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Hand of God The Game's new album is pretty good, Fabolous hires a private gumshoe and all Republicans are gay. Thumbs down to the Bush administration leaking nuclear secrets on the interweb. In an attempt to justify the invasion of Iraq, Republicans pushed for a boatload of seized documents from the first Gulf War to be released on the internet. The rough concept was that conservative webslingers would take a few moments away from their Hillary effigies to build a case for unprovoked war against Saddam. Unfortunately, in their haste to let other people do their work for them, the Republicans uploaded the equivalent of an instruction manual for building nuclear weapons. The guy who’s got to be really amused by this blunder is our boy Sherman Austin, the Los Angeles anarchist who served a year in federal prison under the Patriot Act after someone linked up a pipe-bomb recipe on his server. Someone needs waterboarding. Thumbs up to CMJ week. Although some might succumb to the can’t-see-the-forest-for-the-trees element of CMJ (a million bands, a million venues, a million parties), we’ve found success by following the free alcohol. It’s an uncomplicated policy, but one that shows results. Skirting away from that agenda, we darted into South Paw for a hot second to check out Sean Price and Tanya Morgan, but it was all rappy in there – a million dudes staring stoically at the stage during the performances and then giving reluctant dap and their own mixtapes to the artists when they later passed them in the crowd. Hip-Hop is like a hostile monastery when it doesn’t include hoes to make it rain upon. Thumbs up to Game’s sophomore album. Call him the beneficiary of low expectations, but the Piru rapper sutured together a nice body of beats from Just Blaze, Kanye, Scott Storch and even Will.i.am of the repellent Black Eyed Peas (speaking of which, whoever produced Fergie’s solo single is biting Diplo’s Baille Funk sound something ferocious) and didn’t embarrass himself over them -- except on that really embarrassing song that serves as a "take me back" letter to Dre. While Game’s jammy is a respectable but ultimately disposable effort, we’ll admit to being sort of fascinated by his transparent mental health problems. Between the teardrop tattoo turned butterfly turned Dodgers logo, the dating show appearances, the donnybrooks with 50, Budden, Ras Kass and Yukmouth, the album entitled Doctor’s Advocate without Dre’s presence and his rampant namedropping, the dude is Terrell Owens with a gang affiliation. Oh, and in Complex he said, “My mind works similar to those of all weird geniuses…the title track, I wrote the lyrics to it in my dream. Woke up, remembered all of it.” Awesome. The poor fellow is like Dre’s version of Waylan Smithers. Thumbs up to further evidence that all rightwing conservatives are closeted self-hating homosexuals. Beyond inevitably capsizing their Good Ship Lollypop in the tumultuous waters of hypocrisy, the true tragedy is that the poor bastards don’t even enjoy fabulousness and brunch and sleek haircuts. Instead, they’re shuttered up in rural America with dumpy wives, mucous-faced children and fearful interludes with paramours who eventually expose them as the chi-chi men that they are. Also, if you’re an influential married Evangelical leader who spews anti-gay rhetoric while contacting men for “massages” in hotel rooms, you might as well use the meth after you’ve copped it. You’ve just betrayed your hateful God by having sex with a male prostitute and you’re like, “wait, maybe now’s the time for some restraint”? Live it a little, you crazy fallen angel, you. Real talk: disclosing to a reporter that you procured meth from a gay masseuse while sitting in a car with your wife and kids is the L of a lifetime. Thumbs up to Fabulous hiring a private investigator to find out who shot him. The robbery-shooting incident at Justin’s between Fab and Boston Celtics’ point guard Sebastian Telfair was a great story even before a private dick got involved. It has the making of great film noir: From the moment he came into my run-down office behind a shoe story on the Bowery, I knew he was trouble. He had iced-out chains that went all the way down and a sneer that said, “Duh-duh-duh-damn!” I tried to steady my nerves with a gulp of cheap bourbon as he handed me a business card with his name mysteriously misspelled. Bonus Prize: The only man who can truly direct traffic at the junction of fabulous and Fabolous is Loosie’s own popinjay Fabulous Julien. Although he’s been tied up investigating a Barcelona restaurant that serves crepes made from separated layers of infant skin, his spies have been working double-duty on our message boards. Recent celebrity sighting include: Jake Gyllanthal frolicking in the Meatpacking District (no broke-back jokes there, despite the alley-oop). Keep up the good snitching, snitches. Read more articles in Hand of God » |
What if Rupert's acquisition of the Wall Street Journal is just the beginning? Coming to grips with being famous on the world wide web. A reexamination of St. Patrick's worthiness as the don dada of Irish sainthood. The War Report: Storch versus Timbaland, Chimps versus Humans, Dick Cheney versus Iran. Compared to the thrill of going to war, getting out of one is a tiresome and humiliating business. The Game's new album is pretty good, Fabolous hires a private gumshoe and all Republicans are gay. |
