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Conflict journalist Christian Poveda killed

Journalism lost one of its most courageous members earlier this month (via Lightstalkers): Photojournalist-turned-filmmaker Christian Poveda was murdered in El Salvador last week, possibly by the same gang he famously documented in last year's "La Vida Loca."

Poveda was found dead with gunshots to the head on the outskirts of San Salvador, near a slum where he'd infiltrated and documented the Mara 18, chief rivals to the Mara "MS-13" Salvatrucha down in the homeland. True, he could have chosen a more original name, and yes, the work covers fairly predictable (albeit wholly fascinating) fare -- gnarly facial tats, drug use and distribution, hookers, ultra-violent children. But Poveda succeeded where some had failed and many more had feared to venture in the first place. Born in Algeria to Spanish parents who raised him in France, Poveda gained his first exposure to El Salvador as a photographer covering the devastating civil war for Time in the early 1980s (a 12-year conflict whose atrocities were exacerbated by a little good ole covert Amurrican intervention and whose destabilizing effect helped bring about the emergence of the Maras and other powerful, barrio-governing gangs). He returned a decade later with a video camera and no obligation to present his work sans motif.

It's trite to revert to the "died doing what he loved" platitude, but in this case, it's absolutely applicable: Poveda was returning from shooting more gangland footage when he was slain. Regardless of whether his killers were Mara 18 members unhappy with their portrayal, MS-13 guys unhappy with their chief rival's increased exposure, government operatives in need of a martyr to force the politicians to provide more anti-crime funding, or the proverbial Man on the Grassy Knoll, Poveda lived his passion, his life's cause, to the end. And for that he deserves our greatest respect and, sadly now, our remembrance.

On a side note, Poveda's self-styled brand of photojournalism -- entrenching himself in communities on the periphery of acceptable society for long stretches, befriending fringe characters, and generally pissing off assigning editors under pressure to keep down costs -- is nicely summarized by a former collaborator here.

BREAKING: White Musician Targets Underground Rap Fans!

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.

Ernest and Ironhead go to Heaven

In keeping with the childhood reminiscence tip we've been on recently, today we reflect on two men who provided us with some of the weirder sub-pop culture moments of our youth before dying too young. Jim Varney, known for his franchise-friendly "Ernest P. Worrell" redneck character, succumbed to pack-a-day-spawned lung cancer in 2000, further proof that the bulk of those who provide America with good, wholesome family fun are not themselves living that same charmed portrayal of "life" (see: Ray Kroc, anyone from Disney).

Varney's influence on much of DCQ cannot be overstated. But we'll try. Another day. For now, let's just say we miss the guy. And that wherever he is, we know a turtle's biting his nuts, or he just tripped over a tree trunk, or the chef just made him eat something green and gloppy.

Then there's Craig "Ironhead" Heyward. He was Zestfully Clean for a good chunk of the 1990s. He was also 300-plus pounds! And a competent running back! !Ke increible!

For the fashionistas out there, the always-reliable Wikipedia credits Heyward, via commercials aforementioned and embedded below, with "introducing a generation of American men to the modern version of the Luffa that is now a fixture in many showers and bathtubs."

Ironhead died of brain cancer in May 2006. We'll tip one tonight to the last of the fat backs.

F* you, F* Yeah Fest!

(photos courtesy of Angela Gail of Stereogum, because my camera's broke)

LA's 6th annual Fuck Yeah Fest took place yesterday in Chinatown's Los Angeles State Historic Park. As expected, the hipsters were out in full force and the watered down cocktails were way overpriced, but on the plus side, the music roared and the park provided an open and accessible venue. Additionally, the decision to name California State Parks the beneficiaries of the event rang true with concert-goers, and most seemed fine with having paid $20-24 for tickets.

The park is long and fairly narrow, and the three stages were staggered effectively, so as not to musically contaminate one other. The fun began at 1:00pm, but keeping in line with DCQ staffers' notorious tardiness, I didn't show until shortly after 8:00. I scurried over the park's grassy hills just in time to catch FYF's first ever hip hop performer, Peanut Butter Wolf (who also maintains my favorite hip hop name of all time). The crowd seemed sparse at the stage, but the set was pure pleasure for the ADD generation, with much fun had by all via the visual scratch machine (is there an official name for this machine?). I then ran to see the disappointing Fucked Up (seems they wanted to continue the event's namesake), and mere moments later, The Dillinger Escape Plan, who felt like an enjoyable alternate universe after PB Wolf.

After forking over $8 for a "vodka & lemonade," which was actually only lemonade I think, I found myself sequestered in the fenced off booze area. Though I could see two of the stages from the lawn in said area, I still felt that this was a limiting way to control alcohol consumption. Whatever happened to plain old wristbands? Whatev, I understand that they may have been under stricter-than-usual surveillance, being that we were in a State Historic Park.

My overall experience was grand and I'll certainly be attending next summer, but sadly, my stay at the event was short lived and I missed out on these guys:

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS DCQ???

Give us pristine walls, a savaged Merry Prankster bus and A LOT of pies, and we'll come through...

Immortality has its Drawbacks

What to do when you're one of the exalted few actors who will forever be identified with one indelible role?

Voiceover, that's what.

Six weeks till Tony Soprano becomes a Wild Thing:

Ricky Watters: "BBQ potato chips are the ultimate"

When we were wee bitty Dunces growing up in the Bay Area, we idolized our 49ers. This was before we knew (or cared to know) about collective bargaining, steroids, domestic violence and salary caps (or even 'salaries,' for that matter). They were Niners, and they kicked most everyone all over the field, and they were awesome.

We knew them all -- even the offensive lineman. We had Joe and Jerry and Roger and John and Harris and Guy and Jesse and Steve (Wallace) and Steve (Young) and Charles and Eric and Ronnie and Keena and Brent and Tom and even Mike Fucking Cofer. The only question was whether we'd beat the Vikings, then the Giants, then later the Cowboys, and finally the Packers, in the NFC Championship Game. Sometimes we would and sometimes we wouldn't, but we'd almost always get close (I vividly remember winning 'only' 10 games and missing the playoffs in 1991). Either way they'd riot in the Mission, which, though only a mile and a half from where I grew up (which wasn't a perfect place, either), might as well have been present-day Juarez for all I knew (though it looked OK from the Laidlaw bus on the way school every morning).

The Niners, good guys that they were, played a charity basketball game in Kezar Pavilion every offseason. This was your chance to see these heroes in the flesh, up close and without all their armor. We were there. With much trepidation I approached John Taylor and asked for an autograph. He asked, "You got 10 bucks?" I said "N-noo" and started retreating to the bleachers. He hollered out something and I turned around and he signed my ticket stub. I still don't know if he was messing with me or actually trying to extort 10 bucks out of an unemployed, half-grown person, but I've since concluded that this was the moment when I realized not all athletes were as great as I'd previously assumed they were.

Years passed and we grew somewhat and saw the Niners in a different light: They were still very good -- not dominant, but very good -- every year. But the cast had changed: Where there had been Joe, there was now Steve. We were OK with that because he, like Joe, tore up defenses without fail, which was nice. We also had Charles and Deion and Richard and Rickey and Ricky and William as new complements to Steve. It was this year -- 1995 -- when I became aware of the concept of 'buying championships.' But we were still the Niners, and kicked everyone's asses, and it was awesome. A precocious tween with no bills, job, nagging wife or serious work ethic, I had all kinds of time to absorb every number on the Chronicle's sports section. And it was decided: Ricky Watters was the new BEST PLAYER EVER. He scored five -- FIVE! -- touchdowns in one playoff game. He could run, catch, spin, high-step...the Man. Like Taylor, he came to the local basketball gym to play a charity game with other Niners, and we all got him to sign stuff and he was the coolest. I think he even threw down a dunk, but maybe not.

But Ricky, like the Niners of the mid-to-late 90s, never achieved greatness, though he was consistently very good, and occasionally spectacular. Then he bolted for Philly and had a couple decent seasons there and places beyond before retiring after, according to the omniscient and infallible Wikipedia, reportedly turning down Cleveland's contract offer out of fear that terrorists would blow up the next plane he boarded (this being the age of 9/11 hysteria, and he being a man not paid for his intellect).

Recently, our thoughts returned to the guy. An extensive Google search followed. His modest personal website indicates he does promotional speaking, helps run football camps and bankrolls a positive-vibe rap label.

But he also proffers up a glimpse into his personal life:

FAVORITE ACTIVITIES

Writing and Producing Music

Martial Arts

Reading poetry and self-help books

Playing Chess

Watching SyFy, Chiller and Kung Fu movies

Traveling

Tennis

Riding his Segway

Eating BBQ Middleswarth Chips

Keith Murray is "Complicated but Simple"

T-Bird brings us some old Keith Murray inanity today. Skip to around minute four if you, like us, find the We Are Scientists guys mildly yet consistently annoying.

DCQ's Guide to Sneaking Shit In

On a recent Friday eve, DCQ's New Yeez contingent ventured out into the wild bacteria stew of the Hudson on a decrepit ferry stocked with booze, 150 people and one RJD2. With payday a distant glimmer on the horizon and said booze bogarted behind a "cash" bar, we resorted to the familiar tactic of "sneaking shit in (SSI)."

This is an art form we've refined over the past dozen years, with the primary media being sports and concert venues. Our first stab at SSI came in September 1997. Giants vs. Padres. It began with a friend's spectacular fake ID, used to procure an armload of Mickey's 40s from the Oak Grove corner market ('bodega' hadn't yet entered our lexicon) behind school. We had the angles scoped: Malt brew transferred to green 7-Up two-liters and hidden in closets overnight, then carried in hoodie cocoons as we pulled up to Candlestick Park. This being the glorious buyers' market of pre-South Beach Giants baseball, security shoved us through the turnstiles with nary a sideways glance. As it happened, the game was actually sold out, and we sat in the second-to-last row of the upper deck in center field -- approximately 1,200 feet away from the plate. But all was good: By the third a sickly Mickey's buzz was had, by the fifth we were bouncing off the walls of the concrete spiral stairways that encased the hulking mass, by the seventh we were taking turns calling earl in the nearest bathroom stall, and by the end of the ninth, as Barry made his famous stand atop the home dugout, we were passing out where we sat.

In the years since, we've became more efficient and creative. The prevailing opinion is that hard liquor's the way to go, and a fifth is the biggest you can pull off with confidence. If it's a day game and you're nursing a hangover, long pants and knee-high socks filled with tall boys are acceptable. The fifth -- whiskey or rum only, please -- goes right-side-up directly in front of the jimmy, belt buckled as tight as possible so as to secure the bottle with the bare minimum of above-waist frontage. If possible, go for the male security guard -- he'll be less inclined to check certain essential areas. In rare cases, through extensive field research, you may uncover a unique perimeter flaw that allows you to do wondrous and otherwise unimaginable things: At the Giants' new(ish) stadium, for example, you can bring in giant beers in styrofoam cups, purchased for a pittance at the pizzeria across the way, by entering the park through the team store.

Large sporting events are fairly easy. The latest innovation came in the recent discovery of an MLB-sponsored DUI prevention program that doles out free Cokes to attendees who identify themselves as designated drivers. These make cheap grog more palatable. AND you get to show all the college girls your hero-status DD bracelet! Bonus. Where it gets tricky, however, is at certain music venues where organizers seem to expect most patrons to be carrying some form of intoxicant. In such situations, we've come to employ a tactic used for decades by certain Suburban-driving Sinaloans: The mule wave. Break the juice into as many pint-sized water bottles as possible. Give one or two to each person you're with (better make it two or three if it's a festival). Use the same crotch placement process as with full fifth, tightening belt to keep bottle from sliding down to your ankles (mysterious bulges are to be avoided). Spread out as you enter so that security doesn't recognize you're together. This way, you're virtually guaranteed a passable stock of booze even if one or two of your homies takes a fall.

As any nimrod (that's you, Jack) can see, we've had some time to fine-tune our playbook (though perfection, as always, remains elusive). Which made it surprising -- nay, stunning -- when the token security guy checking passengers boarding the RJD2 boat nabbed the bulk of our supply during what experts had estimated would be a harmless formality. We suspect it was an inside job because the guy went straight for the above-junk area without any attempt at acting out the proper pat-down pattern (ankles-legs-hips-ribs-arms-back-THEN abovejunk as an afterthought, if at all...everybody knows that). Luckily, despite all signs pointing to an SSI Level Green, we'd divied the stash up beforehand, and our backup made it in.

So you see, DCQ nation, the key to a successful SSI operation lies in the artist's ability to assess and adapt -- that is, to change up the strategy on the fly and on the sly. But even the most practiced and universally-lauded practitioners sometimes slip up.

A skeezy Little League baseball coach once told us a common off-color joke he'd blessed with a personal touch: "Close only counts in horseshoes, hand grenades and fat chicks." We were only 10 at the time, so we didn't really get the last part, but the rest seemed to have some sense to it. In any case, replace "fat chicks" with "SSI operations," and it rings true. But it still won't make sense to a 10-year-old.

Enjoy. And use responsibly.

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS DCQ???

It don't get much better...

We dint do it.

Marry Her, Save on Food

Meet Jyoti: Fifteen. Female. Indian. Mega-dwarf.

When she get sleepy, she crawl in her backpack for a nap.

BADA-BING!

She so tiny, Muggsy Bogues be making fun.

BADA-BING!

She so little, her suitors don't offer the whole dowry -- they just bring the 'd.'

BADA-BING!

Seriously, though, that Jyoti's some kind of cute. We're trying to find one on eBay to keep our sugar glider company while we're out stealing hot dogs and huffing glue.

"Might be Mine"

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!

Might Be Mine - R.Kelly

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!

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (oh I k now 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 sayd no,

Then asked did I do it with her frequently, I sayd no,

all I know is that I left the club with this lady, and now here I am this baby's made it

[Chorus]

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (see I admit I hit it, yeah)

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (Man I knew I shoulda used some protection)

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (she bout to get my money, yeah)

There's a very good chance...that it might be mine (oh man I don't even like this girl)

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...)

Death of Newspaper Re-re-reconfirmed

Say what you will about his politics or his dubious interpretation of 'objectivity' -- Rupert Murdoch got it right this time around. Back in the spring, when a very few brave souls produced a muffled murmur that resembled "Newspaper Bailout," pundits praised Ol' Rupe for charging readers to browse his Wall Street Journal online -- a tactic eschewed by nearly every other daily in the nation.

Among the papers fearful of instigating a reader revolt, of course, was New York's Paper of Record. The other day, we came upon this sordid scene at a craft fair in McCarren Park:

Our photo work could stand to improve -- standing there, shooting away, we felt like the proverbial foot thwacking the proverbial dead horse -- but the sign reads "50% Off!" The Times didn't even bother to send out a proper sales rep -- the poor sap here appears to be the laid-off mother of one of their delivery boys (they can still afford those, right?). Sad, sad days for the dead tree industry...

Respectable Men do not Wear Moustache Tattoos

We're a day late on this, but the LA Times piece on Norteño-turned-faux accountant Richard Rodriguez has us mulling and pondering: a.) How long till the cop gets sent up the river? And, more importantly; b.) Is an upper lip tat necessarily detrimental to the credibility of a court testimony? Mightn't it bring in sympathy points in some cases? An example: Say you're on trial for a petty crime in Australian ranch country -- shearing sheep out of season or disparaging Chopper Read, I dunno. The jury is composed entirely of poor ranching folk whose cattle compete with kangaroos for a shrinking stock of grassland. Your upper lip reads "kangaroos are great...for dinner" in Olde English. Helpful or harmful? I say helpful. Chopper would probably agree.

The moral of the story is that sometimes growing a moustache to cover up a tattoo is not always a smart legal maneuver, though in the case of Rodriguez it would seem to be a good move because without it he basically looks like your standard-issue Dodgers bleacher fan slash Latino gangbanger. And no jury in the world likes both of those things.

For our sadistic brethren, graphic video of some fat (and hopefully soon-to-be-indicted) policeman steel-booting Rodriguez here.

You Have Corn on the Cob...

...we have fire hydrants and streetball. When the temp breaks 80, the people of Los Sures break hydrant caps.

Then grandma breaks out the oil-drum barbecue, and it's officially a summertime Saturday afternoon.

The only question is whether or not the firefighters will be able to get the thing back together. In this case, the answer was a resounding 'no'; two weeks later and it's still gushing Catskills clear onto brown pavement.

Meanwhile, next to the BQE, a team from Rodney Park is eternally playing some other team from Rodney Park. Or so say their jerseys. I don't even know if Rodney Park is a place or a man (or maybe the requirement for joining the team is you are a Rodney Park?!), but these guys can run. The teams seem to play one of only two styles: Aggressive, flashy and mistake-riddled with lots of sensational dunks or aggressive, flashy and fundamental with no dunks whatsoever. Either way, the Caucasian baller here is regarded as rare a sight as the post-Giuliani Manhattan street whore or the red panda courtship ritual.

Summertime's just the best, right guys?

Pimpin' Benches All Over the World...

From SF to BK to LA to ??? The DCQ crew gets around...

The Old Girdle Factory

A full half of DCQ's editorial team was walking south from the L train on Bedford Ave. this past weekend when it stumbled through a gauntlet of collapsible store signs that virtually funneled passersby through the glass doors lining the sidewalk and into a grungy corridor.

Inside, we found a mix of viable businesses (coffee shop, hairdresser, snobby craft beer outlet) amid empty display windows. We got the scoop from George, the manager of said beer purveyor -- a place called the Spuyten Devil Grocery that has an accompanying bar with myriad unpronounceable brews a few blocks away. George informed us that the compound was originally a girdle factory, and when people stopped wearing those things it turned into a Goodwill of sorts before its owner subdivided it into its current composition.

This latest transformation, Spuyten George continued, happened about a decade ago. The place now carries the familiar North Williamsburg air of hipster funk, but with a bit of a heroin chic nose -- if we were in a depressed I-5 corridor town that lacked a Greyhound station, this would serve as the local shoot-up spot. There was no identifiable urine scent, but twenty bucks says people pee here with some regularity.

The timing of the building's renovation again became relevant a few moments later, when we noticed this sketch, covered with scuffs and adorned here and there with old gum wads, in the corner. Early, overlooked Sam Flores? We need Art Direction here.

In any case, tenants like the place because rent is significantly cheaper for everyone except the coffee shop, which fronts the street. Additionally, more petty operations can take out smaller lots than one would find in street-fronting retail in the neighborhood, creating a few select opportunities for small businesses to establish a physical presence in a neighborhood that's only a couple of credits short of max gentrification (though Hipster Heaven becomes Trinitarios Slashing Your FaceVille real fast a couple blocks south of the Factory).

Telefon Tel Aviv, coming soon to a smallish venue near you

Telefon Tel Aviv is half the band it used to be: Charles Cooper died in January in Chicago at age 31, with media reports suggesting he may have committed suicide. TTA's surviving member, Joshua Eustis, has remained mum on the circumstances surrounding his bandmate's death. In any event, Eustis recently tapped a longtime friend and collaborator to join him on tour this summer. Telefon's playing a number of September shows in DCQ territory -- find a way to get there (dates below). And if you still don't have Immolate Yourself, cop it stat or follow the album's instructions.

Sept. 11th: Bell House, BK

Sept. 12th: Mercury Lounge, Manhattan

Sept. 25th: Spaceland, LA

Sept. 26th: Bottom of the Hill, SFC

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS DCQ???

Hint: It may be one of the locations in the opening montage of The Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants 2, which we're not saying we've seen, but we might have talked to someone who's seen it, so don't even go thinking what you're thinking of thinking. Because really. Have some faith.

Lenny's Down!

The man-boy who bragged last fall (while chewing on a gob of Twizzlers for dramatic effect, mind you) that one of the myriad entities suing him had "folded like Mitch Williams in the ninth" in settlement negotiations has pulled the ultimate fiscal implosion: Lenny Dykstra is bankrupt.

Dykstra's well-documented rise from scumbag athlete to Wall Street darling for bored bankers in desperate need of cocktail party fodder begs a number of questions:

a.) Why does anyone listen to Jim Cramer anymore? Or, more accurately, why did anyone listen to Jim Cramer up until Jon Stewart reduced him to a blubbering, goateed effigy for financial media's rather long shortcomings during the subprime buildup and collapse?

b.) Who brings Twizzlers to a closed-door meeting in a federal courthouse? During which hundreds of thousands of dollars are at stake? "Ashtray money" aside, Lenny either planned out his Twizzler feast hours in advance and stashed the goods in his briefcase, pockets, underwear and/or socks, or employs an assistant whose sole duty as such is to keep Mr. Dykstra with Twizzler-in-hand at all times. "Where's my fucking Twizzler brick, dude? I didn't hire you and buy probably one of the top-five most badass Twizzler briefcases around for you to carry everywhere I go and not open and give me Twizzlers LIKE NOW!!!!"

More to come, without a doubt, sooner or later, but hopefully frequently for the rest of our natural lives.

So Longo, Bongo

A long-overdue RIP to former Gabonese president-for-life El Hadj Omar Bongo Ondimba, who died of what may or may not have been advanced intestinal cancer in Barcelona on June 8th. In a sequence of events that should register as eerily familiar to Eazy-E fans, Papa Bongo didn't seek international (read: first-world) medical care until early May. It clearly didn't take.

Under Bongo, who rose to power in 1967, Gabon proved anomalously tranquil amid the ever-convulsing border lines of West Africa. As Gabon's neighbors in the continent's armpit slaughtered each other, Bongo built one of the world's most prolific kleptocracies, rooted in his country's substantial oil reserves (at present, Gabon still has more miles of pipeline than of paved road). While no conclusive estimate of his total wealth exist, Papa hung his hat in an $800 million palace and owned properties in Nice, Malibu and the like. At 4'11", Bongo may, indeed, have boasted one the highest dollars-to-inches ratio of any current or former head of state. He apparently spent freely: The New York Times reported that Bongo shelled out $9 million to Jack "Definitely Not in Gen Pop" Abramoff in 2003 for a promised meeting with Dubya; ten months later, Papa was sipping tea and noshing on crumpets in the Oval Office.

To the littlest Big Man there ever was, happy trails (and yes, 'death' buys you one free post that fails to note mentions only in passing a decades-long pattern of rampant corruption, ambivalence toward human trafficking, and disregard for human rights).

Willie T. Coleman biopic forthcoming

When they adapt the life story of Willie T. Coleman, Jr. for the silver screen, there shouldn't be any discussion as to which African American A-lister will portray the guy:

I know, Wesley Snipes, right!? Right? He'd be perfect: "Always bet on black...when betting on landmark civil rights cases, that is. In games of chance, it's pretty much 50-50, really."

In reality, Coleman's a hugely important guy -- not long after becoming the first black Supreme Court clerk, he co-wrote the legal brief that brought down segregation in public schools nationwide and made for a wholesome and mildly entertaining moment in Forrest Gump.

No, but seriously, that guy looks just like James Earl Jones.

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS DCQ??!?

Ancient Mycenae? Kosovo? Sleeping under the Williamsburg Bridge?

Only TigerCat knows for sure...but that there wall sure looks Cyclopean (HINT HINT).

DUSTYKID on the Ones

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.

Kalistera...

...desde Grecia. That's a semi-sorry attempt to merge a language I haven't yet learned with one I've already forgotten. A couple quick observations from my brief stay in the country:

- America doesn't have a copyright on public parks littered with used condoms and needles.
- Spain doesn't have a copyright on placing copious amounts of crane next to heavily-touristed national treasures.
- The exterior of the National Archaeological Museum is very similar to that of Cairo's Egyptian Museum.
- The interior of the National Archaeological Museum is much more impressive than that of Cairo's Egyptian Museum.
- Greeks like Dead Prez.
- Those wildfires everyone (BBC) was talking about in 2007 were no joke.
- The dollar is weak.
- The dollar is weeeaaaaaakkk.

More gems to come...kalinihkta, jovenes.

Puerto Rican Takeover Oh-Nine, Pt. 2

Walking south from 86th on 5th Ave, something seemed odd: Bootyshaker Basin -- appropriately located in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art -- was missing its bootyshakers. Cops blanketed the museum's steps; no trademark freaking to be seen. Moving south, it became clear that the tenor of the day was, perhaps, a bit less flirtatious than that of years past:

Not a happy woman...

and then an innocent sociopolitical debate turned nasty; out of frame, some young guy cold-clocked another grrrl and everyone went "aaaaahhhhhh" and started pushing each other. It was great fun...

until the cops came and ruined it for everyone...

A peaceful procession resumes:

So creepy: 

Dees ees no Cahnival, who let ya een? 

All in all, the standard hot vibe, a disappointing freakage level, mediocre pics, and many men (and women) with whom you would not want to engage in argument. 51 weeks till next year...

Puerto Rican Takeover Oh-Nine, Pt. 1

Puerto Rican flags and bandanas were flying off the shelves in Los Sures and Spanish Harlem and on D-Block over the last few weeks. On recent weekend days, you couldn't round the block without catching Big Pun blaring from a passing SUV. The PR trinket hawkers crowded out the Halal cart guys and the Mexican mango stands, pushing them off the corners with sprawling setups dripping red, white and blue. Then, finally, Sunday came: The one day of the year when browns outnumbered whites on 5th Ave. With the JAPs and WASPs retreating to their Hamptons cottages, the Upper East Side belonged to the Boriqueños. 

Def Jam's street soldiers came out:

As did the hooptie crews:

And the merengue fellas, with the requisite porcine drummer man: 

Then there was this guy; photos don't do it justice, but as you'll pick up, the owner's clearly a fan of vintage Pacino:

Backside deail; just so excessive it might be genius. Or ridiculous--jury's still out:

Chicken trike man rocked a picture of the chicken trike on his chicken trike. A proud soul:

Jewish hipster or hip Jewster?

Puerto Ricans do MDMA too:

Disclaimer: Not a real horse:

More on the way...

Con amor, 

DCQ.