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the best version. soz, frank.
"i want to be a machine. whatever i do, and do machine-like, is because it is what i want to do."
--andy warhol
always wanted a friendship like theirs.
my future masterpiece.
nothing to say.
you're in the big leagues now, honey.
look before you leap.
sex.
once upon a time.
"my music is about to get real fucking dark. you'd never see my face because my hair would be in it"
--katy perry
luxurious indian house music from 1982. like lounging in an opium-fueled nightclub surrounded by satin pillows and strobe lights. only better.
the ingenious void of pop. quite possibly the most avant-garde artist to dominate the billboards.
i just called to say i love you.
this is how i'll always imagine willie shakes.
Singularity (1)
a few stripped down songs by my friend's solo project, truman. they breed youth and melancholy in the most organic fashion, taking you to a place of darkened rooms and forlorn love. first quiet, then rises, then quiet, the songs together resembling a loose symphony. listen to it on your bed with the lights off. it'll take you places.
no words.
& this.
mash-up masterpiece. ethereal and rough, crystalline and badass. like floating on a cloud shaped like a cadillac. the future is indeed now.
"and i wouldn't try to do the things that i do/you should pray to god and not play with false idols" is one of the most brilliant lines in rap against one of the most twisted, spookiest beats. queens do it harder, i'm beginning to believe. step your dick up, forreal.
boosh.
outta pocket.
hope.
she just seems alive.
rock loveliness from the iron curtain. listen and weep.
home sweet home.
as far as i'm concerned, the definition of "swag."
coolness.
there's no biz.
boom like a.
stick 'em up.
there is nothing better than dance pop with dark lyrics.
i miss these so fucking much.
look into my eyes & tell me what you see.
in smalltown america, there is nothing grander than socialite balls and debutante parties. and there is nothing more embarrassing than being escorted by your delinquent brother in a rented hooptie. she wears the same dress for every occasion, but she knows everyone there by first name. we all know the type: economically-deprived but yearning to roll with the richies and rollickers. flirts with sophistication and confidence, hiding underneath a volcano of doubt. her parents want a better, upwardly mobile life for her and she insists she can do it herself. glimpses of modern capitalism making its voice first heard. i've never see katharine hepburn, the new england aristocrat of cool, be so desperate and delusional. it's bittersweet and almost sad. the stuff of kitchenette teardrops.
sing blue silver.
guess you had to be there.
his thriller moment.
rock out.
i want my covers to be like this.
one more year and poof.
it makes so much more sense when you're high.
happy international women's day.
want sumthin?
get paid.
the first novel ever, written by a japanese court insider, about a beloved prince whose romance for his stepmother overshadows his happiness in the imperial 11th century. and we thought dynasty was nuts.
always.
before ed hardy perverted the masses, jp kissed them softly.
doodle ron ron.
grubb.
there is not one actress today who can or could do anything she can do.
hitting the big time.
we were talking...
wasn't perfect, but almost completely post-modern in its sheer construction and artifice on the revitalization of a 25-year-old's career. the most american thing i've seen since the oscars.
doing the talk rounds. snl tomoz. i never gave up.
