we have zero friends in common, I am not just going to have to pass, but you have been blocked, as well, as a result of your aesthetic absurdity.
Really?
In a grimy elmo suit
with a wack macrame bag
hanging out by the now-closed virgin megastore
posing with tourists
and touching the children
the sesame street lawyers are taking a nap
as midwestern children climb into his lap.
For more Dingy Elmo, head over to Dear Times Square.
NPR gets on the ethnomusicological tip and traces the origins of C.R.E.A.M. by The Wu-Tang Clan.
Money quote:
…may seem like an unabashed celebration of materialism, but the words of Raekwon, Method Man and Inspectah Deck paint a complex picture of hustling as a matter of urban survival rather than conspicuous consumption.
The jazzification of hip-hop is complete…
Ty pointed out Starbury’s astonishing (+/- of -17 in 5 minutes of play) line against the Bulls, I boldly predicted the future:
Next stop for steph: Greek league, so perpetually enraged fans can fling bic-heated 100-drachma coins at him.
I told my staff (people who work for me, fool) that I would be in San Francisco on 4/20, and the two twenty-year olds snickered. I didn’t know what was so goddamned funny.
I arrived at the city, and found it dysfunctional, as there was a weird heat-wave of 88°, which, by the way, neverfuckinghappensinaprilinsanfrancisco, and everybody fell out like they were extras in 28 Days Much Later or some shit.
San Francisco has no air conditioning.
So I meet the youngest “team member” as I learned to say when I worked in the Valley, and he’s all: “you are here on 4-20.”
“Yes, (sotto voce) motherfucker, so what?”
“You said 4-20.”
“So what.”
Sitting up straight now, clearer: “That is code for pot.”
My dumb ass didn’t get that at all.
So then he sent this picture:
4:20 PM, University of Colorado at Boulder Quad [PIC].
And I gleaned what the four-two-oh was all about, as San Francisco turned into my mom’s freshman apartment when she was going to Cal-Berkeley.
I was two years old at the time (1970), but I remember the sweet smell of that Humboldt outodoor herb as I woke up to get a drink of water and she and her friends were listening to that bomb 15-minute Marvin Gaye song whose title I can’t remember right now because I had a secondary high from my pot-smoking mother.
Late to the party, as always, T-bone.
But when I get some of those aforementioned skinny jeans, I hope like hell that I can be all famous up in this blog.
Excuse me, I have to rollerblade over to my uncured wild venison collective distribution.
Don’t tell the man.
Untitled from lookatthisfuckinghipster on Vimeo.
Uh, this shit is wack, and unironically so.
To the dude in the Vodafone cycling suit screaming at a 10-yr-old girl on horseback (in a CROSSWALK) to get out of the way this afternoon…the Pyrenees are that way.
Setting Isiah Thomas, a man not known for impulse control, loose in Miami absolutely cannot end well. These are Zeke’s top likely fates: