I forget when and where I wrote it, but this line remains a fact: Madeon is the Lionel Messi of electronique danse musique. And maybe just all music. Looks like a puppy, balls like a direwolf. Kids god salad fingaz—whoever his girlfriend is, she is one very happy teenage girl.
ps His real name is Hugo Pierre Leclercq. He really is SUCH a Hugo.
I was watching Kevin Perreira’s last day hosting Attack of the Show, partially cause I’m mildly obsessed with Sara Underwood and partially cause it’s a damn good show. Perreira said something along these lines that really jumped out at me (loose paraphrase): if a job doesn’t allow me to be myself and act naturally, then it’s just not something I have any interest in doing. And if the past two years have taught me anything, it’s that a stifling environment is not a healthy environment.
At the same time, I need to pay bills and stop sucking at my folks’ teets. So I’m going to interview for a job that most definitely does not require the liberal arts degree that I will one day maybe be so proud of. It’s not easy sucking up my pride and taking the type of job that my friends would scoff at. But it’s a helluva lot more interesting of a life. It takes an iron type of skin to live the life I live. This cover is everything I love about music:
Download The Cardigans Iron Man (Black Sabbath Cover)
I can’t think of a place where people act like there’s a gerbil up their asses more than at an airport/on an airplane. Flying should be something people get pretty pumped about. Fuck, more than half the people in this world will never even leave their home country, let alone board a plane. If you’re boarding a plane, it generally means you’re heading towards something. Yes, it could be a shit business trip. But you’re generally heading somewhere (unless you’re on Con Air, then that just sucks). And that should be exciting. But no. A 15 minute delay to a flight or the slightest turbulence really gets people’s panties in a bunch.
I am terrified of heights and do not enjoy being cramped in between Eddy Curry and Rosie O’Donnel on a flight, but being uncomfortable for a few hours isn’t the worst thing in the world. I had a two hour wait for my flight yesterday, because the plane we were supposed to take wasn’t safe for lift off. So we had to switch gates and board a new plane. People were really, really irritated about all of this. Normally, I would have been to. But my new thing is, if you can’t control something, why get worked up about it? You’re going somewhere—perhaps starting a new life or perhaps taking a vacation. You have an opportunity to experience something new or change the course of your life. Why quibble? Just open a book, plug in your headphones, press play, and stay upbeat.
Tracks:
Finnebassen - If You Only Knew
Flight Facilities - With You feat. Grovesnor
Final DJs - Gossip Country (Justin Faust Remix)
The Hint - Plus One Minus One (Le Youth Remix)
Jodie Marie - I Got You (Shook Remix)
Just Kiddin - Paloma (Bit Funk Remix)
Drop Out Orchestra - It Will Never Be the Same Again (Moullinex Remix)
Willie Graff & Tuccillo - Set Me Free
Fyfe Dangerfield - She Needs Me (Monarchy Remix)
Katy Perry - Part of Me (RAC Mix)
Zedd - Stars Come Out (Tim Mason Remix)
Florrie - Give Me Your Love (Justin Faust Remix)
Tina Turner - What’s Love Got To Do (Zimmer Rework)
THE classic jam. No clue what country or planet Pscyhemagik is from, but the producer(s) consistently takes songs from another era and modernizes them in a classy way. I guess I’m still looking for THAT magical place in my life, but when I find it, the sounds in my head will mos definitely sound something like this.
Second best music movie ever (hot on Last Waltz’s trail):
![I had THE weirdest fucking dream last night. Yes, even weirder than that one I used to have when I was 8 and a witch and her henchmen monsterish things would chase me around my house because I was the missing secret ingredient in their evil stew. The weirdest part about the dream I had last night is that I can remember it, and pretty vividly. This is weird in and of itself because since I started smoking weed ten-ish years ago, I rarely remember my dreams. And this is even weirder because I remember my dreams even less frequently when I’m moderately to above averagely to blackout city fucked up. And last night I had had about four Pomegrante Margaritas, smoked some hash oil, and fallen asleep with the Television on (halfway through the very uplifting film The Descendants).
The dream I had unearthed many of my naivitays and insecurities and stresses that I’m well aware of. Before I discuss the dream, press play, cause this song about Naive people/shit/things is awesome:
Anyway, on to the dream. I don’t know how I got there. But I was sitting in a high school classroom, most likely one in Livingston High School in Livingston, New Jersey. And I was taking the SATs (aka the Scholastic Aptitude Test, thanks google). This is weird because I’m almost 25, I now live in Southern California, and I haven’t even been in any sort of classroom in two years. I also HATED the SATs for a variety of reasons. 1) My sister got a 2390 and unless I got a 2400, there was no way I’d measure up to her. 2) My mom made me go to this weird tutor twice a week and take practice tests which I’m still convinced were a waste of money. 3) I ended up taking the SAT three times cause my mom kept telling me I could do better and needed a higher score to get into Penn (note: I still didn’t). The 800 on the writing the second time was nice, but my score improved by maybe 30 total points, all told, from first to third shot.
So yeah, there I was, sitting in the classroom I had been in around 7 years ago, taking the test that would seal my fate and help me sucker my way into one of the top liberal arts universities in THE COUNTRY.
But this test definitely wasn’t going smoothly, or anything like it went 7ish years ago. I was working on the math section. But I was baffled, and couldn’t really get past the first ten questions. I remember thinking in the dream, aren’t the hard questions supposed to be at the end of the section? Did I suddenly lose my touch? Didn’t I get a 730 on this section? Wasn’t I a G at math? Why can’t I figure out the absolute value of [13 - 8 x 10 / 6]? Why does the one hot chick in the room have to be sitting in front of me wearing a pink thong that’s sticking out of her butt and does she know I have a boner?
Not only could I not really finish the math section, but I couldn’t even fill out the right bubbles. I don’t know if I was stoned or in the midst of an acid trip, but the grid was tripping the shit out of me.* I kept going to fill out a bubble, looking up, and losing the bubble I was supposed to fill out. Or I’d fill out ten bubbles, and then realize these bubbles were meant for the next section. I’d erase all the bubbles, go re-bubble them. And try to move on. This would happen over and over again. Until eventually, time ran out and I hadn’t finished half the section.
In the midst of all that, I had to deal with this really big asshole proctor who just happened to be Nick Kroll. I can’t remember if it was Professor Kroll, Professor Bobby Bottleservice, or Professor Ruxin or what but Nick Kroll was DEFINITELY the SAT proctor in the dream I had last night. And he was loving my ineptitude/roasting the shit out of me/making me more and more stressed out as the dream went on. Eventually, Kroll would be hovering over my shoulder, watching me try to fill out bubbles/solve problems and would laugh at anything I did/any answer I gave. Then he would point at me, laugh, and hit me with a vicious diatribe about how dumb I was cause I couldn’t even finish the section. Then I started crying. Then I woke up nauseous/having to pee and wishing I had a cigarette on me.
Analysis: I’m either gay for Nick Kroll (very possible), need to finish the spec for The League, am just confused as fuck in general right now, need to consider a career in education, need to retake the SATs, or addicted to fantasy football (a definite reality)? And I’m getting weirder with age.
It’s also weird, cause I think the SATs were kind of the last time I really studied hard and tried to do well at something that didn’t involve rolling the perfect joint or shotgunning a beer faster than a friend. I got an 800 on the writing section, and since then I sort of self-determined that I AM A WRITER. A writer who just fails to finish most of what he writes and gets paid like the 24 year old schmohawk he is.
Yes, I’m confused. Yes, I don’t think I’d perform as well on the SATs today as I did 7ish years ago. But what does it ALL MEAN?!
*Which makes sense, cause one of the three times I’ve actually taken the SATs, I filled out the wrong bubbles and they regraded it.](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m4lj8b7TSF1qfo4txo1_1280.png)
I had THE weirdest fucking dream last night. Yes, even weirder than that one I used to have when I was 8 and a witch and her henchmen monsterish things would chase me around my house because I was the missing secret ingredient in their evil stew. The weirdest part about the dream I had last night is that I can remember it, and pretty vividly. This is weird in and of itself because since I started smoking weed ten-ish years ago, I rarely remember my dreams. And this is even weirder because I remember my dreams even less frequently when I’m moderately to above averagely to blackout city fucked up. And last night I had had about four Pomegrante Margaritas, smoked some hash oil, and fallen asleep with the Television on (halfway through the very uplifting film The Descendants).
The dream I had unearthed many of my naivitays and insecurities and stresses that I’m well aware of. Before I discuss the dream, press play, cause this song about Naive people/shit/things is awesome:
Anyway, on to the dream. I don’t know how I got there. But I was sitting in a high school classroom, most likely one in Livingston High School in Livingston, New Jersey. And I was taking the SATs (aka the Scholastic Aptitude Test, thanks google). This is weird because I’m almost 25, I now live in Southern California, and I haven’t even been in any sort of classroom in two years. I also HATED the SATs for a variety of reasons. 1) My sister got a 2390 and unless I got a 2400, there was no way I’d measure up to her. 2) My mom made me go to this weird tutor twice a week and take practice tests which I’m still convinced were a waste of money. 3) I ended up taking the SAT three times cause my mom kept telling me I could do better and needed a higher score to get into Penn (note: I still didn’t). The 800 on the writing the second time was nice, but my score improved by maybe 30 total points, all told, from first to third shot.
So yeah, there I was, sitting in the classroom I had been in around 7 years ago, taking the test that would seal my fate and help me sucker my way into one of the top liberal arts universities in THE COUNTRY.
But this test definitely wasn’t going smoothly, or anything like it went 7ish years ago. I was working on the math section. But I was baffled, and couldn’t really get past the first ten questions. I remember thinking in the dream, aren’t the hard questions supposed to be at the end of the section? Did I suddenly lose my touch? Didn’t I get a 730 on this section? Wasn’t I a G at math? Why can’t I figure out the absolute value of [13 - 8 x 10 / 6]? Why does the one hot chick in the room have to be sitting in front of me wearing a pink thong that’s sticking out of her butt and does she know I have a boner?
Not only could I not really finish the math section, but I couldn’t even fill out the right bubbles. I don’t know if I was stoned or in the midst of an acid trip, but the grid was tripping the shit out of me.* I kept going to fill out a bubble, looking up, and losing the bubble I was supposed to fill out. Or I’d fill out ten bubbles, and then realize these bubbles were meant for the next section. I’d erase all the bubbles, go re-bubble them. And try to move on. This would happen over and over again. Until eventually, time ran out and I hadn’t finished half the section.
In the midst of all that, I had to deal with this really big asshole proctor who just happened to be Nick Kroll. I can’t remember if it was Professor Kroll, Professor Bobby Bottleservice, or Professor Ruxin or what but Nick Kroll was DEFINITELY the SAT proctor in the dream I had last night. And he was loving my ineptitude/roasting the shit out of me/making me more and more stressed out as the dream went on. Eventually, Kroll would be hovering over my shoulder, watching me try to fill out bubbles/solve problems and would laugh at anything I did/any answer I gave. Then he would point at me, laugh, and hit me with a vicious diatribe about how dumb I was cause I couldn’t even finish the section. Then I started crying. Then I woke up nauseous/having to pee and wishing I had a cigarette on me.
Analysis: I’m either gay for Nick Kroll (very possible), need to finish the spec for The League, am just confused as fuck in general right now, need to consider a career in education, need to retake the SATs, or addicted to fantasy football (a definite reality)? And I’m getting weirder with age.
It’s also weird, cause I think the SATs were kind of the last time I really studied hard and tried to do well at something that didn’t involve rolling the perfect joint or shotgunning a beer faster than a friend. I got an 800 on the writing section, and since then I sort of self-determined that I AM A WRITER. A writer who just fails to finish most of what he writes and gets paid like the 24 year old schmohawk he is.
Yes, I’m confused. Yes, I don’t think I’d perform as well on the SATs today as I did 7ish years ago. But what does it ALL MEAN?!
*Which makes sense, cause one of the three times I’ve actually taken the SATs, I filled out the wrong bubbles and they regraded it.
Hollywood. I’m coming for you soon (again), baby. And you are going to get it. I really hate your traffic. I really hate everything about Hollywood Boulevard during the day. But damn, when the sun goes down, you can be quite the Lush place.
This is the most recent soundtrack to my forays into the depths of your bosom.
Trackz:
RAC Feat. Penguin Prison - Hollywood
Temper Trap - Need Your Love (RAC Remix)
Pretty Lights - You Get High
Benjamin Diamond - Little Scare
Tom Vek - Aroused (Van She Remix)
Catcall - The World is Ours (Lancelot Remix)
Florrie - I Took a Little Something
Goldroom - Fifteen (ft. Chela)
Cosmonaut Grechko - Headphone Girl
Falcon Punch - Illusion
The Rapture - In the Grace of Your Love (Pional Remix)
Crazy P - Wecanonlybewhoweare (Keep Shelly in Athens Mix)
The better part of valor is discretion, in the which better part I have sav’d my life.
Yes, that is indeed a picture of Kevin Kline as Falstaff in Shakespeare’s King Henry IV Part…Deux or Trois. I forget exactly when/where, but I saw that edition (thanks pops), which also featured Ethan Hawke being a badass and running shit as Hal. If you’re not familiar with this play (one of Billy Shakesballs’ history, you should change that—cause it’s one of the BEST PLAYS EVER, period). But this post is not about Billy and his wild writings, but about Falstaff and Tigers that scare people only they don’t really cause they’re kind and gentle and soothing on the ears.
We’ll start with Falstaff, who is legitimately the best Shakespeare character of all time, bar none (my sincere apologies to the original cross-dressing tranny in Merchant of Venice that was named after a Porsche or got Porches named after her). Before there were the all-schlub-stars of cinema John Belushi, Chris Farley, Jack Black, (fat) Jonah Hill, Danny McBride, and Larry Frathard (yours truly), there was: Falstaff. All these guys wouldn’t be shit without Falstaff and are pretty much just modernized versions of Falstaff. Falstaff is the original overweight, drunk douchebag that, although he offends pretty much everyone, is beloved because there’s just something so damn endearing and cute about him and you just want to poke his stomach and see if beer comes out of his mouth. Well mainly, people love him and laugh at him cause he’s fat. And everyone loves a jolly drunk fat guy. That’s pretty much Falstaff’s schtick (along with getting medieval with medieval hookers). Falstaff also really, really loved run on sentences, or Shakespeare at least loved writing run on sentences which turned into Falstaff speeches. These speeches are most commonly referred to as soliloquies. In 7th grade, I got to deliver a few of these soliloquies as Falstaff in Henry IV Part One-Two. It was really fun to put on a fat suit (in my pre-Sloth days, I needed one) and get to act like a drunken idiot every day during rehearsal. It was a pretty easy role for me, even though I had never been drunk—from watching my dad on a daily basis, it wasn’t difficult to get in character. The soliloquy was damn difficult to memorize—and I wasn’t even smoking weed. Which brings me to the inspiration to this post.
Fear of Tigers is releasing his second album, and it’s got a really weird name (as is tradition for the dude who brought you Cossus Snufolafogus). The album (the one he told me was coming soon about a year ago) is called Hypnerotomachia Poliphili, which has just as ambiguous a meaning and is just as annoying to attempt to spell (it’s like he doesn’t want people to blagh it). Since Fear of Tigers is awesome and makes awesome music, it will be awesome. I’ve heard a bunch of demos and previews, but this is the first track to be “leaked” and Bens even giving it around as a free download, cause he’s the man.
It’s called Soliloquy, and Falstaff wants you to get drunk and listen to it. The tune’s got some weird lines that must be from an 80s movie, methinks.
ps Falstaff has a beer named after him. When you have a beer named after you, you become a legend (see: Samuel Jackson
In my next life, I’ll be able to dance like a black man. Looks like I’m gona have to Netflix “Breakin”, turn it on mute, and put Gigamesh’s new EP on repeat.
p.s. Really jacked black dudes in tight tank tops crack me up every time. It’s like they want to be white. When you’ve got a large schlong, why do you need big muscles?
p.p.s. Feels like everyone was gay/really happy/hopped up on coke in the 80s, then the 90s came around and everyone was like lets be hood, and now everyones like lets be gay again. Only this time, let’s be gay and pissed off and do a lot of meth/tweak.
My love for all music smooth and groovy most definitely began when I was 6 or 7 years old and I heard that Michael Jackson liked to touch little boys’ schlings Black or White for the first time. Aside from constantly wanting to be a Ninja Turtle, listening to MJ/Jackson 5 jamzz in my parents’ car on the way to Hebrew School is a memory always engraved in my head. In an odd way, that’s when disco got a hold of this fat ass. I just wouldn’t really figure this out till like 17 years later. I don’t even think most of these songs are disco, but they are smooth as MJ in his black-er days. Get lush. Stay lush. Be lush.
Trackz:
Chordashian - The Jam (Slow Hands Remix)
Sebastian Tellier - Cochon Ville (Magician Remix)
Chet Faker - No Diggity
Capital Cities -Kangaroo Court (Shook Remix)
The Paradise - In Love With You
Chordashian - Sea Crest
Ladyhawke - Sunday Drive (Gigamesh Remix)
Monitor 66 - Triscuits
Lana Del Rey - Blue Jeans (RAC Remix)
She’s The Queen - Waiting Game
Bobby Tank - Vector Beach
Joakim - Nothing Gold (Todd Terje Remix)
Tycho - Coastal Brake
happy gibbers?
Just had one of those weeks where all the 6s in my life just suddenly became 9s, and vice versa. Metaphorically speaking, I was shagging fly balls, going about my business, and boom. Didn’t see that warning track coming.
The only thing that ever seems to say consistent is beautiful music.
Damn. I need some love.
Back by “popular” demand. This one’s extra moist:
Stay lush.
p.s. i have no idea who these soul folk are but those suits are fly and that pose is killin em
I have no idea what any of these (Polish? German?) words mean, but given the Lush nature of how they’re being used, I have no doubt that the meaning is a rather sexy one. Les Loups are nice.
Song is called “Abenteur” by Ich Kann Fliegen.
ps not a bad first google image result for the word…not bad at all
That image sums up Coachella weekend. When not raging, be poolside for the #Shump.
This music sums it up even better. Stay lush.
disco is so damn sexy…exhibit 69:
Download The Commodores Lady (You Bring Me Up) (Scott Swayze Remix)
