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Dunce Cap Quarterly
Evidence — sweet, indisputable evidence: Worst-case scenario, they’re long-lost brothers. Best-case scenario, they’re two large men, one even larger body. Two minds, one heart. Four eyes, four ears, two arms, two impeccably manicured soul-tees. Half Overweight Lover, half Oh, That Guy. And one pair of sunglasses until the next unemployment check arrives.
Fifteen years late on this, yes, thank you.
A year or so ago, Peanut Butter Wolf, who our buds over at the seemingly-moribund TheHeathersKnow saw last weekend at the Save Our Parks/Fuck Yeah Fest in downtown LA, signed a late-20s white kid from Detroit to his Stones Throw label.
His name is Mayer Hawthorne. He sings sixties-style black soul. I repeat: Dorky white dude from Detroit. Sixties soul. All signs say Mayer Hawthorne’s set to blow in Echo Park/The Mish/WBurg. Tickets for his two shows in NYC later this month — one of them at Brooklyn’s new Knitting Factory — are reportedly selling briskly.
For the last couple weeks, DCQ’s art director has been predisposed. At first we feared he’d drowned whilst surfing off SF’s Ocean Beach. Then we suspected he’d holed up in a Sixth Street flophouse with a ragtag bunch of characters as he dealt with his latest bout with delirium tremens. Fortunately, we discovered last week in Athens that he’s been doing something more productive than being a.) dead; or b.) red, bloated and semi-dead:
He’s thinly disguised himself and become one of the Balkans’ hottest drum-n-base/go-go mashup artists, distinguishing himself from the genre’s three other DJs and going on tour through the Balkans and the better countries surrounding the Balkans. He tore it up last Friday.
On a side note, we were floored — absolutely floored — to learn that aside from Mythos, Amstel and Heineken, one of this land’s favourite brews is none other than Carib — literally the only alternative to Stag (“A Man’s Beer”) if you want to drink beer in Trinidad & Tobago.
A portion of the DCQ team is currently en route to Greece for a month long sabbatical. You may ask, how can he vacation for a whole month, and not lose his esteemed position as a DCQ contributor? Well, he’s just that smooth. And also, he’s promised to provide some Greek-related posts during his travels. Enjoy some ouzo for us, buddy.
The Technocolored Bike Pimp was out in all his splendor near Poets’ Walk in Central Park the other day, scoping out the the people trying to dance on roller skates on a brisk, late winter day.
A good 30 folks were still out there as the light began to fade quickly. I asked the guy if he took his Pimp Bike on the subway, and he was none too pleased. The dark side of his pimp demeanor started to show itself, but he seemed to realize that he didn’t need that part of the personality anymore, and suppressed the urge to ‘beat that ho down.’ Like “Hey, you’re not a Real Pimp anymore, Calvin. You’re a Bike Pimp. You don’t need to do shit to make your ends — just ride your Pimp-Ass Bike around the park, and white people will pay to take a picture with you.”
Incidentally, the last time I was up here was probably November, when I came on another Sunday around the same time of day, and the skaterdancers had already started to disperse. I walked past a guy and he looked at me and asked, “You shopping?” I didn’t have shopping bags or anything. I thought that was a bit odd.
