"Almost midway into Pilot Talk, there's a line that gets right to the heart of Curren$y's appeal: "Xbox web browser/ Download a updated NBA roster/ Play a 82-game season/ Condo full of snacks, Spitta not leaving." Not too many rappers could get away with bragging about sitting in their apartments all day playing NBA Liveand eating Doritos, and even fewer would try. But Curren$y has hit a certain level of mixtape-level cult stardom in part because he's perfected his amiable everydude stoner persona, and that comes across vividly in that line even though he never mentions weed. He doesn't have to; it's implied. The other thing about that line is its specificity. Curren$y's not just a guy who plays NBA Live all day; he's also one who makes sure he does it right, getting the updated roster. It might harsh his buzz if new Bull Carlos Boozer suddenly turned up in his old Utah Jazz uniform. He appreciates the smaller things."
The opening paragraph of this Pitchfork review of the new Curren$y album is pretty spot on, mostly because I've definitely had that thought at one point while listening to that track, and a couple others on that album, while sitting in my apartment eating Doritos and feeling elite. I've been bumping that album a lot since it came out earlier this summer, been burning it for my friends, recommending it to strangers. For fear of sounding too Pitchfork-happy, I'll just say that yeah, it is a perfect mid-summer album, especially if you have to spend three days cleaning your new house because the previous tenant was a hoarder.
I've been listening to Why?'s Elephant Eyelash all week. It's very nice, which you probably already know. This album is like if cLOUDDEAD fucked Built to Spill, and Interpol filmed it, then laid down some guitar riffs in the background.
I'm literally going to masturbate over the utter perfection of this jeans/sandals combo as soon as I'm done writing this. Also for the record, that is what color I think every pair of skinny jeans should be. Just saying.
So, do to my being involved in a very silly writing workshop that begins on the third of August and Lucy Stewart's not being able to get away from work, it looks like I'm not going to be able to make it to see the Wu-Tang Clan reunited in Manchester next week. If you know anyone in the UK who wants these tickets, holler at me, as I'd be pleased to see them go to a good home. Like a pair of kittens. Really, dope, kittens.
And the final American jaunt of the summer comes to a close, with rain over Philly: slippery turns and car accidents, a dusty pink light emanating from behind the clouds, a pulsating, muted electricity from within them.
The long weekend was spent on a sailboat in Martha's Vineyard with my good friends Hasbrouck and Rebecca. The weather was ideal, the booze flowed uninhibitedly, the sun was strong, and the waves glassy and forgiving. Every night the stars sat unmasked and milky above the placid harbor, and the breeze would be light and chilly, and from off in the distance we'd catch whiffs of great coastal parties, of fireworks and thumping jazz bands. We sailed, tumblers in hand. We ate enormous sandwiches, pots of mussels, ice cream sundaes, steak, grilled off the back of the boat. I browned in the sun, I spilled red wine everywhere, I lusted over middle-aged men in white pants and seersucker sportcoats. But even as I write this, a morning later, my memory escapes me. Like trying to recall a dream. Let me just say this, in an attempt at summarization: we spent the majority of our time lying on the beach, exploring on mopeds, drinking on the boat, eating with our cocks, wearing our Nantucket Reds, and watching Happy Days. In every pocket of this adventure hid something interesting, or hilarious, or surreal, or extremely picturesque, or just really fucking rad. I don't know if it was the company, or New England; the Johnny Walker on ice, or the dewey marine air, but it was all just unsurmountable.
So that's what's been going on. Now back to the Burgh on Monday for moving in and scary-ass writing workshop. On another note, I don't know where this blog is headed. I suppose I just don't really have the time for it right now, to be honest. Maybe it would be best, for now, to declare a sort of informal blogging hiatus. Oh, don't be like that.
P.S. The Happy Days hierarchy goes as follows: 1. Howard Cunninghan (The semi-racist realist) 2. Richie Cunningham (the optimist) 3. The Fonz (the Byronic anti-hero) 4. Mrs. Cunningham (The master manipulator) 5. Ralph Malph (the enabler)
5.5 Chuck 6. Anonymous, objectified female characters 7. Potsie (The Machiavellian) 7. Joanie (The parasite on the side of humanity)
Yes this exists. Yes I spent a portion of my 4th of July watching it. I also cooked and ate a lot of amazing food, drank mad brews, and jello shots, and I think at one point I watched Anchorman with Chris Moschella. Coconut cake and chicken salad throughout the weekend. Then we saw Beirut on Monday. Also this place is super hot!
