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Dunce Cap Quarterly
Sound AIDS prevention advice on all fronts, Indo-Tibetan Border Police…save one:
Today, R. Kelly — pictured above (far right; looks like 2Pac) on a wall with other Chi-Town musical immortals during a DCQ jaunt to the South Side a few summers back — does the heavy lifting. Leaked a while ago from his as-yet-untitled-nor-released latest album, “Might be Mine” is Robert Sylvester’s answer to The Juice’s If I Did It. Enjoy!
A couple of days ago, I got a phone call
Saying ‘how you Mr. Kelly’ and I said, ‘who is this’
Then he said it’s Tameka’s lawyer, and I’m calling on her behalf
And then he said I got some news, that I think you’d wanna know,
And then he said she’s pregnant, and then I sat down real slow
Then said who’s this again, he took a breath and said you heard me the first time.
And then I said wait a minute, mister—we talking about the same girl then she’s a stripper,
You represent that girl man she’s a freak, so how she know that baby belongs to me?
Then he asked me did I met her two months ago/I said yeah
And he asked me was it in a club in Chicago/I said yeah
He said “Well get ready to raise it, cause she says that you’re the one that she’s laid with.” OH!
[Chorus] There’s a very good chance…that it might be mine (oh I know I hit it, yeah)
There’s a very good chance…that it might be mine (KNEW I shoulda used protection, yeah)
There’s a very good chance…that it might be mine (out to get my money, yeah)
There’s a very good chance…that it might be mine (man, I don’t even like this girl)
I hung up and called my lawyers, and I told them the situation
And the first question out they mouth, was did I sleep with the girl
At first I hesitated, then said yeah, went on to tell ‘em that I hit it raw
And then they said that there might be a chance that you may have to pay the cost,
I said “Good Lord”…and then I put the phone and just thought about it for a couple seconds
They asked had me I seen her recently/I said no,
Then asked did I do it with her frequently/I said no
All I know is that I left the club with this lady, and now here I am - this baby’s made it!
[Chorus]
Man I could slap myself, for getting involved with this lady.
And if I could turn the hands back, I would have went on home to my baby.
Now I’m all caught up, yeah…all from a measly late-night creep
One year later, I get a picture, and I’ll be damned this baaaby looks just like meeeee!
[Chorus]
(Guess I’m gonna have to take the test, yeah……See I’m on my way to take the test, yeah…)
I just watched a Southwest Airlines ad whose selling point was “Your Bags Fly Free!” This strikes me as analogous to Craigslist apartment ads highlighting “Free Use of Toilet!” and hookers throwing in handjobs with Eliot Spitzer specials.
That is all.
The responsibility inherent to this blogging business has had us all flustered recently, so we decided to just sit around and eat corned beef hash out of the can and wait for someone to finally invent the remedial device that will read our Cleverest/Poignantest Thought of the Day and transcribe it onto this limp-wristed blog. Seems basic enough, right? But Jackass Scientist Man is evidently preoccupied with more trivial matters, so we regretfully return to pounding the keyboard with our middle fingers and opposable thumbs while eating more corned beef hash out of the can, because that shit is delicious.
In keeping with tradition, then, we once again eschew literary substance in favor of photos and throwaway captions while celebrating the now-rapid approach of the Day the Puerto Ricans Retake Manhattan. It’s a mere month away now, so maybe it’s time I overcome my newly perfected machete phobia and saunter over to Sazon Perez for a mound of greasy, crackily pernil, since it’s allllmost as delectable as corned beef hash and it doesn’t typically come with aluminum splinters and other tasty surprises that sometimes make non-crunchy canned foods crunchy. Oy…hurry up, Jackass Scientist Man. For now, shutup, you, and marvel upon the shiny soul-drawrings:
Shouldn’t wear a wife-beater for the same reason I don’t wear an afro: Because it just looks stupid
Shake it, mami
“Frommer, you’ve failed us again”
“Not…ideal”
A few months ago, somewhere along the daily descent from online work research to tangentially work-related online reading to Youtube animal porn, Emily Gould became a known name to us me (disclaimer: much of DCQ experienced a near-total internet blackout from 2002-2005, which partially overlaps with the time period in which subject Gould rose to infamy). She’s a competent and compelling enough writer, but Jimmy Kimmel got drunk and punched his grandma and then disappeared Larry King before verbally eviscerating Gould on national TV over the dire threat her employer’s Gawker Stalker app poses to celebrities like him free societies everywhere. Other bloggers ragged on Gould’s performance, she meekly defended herself, others came to her aid, still others doubled up on the attack, and the celebrities themselves were able to leave their Cloaks of Invisibility at home that week when they picked up their frappuccinos.
Then, in February, a Cleveland startup that tracks high-end real estate deals and IDs the players involved found itself the target of some strikingly Kimmelesque criticism: Farcically malevolent legal giant Jones Day sued Blockshopper for daring to evoke the firm’s name and link to its website in articles describing condo purchases by two Jones Day attorneys. The site’s founders chose to settle with Jones Day rather than blow their wad on legal fees fighting an army of 2,000-plus smarmy Ivy League grads.
For the curious, the firm claimed the site’s usage of links constituted copyright violation. If that’s the case, Jones Day, you’ve got your work cut out for you. The real motivation for the suit was most assuredly the fact that Chesters One and Two didn’t appreciate their addresses being sprayed all over the virtual world of realty. (If you’re still struggling with good guy/bad guy, let this guide you: Jones Day is the firm that helped Chevron first defeat a lawsuit by relatives of dirt-poor Nigerians killed while protesting the company’s environmental and human rights violations, then turn around and countersue the villagers for $500K in an attempt to discourage other third-world exploitees who might sue in the future—just as the Blockshopper suit was used as a suppression tactic aimed at other would-be freeloading hippies channelers of free traffic to the firm’s site.
Apologies for going AWOL. Excuses abound: “Work deadline” is one. “Not writing anything” is another. “Early-onset delirium tremens” is better still. Let’s just say I’m missing a shoe.
To recap: I still have a job, the Giants are satisfactorily inconsistent, and the Niners picked up a guy who could prove to be the second coming of John Taylor but is just as likely to channel fellow 10-pick J.J. Stokes. Also, John Starks has nothing better to do this Sunday than to ref some dbag kickball league in Brooklyn.
And since we’ve come this far, let’s just charge the post to sports and toss in a vintage ad that would be funnier if both Potrero’s Finest and Detroit’s Worst weren’t so utterly fucked at present:
Poor Woody. He’s just working away on his film-per-year ouevre (only Spike Lee is as prolific) and minding his own business… when Dov Charney goes and plasters his image from Annie Hall, promoting American Apparel, all over NY and LA, without his consent. Since the billboards’ brief showing 2 years ago, Woody has filed a $10 million suit against Americal Apparel for using the image without his permission. And since then, the gloves have really come off. American Apparel’s attorneys are arguing that Woody’s image certainly cannot be worth $10M, as “[they] believe that Mr. Allen’s popularity has decreased significantly, especially in light of the scandals he’s been associated with. [They] believe that he greatly overvalues the worth of his endorsement — if he can get one.” Diiiiisssssss.
Of course the scandal that they’re referring to is Woody’s breakup with Mia Farrow and relationship with former step-daughter, and later wife Soon-Yi Previn. Woody returns the blow by claiming that American Apparel is engaged in a “despicable effort to intimidate” him. The trial starts May 18th in NY.
And did you know that Woody has a statue erected in his honor in Oviedo, Spain? Neither did I.
A Passover for the memories: It snowed in April, the sun returned to its God-chosen point of origin, and the deli guy topped my morning bagel with cream cheese and lox instead of its raggedy Appalachian cousin lox spread. And finally, thanks to a very large and loud collection of family friends/benefactors, my fridge is now stocked with several containers of mysterious concoctions involving raisins, nuts, matzoh and “ch” sounds.
In other news, a crew of American seamen provided more fodder for ethnocentric Yanks by overthrowing their Somalian pirate captors, while another group of buccaneers clearly slept through the “What Kind of Boats to Not Hijack” seminar. Most importantly, though, “Pablo Sandoval,” IDM’s beer-addled trivia team, scored 94 points last night in its first contest of the year, which happened to coincide with a successful first contest of the year for a certain baseball team by a certain bay. Pablo Sandoval’s showing was good enough for second place, as the number ‘94’ oft is in things such as trivia and, say, baseball. We didn’t receive a wild card playoff invitation because the league’s administrative office is populated with Mongoloids, but if we had, we’re confident that our fundamental excellence (in geography, pop culture, sports and music, as it were) would have allowed us to dominate the opposition, who only won because we started slow and they were using iPhones like A-Rod used needles. Nevertheless, the 94 remains. An omen? Last I checked, one can still dream.
And finally, enjoy this fun video from a couple of Jamiroquai-sounding Euros (playing SF’s Mezzanine on 5/15):
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Dunce Cap Quarterly is a culture and arts magazine comprising a frequently-updated online version and a print edition published periodically in our hubs of New York City, Los Angeles and San Francisco.
DCQ examines the arts, politics, obsessions, inanities and absurdities that compose urban life — all with a penchant for self-mockery and cynicism. We know, vague. Deal with it.
Publisher: Benjamin Jones | NYC
Art + Architecture Editor: Alison Rodberg | LA
Music Editor: Stephanie R. Myers | NYC
Creative Director: Dusty Mendes | SF
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