"Workinonit" (J Dilla, from the LP Donuts)

People, there won't be any posts on the bliggity-blog until friggidy-friday, so don't aagidy-ask me about it no more for now.

(Man, I should stop this rediscovery of Das EFX thing as soon as possible. It's clearly iggidy-infiltrating...damn it, there we go again.)

One positive here though is I decided to make more music posts, including one right here- just click the title. It's not "Workinonit" itself, but Donuts being an album anyone with even a cursory interest in hip-hop could really enjoy, I decided instead to repost a demo of Black Thought of the Roots and Dice Raw working over this very instrumental. I still prefer listening to the beat on its own, but this track is surprisingly effective.

Rest in peace, James Yancey.


"The Cuckoo [alternative, faster version]," Taj Mahal, the LP The Natch'l Blues)

Through a poker game last night in which I won $ (undisclosed) or so, maybe more like $ (nope) or $ (don 't make me pull off my belt), I talked a tremendous amount, most of it the typical brand of shit, but also ended up singing this song a bit, mainly the line

"Jack of Diamonds, oh you Jack of Diamonds/ Said you rob my poor pockets of silver and gold..."

No real reason behind that, although it did make Amit think I folded that very card, when it was likely the standard babies-unlikely-to-be-making-babies, like 62o. Not that that meant a damn thing. Nor does this post until now.

Gotta self-promote, much as I still feel like a dick every time I do it just for inflicting another play on the world. One day I'll give back to the world I've taken so much from; so many wallets, so many pizzas eaten from garbage cans. But maybe I am. It's a good play now that it's revised a lot.

Here's how I gave the info to a bunch of people by e-mail.

And if you want to get onto a Promo list I will never abuse and will solely use to contact people when plays of mine get up and get down, 1-2 pass the request to joshdrimmer@gmail.com. It'll probably help you if you live in New York or thereabouts of course.

That fuckin' dolt.

Five-three. Why would anyone play five-three?

"Well, they were suited." My cock in your mouth, is that suited? It got two red diamonds on the end of it?

Welcome to the true world of Texas Hold 'Em, a place where those who fail burn quickly to ash, and those who succeed aren't doing that much better. Five-Three is a fifteen-minute play about holding a losing hand too long, be it hole cards or human. A bitter but comic ditty.

And it got into the American Globe Theater's Fifteen-Minute Play festival. Four plays each night, one advances, by audience vote, to the finals. This being so, and this play being about poker, I figure I have the right to as loaded a deck as possible, but mainly I just want people to see this and hopefully three other good shorts.

Apparently this festival sells out pretty quickly, so you might not want to put this off too long. There are only 15 seats available last I heard. The information on purchasing tickets is here-

(yeah, click it and quit it)

-and below. To recap...

Five-Three by Josh Drimmer
directed by Tom Wojtunik

A selection of the American Globe Theater/Turnip Theater Company 15-Minute Play Festival
Thursday, April 27th, 8 p.m.
145 West 46th Street (b/w 6th Ave and 7th Ave
1, 9, 2, 3, 7, N, R trains to 42nd Street-Times Square; F train to 47-50 Streets-Rockefeller Center.

And it's real like getting beaten King-high flush versus Steel Wheel.


Song of the Week #2: "Doobie Ashtray (chopped and screwed)" by Devin The Dude

I'm writing three scripts, one pitch, and some other shit, so I need to keep this brief, much as I'd like to write longer about this stretched out song. So here we go.

This is a song about being completely down on your own luck, by your own goddamn fault.

Devin the Dude is remarkable. Try "Briar Patch" and "What?" after this, if you like it.

Chopped and screwed, as most of you know I hope, means this song has been slowed to a crawl and a little, well, chopped, a method invented and named after DJ Screw, who did die of cough syrup related reasons. The genre and codeine-laced cough syrup can be separated. But I guess if you've got it, drink it, following with whatever lies around in your own doobie ashtray.


Don't. This song is fucked up enough as it is. It's also pretty damn funny, especially at the end, as the narrator reverts to his nature. Recidivists never quite change.

(Downs a pint of Nighttrain. Mmm. Sweet premium wine.)

If you know of a better method I can post songs, lemme know. Comments get read. Yeah, even the one on the last post.

So what are you gonna do when the people go home?

(NOTE: I just discovered I fucked up on the actual posting of the song here. I'll put it up for real soon. I swear! Mom, come on! I'm playing Blades of Steel!)


"America, Fuck Yeah!" (Trey Parker etc., from the OST Team America World Police)

Man, the title shit is longer than this post will be, because I don't want to explain my love for a player with, yes, a great name, who is currently on the DL. But a great move by the Red Sox' management needs to be commended, if that's all I'm saying for now. It's not that I don't want to explain, it's that I have better things to do. (Not that I don't always. But, um, continuing on...)

Here's all I wanted to say:
Red Sox Nation, fuck yeah.


"Coke Is It" (Tragedy, LP Unreleased...and you can imagine which coke he was talking about. Great song, anti-drug...roughly.)

SODA REVIEW: A new coffee-flavored/cola fusion thang called (officially?) Coca-Cola Blaq.

They were giving this out in sample form in Midtown yesterday, around the N-R stop, a favorite color of funerals and poker players trying too hard to be intimidating (Black) combined with a company that sells tons of sugar water around the world and has absolutely and utterly corrupted the Mexican diet. (Coca-Cola.)

(Before: Corn tortillas, beans, water. This actually does keep the poor healthy, as those who know health [Kelvin? And your folks? Comment back, young'un.] can say, complete amino acids and such.)

(After: Tortillas, beans, Coke. It does change things a lot and gives the poor something else they shouldn't be spending their few pesos on. I'm serious about all this, but yeah, I know, I'm not a Mexican, and further more, I don't exactly blame Coke for this. I haven't read No Logo yet, although I know I should.)

That was a long tangent. Here's what Coke's new, upcoming product is, in a few words: the ol' cola, sugared and all like it was meant to be, plus coffee.

Does this sound bad?

You're wrong. Those who know and have drank and have loved Manhattan Special (which is made in...and yes, by-laws say I must shout it...BROOKLYN!), an espresso-extracted soda that will make coffee lovers reconsider ever purchasing one of Starbucks' 500 calorie monstrocities might understand. Coke is onto something for those who can't get Manhattan Special. Some tweaking will be in order eventually, but this isn't like the recent disappointing Sprite Remixes at all. This needs to catch on.

Grade: B+

By the way, since when was Sugar Hill an opera label? The original one ("Rapper's Delight," "The Message," "That's The Joint," and other hits you can listen to for days) went under long ago, but do they understand how ridiculous this is?

(Or that I'm going to send a team of talented graf artists on them with a full supply of markers and one of those spray paint machines that are advertised for house-painting?)

"I'm Housin'" (EPMD, from the LP Strictly Business, which I'm now not sure is their best)

Some matters of business, party peoples, and we'll keep it short, since I've got other things to post today. There are some amusing links along the way.

a) the comments section, as I see it, is a great chance for
-people who are misquoted or feel they are misrepresenting to bitch/moan. but y'know, if it's a drastic enough thing, I will edit. the name matter could be resolved in comments too.
-to respond to what I wrote, of course, especially when,
-I'm actively soliciting opinions on scenes-in-progress I'm writing, which is REALLY appreciated.

b) however, I will wipe out comments when I just think you're playing yourself, to, um, protect you. yeah! that's the ticket!

c) does this blog look alright to you? I think maybe Internet Explorer is mangling it for me, but I might have to take off creepy-eye Alexis and fine-ass Lauren from the site proper if I get some reconfirmation.

That's all for now. You brave few who have been reading this a bit,

(SNR writers, a couple friends, some perverts who [I hope] ended up in the wrong section of the Internet, and people Googling for absolutely every mention of their name, so as to hope to beat Jesus or Erik Marcisak?)

thanks, and I hope to keep up putting quality writing here, be it ever so bizarre, misinformed, and in opinions, simply off at times. I change my mind. Well, except about the new Shaft (2000)...it sucked in so many ways, but Jeffrey Wright as Peoples Hernandez must be seen to be believed.


"No Vaseline" (Ice Cube, from the brilliant if amazingly misinformed/NOI inspired LP Death Certificate)

Man, I had a random thought while listening to "Fuckin' Wit Dre Day" by, of course, the mighty, might D-R-E (Dr. Dre)—

(known to those unfortunates who either never owned The Chronic [I sold mine happily!] or ended up with...the Wal-Mart version? as simply "Dre Day." hey people who are whiter than even me, I speak semi-fluent jive!)

—here's the thought, and please, contemplate this on the comments...I have my thoughts but want to hear yours first. Some lyrics, without distinguishment from if Snoop (in his halycon days) and Dre:

Luke's (Campbell, btw, of 2 Live Crew, if you wondered) bending over
So Luke's getting fucked

And one more:

Gap teeth in your mouth so my dick's got to fit
With my nuts on your tonsils
While you're onstage rapping at your wack-ass concerts

...oh, yeah.

My question is this: with all the (blatant) homophobia in hip-hop that continues today and will continue past my lifetime...um, to take some parlance of these times that I wish to forcefully retire soon—

(again, ask me on the comments my feeling re: the phrase, in anyone's joke, "I wish I could quit you!" I have some. oh, yes.)

—well, why are these battle rhymes for those battle times so, um, Brokeback? Or just to use another parlance of the times, a la 50 Cent's crew...why is this homophobic stuff so G-G-G-Gay?

5-paragraph review, written as automatically as possible (At War With The Mystics, The Flaming Lips)

The first time I heard bits of this album, I kicked, screamed, ran naked outside of my apartment, entered the BQE running at an approximate speed of 65 mph, and made a circuit run of Brooklyn-to-Queens-to-Brooklyn, in which I clocked a time that wouldn't be so bad in Rad Racer or a game like that. (Yes, not literally. But I wish I could run 65 mph.)

It's not quite as bad as I first thought, but I'm not purchasing it, and I'm not much listening to the mp3s I got from a friend who did. The Flaming Lips, who I love, if perhaps I haven't taken on enough of their early work yet, have gone from sweet, stunning, and honestly thought-provoking (The Soft Bulletin) to a little too sweet (think Now or Laters...and maybe even the not-so-great banana flavor), if on an album that begins with a nice robot-themed suite and includes "Do You Realize???", which very well may put the joy of existence into you if you're considering life worthless (Yoshimi Battles The Pink Robots), to this.

Politics, in a direct manner, are not this band's strong suit/wheelhouse/Cheesehouse. Cameron and Jonah, do you at all remember us making up this Cheesehouse thing. It needs to be reworked to enter my stand-up act, but I'm happy I write things down. Anyway, anyone who heard Wayne Coyne's essentially incoherent and underthought speech at either Webster Hall show a couple weekends back, something involving making pot illegal and hating G.W. Bush, might understand if they just think a little bit, not that they should have in the midst of the carnival with animal costumes. I agree with the opinions stated, but hate that anyone who really believes the opposite thing will basically think, "Stupid hippie. You dropped acid to start a band. I'm going to keep my children away from you, and God Bless America."

Most of the critics, in my somewhat humble opinion, are just basically wrong about this record not that criticism need/should be scathing, or that I don't envy the hell out of people who like this record...it'd be a better world for me if I could. As far as specific reviews,

this is among the most miseducated (not that E! should be expected to do much),

I sort of love the Village Voice this week, and,

oddly, although I enjoyed this show a lot more than he did (thanks for the correction, Sam), I agree with Kelefa Sanneh, with whom I don't very often. I sung along with "Bohemian Rhapsody" at the show, thought to but avoided the idea of making really scathing comments about this record to Jim Derogatis, and bounced a ball around a lot. It is possibly to intentionally have fun, especially at a Lips concert.

I pray they get back to what they are good at, and never, ever record a song like "Free Radicals" ever again, on an EP, on an LP, on the bottom of a garbage can.(Like the way Dizzy Gillespie composed "A Night In Tunisia," actually. Seriously.) But right now, I can't listen to any of their albums, because for some reason, I'm hearing something I hate in songs I know are incredible. This is always the problem with a bad record from a band you loved...or once loved? (No. I won't go that far. I will now listen to "Race For The Prize" 95 straight times.)


Song of the Week, Vol. 1 ("Msimu Kwa Msimu," X Plastaz, from the LP Maasai Hip Hop)

Many thoughts occurred to me as to what should be the first song of the week. Then I realized (perhaps fueled on my 2nd viewing of Menace II Society), man, fuck all that.

[In full honesty, Menace II Society is an amazing film, far superior in my opinion to Boyz N The Hood, although Boyz was innovative. The Citizen Kane of 90s ghetto cinema? No, those comparisons are ridiculous, and when I remember a ridiculous being by the name of Eliot I knew in school who called Super Mario Bros. 2 "the Citizen Kane of video games," I gag, and it hurts, ooh Lord.]

So I just took a quick skim through the iTunes. And I thought, man, that rap album you got from Africa through dusted magazine, that album with all the lyrics I didn't understand because, no, I don't/likely won't speak Maasai, that album had some good songs on it.

This is the prime one. Nice Bollywood sampled loop, tight flows from emcees male and female be they ever so personally unintelligible. (But most of the time, hip-hop isn't entirely about the MEANING of the words. I'm not getting into that here, yet.) Enough. Enjoy.

And, hey, it's right here.

And, er, my ol' review of this record from Dusted is right here if you want some opinions I don't quite agree with anymore- the weak production of most of the record doesn't exactly make the purchase necessary. (Update...wait, shit, I think I said that! Score! [Derek Jeter fist pump, such as the one he makes after having prematurely ejaculated with a bored, coked-up supermodel.])


"Where You Lead" (Carole King, from the LP Tapestry)

(note- this post is also cross-posted on the slowly-but-surely resurrecting Saturday Night Rewritten Isthmus, which features some comedy writers a hell of a lot more clever than me. perhaps you should check that out too...the link is that funny underlined text, yo.)

Unemployment does funny things to you. Once you get over the sheer awesomosity of sleeping however long you want and doing whatever the hell you want to some extent, the joy quickly falls out of it, you (or to be honest, me/I) crawl to a slow pace on the jobs you apply for and do 'em half-assed, you and your, er, delivery service get way too familar. Perhaps this in turn helps to lead you to start watching 6 hours of TV a day, on the worst days.

(Oh, Time Warner Cable, thanks for saving me and Matthew a little money on the package deal, but damn you for bringing VH1 Classic into my life once again. If I were to ever get TiVo, no one would ever hear from me again.)

And there's one funny as in ha-ha funny thing unemployment (which, thank God, I'm out of at least through May) did for me. It got me into a show I'm not sure men admit to watching, and definitely don't much do. It got me into motherfucking Gilmore Girls. Seriously.

Look, considering how many men are watching The O.C., a straight-up teen soap opera scattered with not especially good "indie" music (again I ask...what does this term mean but "more popular and well-known in New York than anywhere else"? and how is that a genre?), I could probably defend my old habit of watching reruns regarding the all-too-unreal adventures of Lorelai and Rory Gilmore straight, no chaser...

...but then, there is the question of the femininity of the show: male characters are either unrealistically accepting of everything these gals throw at them, bizarre comic relief, or singing songs all the time. (There's a town troubador in this show, who seems to get paid to sing something that matches whatever just happened. Yeah, it's that unreal.)

It all takes place in a absolute fantasia, Stars Hollow, CT (apparently this show is filmed on an old studio lot from some old 50s flick too), the ladies eat junk food, do not work out, and yet are nicely shaped and look fine as sweet premium wine, everything always works out even when the dramedy nature leaves you on some good old-fashioned "what'll happen next" shit. What am I, heterosexual male, doing watching this shit? Well, let's try to figure it.

1) Set in Connecticut.

Ten years of my life were spent there, 4 in my beloved New Haven, 6 of my younger years in Westport (hold your gagging, I'm with you on that most of the way...and ain't never going back to the suburbs). The state is in most ways a by-way between Boston and New York, but ol' Nutmeg is nevertheless a home for me, if not my home now. Rory later goes to Yale too.

2) The dialogue, the dialogue.

Kinda ridiculous, fairly well-parodied in an episode of Family Guy (a show not normally my cup of Wild Turkey), but also waaaay too much like how I talk. A sample I'll just make up right now:

Oh my God, you didn't show up to the party. Are you Mildred Piercing me?

Perhaps I'm caught in Mommie Dearest.

Oh, God, am I going to have to go home and cry and listen to Sea Change over and over again?

Bon Jovi Wordsworth Chaucer The Strokes Hurricane Katrina Final Destination 3!

The Kinks Dorothy Parker!

(Mumbles something, acts curmudgeonly, buys flowers and chocolates and sugar and spice and everything nice.)

This dialogue is also delivered at the speed of light. Gilmore Girls has more pages in their scripts apparently than any other hour-long show.

3) So maybe I want to live in a town made of magic where you can start your own inn with no problems and have a family you hate that nonetheless finances your daughter through an expensive prep school and Yale and blah blah blah.

4) Lauren Graham is fine as hell.

I mean, to quote the D'Angelo song, shit, damn, motherfucker.

(All of those are work-safe, but I am aware that the 3rd picture is just really, really sketchy, but I'm not doing that extensive a Google search here. I also am officially, for the moment, like 13 years old.)

(By the way, that other gal in the picture way above, Alexis Bledel, does little/nothing for me, for whatever reason. Could be the bizarrely clipped way she talks, could just be the creepy eyes [which are madly apparent in that picture])

5) I was high the first time I watched it. But I still watch the damn show sometimes.


"You Have To Be Joking (Autopsy Of The Devil's Brain)" (The Flaming Lips, from the LP Hit To Death In The Future Head)

Eight minutes, minutes, minutes, minutes to go. I rather feel elated. But there ain't enough time for another post, so, I figure to help myself out and perhaps whet your appetite, I should hit you with a few pieces in the future of this blog. Such as:

-Why I, secretly (well, no more) kinda like Gilmore Girls. (Gulp.)

-A thesis, subject still undetermined, on the epic Southern hip-hop piece, "Wanna Be A Baller," by Lil' Troy and a buncha anonymous emcees that went into Bolivian not long thereafter. I'm still considering what epic to compare this song to. Actually, I might be comparing it to the story "In A Glade" (source material for Kurosawa's Rashomon.)

-One last analysis on, honestly, what a lie Rounders is in genuine poker terms, no matter what good it did for real poker pros (no, not me. definitely not me. yet:) in filling their tanks with fresh fish. Glub glub.

-A think piece on that rather deep tune, "Bitch, I'm Broke," by the egomanical, brilliant, but perhaps stick-a-fork-in-his-massive-ego-done Cody ChestnuTT.

(Yeah, you have to spell his name that way to be proper, somewhat like MF DOOM, but not exactly. In my Yale Herald review, I wanted my name to appear as Josh DriMMer to play on that. Damn whoever was editing music then.)

Sample "lyrics" (it's basically a rant) of grand profundity:

I don't give a motherfucker how many cars you see me drive,
Or you see cash falling out my ass
I got diamond rings and I'm eating three steaks
And offer you a goddamn hamburger

And I didn't even get to the most offensive?/hilarious? part yet of that one. Man, I can't possibly keep this full-speed clip up, but blogging is fun.

"Cold Gettin' Dumb" (Just-Ice, from the LP Back To The Old School)

Hilarious book spotted in a Barnes and Noble discount section yesterday:

A silly-ass murder novel.

Title? Mildred Pierced.

"The Mission" (Jaylib, from the LP Champion Sound)

Greetings. Welcome to the beginning of Josh Drimmer's blog.
(And may that be the last time I use the 3rd person on myself. Okay, probably not. I do love Rickey Henderson.)

I am a writer/playwright/occasional music and theater critic/comedy writer/middleweight champion of the world/part-time liar/beat junkie/lover/mother. (Wait, scratch the last one. Put in "possible father." [Although that is a joke, to be clear. Kishana, stop calling my house. If you remember right, you only gave me head.] [Kishana does exist either. I really need to stop this.])

What is this blog about? Honestly, whatever occurs to me. But parameters are good, no matter how frequently I'm going to break them, so, hey, let's try some, in a quasi-mission statement(s)---

1) Song titles are posted, generally, as my blog titles. It's something I had fun with on the old blog, "Sideshow by the Seashore and Other Hits." Generally speaking, these song titles will be from recommended albums, but sometimes I will be sneaking titles from the All Music Guide just to match up to my thoughts. And yes, that does sorta make me a whore. Eh.

2) One single, solitary "song of the week" posted on weekends, using YouSend, which does unfortunately only allow so many downloads, not that I expect critical mass.

Selections are likely to be largely jazz, hip-hop (aka rap music, NOT your standard mix of bullshit R&B with beats that has made Hot 97 nigh unlistenable to me), funk, soul, but also some ol' fashioned "rock" (whatever that means), old punk, "indie rock" (again, what?) and the utterly unclassifiable. I'm aware of the fact that I have no street cred (well, there were the mean streets of Mexico City), am white as Ivory, and probably "shouldn't" have the musical tastes I do, if music were meant to be segregated...as you might have guessed, I don't believe that. But do laugh away...it is funny. (If not as funny [but not quite the standard ha-ha funny] as my man Rob Bates kicking a comedy rap. Dan McCoy will attest to this.)

Songs are intended to instigate record sales for those I think deserve it. Songs are also easily removable for those record labels with problems with this- just shoot me an e-mail.

3) Speaking of e-mail address: I won't be checking this one terribly frequently. Patience in all things?

4) No longer going to be all that obsessive about correcting posts, but hey, comment on my bullshit when the funk becomes more than knee deep...that's what the comments are for. As Jim Lasko (not related to that awesome guy with all the dollar bills on his suit, not his real last name) has told me, I don't really know all that much about music. (Now, do I believe that? Well...I don't know that much about his. You given that O'Jays record I gifted you any spins, Jim, or does it gather dust next to your Headhunters in the small colored section of your collection?)

5) Speaking of which, if I put your full name here in a uncomfortable context, friends, let me know, and I'll edit it. Because I'm not planning on going all 19th century novel and writing names out as M____ S____-M_____ or whatever.

6) Subjects, again, are random. Some things you might find as recurring subjects: music (is my sanctuary), pop culture, politics, the Red Sox, bullshit and party and bullshit and party, the Knicks (yes, Matthew S-M, you have roped me in much of the way. then again, it might just be the MSG theme)

7) References of all sorts may sometimes be tagged with URL links (you'll notice them where they are), but not always. I prefer to clusterbomb on all this, don't sweat the technique on what you do or do not get.

8) Also, this serves as promotion fodder for whatever project I'm up to. Want to join a list more easily sending you said info? Hit the e-mail up. Want out? Hit it and you can quit it.

9) Parenthetical statements will be all over the place, as you may have noted. Hey, it's a method. I'll try to break up long paragraphs as much as possible for readability, but, well, I have been on a James Joyce kick lately.

And that's quite enough. Need to get some work done now, but I'll attempt the first post in a lil' bit.

"Mic Checka" (Das EFX, from the LP Dead Serious)

One. Two. One-two-three. Checka-check. This on?

I like me:
I like them/they like me:

    Contact the author on the comments.