I don’t enjoy being redundant, or pointing out the obvious. So, I’ll put this in the simplest terms:

This is Santigold’s latest track (if you don’t already know, read about the vowel switcheroo here).

You should listen to it because it’s by Santigold.

That is all.

As you were.

Santigold.Your Voice.Your Voice.


Put Ya Lighters Up.

May 21, 2009

I don’t smoke. I’ve expressed this, no? But these damn things are so effing adorable, I’m considering taking up the habit.


Not really, but wouldn’t it be ill if artistry could be that powerful? Plussss, I got an unjustifiable whiff of a Black & Mild today while walking from the bus to my car and, because that smell tops my favorites chart along with honeysuckle and burning leaves, I decided I’ll probably purchase all 4 of these and set them atop a shelf or something in a perfect line. And then I’ll get irrationally angry if one of my smoker friends grabs one on their way out to a stoop because they think its some ordinary Zippo. Psh. Can’t they recognize a good thing when it’s right in front of them? You know, like a lung. *Zing.*

Anyway, NYC-based artist Darcel’s trademark illustration is apparently this egg-shaped eyeball thing that rocks dope (as in, I’d wear them in real life) wooden-framed glasses. The egg’s hilarious and sardonic and, if reflective of Darcel himself, we could really be friends. The collection of Mini Bic lighters are designed exclusively for Colette – a Parisian boutique I hear about all the time, but will probably never visit – and each depicts a “sucky” situtation.





 Can’t get much more self-deprecating than this:




  I love it.

Hm…file this nugget under the (super loosely-based) term “creative.”

I never cut school for a really good reason. If it was to see a movie, I’m sure I could’ve waited until the more proper time of 8:00pm. If it was to go to a friends house, all I remember doing is talking at a kitchen table, in the same way that could’ve been done at, say, a table in the cafeteria. (I do recall us signing onto AOL a lot, but it was new! We could’ve had mail!) And if it was to go to the mall, I know I never had enough money to buy anything remotely memorable. I did steal from Claires often but, again, useless pastime.

When I did stay home (for no other reason than to be bored and wish I was with my friends), I watched a lot of talkshows – never a soap opera cuz I’m not that type of girl (whatever that means) – namely though, The Maury Povich Show. The Anti-Springer, if you will. Or so it seemed at the time. All trickery, I’ve learned!

Please, someone, correct the 13-year-old me if I’m wrong, but was the show always about 400-lb toddlers, animal tricks, and baby daddy’s? Or has it progressed, I mean digressed, into this?

Anyway, Detroit’s own Judge Wade McCree (above) thinks Maury is the perfect candidate for some Scared Straight-type shit. He’s begun sentencing fathers charged with failing to pay child support to the viewing of one Maury show a month. Like a dose of medicine for deadbeats. The men then have to report back to their probation officers with a summary. Like what children do with teachers. It’s all very convoluted and forensic and you have to have a degree to understand why measures like this ever need to be taken. Hurts my head just thinking about it, but damnit, I’m gonna watch episode after episode until I understand this method and am near fit to be a judge myself.



I don’t claim to have endured the “tragic mulatto” childhood that Mariah Carey so pathetically cries about (while drying her tears with diamonds), but I will say that being of mixed race gave my parents an awful lot of excuses to go above and beyond in explaining cultural differences. But only in really odd shallow ways. My father was ecstatic once my sister and I learned to exclaim “Dad!” with fervor, so as to disprove all the New York passersby’s assumptions (inferred with evil stares) that his dark-skinned self was not, in fact, kidnapping us, as we were of a considerably lighter shade. Our color came in increments, and once he felt we had acquired enough tan, he began with the pseudo-schooling. First, the only song he encouraged us to learn on our brand new Christmas-gift Casio keyboards was Bill Withers’ “Lean on Me,” because, you know, it was about brotherhood and stuff. And he did his very best to remember to light candles for Kwanzaa, but my sister and I successfully trivialized that holiday into being one about saying “Kujichagulia” a lot and giggling afterwards. And who needs Cornflower-, Thistle-, and Periwinkle-colored crayons when all you’ve got are Color Me Brown books? Not I. But, if nothing else, I can say with conviction that out of this bombardment of blackness came my exposure to one of the best damn movies of all time: The Wiz. Because, no – as taught – the original was not iconic enough!

But now I hear Ashanti is reprising the role of Dorothy. On stage, nonetheless. A role previously owned by Stephanie Mills and Diana Ross (seen above). This bothers me. Pops would be so proud to see how worldly I’ve become per his instruction. And I feel Ashanti is trying to revoke me of my well-deserved certificate of culture by maybepossiblydefinitely ruining a truly significant sliver of my childhood. After all, something tells me she won’t be able to pull it off.

Until then, a completely unrelated scene of Michael Jackson as The Scarecrow (YouTube is slacking):