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2017




Zaha in the Rain
2017.06.27

1000 Museum under construction; Miami looking pretty ominous.

GURLLLLL

2017.07.14

“Girl” gets used in popular music—a lot. Men say “girl.” Women say “girl.” (You get where this is going). Boys say “girl.” Girls say “girl.” The statistical balance of its invocation is mostly age and gender neutral.

The word gets slipped into sultry intro talk, as in: “Girl, this is what I‘m going to do for you.” It gets dropped as a rallying cry: “Uh huh, this my shit. All the girls stomp your feet like this.”  It also gets misappropriated. Hall & Oates’ “Rich Girl,” a pillar of the spite genre, wasn’t about a girl at all. It was about Daryl Hall’s girlfriend’s ex-boyfriend. Rich girl just sounded better.

This is an admittedly very stupid compendium of music. And I was, at least when I started this exercise, a bit tipsy on a Wednesday night. But here it is, a playlist of songs in which “Girl” appears in the track title. 


El Rey de las Fritas
2017.06.12

Jeremy is in town seeking refuge from responsibility, life decisions and—briefly—the mature adult communities of Boynton Beach. Never one to miss an opportunity to shirk the duties of my own advancing age, I ditched the gym and treated baby boy right: A double serving of fritas on Calle Ocho. We bellied a thick coating of pork grease and chips, and Jeremy flirted with the waitress in Spanish (my interpretation). Later, after I’d thoroughly buttered him up, I let him know the truth about his idol and borderline doppleganger, Drake: Dude is lame. Things got interesting. Words were said. As always, it was good to see homeboy.

The Next Eleven

2017.06.08

It’s generally accepted that The Strokes made two near-perfect eleven song albums. Each was compact, punchy, and occasionally brilliant. Each lasted about a half hour.

Their third album, First Impressions Of Earth, indulged not only in the capitalized O, but ventured notably longer. New ground was tilled. The results weren’t uniformly solid. Not like the streak from “Hard to Explain” to “Take It Or Leave It” (still my favorite) where Fab’s drum and a moderately-intoxicated vibe carry you through a third of an album. “Trying Your Luck” is still very underrated in the catalog. 



We’re the better part of a decade and a half on. My mother’s dog ate my leather jacket (honestly, pretty pissed about that one) and my ex-girlfriend’s sister’s ripped jeans are pretty snug (but hey, fuck you, I can squeeze in).  I need another album. 

Here it is, compiled from every album that’s come since: The Next Eleven.

It’s 39 minutes long.