That said, this PBS clip (which is almost as “too good to be true” as the clip of Shakopee’s own Gayle Quinnell excitedly and publicly dropping the bombshell of Obama’s true racial … and, I guess, moral qualifications with the declarative “he’s an Arab”) has captured my fancy with its public television-hewn mercilessness in the guise of intellectual generosity. If nothing else, Tracy Kerlee (pronounced “curly,” in case you wanted to know) provides the wrathful Christian soldiers with the official inflection for “President Obama.” Tucking lips into chubby maw while rolling eyes back into your secret third eye mandatory.

Underrated moment: The fact that the YouTube author chose to let Tracy’s husband have one telling sentence before she ambles onto the setup, and it’s that his only solid economic wish is that his business lasts long enough to allow him to retire. Screw those who aren’t ready for retirement when it goes under.

So, how was your week last week?

I was recruited to take a few back-up senior portraits of my cousin Jazz at the lake a few weeks back, and this was (paging Tyra) his best shot.

Hamilton Bo-Han-Non’s most cited song is undoubtedly “Let’s Start the Dance,” a synth-heavy concoction that sounds like a golden retriever shaking off after diving into a pool of glitter. It’s great, but if there was one constant in my voting patterns for Slant’s old and triflin’ dance list, it was that I was the one constantly advocating for unapologetically testosterone-fueled funk-dance tracks. More on that later, no doubt, but for now try and unpack this mostly inscrutable YouTube video for an earlier, equally-chuggable Bohannon rhythm exercise.

My hunch is, if visible, those cards would read something like:

Download audio file (099.Mp3)

IMG_0589.JPG, originally uploaded by Eric Henderson.

I grabbed nearly 600 photos last week while on vacation. Don’t be surprised if this turns into a photo blog. Well, you can be surprised to the extent that it turns into a blog at all, I suppose.

Which understands just how awesome this is:

Now I’m just waiting for Jill Scott to remake this as a music video:

During the turbulent, half-year gestation of Slant’s now way old list of the greatest dance songs, which is what I’m now setting out to, if not refute, then at least annotate, I think I fought for no song’s inclusion more than the one I’m now consigning to the bottom of my alternate/additional list of 100. With similarly mixed signals, when the original list of 100 was set in stone and each participant was asked to come up with a list of three “honorable mentions” that we wished could’ve made the real list, I opted not to mention Donna Summer’s cover of Barry Manilow’s “Could It Be Magic,” itself a rework of a Chopin piano prelude. My line of reasoning was that, by that point, Summer was already well enough represented on the main list. (With three songs, she tied Madonna for the most overall mentions.) Plus, I had bigger fish to fry, like pointing out the lack of deep house on the feature presentation. Now that the list is almost as old as dance music itself (or at least reminds me of that time in your life when your parents realize you’re over half their current age and will always be henceforth), I freely admit that I unabashedly dig this tossed off album filler as much as I dig “I Feel Love,” “This Time I Know It’s For Real” and “I Remember Yesterday,” though in saying that I admit to having off-kilter Donna tastes — rarely looking for some “Hot Stuff” baby this evening. Maybe it’s the galloping tempo, maybe its the fact that the Moroder-Bellotte sound hadn’t quite hardened into the impenetrability they reached a couple albums down the road; the percussive kick is more organically propulsive than metronomic. Or maybe it’s the melodramatic heft of Chopin’s original chord progressions and the fact that what once was funereal is now treated as an erotic rush. Maybe it’s the fact that Summer unashamedly rehashes the bridge orgasm interlude that made her famous with “Love To Love You Baby,” only this time she can’t claim it to be a recording session lark that somehow ended up on the finished product. Or maybe it’s the fact that the bridge (Manilow’s own) that accompanies Summer’s moany plea to “come into my life” is tormentedly gorgeous (used to great effect during one of Looking For Mr. Goodbar’s depressing sex scenes). Or maybe I’m just tickled by the mental image of Barry Manilow taking Summer high up where the stallion meets the sun. “Could It Be Magic” is the best sort of camp, one that’s apparently presented with grave sincerity.

Download audio file (100.mp3)