Well, the news is true. LMFAO is LMFA-Over.

Creepiest. Uncle. Ever.

I know. I took it pretty hard too. They had a great two summer run, with hits like “I’m Sexy and I Know It” and that other song that sounds just like “I’m Sexy and I Know It.” Not only was the music of LMFAO a huge hit on the Jersey Shore and at bar mitzvahs, but it also made its way to the top of the Billboard “Ringtone” chart, which is just a stupid list to have in the first place.

Now, I know you think you already know everything about LMFAO, and I’m sure you know a lot, but I’m here to drop some knowledge and take you to college on Redfoo and SkyBlu…because those were the names they chose for themselves.

  • Redfoo’s real name is Stefan Gordy, and SkyBlu is Sklyer Gordy, his nephew. That’s right. These guys are uncle and nephew. But how far apart are they in age…?
  • Sky Blu is 26 (acceptable). Redfoo is 37 (unacceptable). When you are 26, it’s alright if you’re messing around and end up making a song entitled “I’m in Miami, Bitch.” When you’re 37, it is not.
  • Redfoo’s father is Berry Gordy. Wait, what? Yeah. The founder of Motown birthed half this circus act. The afro-sporting, leopard-print Speedo wearing clown is the youngest of his eight children (obviously, because at that point you just stop caring). Sky Blu is the son of Gordy’s second oldest kid. So, just to recap, Berry Gordy discovered Michael Jackson, but spawned LMFAO…
  • Last Friday, the duo announced that they were taking some time apart, to absolutely no response. They are denying that the split is permanent, but I think we can all agree that if you can get away from Redfoo, you stay away from Redfoo. “
  • In a statement to whomever would listen, Redfoo said, “All the music that I’m going to make is always going to be LMFAO-ish… I love all the topics that we talk about.” Here are some sample LMFAO lyrics, to give you a taste of the music 37-year-old Redfoo would like to continue producing in the coming years: “I got passion in my pants and I ain’t afraid to show it,”  “Wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle, wiggle yeah (x3),” “I’m tryna get a hot dog” (apparently they have a song called “Hot Dog”), and of course “shots shots shots shots shots.”

Listen, I’m not going to say I don’t see along when “Party Rock” comes on when I’m at the grocery store, but I think the split is the best thing that ever happened to these two. Maybe Sky Blu will get a chance to explore his possibilities within the music world, maybe try something new. And hopefully Redfoo just won’t get arrested.


Side Track Boyz

I think one of them may have a relaxer, which I’m not okay with.

After a long day at work, I was ready for a quiet train ride home, maybe a salad back at “the pad,” as I just started calling it right then. But as I walked into Atlantic Terminal, I heard something I wasn’t ready for, and that was Usher. Well, not real Usher. It was fake Usher. Three fake Ushers.

I’m fairly accustomed to the occasional subway station/train performer, but this was like something from America’s Got Talent or better yet, Making the Band III. There were three young men executing moderately impressive dance moves, while the one in the middle sang (typically middle=most talented, left=bad boy, right=closeted). They had mics and were plugged into amps, the whole bit.

But I should mention that the young gent in the middle wasn’t singing just any song. He was singing “Love In This Club,” a horrible choice of song for Atlantic Terminal or any major transportation hub. I can confidently say that I’ve never wanted to make love in “the club” that is Atlantic Center (not even upstairs in the Target). I’ve wanted to make pee in the Atlantic Center, because I’d just gotten off a train that had been held by the dispatcher 20 feet from the station, but never love.

I was rather enjoying the tunes (bopping along like my mom does when she hears Black Eyed Peas) so I posted up next to their “manager,” who was definitely one of their moms. She was an older black lady in a long, matronly skirt handing out grainy half pieces of printer paper that told me who these fellows were: the Side Track Boyz. She’d messed up on the flyer she gave me, as there was part of the other half of the paper on my sheet (nice cutting job, Mom!). At the top of the flyer was a picture of the Boyz wearing futuristic sunglasses lined with rhinestones (mannish!), all looking in various directions. It was very B2K/IMX. The flyer listed their Facebook, Twitter, and Myspace (still in existence?) pages, and told us who we should contact for interviews: Sharon/Mom.

Before I could Tweet at the Boyz, they began singing another song: Usher’s “Oh My God.” Really? I thought. This one? The flyer suggested that they in fact had original music, but I was getting skeptical, what with all the Usher. There was some gyration, some bobbing from the crowd (a motley crew: urban teens, Park Slope moms, and middle-aged men waiting for the LIRR). I couldn’t believe all of these people loved Usher as much as the Side Track Boyz, but I guess a half dozen hit albums don’t lie.

I was nervous they were going to sing another station-inappropriate song, maybe something by Trey Songz, so I went on my way, but not before watching the lead singer wave over a little girl of about two and give her a kiss on the cheek. It was so bizarre. It was like he thought he was Justin Timberlake at the Today Show circa 2003, but it came off very R. Kelly at the preschool at any point in time.

Upon returning home, I thought I’d look up the Side Track Boyz on Facebook. Turns out, they’re awesome. One of their names is Lonique, which is like a combination of unique and lonely. And under their influences, they list Danity Kane (but I think we can all agree that Danity Kane would be nothing without groups that paved the way, like 3LW and Blaque). The group is actually involved in some pretty great programs, like Volunteers of America, Fresh Start, and a program called Lay Down the Guns, which kind of makes me feel like a jerk for making fun of their sunglasses (but seriously?). All in all, I think the Side Track Boyz are pretty fresh. Have I listened to any of their music? No. Of course not. It’s not going to be as good as Usher, even if it was current, stupid Usher and not early 90’s-2000’s super-great Usher. And besides, I don’t want to like them too much. I might get “Side Tracked” (stole that from their Facebook page).

Click here to watch their video for Rock Funk. You’re gonna want to see it.

Fashion’s Night Out: Tiny Foods and Pricey Ties

Last week, I went to a Fashion’s Night Out event. For those who are unfamiliar, Fashion’s Night Out kicks off Fashion Week, and it involves regular people getting really excited and dressed up to go to places where are models who maybe didn’t get that dressed up, but still look 100 times better than us normals. Ain’t no party like a model-filled party, cuz a model-filled party breeds low self-esteem.

My friend Emily’s roommate was working the event, and so the two of us got on the list. The party was at a place I’d never heard of, Paul Stuart, but I didn’t have anything better to do, and the invitation mentioned canapés, so I was in!

The cover of their Fall 2012 catalog…that guy would never chill in a tree.

Upon entering the party, it was clear that Emily and I didn’t belong. The median age was probably 54, with an octogenarian or two shuffling around confusedly. I’d guess that the median household income was $4 million, and only so low because Emily and I really skewed the results. We were at a shop called Paul Stuart. If you’re like me, you’ve never heard of Paul Stuart. Well, let me tell you, Paul Stuart is for people who like Ralph Lauren, but want to pay more money. They are known for their “unique take on Anglo-American classics,” apparently. They are currently offering FREE SHIPPING to all orders over $195. This sounds reasonable to them.

So, Emily and are found ourselves wandering aimlessly through this shop of people dressed like jockeys and Downtown Abbey characters, when we found her housemate, Maggie. Maggie was serving wine, chatting pleasantly with people, really sellin’ the stuff. She poured us each a sample of Roja, and we pretended to taste it. We both agreed it was real good. We proceeded to walk around, checking out $800 rain slickers and $300 scarves (Emily has one just like the one they had, but paid like $290 less).

Soon, we found what we were looking for. “Canapés.” Canapés are an even fancier way of saying hors d’oeuvres, which seems ridiculous. The first appetizer we had was a chicken curry dollop on a little crispy cracker. So good.

“I could eat 20 of those,” I said to Emily, as the woman walked away with the tray. Soon, we were being served some real goodies. Tuna tartare on a cracker, a fancy garlic cheese ball, shrimp on a thing. SO GOOD.

Eventually a woman walked up to us, with what appeared to be tiny blueberry tarts. That’s crazy! I thought. She held up her tray for the two of us. We both grabbed a piece, and as we brought it to our lips, the caterer dropped the bomb:

“Would you like some…caviar?”

Oh boy. That was it.

“Yes, thank you,” we both said as we chewed. She knew we thought those were baby desserts, and she could have told us a little sooner than before it was already in our mouths! First of all, I couldn’t even taste the caviar. It just tasted like a Melba toast with some cream cheese. Secondly, I would have certainly refused the caviar had I known. That was probably $30 worth of fish eggs, and I just ate it like an everyday snack. Had they asked me, I would have requested $30 worth of something else.

Emily and I went about our evening, giggling about the fact that these people had the nerve to serve us caviar. We each grabbed a glass of champagne, a couple more cheesy balls, and eyed $200 neckties. There was a very attractive, though headless, mannequin dressed in boots and tweed that Emily and I admired for a while, debating whether or not it would be completely inappropriate for us to take an Instagram of. Ultimately we went with yes, completely inappropriate, but believe me, this was the Hugh Dancy of  mannequins. Eventually, we made our way to the top level, where they were serving fancy scotches and brandies. Emily and I wondered if perhaps there was a lower level where we might get our hands on some Bud Lights and onion rings, but we never quite figured it out.

All in all, it was a really great time. My first Fashion’s Night Out was in Soho two years ago, where everyone was super hot and hip. And although the people at this even were gobs richer than the two of us, it really made us appreciate our youthfulness and dexterity. I would absolutely go to another Paul Stuart party, as long as they could assure me that there’d be less caviar and more hot mannequins.

Mussel Mania

I would like to begin this post by apologizing to my loyal readers, whom I left hanging the past two weeks. But you have to understand…I was so tired.

Honestly, there were like 10 more mussels on this woman’s plate. She had a separate receptacle for shell disposal.

The last week in particular was one of the craziest I’ve ever experienced. I had to search for and move into a new apartment, I saw a black Hassid at Target and witnessed an intense argument between a large, black lesbian and a policeman with a dog on the Franklin Avenue Shuttle. She called his dog a ‘lil n@*!#,’ which was appropriate. Additionally, I survived the West Indian Day parade, and yesterday was Beyonce’s B-day. But somehow, none of these things seems as worthy of a blog post as this…

On Thursday night, my boyfriend David and I went to grab a quick dinner at a Thai restaurant in Fort Greene, before packing up my room. Upon sitting down, I noticed a robust woman of about 30 sitting alone in corner seat. I didn’t pay her much attention, figured she might just be treating herself to dinner after a hard day at work.

Anyway, David and I both ordered (he had the spicy noodles with chicken and veggies, I had the mango chicken salad with sticky rice, thanks for asking), and I looked over to see the waiter place a mojito in front of the woman. Treat yo self, girl, I thought. The waiter soon brought out an order of chili basil mussels, which we’d noticed on the menu but had deemed unnecessary. But homegirl was clownin’ on ’em. She made them look delish. It was a pretty massive plate of mussels, about a pound I’d say. And she was really enjoying them.

“Whoa,” David said, as I pointed her out. She was destroying them, leaving no shell un-turned.

Eventually, our food came out, and we were forced to mind our own business. We proceeded to eat in silence, as we’ve been known to do, taking breaths only when necessary, making eye contact strictly when pleading for a taste of the other person’s dish. It was a really romantic time. Then I looked over.

“David, look,” I said. It had been about 15 minutes, and the woman was no longer alone. She was surrounded by what I assume she calls her “Girl Girls.” The waiter was dropping off entrees in front of all of them. The woman smiled, accepting her plate, as though she was sooo hungry for dinner. For shame, I thought.

“Did she just pre-game for dinner?” David asked. She had. It was clear what had just happened. She and her girl girls had planned to have dinner at 7pm, but this one had arrived at the restaurant 30 minutes early to secretly pre-eat. You know, get a little tummy buzz going. She was pretending like nothing had happened, like she had not just downed 20 seafood nuggets. $10 says she paid off the waiter to pretend like the first 30 minutes never happened. “When my girl girls come, you just keep your mouth shut. I just got here. JUST got here!” (here, she wipes the sweat of guilt and many mussels from her brow) 

What’s even better is that her second dinner wasn’t particularly light. I couldn’t quite tell what she was eating, but she was most definitely sucking on a bone. My guess is she either went for what I had, the mango chicken salad (which sounds healthy, but they actually give you half of a roasted chicken), or short ribs, which weren’t on the menu…but I don’t think it really mattered. She also ordered another mojito.

Now I’m not going to pretend like I’ve never dominated an appetizer. We’ve all done it, gone out to dinner with friends and been like, “does anyone want to split an appetizer? I would totally go in for the sampler platter.” And we’ve all been the one to treat the plate like it was ours, and ours alone, only leaving scraps of celery and parsley for the others, saying, “you can have the last piece, I don’t want to fill up before my food comes, haha!”

But this woman had taken it to a new level. I’ll bet she even suggested an appetizer to the group. “So ladies, do you want to get an order of spring rolls or something for the table?” And her friends were like, “ohhh, yeah, the mussels sound good too, girl!” And she was probably all, “Oh, I don’t want to get anything too heavy…” David suggested that we send a dessert to her on our way out, but we both forgot by that time.

I have mixed emotions about this new pre-eating fad that this woman just started unknowingly via my blog, and which you are about to partake in. I mean, being full is pretty high on my list of priorities, somewhere between physical and mental health. And appearing to exercise portion control sits right between brushing my hair and making eye contact on my list of things I have to do to make people like me sometimes. Aside from the fact that pre-eating in a restaurant setting can cost you anywhere from $10-$20 more than it needs to (when you could just snack on some bodega cheaps, for real), it’s a pretty awesome trend.

So, the next time you’re scheduled to meet up with friends for dinner (or even lunch, hell breakfast), get there a little early and find yourself something to snack on in a corner. You know, something light, like a short stack or BLT, just to hold you over until your girl girls arrive. You can thank me, and the beast from the Thai place, later.