My favorite neighboorhood puppy, a Burmese mountain puppy, has grown into a medium dog, which is actually hugenormous. I saw it bound down his owners stairs eagerly and unceremoniously start shitting. It made me like it less. Big oaffish pooper. This is why no one likes Knut, the Berlin Zoo's orphaned ice-bear, anymore.
Dre, my least favorite neighborhood hoodlum, returned from a short time a way somewhere else with cornrows and a teardrop tattoo coming out his eye. I think cornrows are a bad look when your hair is as white as your skin. He looked like a ribbed lightbulb permaffixed to the stairs of his friends moms house. Today his other two hoodrat associates bound past us yelling and laughing "We got away! We escaped the cops!" and about 30 seconds later the cops met them at their house. Or Dre's friends mom's house.
The Kid Sister album is like the record you wanted Monie Love to make and she never did. Except she says "shit" A LOT. Depending on how you feel about course language, you might love this record. It verges on perfect in a lot of ways.
The Bobby Birdman record on the otherhand, might make you want to kill yourself. It's like a YACHT bootleg, but with someone impersonating Wayne Newton. It's where "Red Roses for a Blue Lady" and the post "Such Great Heights"/Portlandia freedom disco movement intersect and blow out your tiny speakers with douche-chill inducing badness.Posted by jessica hopper at October 11, 2009 05:46 PM | TrackBack