All I want in life right now is to be friends with Emma Thompson. And if that’s not feasible, she should push Mr. Fallon off his thrown and run the tonight show.
Maya: Like I said. I'm not a spring chicken anymore.
Me: Then what kind of chicken are you?
Maya: I'm a winter chicken.
'Damn!' I yelled into the wind, and I had another shot, and by now I was feeling pretty good. Every shot was wiped away by the rushing wind of the open truck, wiped away of its bad effects, and the good effect sank in my stomach.
I think I’ve found the essence of Kerouac’s thrill seeking road adventures right here with this little gem. The open highway, desolate and dark, and a fifth of whiskey being passed around. Yessir, you gotta love that good ol’ hobo style Americana!
fluorescent pixels dance,
making my eyes dry.
Today I made a fascinating discovery. I came across the Mayakalisaurus, her origins are unknown—some say Brasil others say San Jose, Cali.. The only known dinosaur alive today, Maya proves to be a very rare specimen. She enjoys sleeping, reading (yes, you heard right!), eating Mexican food, and drinking craft/imported beer. However, many more details are uncertain at this point, she will be living with me in the meantime. Her progress will continue to be documented.
Booty warmer, you know I got it!
Excerpt from Devil Sent a Mistress by HANNAH GUENTHER
My origins are muddled by our nation’s ugly history. My roots are deep in blues and the songs of cottonpickers. The scars on my back are from oppression’s heavy lashes. The hands that raised me, the color of succulent chestnut, golden brown like cocoa. My kin is slave music. My mother tongue speaks that of suffering.
The Atlantic, black velvet enveloping wooden ships—colossal, bodies naked, bodies staked, black on black, shackles, stolen—body and soul, broken, Jim Crow, red noose—strange fruit… History.
I am resounding and unyielding.
I was raised in Belgium in 1846 under the watchful eye of Adolphe Sax, who sheltered me from people who criticized my ‘unnatural’ physique. I spent many years in Paris wandering world fairs from one conservatory to the next. I’ve been through the whole gamut. Had a brief stint in the French military until I managed to sail west, finally reaching the shores of New York. I was greeted by tall erections that scraped at the sky and penetrated clouds, their shadows overseeing the mechanical rhythms of people racing toward no end. And the lights! Lively and blaring on huge marquees saturated with glitz: Live music! Dance!
And Harlem on the cusp of resurrection, inhaling the rich elixir of liberation and expressionism, thriving off the essence of Langston Hughes. A breeding ground for culture where art and music collided. Jazz, the esteemed lovechild of this movement, residing at the nucleus of the avant-garde… before Man Ray, Warhol, Ginsburg, and Frank Gehry, there was us—the Coltranes and Davis’. Pioneers of the new wave, kind-of-blue cool. Descendants of the Van Gelder clique populating the streets, the lineage of Blue Note expanding faster than the royalty of yore.
And we had our nightclubs—large, lavish architecture that beaconed my relatives. The Cotton Club with Duke, Minton’s at the Cecil Hotel, and the Savoy—Home of Happy Feet off Lenox Ave. stretching across an entire city block. That’s where I first heard Ella sing. Her voice sounding like that of ancient goddesses—full of beauty and fertility, wholesome like an apple. Like butter spread on fresh baked bread. Ella was the epitome of soul and swing with hips to bear the spawn of future kin—melodic and volatile. Her voice struck a chord with me as we shared the same language. Her, scatting and me, singing improvised notes. But I had yet to embark on my prodigal journey.
I had my first debut at the Roseland Ballroom. That’s when Fletcher Henderson introduced me to a tenor saxophonist named Coleman Hawkins. A virtuoso when it came to romancing and wooing the likes of me. Brief was our affair, but soft and gentle was his touch. My first love, a gentleman. This I’ll always remember. …
La Fine Equipe
Girl scout cookie (feat. Mr. Modo) - La Fine Equipe
Also featuring Nixon & the Cookie Monster.
Persons attempting to find a motive in this narrative will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a moral in it will be banished; persons attempting to find a plot in it will be shot.
Moonwalking bird somewhere in South America!!!!!!
Wes Anderson themed opening title for my friend’s video I’m editing. She probably wouldn’t even get it/like it. But that’s what edits are for… [Sorry for the shitty compression settings]
Greta Gerwig and Louis C.K. hands down. And Woody’s adopted children are interesting choices, but I could totally see it too. What I’m trying to say is this infograph is so cool!!!!
All I’ve done today is drink and watch television, loving 2014 so far.
Work in progress…