Do Not Disturb the Sexy!

If anyone had any doubts that conscious hip-hop has been completely paved over by the bling-bling materialists, then the invitation to Sean Puff Daddy/P. Diddy Combs' (or whatever he's calling himself these days) MTV Video Music Awards after-party ought to set you right. Currently making the rounds of Internet postings, the invite serves as a case study in pompous assholitry, starting with the strict dress code, which warns, "If your shoes are scuffed, you're going to have a problem," and then goes on to suggest party-goers "Pull out the flyest sh*t [asterisk in original] in your closet, or have your stylist pull something for you. Definition of Fly Sh*t: the top designers, i.e. Sean John Collection, Gucci, Dolce and Gabana, YSL Couture, Versace." (The Sean John Collection, it's worth pointing out, is P. Diddy's own line.) From there, things get even more unintentionally hilarious: "Think the Oscars. Think the person you want to marry is inside. Think of me at the CFDA Awards, Kentucky Derby, My New Year's Eve Party in Miami or my Hamptons White Party. Grooming: for Fellas, haircuts, shape-ups, and clean shaves are a must. For Ladies, hairdos, waxing, manicures and pedicures are also a must. . . . Remember, you have been selected. It's an honor to be part of history in the making, this WILL go down as THE GREATEST PARTY OF ALL TIME! So please respect and adhere to all above said rules." And then, the apparently serious kicker: "P.S. DO NOT DISTURB THE SEXY!" No word as to whether or not the sexy was indeed disturbed that evening or just mildly disgruntled.

Lo-Fi Champion
Photo by Jeanne Rice

It's time yet again for local bands and musician-types to stop bellyaching about what asses Weekly music editors Rich Kane and Chris Ziegler are and put their energies toward something truly constructive—like applying for a showcase at next year's South By Southwest. The 2003 SXSW skinny is this: Austin, Texas; March 12-16; more than 1,000 bands from all over the world; lots of sleazy industry types and media wankers, some of whom may actually help you with that thing you generously call a "career"; a bunch of panel discussions that may sound interesting at first, but which you'll wind up ignoring just so you can crash afternoon parties for the free beer and Tex-Mex. This year, the SXSW peeps have smartly opted to accept registrations through their website, so skip over to for all the bloody details. And once again, the Weekly gets to play God by hand-picking an act from the OC/Long Beach area, just like SXSW 2002 when we blessed the pop-o-rific wonderfulness of Lo-Fi Champion, who still can't stop raving about the fabulous time they had. But we can't pick your band if you don't apply, so get those papers and a $15 fee sent off by Oct. 7 (or, if you miss that deadline—you slacker you—by Nov. 8 with a $25 fee). For even more anally retentive details, check the SXSW website.


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