I’m especially into the Johnny Cougar, Raydio and Dolly Parton songs that have been affirmed by listeners at blip.fm. Having said that, “House Wigger,” which is new to me, and that rare version of “Organ Donor” totally slay as well.

It’s all lovely, actually.

Can you think of a better rap perf, in terms of cleverness, charisma, degree of difficulty than Redman (with Busta Rhymes) on “Da Goodness”, from Doc’s Da Name? I can’t, and I’ve heard the classic rips, from Biggie to Ras Kass to Tash to Jay-Z to Eminem to Black Thought.

A huge chunk of my time at ESPN the Magazine featured this album bangin’ through my headphones, ear buds, speakers and whatnot.

If you can think of an MC getting down mo’ betta across the span of a single, then let it be known… wit ya stankin’ ass.

The song “Fuck You” might be over by now. I don’t know; these days I mostly chill in Beaverton. Any number of things might have fallen out of vogue while I’ve stared upon my bucolic digs.

But discussion of the latest Cee Lo-related phenomenon is only beginning to hit its stride. Here’s my favorite bit, from the New Yorker, regarding the New York Times‘ stubborn refusal to print the song’s title or embed Cee Lo’s video. Quoth one Blake Elskin:

Times reporters’ ingenuity in curse avoidance is usually guaranteed to bring almost as big a smile to my morning commute as their contortions in describing a source’s reasons for requesting anonymity. But I got much more pleasure from Cee Lo’s exuberantly profane song than from [Noam] Cohen’s playfully indirect disquisition on it. Even though I grew up in a home where mouths were washed out with soap as a punishment, it was more than just Cee Lo’s transgressiveness. (On repeat viewing, I counted sixteen “fuck”s, as well as ten “shit”s, two “ass”es, and—a taboo of a different sort, but one respected by and much discussed in the Times—two “nigga”s.) It’s the counterpoint between the words of a spurned lover and Cee Lo’s chipper, churchy falsetto over uplifting throwback R. & B. His rage is gleeful, honest, maybe even redemptive. The Times, meanwhile, is indirect, impotent—and delusional.

I’m on a big-time white guy singer-song-writer kick. Not of the Bright Eyes (overpraised) sort, but the old-school John Prine variety. If you’re into that, follow me on blip.fm. ‘Cuz then you get the 70s disco and Streisand and Johnny Mathis stuff that’s just too cheesy for words. If you only dig my hottest jamies, check out the Props component of my blips. There’s the stuff that only blip.fm’s worldwide community of listeners has affirmed.

My favorite blip hit in recent weeks was “101 Things to Do” by Kwest the Madd Ladd. Hardcore hip-hop heads loved the fuck out of that selection, like I pulled it out of my ass. Which I did. (Kinda like Too Short’s insanely overlooked “Two Bitches”.) It took weeks of thinking about the chorus and then a half-day of Googling to realize it. And the crowd went utterly apeshit.

No feeling like that.

You’re a dork.

Just kidding.

But if you are one of those dorks who happens to be on Facebook, you’ll enjoy the Donnell Alexander page. Lots of special snacks up in that motherfucker. Eat up.

On Wednesday night I listened to Radiolab for the first time, and it turned out to be an episode from a while back that contained a piece  on my hometown: Sandusky, Ohio. The brief bit’s focus was the town’s role in establishing railway time, a forebear of standard time.

Strange as it that my intro to the show featured my obscure birthplace, ya know what’s truly odd? It turns out that my hometown was initially called Portland. Sure lots of port cities like mine have  had that name, but it’s undeniably weird that I’d come upon this news — this Radiolab broadcast — the week I decided to move to from Los Angeles to Portland, Oregon.

It all comes full circle, like a big ol’ cuckoo clock. (At least things seem to with me.)

This morning I was listening to Colin Coherd’s ESPN radio rant about Jim Furyk when the fact became clear: The point in my life has come where stereotypes about how pot smokers live make me angrier than lazy characterizations based on race.

This is a destination I’d been stalking for years. California’s November’s vote may have sped the change. I’ve been smoking pot, fairly regularly, since the age of 12. (Regrettably early, I must add. Kids: Don’t try this shit at home. Or in the alley behind that abandoned Sandusky, Ohio factory.)

And marijuana means the world to me. It’s kept me sane during crazy times and fed my creativity like nothing else out there aside from sex with lovely and intelligent women. The ongoing bit has been that I never thought that in my life time there would be a black president or legal pot, and I’m way more excited about the latter than the former.

Big fan, big fan. Let’s add: I’ve been nowhere near regular in my marijuana ingestion for at least the past month.

Having said that, I don’t deny the downsides to my girl Mary Jane. Nature’s candy has helped draw craziness nearly as much as its battled the stuff. And I’m far, far too amused with myself. There are other issues, but anyone with any real experience with pot people needs not to have these things recounted.

Anyway, the idea that marijuana enthusiasts are late for everything or that we’re mindless peaceniks or that we grub on food uncontrollably — these are ideas that should have gone the way of early Johnny Carson routines or Amos and Andy. And people who traffic in them ought be called on their mindless bullshit. Pot smokers and eaters are in every walk of life, even sports. (Last month a hoops champion told me he doesn’t do a single tattoo session with out marijuana for company.) We run businesses, teach your kids and maintain your health. We design your homes and police your streets. We are you, only happier.

Don’t get it twisted: Too much of anything is bad for you. When Cowherd’s upstart program was merely a West Coast only presence, it had a sidekick producer called Compass whose airing of extreme right-wing views brought Cowherd’s innate conservative nature into scary, debilitating relief. (Anyone out there remember when they made the concerted, definitive announcement that all pro basketball players ere bad people?) Compass ain’t around no more and the result for ESPN has been addition by subtraction.

Pot isn’t a panacea and its not the downfall of Western Civilization. It’s a tool, one that’s been marginalized for far too long. From now on when you hear people make foolish assertions about what it does or is, please make them account for their views. Probably, you’re going to hear that they actually have limited experiment with the drug. Or, just as likely, the slanderer went too far, too fast with the stuff.

In either case, my suggestion is to tell them that theirs is a “me” problem and not a problem. If you can, smoke them out, be a guide, and help make the world a better place for our girl Mary Jane. She’s come so far, you know?

No, not the fact of new one-stop shopping for all LSD No-No-related info.

Much weirder than “Ellis” being my middle name, but perhaps not as strange as Dock being listed as “Ellis, D.” by the official scorer on Sept. 12, 1970.

It’s that the last Jimi Hendrix album, Band of Gypsies, was released on the day of baseball’s only LSD-fueled no-hitter. (Oddly also, Neille Ilel and I chose the Rufus Thomas song “The Push Pull” for the original No-No narrative, not knowing it was the number one R&B hit of that summer.) Dock was a major-league fan of Jimi’s music.

This story is full of happy, um, let’s call them coincidences.

And at this point I feel compelled to say that I’m not obsessed with either LSD or Dock Ellis — not beyond reason, at least. At this time last year, I was going on about gangsta rap, as my gig was that long-lost book about how The Chronic got made. Really, it’s true. I played late-period N.W.A incessantly. You can look it up.

The new Cee-Lo joint doesn’t blow me away just because the stench of break-up still lingers in my nostrils. It’s just a stupid good tune. And, my ex-girl happened to play “Crazy” for me on our first date — more than a month before the track hit commercially.

BTW, I don’t have F-U feelings about my ex. She remains one of my favorites within the species. But I am kinda broke, yo.

Also, this Bobby Womack song sounds hella tight right now. Apropos of nothing, I suppose.

I’m beginning to feel the fallout of the news that I’m not going back to El-Lay, except to watch The Big Kid make his debut on the Ribet Academy football team. (A trip that’s essentially about picking up the remainder of my shit in Venice.) It’s a sad journey, on many levels. If my income had been a fraction as good as the memories, there’s no way I’d be setting up shop in Portland.

Luckily, Oregon seems to be feeling me. on Saturday night I was sitting on the sidewalk outside a bar in the Southeast, smoking with a bunch of recent art school grads and drinking whiskey from my new, used flask when an undergrad hit me with a notion that I’d not really considered: That someone like me could do extremely well up here and maybe even contribute to the scene. It took about 10 hours for it all to make sense. (Mostly ‘cuz I was profoundly drunk.) (But that’s another post.)

And I guess that’s the point behind this post.  I really was a factor in L.A., it’s come to me belatedly. Some guy who runs a widely-read blog invited me to a party he puts on annually, and not because we’re friends. He evited me because, over all, I gave a certain swatch of L.A. shit credibility when I showed up. I felt it with the LAFF events, and sometimes in the literary realm. In hindsight, yeah I had friends and a following down south. (This blog saw a huge spike when I wrote about my mother last week. Thanks for that.)

It happens in S.F., another city I can’t afford to live in. Not that it matters, beyond the stroke of my ego. (Ego strokes being nothing I need; I am positively filthy rich in ego strokes.) I’m in Portland to get paid, much mo’ betta than they paid me in Los Angeles. To get paid and do good journalism. I’m inclined to believe that if I perform as well here as I did in L.A. — and don’t have  well done manuscripts get flushed down the drain — I’ll be a rock star by the time I’m in L.A. again, reconnected with the fam.

Bye now. I gotta get to the Sterling Writers’ Room to handle my biz.