Uncle Empire

No Mas

2009-02-22T23:47:00.002-05:00

Visit UncleEmpire.com for the real deal.

(We got our act together)

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (September 24)

2008-09-24T01:07:00.008-04:00

Tony's been on hiatus, but he's back. Some super sweet, super romantic love music, as only Tony can bring it.

Q'65 - Get Out My Life Woman

Man Presumed Dead Just Unpopular or Politics as Usual (Part I)

2008-09-23T17:39:00.005-04:00

Tom Martin always sat in the last row of seats, near the exit, at city council votes. He was rarely called upon to contribute a meaningful opinion, even though he was often the only one with his hand raised. When he missed a Tuesday night session regarding the installation of speed bumps—or so everyone present believed—and then a Thursday night follow-up, where tensions reached a peak over the proper shade of yellow for the proposed bumps, little was thought of his perceived absence.

“Canary’ll make the town look soft on speeders,” Harvey Dobson argued that Thursday. And everyone agreed Neon sent all the wrong signals. When the council turned to the townspeople for an opinion, nary a hand was seen. (Of course Tom was in the last row, as usual, ready with an opinion.) But it was decided: School Bus Yellow.

As rumors swirled about Tom’s sudden disappearance, an uneasy feeling settled over the small town of Under Ridge. Mayor Dinkins liked to say, at locally sponsored barbecues and at the stroke of midnight at New Year’s celebrations, that this was not a town where unusual things happen. In fact, that had been his most recent campaign slogan for reelection: “Dinkins: He makes the unusual unusual.”

So as this unusual feeling elbowed its way into the minds of the usually fair-minded and forgiving citizens of Under Ridge, Mayor Dinkins began to feel a political pinch. Sharon Mowatt, the op-ed columnist for the Under Ridge Reporter, posted a series of scathing blogs about the mayor on her personal website, Understanding Under Ridge, in a space that was normally reserved for interviews with the elementary school P.E. teacher about which local youngsters were showing athletic promise.

Not used to the harsh light of political scrutiny, Mayor Dinkins, after consultation with political and spiritual advisors, launched a full-scale search for the missing man—and, in a speech announcing the search, emphasized the importance of investigating all instances of unusualness, because “that’s what good mayors do.”

Search committees were formed and deployed, hounds were released, and Tom’s own mother was flown in from out of state. She stood in the town square, demanding that Tom come out this instant, young man.

City councilwoman Babette Marcus was an opportunist, as all politicians are. And as more and more of the town’s resources were funneled into the ongoing—and as Ms. Marcus liked to say, pointless—search for Tom Martin, she attracted a modest following, a core of young and Catholic voters. They were adamantly pro-life, though Ms. Marcus believed such decisions should be made at the state level. With just over a year until the next mayoral vote, it was not inconceivable that this upstart crusader would throw her name into the ring.

The councilwoman, a stout softball of a woman, headed a movement to end the search for Tom Martin post haste. “Valuable town funds are being flushed by a reactionary mayor,” she, with her signature underbite, told the news stations, “a man who would rather cover his own fault-ridden tracks than admit he couldn’t protect his most vulnerable citizens. And where are our speed bumps?” Simultaneously, she launched a milk carton campaign in which she intercepted the milk man each morning and pasted the faces of local schoolchildren—who were (as of yet) unmissing—on the backs of families’ 2%, with an ominous message scrawled in a faux blood font: “Who’s Next?” The cartons were said to hit especially close to home.

(To read on, scroll down the page...)

Man Presumed Dead Just Unpopular or Politics as Usual (Part II)

2008-09-23T15:38:00.006-04:00

The town started frothing. Citizens posed for news cameras and gave jittery quotes about how the town used to feel safe, about the unfounded rumor that a curfew was taking effect, and also weighed in on whether or not they were satisfied with the shade of yellow chosen for the speed bumps—it was a mixed bag.

Mayor Dinkins was caught in the crossfire of these competing civic conversations. If he gave up the search, as so many seemed to want, then he would be accused of allowing citizens to disappear willy nilly. If he did not, then he would be wasting town funds. And what about the speed bumps? Babette Marcus had managed to work the townspeople into a frenzy, and there seemed little he could do, as he hid behind the hedges of the Mayor’s Mansion, terrified his own daughter may appear on that morning’s milk carton.

It took another week but the search was abandoned, Tom Martin was presumed dead—possibly eaten—by the authorities, and a cold shudder, like early winter, seeped through the town.

It was not winter, though. Far from it, in fact. July had just hatched and that meant farmer’s market season in Under Ridge. On a particularly splendid Wednesday, Councilwoman Marcus prepared to announce her candidacy for mayor at the outdoor market set up on the lawn adjacent the community center. A stage was assembled alongside the tomato stand and homemade banners circulated throughout the crowd when Tom Martin showed up, alone, looking to buy some produce. He couldn’t understand what the fuss was about—though to be honest, he didn’t mind the attention.

Market-goers were curious to hear Tom’s story and formed an oval in the space around him, crowding up to within a few inches. “Give him some room,” came a voice. It was Ms. Marcus from the stage. Seeing the intense interest she had created in this man, she recognized the possible role he could fill in her mayoral run. He could speak at town meetings of how, when he was lost and frightened and the search for him had been abandoned, no one seemed to care—no one, that is, except a brave young councilwoman with an underbite. He would be her mascot, her lucky charm, her ticket to Washington! She brought him onto the stage to immense applause.

Tom stood next to the makeshift lectern, where Ms. Marcus gave him a lengthy introduction in which she spoke solely of herself. Once the applause died down Tom stepped to the microphone and, with his canvas shopping bag still slung over his shoulder, began to speak. The hushed crowd lurched forward to make out his words, but it was difficult. He seemed to have brought his indoor voice outside. According to those in attendance, Tom said something about having never left Under Ridge. That he was actually at the meeting regarding the shade of yellow for the speed bumps, and that he preferred Lemon Yellow. Plus, he said, his mom had been staying in the extra bedroom at his apartment. At least that’s what he seemed to say.

Truth is, it was hard to stay focused on Tom’s story. He had a scratchy, uninspiring cadence, certainly no gifts for public speaking, and really, he just wasn’t so interesting. The gathered crowd began to thin out as he spoke, returning their attention to the shopping booths at the farmer’s market. When Tom finally finished saying his piece, Ms. Marcus was the only one who clapped. She clapped continuously, uproariously, disproportionately. She may have even whistled.

Ms. Marcus returned then to her prepared speech, though now she competed over the friendly murmur of vendors and shoppers exchanging greenbacks and green beans across temporary stands. As expected, she declared her candidacy for mayor.

There was no write-up about Tom Martin’s sudden reappearance in the paper the next morning, and only a brief mention of Ms. Marcus’ young candidacy. Later that week, Sharon Mowatt released a comprehensive preview for the upcoming dodgeball season on her blog. By month’s end, the speed bumps were installed, and most everyone agreed the shade of yellow had been wisely chosen. All the while Councilwoman Marcus pressed on in her campaign, trumpeting the same cause that weeks earlier had violently shaken the small town’s sense of self. But now, as she pinned her political ambitions to a man more compelling in absentia than in person, town politics went on as usual.

Tom Martin could not have been happier.

-RK

DJ K.O - Picture This

2008-09-19T12:18:00.010-04:00

A pretty solid mixtape from DJ K.O.

Phonte, Torae, Skyzoo, Masta Ace, Talib, Wordsworth, Royce and Elzhi - all heavy heavy-hitters.

Tracklist
01. Here We Go (feat. East & Silent Knight)
02. Best To Do It (feat. Royce Da 5'9", Elzhi, Supastition)
03. Get 'Em (feat. Silent Knight, Skyzoo, Emilio Rojas)
04. Someday (feat. Torae, John Robinson, Talib Kweli, Tiffany Paige)
05. Ladder Of Success (feat. Phonte, Wordsworth, K-Hill, Masta Ace)
06. It's Time (feat. Soulstice, Eternia, Kenn Starr)
07. Nobody Like Me (feat. Edo.G, Diamond D, Kaze)
08. Mind Of A Genius (feat. Chaundon, Shabaam Sahdeeq, Finale, Sean Boog)
09. 3 In The Chamber (feat. O.C., Torae, Kaze)
10. This Land (feat. Silent Knight, J. Siinasttah, Archival)
11. That Knack (feat. Wordsworth, Stricklin, Torae)
12. Start It All Over (feat. Skyzoo, Emilio Rojas, Median)

Enjoy.

Excerpt from "Blues for John"

2008-09-17T10:12:00.005-04:00

I woke up too late to go to work and put on all the denim I could find. I was going to need it. Then I walked around the apartment, which was far nicer than I deserved – having walls and heat and a refrigerator with an automatic icemaker – looking for a six shooter or some other sort of weapon. I'd keep it on the desk in the off chance that someone tried to sneak up on me and break my neck before I got to wherever it was I was going. Where I wasn't even sure. Probably a long, rambling road to some highway tourist trap, where they want your last ten dollars for a coonskin cap, and you give it to them and lay down underneath a plastic horse, hoping someone will feed it a quarter.

Last night, I went to hear the blues. Beers were taxed. A bad tip on two of them showed what kind of peasant I was to the initially pretty bartender. Everyone else in there was from far away and they moved in weird jerks, clapping polka rhythms that just didn't fit. Deer people from fjords saying things like "that is quite certain."

I left and gave one last look to the bartender to thank her for trying to make me feel impotent. She looked at me with a face like a sick lemon. She didn't care about me, and I didn't care. All the moths in my wallet couldn't get her what she needed, but she didn't know what that was anyway. Loveless, bloodless. She probably fucked like a snow bank.

Outside the pavement was cold and black, slick with ice. Snow blew like bees and wet sand. I walked around the park that was lit up like a military compound, trying to salvage something that was unsalvageable, and then took the train home.

The next morning, I woke up and put on all the denim I could find.

I knew a guy once who waited for years in the wings, in the folds of the curtains, and in the backs of photographs, patiently waiting with a screw turning darker inside of him. He'd say you can't make things happen, you gotta let them happen. He's still waiting, turning darker and colder and older, a bullet rusted in the muzzle.
-BF

Dear Mrs. Hong,

2008-09-12T10:46:00.006-04:00

By Joel Dovev

First off, as my landlord, I want to say that you are a very, very sweet old woman and I can tell you always mean well. I don't mind that the only words you speak in English are "nice day" and your son's name, "Thomas." I think it's cute, and you always have a huge smile on your face. With that said, there are a few things I would like to address.

First off, there's a little game you play every night at exactly 11:15 p.m. Now I am not sure what the official title of this game is but I have started to call it "Furniture Tetris." Considering the fact that your living room is directly above our bedroom, I have often feared that your three-ton grand piano, which you apparently own, will fall directly on my wife and me as we are watching the bonus features of Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom.

Now you keep a very clean apartment building, and I give kudos to you for that. But the eerie children's shoe, that could easily be one-hundred years old, you use as a makeshift door stopper in the laundry room is just the creepiest fucking thing in the world. Seriously, I imagine that that child was horribly maimed in a washing machine accident and haunts our building late at night, coughing up phlegm. Oh wait, that's just you. Now once is OK. Twice is still fine. But after an hour and a half of you hocking loogies, I want to shave my head and put it in an elephant's ass—as they are very quiet creatures and I imagine their rectal cavities follow suit.

However, you are a slave to consistency, and I can always count on the fact that, when I am literally about to fall asleep, you and your son will get into the loudest argument possible.

Every time.

Without fail.

I like to call it the "Rumble in the Jungle." And by "Jungle," I mean the hallway. And by "Rumble," I mean yell at each other in Cantonese.

Still, I would like to humbly thank you for over charging our rent and not letting us park in the completely empty, totally unused, three-car garage.

Sincerely,
Joel D., Apt. 1

P.S. I know my wife has long hair, and ironically so do you, but you don't need to point it out every time we see one another. Just FYI.

The Ferret

2008-09-11T11:56:00.006-04:00

By Joe Dillingham

The Ferret—he insisted on being called The Ferret, having eschewed the name his mother, that fucking bitch, gave him—dug through the garbage can at the Union Square McDonald's looking for Monopoly pieces on discarded French fry cartons and Big Mac wrappers to complete his collection and win the money-car-trip-thing that was the grand prize. In his pocket he had three of the four railroads, a Baltic thing, some Pennsylvanias, maybe a Lightworks, and a Broadway. The piece he really needed was Park Place, but the chances of that happening were slim at best. He knew that. He'd accepted it. Yet his dream burned brighter than ever.

At a table on the side of the restaurant, two girls too high to keep their eyes open spoke in some meandering gobbledygook that might've been English and involved a lot of open mouth staring and repetition of the phrase, "Totally, I know, ohmigawd." Somewhere below the surface of his perception, he recognized that they were talking about some performance of something that the little one had meant to go to but had missed and the taller one with the big teeth and excruciatingly poor diction was assuring her that it was, like, totally fine, I know, ohmigawd. He imagined finding a particularly ripe piece of trash and throwing it at them, but was unable to find the bravery to make it real.

Throughout his life, people had made fun of The Ferret's particularly feminine and dainty wrists, hands, and legs, but he'd fucking show those cunts when he found the other half of the holy Broadway/Park Place dichotomy. They would never know what he would do with the winnings. He might buy himself an island, or learn to fly jets, or become a secret agent, or have his brain implanted into a robot killing machine. It didn't matter because those stupid stoned bitches would never know what goddamn happened to the Ferret when he won the big prize because he was so mysterious. Mysterious. That was how the motherfucking Ferret ran his business.

Deep beneath the remains of a Shamrock Shake the Ferret felt the unmistakable tab of an unpulled game piece waiting for him to reveal its Milton Bradley magic beneath. He managed to get three of his slender lady fingers around the French fry carton on which the piece was affixed, and gave a gentle tug. His arm was buried deep inside the overstuffed trash bin, as if he were birthing the golden calf of Babylon. But nothing moved. His dainty hand came out of the garbage with only a soggy piece of cardboard to show for his effort. "Fuck!" he yelled, eliciting the stares of employees and other customers. "What the fuck are you guys looking at?" he offered in retort to the people now staring at him. "This is McDonald's. Stop staring." Most people decided that he was probably more trouble than was worth their time, so they turned back to their fried chicken and soy paste giblets and imitation potato strands.

He walked over to the table where the two stoned girls were drooling and sat down. "Don't mind me. I'm busy," he told them. They both spent an un-insignificant amount of energy trying to wrap their brains around the fact that this man with his arms covered in putrid fast food had just sat down at their table. Unable to comprehend anything this out of the ordinary, their brains played the best trick they knew and erased The Ferret from reality.

The Ferret pulled a pile of game pieces from his overcoat and then fished the tattered paper board from his back pants pocket. He spilled the pieces across the table and pushed the girls' food out of his way. They did not seem to notice, and, if they had, they could not muster the focus to care. Like a brook, they babbled on.

He turned his attention to the French fry carton on their table. "You girls are clearly too fucked up to know what's about to happen, but let me tell you anyway," he said. "Right now I am going to pull this little tab and on the other side of this lightly laminated little piece of paper there is going to be a fucking Park Place piece and it's going to have a little blue bar and I am going to combine it with this piece"—he held out the Broadway for their edification—"and I am going to win whatever the big prize is. I have been looking all over the city for this piece and it's here. I know it. I know it. You girls, you girls are going to be able to say that you saw the world change. You are going to be able to say that you saw me, The Ferret, the motherfucking FERRET, change the world. You are going to tell your grandchildren and the men you sleep with and the boys and girls and women and men and janitors and teachers and bartenders and firemen and policemen and actors and televisions and walls and rooms and the sky that you saw the world change in this McDonald's at this fucking moment. Seriously. Right now."

He pulled off the game piece and turned it over. It was Broadway.

Silent for a few seconds longer than he should have been, The Ferret broke down and sobbed, sobbed like a little girl. He put his head on the table and his tears flowed and washed the loose game pieces onto the floor. The taller girl turned toward him and reached out her hand and touched his hair.

"Does your hair always just stick up like this? It's so weird. Ohmigawd."

Jack's Last Thoughts Of Evening

2008-09-05T11:34:00.003-04:00

By Lev Winters

Jack stood in front of the mirror and his mind raced. It was late—or early, depending on your view. He replayed the evening's events, which already felt like a lifetime ago, through a reel-to-reel player in his mind's eye, desperate to discover where he had gone wrong.

He had picked her up on time, held open his car's passenger door, and even complimented the shade of her eye shadow. At the restaurant he was both witty and attentive, with an air of unassuming confidence. Yet when the date came to its natural conclusion, on the terrace outside of her building, he was refused even a modest kiss.

Jack's thoughts wandered to the gray hairs he had plucked from his scalp that morning—maybe he had missed others. And there was, of course, the small incident at dinner. Jack had requested no onions on his salmon, since he was allergic, and when the dish arrived, with onions, Jack grew somewhat dissatisfied. Perhaps the girl foresaw a future with this man and his uneven temper and was repelled. After all, a man must always keep his cool.

A prisoner of self-awareness, Jack brushed his hand through his hair, ready to resign himself to bed, when a final thought hit him like a revelation: It was none of those things!

He realized then, at this late and lonely hour, that this woman rejected his advances not on account of his blundering ways, but simply because she was repulsed by his hideous facial deformities, the ones he suffered as a child, when he was mauled by an alley cat, and his parents had been too poor to care.

Relieved that things were out of his control, Jack went soundly to sleep.

Murs & 9th Wonder—Sweet Lord

2008-09-05T09:25:00.007-04:00

Pete Rock and CL. Premier and Guru. Eric B. and Rakim. It's ambitious to put Murs & 9th Wonder in the same stratosphere of dynamic duos, but it's not entirely absurd either. Murs' bravado-soaked lyrics sit beautifully on top of 9th's sonic backdrops, and the result is some of the finest hip-hop in years. Murs 3:16 got it started, Murray's Revenge followed suit. And Sweet Lord is more of the same. Enjoy.

Tracklist
01. The Intro
02. Are You Ready?
03. Nina Ross
04. Free
05. And I Love It
06. Pusshhhhhh
07. It’s For Real
08. Marry Me
09. Love the Way
10. Murs Inatra

Download

Dick Cheney in Azerbaijan

2008-09-03T20:17:00.005-04:00

By John Johnson

I was sitting alone at Applebee's the other night, drinking shirley temples and thinking about a dead horse, looking for a cure for a broken heart. The place was empty, except for a bartender combing her wig, when I kid you not, none other than Dick Cheney walks in. Six shooters and spurs clicking across the floor. A couple of mummy fingers sticking out of the band of his twenty-gallon hat. He loosens his belt and sits down at the bar, looking like the emperor from Star Wars, only handsomer. He rubs some gun powder into his gums and lets out a hoot.

"Gimme a Valvoline and bat blood," he says. "And stir it with a bayonet."

He looks over at me and winks.

"What do you call that?" I ask him.

"Breakfast" he says, wiping his hands on a baby seal skin. I went back to thinking about my horse.

Keeping The Lights On

2008-08-28T11:50:00.008-04:00

Danny Powell, through his documentary series, Keeping the Lights On, is working to create a community for artists, aspiring artists, and pretty much anyone who digs art by showcasing the day-to-day grinds of artists whose 9 to 5 is anything but art. Powell believes that individuals need to take personal responsibility in buttressing the arts. “Look at how the government treats arts organizations and public broadcasting entities that rely in large part on governmental funding to sustain themselves,” Powell points out. And it’s true; we here at Uncle are still waiting for our first governmental space buck. So check out the series—it’s got more culture than Van Gogh’s good ear—and always support your local artists.

A clip from Keeping The Lights On: Joy Drury Cox

Dear X

2008-08-23T17:11:00.003-04:00

Submitted by Sophie Miller

Dear X,
It was such a treat to see you last month. After X, I made a quick trip to X to buy an old vespa (I wanted a winter project). X is grand and still searsucker weather.
Hope to see you soon, with love,
X

Dear X,
Spent the other weekend in X on a scooter-buying trip. Rode back to X on the bus with a vespa in the back - it was wild. Driving through X with a scooter in the taxi...wild. Sailing, summer fun in X.
Hope you're well.
Cheers, X

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 21)

2008-08-21T00:49:00.007-04:00

Stay within the waves.

Rasa - Within The Sound

Mother of Invention: The Spacesuit

2008-08-20T14:44:00.013-04:00

By Jonathan Raye, Ph.D.

At the mere age of 21, Dr. Raye has done more than most people can accomplish in a lifetime. He has invented the device upon which all astronauts, cosmonauts, taikonauts, and spationauts depend—namely, the spacesuit.

Through mighty effort I have managed to devise what may be the greatest invention of our age (excluding sliced bread). It is the most illustrious container of that most prized of things: life. And with a capacity to protect and simultaneously empower its wearer under the harshest of conditions—the vacuum of space and the absence of heat—it has been hailed as a second skin, equal to nature's design in both function and genius.

The fate of the body in outer space without a spacesuit is unpleasant. This has been confirmed by a number of experiments on rats and several Golden Retrievers. Bubbles form in the blood, arising from ruptured lungs. The film of water overlaying your eyes and mouth boils off. And liquids in the soft tissues evaporate, prompting limbs to swell to twice their natural size.

What was notable to me at the beginning of the space race, though, and especially at the initiation of spacesuit development in 1953, was that these symptoms are not inevitable.

One day, while muttering over some stubborn equations in my lab at MIT, President Eisenhower strode through the door and said, "Johnny, old boy, I've got a new challenge for you, as I see the Manhattan Project was not enough."

"Indeed, I figured out most of that nuclear stuff in my sleep."

"Well, it so happens that the U.S. is embarking on another secret mission—that is, we aim to put a man in space, and moreover, have him orbit the earth, and moreover, have him come back to earth with the two of his family jewels still in marketable condition. And we need you to design a suit that will protect a man when he emerges into the vacuum of space."

Two days hence, a naked mole rat was outfitted with aluminum foil and inserted into a vacuum jar. Four days hence, a guinea pig was covered with a mixture of rubber cement and aluminum foil and inserted into a vacuum jar. (His survival was misleading.) Nevertheless, the shortcomings of the suit were corrected, and in short order the suit illustrated in Figure 2-1 was developed.

Picture now the moment of truth, when Alexey Leonov exited his spaceship, the first human being to do so, and vaulted headlong into the emptiness of space. It was 18 March 1965, 8:34 a.m. After 12 minutes he returned to his spaceship, the Voskhod 2. Later, he returned to the Ural Mountains of Berezniki, a trip which, ironically, was more perilous than the space walk he had just completed.

You may exasperatingly point out that a flaw exists in my logic, that Alexey Leonov was a citizen of the Soviet Union, his body the property of a Soviet Fatherland, and therefore I could not possibly have provided the means by which he performed mankind's first extra vehicular activity. But you are incorrect. I am an American, and therefore a capitalist, and I secretly sold my spacesuit technology to the Soviets.

Here's how I made my discovery: Three slide rules and a 1,000-page textbook were strewn across my desk when I called out to my assistant, "Darling, bring over my distilled mineral spirits!" Which is how I called my vodka at the time. In seconds she was at my side, and while waiting on me to finish my drink, an ember from her cigarette wafted to my arm and burned it. The significance struck me immediately: A spacesuit would need a Micrometeroid Protection System. And thus, MPS was incorporated into the early Navy Mark V spacesuit.

Many such features can be credited to my powers of foresight, like the OPS Actuator, the Primary Life Support System, and the Pressure Stabilization Mechanism. Still, the battle ahead was not merely uphill; it was 90 degrees. After innumerable conferences with NASA, the space agency rejected outright my invention, claiming that such a device was superfluous and therefore unfit for use. A pen manufacturer that had succeeded in making its product write upside down, however, was awarded a $3 million contract.

In the face of such shortsightedness, I made a proposal to the administrators of the space agency. I said, "The survival of a man in space is a function of the availability of resources upon which he depends. As you know, a man depends, on average, on 0.3 grams of oxygen per breath. Now consider that in a space vacuum the number of grams per breath is zero."

There was scoffing in the room, so I continued: "If you think man can hold his breath, and also his wits, for the length of time required for extra vehicular activity, I defy you to put a monkey in space, without the protection of my space suit, and have him come back to earth with the two of his family jewels still in marketable condition." The authorities took up my challenge with a grunt.

Shortly thereafter, Albert, a rhesus monkey of pure American stock, was sent up into orbit sans suit. His limbs expanded precipitously, his heart imploded, and bubbles of nitrogen ravaged his brain—all that remained upon his return to earth was a sizzling carcass. Not content to admit that they had been in the wrong, NASA catapulted Albert II into space. He was met with the same fate. This applied to Alberts III, IV, and V. At this point, feeling a piercing guilt, I reminded NASA that a spacesuit might resolve the issue.

Albert VI received a custom tailored spacesuit, and you will not be surprised to hear, that he returned to earth unscathed. Though NASA never acknowledged their folly, they did recognize my genius, and thereafter commissioned me to produce several thousand human-sized models.

To my satisfaction, on 3 June 1965, 3:16 p.m., Edward White of San Antonio, Texas, took off in a Titan 2 rocket, wearing the G4C, the latest and most sophisticated model in my spacesuit line. Some four hours later, he entered the realm of the stars, ecstatic at keeping such noble company. Little did he know, it was the most lethal company one could keep: micrometeroids would pierce his suit if not for the Micrometeroid Protection System; cold would freeze his skin if not for the Temperature Regulator Device; and cosmic radiation would kill his cells if not for the Aluminized Mylar Coating. Yet in spite of the constant danger, Murphy's Law could find nothing to go wrong, so nothing did. Edward White returned to earth unscathed and became an instant hero.

Later, over a dinner of dauradé à la canoise in the White House, Mr. White leaned over to me and said, "You know, Dr. Raye, it's a great suit you've designed, but it has one flaw that I know all too well—when nature calls, there's no way a man can answer." I shook my head in disappointment and replied, "Mr. White, since when was comfort the mother of invention?"

* Everything in this article, with the exception of Jon Raye's specific involvement, is true.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 19)

2008-08-19T00:06:00.006-04:00

More from the Hombres. They only did one album, and it has absolute diamonds all over it. "Let It Out" made the cut for Shipment One. And we gave you "Gloria" a few weeks back. And now, "This Little Girl"

The Hombres - This Little Girl

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 18)

2008-08-18T00:22:00.004-04:00

Monday got Garfield. Don't let it get you.

Keith Mansfield - Big Shot

That Rat Don't Care

2008-08-15T18:33:00.001-04:00

That rat don't give a fuck. Enjoy your weekend.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 15)

2008-08-15T09:43:00.005-04:00

Wanted to give Hi-Lo a minute to breathe. That thing deserves some shine. Highly suggest you check it.

But back to the Tony grind. Some insanely wonderful reggae soul from Barbados. Been holding it back for a minute, but it's Friday, so we should probably party.

Wendy Alleyne - Hey Mr. Blues

Uncle Presents The Hi-Lo Mixtapes (Number One)

2008-08-13T10:31:00.012-04:00

Millions of international readers of Uncle magazine and UncleEmpire.com have already been introduced to the musical stylings of the LA-based one man band, Kissed Her Little Sister. But, if you hungry jackals have already checked him out on MySpace and still crave more carcass for your earholes, we recommend the first installation of the Hi-Lo mixtapes, designed by Jef for Uncle. Call Ted, get in your time traveling phone booth, and tune in to this musical voyage that blends a wide array of artists and genres in one clean flow.

Uncle Presents... The Hi-Lo Mixtapes (Number One)

Tracklist (in the words of Kissed Her Little Sister)

01 - Dion McGregor - Mustard Battle
The first track on this first mixtape comes to us from Dion McGregor. He is an accomplished somniloquist. He usually ends up having a nightmare.

02 - Screamin' Jay Hawkins - I Put a Spell on You (Re-Record)
This nightmarish re-recording of Screamin' Jay Hawkins' "I Put a Spell On You" makes me want to wear leopard print and smoke with an ivory cigarette holder.

03 - Wendy Rene - After Laughter (Comes Tears)
This song is one of the few things in life that Wu-Tang doesn't make better.

04 - Foster Sylvers - Misdemeanor
I am really enjoying Memphis these days. (See: Jay Reatard)

05 - Erykah Badu - The Healer
Madlib provides the backdrop for this delicious blasphemous jam.

06 - The Budos Band - Origin Of Man
The Budos Band hails from Staten Island, but I wouldn't have guessed that.

07 - The Blue Ribbon Glee Club - Waiting Room
I was recently thinking about starting a fugazi cover band and charging 6 dollars for shows. I think this cover band has about 30 members, so I am guessing they play for beer.

08 - Harry Belafonte - Mama Look a Boo Boo
No one ever told me to dive deeper into Harry Belafonte. They were wrong.

09 - Ruppie Edwards - Ire Feelings (Leggo Skanga)
Rupie runs a record store in London these days. I bet it is super chill.

10 - Daniel Johnston - Walking The Cow
A Daniel Johnston song that gets better with many listens.

11 - Son Lux - Betray
Son Lux is a rad dude on anticon. Here he gives us a real pretty song. He remixes as well.

12 - Aphex Twin - Penty Harmomium
Aphex Twin is probably my favorite ginger kid from Cornwall.

13 - Brian Eno - The Big Ship
Here comes "The Big Ship". Smooth sailing ahead.

14 - Portishead - Magic Doors
Peep the horns around 2:20. Such a neat sound.

15 - Hercules & Love Affair - Time Will
I've been having a little love affair of my own with this hercules' track.

16 - Danger - 11h30
Danger is French and mysterious and that never hurt nobody.

17 - Felli Fel - Get Buck In Here
I really had to dig deep for this one. Felli Fel kills it, backed by posse of old pros. So sexy with :30 seconds left.

18 - Big Ben - Chimes Of Midnight
Goodnight.

Enjoy.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (8/13)

2008-08-13T09:53:00.004-04:00

Ride a painted pony, let the spinning wheel spin.

Shirley Bassey - Spinning Wheel

From Russia With Love

2008-08-12T14:17:00.011-04:00

In college, there was a men's dialogue group on campus that I joined briefly. Its mission -- educating other men's groups about harassment and women's issues -- was noble, but they eventually became overrun with members of a certain fraternity. For them, belonging to the group cemented their sensitive-guy reputations with the womenfolk, and eased the concerns of drunk girls they invited up to their rooms during foam parties.

So Russian.

Just last week, a headline in the Huffington Post reminded me of these vodka-soaked frat parties; it proclaimed, "Russian Judge Rules Sexual Harassment Is Okay As It Ensures Survival Of Human Race."

Disturbing as this may sound, one must at least consider the Russians' out-of-the-box thinking. In a world where SUVs and oil companies can go "green," isn't anything possible? Benefit of the doubt, people. Some of the world's greatest thinkers have emerged with a Russian accent: Leo Tolstoy, Alexander Herzen, Ivan Turgenev, and Mikhail Bakunin, to name a few. Could this judge be on to something?

According to the article, a Russian woman was locked out of her office after she refused to get biblical with her boss. The judge, who, surely, is in a loving and reciprocal relationship, threw the case out of court, and ruled, "If we had no sexual harassment we would have no children." Had she won, the woman's case would have marked only the third successful sexual harassment case in Russia, ever, even though 100 percent of female professionals in Russia say they have been harassed in the workplace.

It's not hard to imagine what dictums followed the judge's initial statement about where babies come from: "If you untie her, she'll run away," he might have said, knowingly. And, in a hushed warning: "If you feed her, she'll get fat."

Expanding on these Russian models of causality, I have come up with a few rulings of my own:

"Without global warming, there wouldn't be sunshine."

Or

"Without war, there wouldn't be peace."

And, of course,

"Without famine, there wouldn't be birthdays."

The last is admittedly a little sketchy, but I'm working through the fine print. (Come up with a few of your own; it's free!)

I've been thinking about the future lately, too, and I've realized a few things. One, maybe my backyard isn't a feasible host nation for the 2020 Olympics. Two, I may never sit down comfortably. And three, when my unborn daughter takes her junior year abroad to Moscow, I hope the court will keep an open ear after I karate chop the head off of any Russian business man who approaches her in a three-piece suit. My defense will be simple: Without murder, no one would ever die.

After all, by that time, we will need to start thinking about overpopulation. Because with overpopulation, how could we ever have amusement parks?

Rest in Peace, Mr. Hayes

2008-08-11T09:24:00.006-04:00

Isaac Hayes was an animal. He was the soul behind Stax and everything else that was built from it. "Hot Buttered Soul" is a classic of classics. And to this Uncle writer, the Theme From Shaft is as brilliant a composition as an anything Mozart ever laid his hands on.

Rest in Peace, Isaac. The music will live on forever.

Isaac Hayes - Theme From Shaft
Isaac Hayes - Walk On By
Isaac Hayes - Hung Up On My Baby
Isaac Hayes - Hyperbolicsyllablecsesquedalymistic

Why Country Music Matters

2008-08-06T17:44:00.013-04:00

Submitted by Matthew Goldman

I like American history. So much, in fact, that I left a career I had been pursuing for nearly six years as a professional musician – touring and recording music across the country – to return to school and further my understanding of it.

A lot of close friends were blown away at my seemingly abrupt decision. Some had witnessed my evolving musical tastes – when I could corner one of them, they would receive high-speed, probably jumbled, impromptu ramblings regarding the relationship between the music of early 20th century white and black rural musicians (Pre-War County and Blues) and the mid 1950s advent of Rock and Roll. I tried to enlist compatriots in my voyage back into the earliest depths of recorded American folk music – music by “folks” – but no one was willing to walk it with me. To them, the journey was simply uninteresting. Maybe I can get you to come along for a little stroll. Or maybe you already want to turn the page.

Country music has become so entirely corrupted by the Nashville brand, which claims its lineage, that I actually understand when people tell me that they hate country music. I hate that crap, too. It is simply another expression of the wholly vapid American pop-cultural wasteland.

In tarnishing and obscuring an era of American music, which stretches from the early years of the 20th century to the mid 1950s, modern day country music artists – and I use this phrase extremely liberally – perform a great disservice in muddying our comprehension and understanding of our nation’s music.

Pre-War Country and Blues music was essentially “the music of nobodies.” Many recorded artists of that period were simple laborers or farmers. White or black, it is fair to say that they were nearly equally impoverished. The now revered Mississippi John Hurt laid railroad tracks for a living; A.P. Carter sold fruit trees and was the laziest farmer a family could never hope for. For the most part, there were no national stars, and, if at all, recognition would not come till years after their deaths. In a nation whose nascent Northern industrial base was dependent upon the cheap acquisition of southern resources, deep pockets of impoverished rural communities developed throughout the South and Midwest to support it.

Music was simply a hobby – what you did when the work was done, for the enjoyment of friends and family. Whether it was in the African-American “barrel houses,” or in the emptied out living rooms of family cabins, sparsely located along the Appalachian Mountains, music was a sweet respite from the harsh realities of rural life. It was how you passed the time. To think of it as a profession during the first 25 years of the century was a laughable idea.

There is a purity of emotion found in many early country and blues records. Whether it is a religious hymn or a secular tune of sorrow or joy, the emotional potency is always high. After all, what is more pure than making music for music’s sake? No one was chasing fame or glory; there was no hype, and positively no bullshit. It was just the pure and unadulterated. Whether it was Robert Johnson holed up in a dingy motel room in 1935, or Blind Willie Johnson or the Carter Family recording in factories-turned-makeshift studios in the late ’20s, the performers were simply repeating inherited cultural behaviors, unique to their respective homelands. For a brief interval, they were largely unaware anyone was listening.

This concept of music is one we, 21st century consumers, almost cannot grasp. To us, music is a commodity: carefully crafted, produced, and marketed. Our popular artists perform acts of theater enhanced with the chicanery of the best smoke and lights shows money can buy. The early sounds of an emerging American nation are almost child-like in their commercial innocence. For someone, such as me, who became fed up and disillusioned with much modern music, these recordings serve as refreshing aural cocktails of endless satisfaction.

This decades-spanning collection of music uniquely catalogues the American experience of those left lagging behind our nation’s step into an industrialized and modern world. And its use as a historical tool is definitely one of the main reasons to embrace country music, which I feel compelled to express. It’s part of who we are, and no oversized belt buckle-wearin’, CMT-, Nashville Star-watching imposter can make me forget it.

All right, I can’t go on forever, but the catalog of pre-war, rural music thankfully does. So, next time you get the notion that modernity isn’t all that it’s cracked up to be, and if some piece of this has piqued your interest, here’s what I want you do:

1. Download the short “Intro to Pre-War Rural Music” playlist I’ve compiled for you below.
2. Buy some whiskey and some beer.
3. Combine parts 1 and 2, then let your mind go wherever it wishes – enjoy.

A Little Sound Archeology: A Rural Pre-War Music Compilation
1 | Mississippi John Hurt - Frankie (1928 Version)
2 | Blind Willie Johnson - Trouble Will Soon Be Over
3 | Charlie Patton - I Shall Not Be Moved
4 | Blind Willie Johnson - Lord I Just Can't Keep From Crying
5 | Mississippi John Hurt - Blessed Be the Name
6 | The (Original) Carter Family - Little Log Cabin by the Sea
7 | Charlie Poole and the North Carolina Ramblers - Leaving Home
8 | The Carter Family - River of Jordan
9 | The (Original) Carter Family - Keep on the Sunny Side

Matthew Goldman studies American History at Boston University. He formerly played guitar in the band Steel Train. Now he plays baseball on the weekend.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 6)

2008-08-06T11:43:00.009-04:00

The only way to wake up...

Robert Palmer - Woke Up Laughing (at 45)

Dear Desperately Single

2008-08-05T14:48:00.002-04:00

This Week's Edition: Mom is Getting in the Way

Dear Desperately Single,
My boyfriend and I just celebrated our one year anniversary, and I guess you could say things are getting pretty serious. The only problem is that my mom doesn't like him. She thinks he'll leave me and wants me to break it off before I get hurt. I don't want to break up but I also don't want to disappoint my mom. What's a girl to do?
- Iris, Charlotte, N.C.

Dear Iris,
Whatever you do, do not break up. It sounds like you've been together for a while now, which means this guy either hasn't discovered your creepy, socially alienating anxieties, or he's OK with it. In either case, you've pulled the wool over his eyes and you better ride this puppy until your hips unhinge or the restraining order is notarized. As for your mom, how horribly typical.

One time, my mom stood in between me and my lover, and I don’t think I’ll ever forgive her. His name was Rick; he was a personal trainer. I would wait outside the studio window at my gym while Rick lead Spinning class. It was totally intimate, just me, him, and the tramps in the class that he ignored. The glass was tinted, so I don't think he ever actually saw me, but I know he knew I was there from the way he would look in my general direction. Eventually we stopped seeing each other, when I couldn't afford to renew my membership and my mom refused to loan me money.

Your mom doesn't know what it's like for a gal on the singles scene these days. Back in her times, all she had to do was bake a plate of hot chocolate chip cookies for the boy down the block and then he would take her to the tree house to play Doctor. Nowadays, you can wait for hours in a tree house before anyone notices, and then it's usually the cops.

If you think you'll disappoint your mom now, just wait till it's been six years from your last date and she finds you, drunk and naked, in the vestibule of her condo building begging for $49 dollars a month. Trust me, she'll never look at you the same way again, even when she finally gives you the money.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 5)

2008-08-05T10:26:00.005-04:00

It's tough to do the Beatles better than the Beatles, but we're not all that far off. Dear Prudence, with little more soul.

Reconstruction - Dear Prudence

Union NYC Slings Uncle

2008-08-04T19:47:00.010-04:00

Union is a pretty money sportswear shop down in SoHo. They sling a ton of sharp gear from Nike, 10 Deep, and more. And now, they sling Uncle.

Go to the shop, get a sweet t-shirt and 32 sweet pages of Unk goodness. If they're sold out, tell them to get more.

Union NYC
176 Spring Street
SoHo, New York
Map

Tony Baritone Plays The Hits | Shipment One

2008-07-31T20:09:00.010-04:00

A few months back, after a pretty absurd encounter in a Miami record store, we got the first box of records. Tony promised, and he delivered. For a couple weeks now you've reaped the benefits of our score, a cut a day of prime sounds. But all those are the tracks that hit the cutting room floor, that didn't make it. This right here is the cream of Tony's crop. The best of the best. The 19 most murderous gems we found in that first shipment. From him to us, and from us to you. Enjoy.

Uncle Presents... Tony Baritone Plays the Hits | Shipment One

The good news is there's more on the way.

Lift and Carry Sessions

2008-07-31T00:37:00.018-04:00

Submitted by Maxine T.

When she first moved to the city, Maxine T. did not anticipate using her background in Jiu-Jitsu and boxing as a means of supplemental income – until she found a club where rich guys pay exorbitant sums to have girls beat the crap out of them. She's been throwing down ever since.

Among purveyors of recreational violence (such as m'self), a "Lift-and-Carry" session is one in which the client pays for a girl (usually a rather Amazonian girl, for obvious reasons) to lift him up and carry him around the mats for an hour. Sometimes the girl will sling said guy over her shoulder, potato-sack style; sometimes it's more of a piggyback thing; and sometimes – if she's strong enough – she'll pick him up crosswise in her arms, like a groom carrying a bride over the threshold. Lift-and-carries are limited only by the client's imagination and the girl's physical ability to carry out his requests. Being that I'm somewhat...burly...anytime a client called up my club for an "L&C," I got the gig. It's really fuckin' hard – like doing nothing but squats and lunges in the gym for an hour with 185 to 200 pounds on your back. But the money is very attractive.

One bizarre – okay, one MORE bizarre – wrinkle to this whole thing is that 95 percent of L&C clients are Indian, Pakistani, or Bangladeshi. I have no idea why this is, but the cultural implications are intriguing, to say the least.

A couple years ago, I booked an L&C gig with a dude named Roop. He was a short, dumpy little guy from Mumbai who lived in Jersey and did IT work for some bank. He had teeny little narrow shoulders, a knobby sternum, gangly limbs, and a potbelly that made him look like a toddler with a milk-gut. He also had thick glasses and the fluffy, blown sideways, local newsman haircut his countrymen seem so fond of. Roop was unusual (which believe me, is a relative term here) in that he wanted to mix some actual wrestling in with the lifts and carries. So we started from kneeling – which is typical, since take-downs and throws from standing tend to result in injuries – and I bum rush Roop's show, as it were. Turns out, he has no desire whatsoever to fight back – he just wants to get thrown around and twisted up like a little curried pretzel. This sucks for me, because it's very hard work and also very boring when a client gives me nothing to work with. So I get Roop in some joint-locks, and squeeze his guts with some leg-scissors (a particularly nasty specialty of mine), and all the while, he's saying stuff like, "Oh my heawens, you are so veddy strong!" and "Truly, you are hafing your vay vith me!" in his bubbly post-Colonial accent and kind of gingerly trying to feel my biceps and shit, which would've been flattering coming from anybody else, but from Roop was just sort of furtive and unsavory. I didn't encourage him verbally – I threw out a "Yep" or "Sure looks like it" every so often, but that was it. I'm usually way chattier with clients, but the man was too geeky to bear.

Finally, I got fed up with the whole scene and got Roop in what we Jiu-Jitsu kids refer to as a rear-naked choke. Very effective – your elbow wedged under the opponent's chin, bicep on one side of his neck, forearm on the other, gripping your own opposite shoulder for leverage to constrict the carotid arteries like a nutcracker and get a quick submission. Of course, I wasn't trying to choke Roop out – annoying and creepy as he was, that wouldn't have been sporting. I just thought giving him a little squeeze might shut him up for five seconds. Instead, Roop gasps with joy and says, like it's Christmas fuckin' morning, "Oh my goodness gosh, I am your bitch, am I not?" At which point I just burst out laughing like a hyena and was like, "That you are, Roop. That you are."

I only saw Roop a couple of times after that, but the line, "I am your bitch, am I not?" was immediately incorporated into my friends' social lexicon, where we use it to this day.

Next Up: I'm torn between the Hasidic gentleman with the Nazi interrogation fetish, or the guy with advanced MS who swore up and down that the only thing that eased his symptoms was to have his head crushed in a vicious leg-scissor for 45 minutes twice a week. Stay tuned.

Poor Loser Demands Attention

2008-07-30T15:08:00.010-04:00

Musings on Bum Business Strategy

Last Saturday, there was a pretty good vibe on the subway. Strangers were chatting it up and there was a rare air of camaraderie in the typically quiet commuting affair. I was half-expecting a disco ball to drop out of the ceiling and P-Funk to get on at the next stop. The old lady muttering to herself was about to pull a bottle of bubbly out of her wheelie metal crate and really set it off. But right as the party was about to take flight, a bum got on the train and started yelling about all the things he wanted: food, money, and worst of all, attention. He slunk around, peddling guilt like batteries. And just like that, the funtrain was derailed.

I had seen this guy before, with his rope belt and shorts for pants, and I had given him money, even though he did no hilarious dances or Frisbee-related tricks. I had just moved to the city and hadn't yet learned how to turn a blind eye toward the awkward suffering of strangers. Ew, dee-sgusting.

In general, bums have a very interesting business model. They hassle you, make you feel guilty, hold out filthy track-marked stumps for you to shake, and then expect you to pay for this experience. Dear bums, you sift through garbage all day long, forgive me if I don't want to shake your hand.

If I was a bum (and I'm really not that far off), but if I was a professional bum, I would be Charlie the Complimentary Bum. I would give people compliments. That way they would feel good about giving me their two bits. I would be a bum of service. Sure, I'll pose for a toothless photo op. You want a compliment for the road? I'll scribble "Yore nise!" in waste on a napkin and charge you a dollar.

Almost everything I've learned in my research about bums I learned in Charleston, S.C. There is one gentleman down there by the name of Hooks For Hands. He got his name because his hands were blown off while he was trying to steal copper wiring. Hooks was the ringleader of a jovial bunch of grifters that hung out exchanging trade secrets around a trash can fire, waiting for the bars to close and the drunks to hit the streets. This was an organized bum gang and they made a killing.

I quickly found the best way to ward off their wiles was, right as they staggered up and got ready to ask for money, to ask them if I could borrow five bucks. Asking a bum for money = bum repellent. If you don't want a bum to look at you like a sad, sick puppy while you are trying to stuff yourself with a five-course meal, just ask him for a bite of his chicken bone. He'll be disgusted that you would ask him for something when you have done nothing for him. In fact, the irony would probably encourage him to stop stealing air conditioners and possibly get a job as a bum that sells compliments or an extra in a movie about hot dog stands.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 30)

2008-07-30T08:37:00.007-04:00

Sorry we missed you yesterday. More Tony. More Galt. Sunlight shining through the trees....

Galt MacDermot - Sunlight Shining

Sorry Bout Dat

2008-07-30T08:12:00.006-04:00

Behind the curtain, the men of Uncle pay rent. Which means they have real jobs (scientist, stunt double, fisherman) that sometimes sort of kind of take priority to old Unk. Nothing against the Empire, we just been busy.

But we got a lot in the pipeline, and we're ready to hit you with the heat.

* Matt Goldman on the beauty of real country music.

* Brendan Flaherty on bums, and how they can ruin a subway ride.

* Maxine T on beating the shit out of old rich men, erotically.

And more from Dear Desperately, Tony Baritone, and the rest of the Uncle bomb squad.

If you'd like to submit something to the Empire, shoot as an email at uncle.mag@gmail.com and we'll make it happen.

Stay in school ya'll.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 28)

2008-07-28T10:33:00.004-04:00

Only Tony can win, only Tony can win your love...

The Sylvers - Only One Can Win

A New York Love Story

2008-07-25T14:32:00.004-04:00

Setting: 5 P.M. Tuesday. Downtown 6 train – pulling into 68th Street station. People rush off; people rush on.

The bystanders: 50,000 tired New Yorkers and me.

The main characters: A short, stocky, bald, 50-somethings man who looks like he's just left a construction site (we'll call him Mikey); and a tall, thin, ragged denim jacket-clad man (also in his 50s), who seems to have just come from operating an elevator for nine straight hours (Don).

Mikey has been standing next to me for several stops. When the doors open, Don is the first of many to press into the train. Doors try to close. Twice. As they continue to close unsuccessfully…

Mikey (to Don with heat): Hey, guy! I can't go nowhere!

Don (quickly pointing backwards): Hey, guy! It ain't me that's doin' the pushin'!

Mikey: I'm just sayin'…

Don: Don't yell at me! I ain't doin' nothin'!

Mikey: You're doin' somethin'… you're pushin' up on me!

Don: Don't yell at me, Pop!

Mikey: I'm not the one who's yellin'! And I ain't your Pop!

Don: You are yelling! You're yellin' at me!

Mikey: I ain't the one who started yellin'! Stop yellin' at me!

Don: Hey! Look, we all pay two bucks for this crap.

Mikey (with avid agreement): That's right!

Don (bordering on camaraderie): You know it's right!

Mikey (with certain camaraderie): Yeah!

I stood dumbfounded.

In a mere 30 seconds, these two men had just undergone a complete interpersonal evolution — from strangers to mortal enemies to best friends.

And they say chivalry is dead.

- Submitted by Duke Rodda

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 25)

2008-07-25T11:33:00.006-04:00

Fabulous flutes for Friday. Fantastic!

Seatrain - Flute Thing

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 24)

2008-07-24T19:41:00.003-04:00

Galt moves clothes. Tony moves hips, and mountains.

Galt MacDermot - Moving Clothes

The Drawings of Jon Raye

2008-07-24T15:39:00.009-04:00

Drawings submitted by Jon X. Raye

Have something that is too sweet to go unseen? Submit it to Uncle (uncle.mag@gmail.com). We are looking for new and interesting content of all kinds, from new and interesting people of all kinds. We personally guarantee that your work will be seen by at least three people. And our mothers will love it, no matter what.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 23)

2008-07-23T17:20:00.003-04:00

And on the 8th day, God created soul. And Soul created Tony, and Uncle created an Empire.

The 8th Day - Anythang

Chosen People Choose All-Century Chosen People Team

2008-07-23T14:16:00.010-04:00

Some Jewish friends of mine were very excited the other day to hear that a baseball player they both hated was a member of the Tribe. Maybe he wasn't that bad after all. Sure, he looked like a longshoreman, but if he could hit homers and celebrate Hanukah, then he was all right in their book of life.

They started counting all the Jewish players they knew, and, including the halfies, they almost had enough to field a team. And, oy vey, if they had a time machine to bring Sandy Koufax back, he could be the pitcher! And if there was a surprise Jew in the NHL who was athletic enough to play second base, they concurred, the Chosen People could put together a mighty fine
squad.

"Back in the day," one friend alerted me, "all the best athletes were Jews."

"Yeah, they all grew up playing stickball on the stoop and stuff," the other one said, repeating what he'd heard in Shul.

"No offense, guys," I said, "But I have a hard time envisioning Woody Allen playing linebacker."

They called me a racist. And while I wondered if and how racism applied, they skipped over the NBA and guestimated how many Jewish players were involved in major league soccer, not counting managers.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 22)

2008-07-22T16:54:00.008-04:00

Which came first, the Unk or the Empire.

KoKo Taylor - The Egg or the Hen

Cookies and Vodka

2008-07-22T14:08:00.002-04:00

Unk dunks Oreos in vintage Merlot.

New York Slices

2008-07-22T11:55:00.001-04:00

Sitting in a coffee shop, I was thinking about other things and watching a delicate stock broker. He was picking his nails nervously underneath the table, telling a safe and pretty woman with a fur collar about how highly he regarded fashion. European. Six months ahead.

He spoke quietly and controlled, touching on the talking points of fine wine and fi-nonce, like he was giving a powerpoint presentation to a trout, careful not to scare her away with any sudden movements. But she wasn't scared, no. She didn't go hide under a river bank, or seek refuge at a nearby sample sale, where they were virtually giving away women's undergarments. She was delighted - well, excited in the possibility of delight - with potential for growth as early as next quarter. Oh, New York.

Pretty Sweet Street Art

2008-07-21T16:06:00.009-04:00

Grafitti without the spray paint. Made with those long balloons that clowns turn into wiener dogs and swords. By artist D. Billy. More creativity on his website.

Dear Desperately Single

2008-07-21T11:21:00.006-04:00

This Week's Edition: More Than Just Friends

Dear Desperately Single,
I have a friend and I'd like to see if there is potential to be more than friends. I don't want to make any sudden movements and mess up our friendship, but I also don't want to wait around and do nothing. What should I do?
-Lana, LES

Dear Lana,
This happens to me all the time. Whatever you do, do not take it slow. Rush in and lay it all on the line, hoping to catch him off guard and force this friend into an odd, romantic encounter before he's prepared to tell you no. If this doesn't work, then you should try and make him jealous by going after one or all of his friends. Jealousy is the key to true love, and true love is the key to seduction (which is the key to feeling good about myself for a fleeting moment in this cruel, cold world.)

Two months ago, I was auditing a cooking elective at the high school. In between garlic knots, I met the captain of the JV tennis team and, in thirty seconds, we were best friends. After ten minutes of friendship, I invited him to the locker room to watch while three gym teachers went wild, pegging my bare rump with dodgeballs. But Jason was not initially smitten. I intend to let him know how I really feel this weekend at the junior prom. I have a feeling that, after I climb through the science lab window, "All My Life" by K-Ci and JoJo will come on, and just like in the movies, we'll meet in the middle of the dance floor. I'll let my extensions down and we'll start grinding. And then we will be together forever, living happily in a mansion filled with tons of really cool stuff.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 21)

2008-07-21T10:23:00.007-04:00

Daily Love and Happiness, courtesy of Tony Baritone.

Lee Perry & The Upsetters - Jungle Lion

Academy Records slings Uncle.

2008-07-18T17:29:00.008-04:00

Uncle is now on sale at Academy Records, 96 North 6th St (and Berry), Wburg, Brooklyn. Joke attempt to follow later. Check it.

Dear Desperately Single

2008-07-18T12:40:00.012-04:00

This Week's Edition: Letting Him Know

Dear Desperately Single,
It was a weird weekend. A guy tried to come on to me, and I am a guy. How do I let dudes know that I am not into that without being rude?
Sincerely,
Anthony S., Greenpoint, NY

Dear Anthony,
Who do you think you are? This guy bears his heart to you, possibly while softly tickling your arm, and all you can think about is your own feelings. Poor you, you selfish, selfish beast! Over this "weird weekend," as you put it, this friend risked rejection, social ostracism, embarrassment, and, if your town is anything like mine, possible battery peltings. And yet, here you are, cocky as the day you were born, pretending not to be interested in another man. There are no two ways about it, Anthony, rejection is always rude. Trust me, I know. Oh, dear God, do I know.

I've tried coming out of the closet, and it's not easy. Most of your friends probably won't believe that you play for the other team. Maybe your roommate Lisa will tell you that you're just cripplingly lonely and will do anything for human affection of any kind, even if it means walking around a pet store dressed up as a cocker spaniel and chasing tennis balls for anyone who wants to play. Well, you can tell Lisa that loneliness is the first symptom of homosexuality -- and I read that in a book.

People are people, and you shouldn't limit finding a soul mate to half the population. But despite all this, I like you Anthony. A lot. What are you doing this weekend? I think you should come over to my apartment. I promise things won't get weird. (Unless you want them to.)

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 18)

2008-07-18T10:26:00.005-04:00

Another absolutely fucking great song, courtesy of Tony B. Done by everyone and their mother. Van Morrison did it first. Hombres did it really damn well.

The Hombres - Gloria

Unk Could Do That Too

2008-07-17T16:19:00.003-04:00

Sweet video. Uncle can catch shades on his face. And Brett Favre touchdown passes too. Wearing Wranglers, of course.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 17)

2008-07-17T12:10:00.008-04:00

Teach 'em how to dance Tony.

The Fatback Band - How To Dance

Hey, Meet This Guy: Kissed Her Little Sister

2008-07-16T20:42:00.012-04:00

Kissed Her Little Sister on vacation in Siberia.

When these hipster costume parties start taking themselves too seriously, and everybody is dressed up like Velma from Scooby Doo, I'm tempted to eat glass and do the worm into oncoming traffic. Instead, I find the guy with the tightest pants and ask him if he's hard of imaginary bands I've made up. Usually, he'll adjust his spectacles made out of pipe cleaners and say, yeah, he liked Yin Yang Yarmulke or Baldin College two weeks ago, which was right before they sold out and actually played a song. So commercial.

Genuine music and new creation are beautiful things, and though there will always be skunks that fake the funk, there's usually the real deal in there somewhere, waiting in the wings.

Kissed Her Little Sister, an LA-based electro-folk astronaut and one-man band, is one such musician worth checking out. Blending acoustic instrumentation with electronic beats, loops, and virtually anything else he can get his dirty hands on, he has created an eclectic style all his own, running the gamut from Woody Guthrie to Girl Talk. Although he is currently unsigned, French people love him.

In Footloose, the Reverand John Lithgow banned dancing. What would you do if music were suddenly banned?
I would probably file a complaint with the world. The first rule of music is that there are no rules, which means banning music would probably not necessarily be against the rules, and that fucks with my head. But often I find that some of the best music is the shit that does.

How did they find out about in you in Paris and Montreal?
Business cards, computer-generated pre-recorded telephone spamming machines, afternoon tea meet and greets.

What kind of music do you make?
Concrete horrorcore loopism meets acoustic Appalachian folk music for kids.

Do you cover any other musicians?
Strictly Phil Collins.

How's the music scene in LA?
Fashionable.

Seen anything inspiring lately?
Yeah, a video on Youtube of [musician] Jay Reatard punching his fan in the face. Totally moving.

Why is music important?
Music might be a disease for all I know, or a drug to cure other diseases. Music can make me feel like Barry Bonds and Hakeem Olajuwon all wrapped into one, and conversely, that sad monkey in the zoo... I'm into it.

Anything else?
Yeah, the first song ever recorded was "Mary Had a Little Lamb" by Thomas Edison, and that might be just a rumor... Also, did you know that when you type "rumors" into iTunes Lindsay Lohan pops up, but when you type "rumours" some hot Fleetwood Mac shit pops up?

Yes, 'Rumors' is a great song. Last question - boxers or briefs?
Live free or die.

Kissed Her Little Sister MySpace Page

And coming dangerously soon: Uncle Presents: The Hi-Lo Mixtapes

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 16)

2008-07-16T20:32:00.013-04:00

Tony really sent us some treats. The fifties to the 80's, and everything in between. Jerry Gilmer to Gerry Rafferty. A little bit of Rafferty sweetness, courtesy of Mr. Baritone.

Gerry Rafferty - Right Down The Line

Hipsters, beware. Your days are numbered.

2008-07-15T22:09:00.004-04:00

As you may have feared, Pakistani cab drivers are banding together to take back the mustache. You have dragged their turmeric push brooms through your soft, fashionable grime for long enough. Furthermore.

10 year old girls are taking back their jeans.

Deadbeat dads are taking back PBR. You'll drink Natty Light from now on and like it.

Scooby Doo is taking your bowl-cutted girlfriends. They'll solve mysteries from now on, rather than flopping around like frumpy jellyfish to flash in the pan music. Muffin people, straight bran.

Brian Boitano's summer figure skating camp is taking back your boyfriends. What? He needs counselors.

Rednecks are taking back their t-shirts. They've caught on to your tricks and are repurposing them for their original purpose - to express a perverted love for killing animals.

Greyhounds are taking back their ribs and Barilla is taking your limbs. How long have you been adrift at sea?

Bums want their jobs back. Sitting around uselessly and buying beer with a fistful of dimes is their thing. You can't have it anymore.

The junkyards want the crap you sell on the street back in their dumpsters. Broken faucets and treasure troll heads belong on garbage island, not for sale on your dirty blankets. Living like a crab does not make you an artist.

Eighth graders are taking back their guitars. Your band sucks and an annoying haircut does not make you a rock star.

Put your clothes back in the nursing home burn pile. Return your books to Nancy Drew's library. It's ova, Rock! The act is tired. Give me something new.

Uncle Magazine - Issue One

2008-07-15T21:52:00.007-04:00

Kiddies. Uncle is an Empire, but our humble little universe all comes together with Uncle Magazine, a real life piece of joy you can hold in your hands. Read it on the subway. Read it on the John. Heck, read it anywhere you motherfucking please.

We're figuring how we're going to distribute this thing, and as soon as the balloons pass through our systems, we'll let you know where to find us. Until then, you can email us at uncle.mag@gmail and we'll send you one in the mail.

And in case you just can't wait to jerk it to this bad boy, here's a PDF of Issue One. Thirty-two pages of naked supermodels, metaphorically speaking. Perfection in the nude. No filters, no filler. The raw.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 15)

2008-07-15T18:15:00.009-04:00

There's a crazy little shack beyond the tracks, and Tony B calls it the sugar shack.

Jimmy Gilmer & The Fireballs - Sugar Shack

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 14)

2008-07-15T08:57:00.007-04:00

Happy Monday. A little Sixto. Think Dylan, but not.

Sixto Rodriguez - Can't Get Away

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (June 11)

2008-07-11T15:09:00.007-04:00

Tony only has ice for you...

The Flamingos - I Only Have Eyes For You

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (June 10)

2008-07-10T17:22:00.011-04:00

It's sunny out. Some cloudy music, courtesy of Tony B. Keeps us balanced.

Bobby Bland - St. James Infirmary

Introducing the Tony Baritone Cut of the Day

2008-07-09T11:32:00.009-04:00

We've been resting on our laurels. And we don't even have any. Yeah, we put out an issue, and yeah, we look good in the mirror. But we've been slacking.

But the Empire is getting it's act together, and pretty soon we'll be striking back on a daily basis. Robbin' bullies for their milk money and giving it to nerds. Uncle. A man of the People.

Tony B. laced us with that first box of records. There were too many gems to put on one CD, and some hit the cutting room floor. And then we picked them up, dusted them off, and everyday they'll be another one for your listening pleasure.

Three of them today, as an apology for keeping you waiting.

Ian Langley - Chicano Chaser
Edwin Birdsong - Cola Bottle Baby
10CC - Worst Band In The World

Guy Fakes Heart Attack in Court

2008-07-08T08:09:00.002-04:00

This guy is a total hero. Who knew an amateur lawyer could also be such an excellent actor. Next time we get locked up for smuggling ferrets in tennis ball tubes, we won't be needing any court-appointed defense. We're calling in this guy.

The Internet is Crazy, Yo.

2008-07-08T07:22:00.006-04:00

If you ever sit in a tiny room with a strobe light, a fog machine, and the Venga Boys on loop, you will probably find yourself thinking about the Internet. The Internet is crazy. We don't even really know what it is -- a shared electronic brain in the ether of perverted efficiency? Wow. You can do some banking or read up on exotic parrots, find a restaurant or order a spouse. Shut-ins rejoice!

Some very unnoteworthy scholars recently gathered in a filthy apartment for a summit entitled "The Internet is crazy, yo!" where the Internet was credited with changing human civilization as we know it. The huge brains present compared the Internet to fire, the wheel, penicillin, the automobile, and that bicycle with the big front wheel and tiny back wheel, as one of the great discoveries/inventions that have transformed us from swarthy apes to sleek, sophisticated people.

Naturally, we had to disagree. However, having found this photo of a Grimace on a rascal scooter mowing the lawn, there was no longer any point in discussing human civilization.

Party Eagles.

2008-07-07T21:17:00.005-04:00

Just a few years ago, our great leader stood on piles of smoldering rubble and encouraged us to buy more flags, distrust weirdos, and generally be more "Amurican." All over the Midwest, factories pumped out photos, keychains, and vanity plates of stern-looking bald eagles soaring through red, white, and blue skies that were hilarious then but now float around like cigarette butts in warm beer - tragic reminders of a brutal hangover.

The bald eagle was a symbol of America's toughness and majesty, but today, the eagle patriot is a reminder of a rigidity and unwillingness to adapt as things change in an accelerating world. An albatross wearing a white wig and picking fish out of an oil spill. Perhaps in the future we will have a new bird symbol for our country that represents a different idea of patriotism. I'd like to propose the swallow. Eating bugs and building nests in barns - that's something I can still wave a flag about.

Bachelor of the Week!

2008-07-03T08:18:00.004-04:00

Name: Sam

Aliases: Tricky Larry, Trix, Red, Junior Healey

Height: 6'1"

Weight: 145 lbs.

Turn-ons: Sweat pants, gin, baseball, architecture

Turn-offs: Jumping through hoops

Summer is a great time for lovin, and this bachelor is hot to trot. Whether it's eating nacho cheese in bed or accidentally shooting himself in the leg with a nail gun, this Scorpio can do it all.

A romantic evening with Sam might include looney lettuce, a bike ride, and\or jokes about a recently euthanized horse. If that's not your thing, this strawberry blonde cupcake cleans up real respectable-like, and an evening of dancing and fine wine is not out of the question.

If you would like to inquire more about the bachelor of the week, e-mail uncle.mag@gmail. Maybe we can make a love connection.

Travel Art

2008-07-01T12:13:00.048-04:00

Blue Self
Acryllic, Ink + Oil on Paper

Neil Enggist is a traveling artist, like a salesman without the commission. He has found inspiration across the globe, from the Southwest to the Far East. At times he has even traded his paintings as a form of rent. We asked Neil a couple (very thoughtful) questions, and he obliged, inviting us into the world of a rambling artist and the mystery of a blank canvas. Then he drank us under the table.

Uncle: To what extent is painting a necessary part of your travel experience?

Neil: When I am traveling, the urge to create is heightened as new places, images, people, languages, and color tumble into my senses. Painting always contains a degree of improvisation, but that degree is at its zenith when you are in a space that is utterly new – just you and your tools, which are extensions of you.

I remember being down on Pfeiffer Beach, along the Big Sur coast, and posting up on a massive rock jutting into the Pacific. The wind was kicking sand into my eyes and mean waves were coming at me, completely surrounding my rock at points. I had an impression that death could come as a thoughtless swell of the ocean, but as long as I was painting, I wasn't so much keeping safe as keeping alive.

While traveling you must let yourself be thrown off balance by what is unknown and disarming. Then, through the act of painting, you bring all these things into balance. I have the most vivid memory of places I have painted. Painting is my ultimate communion with the world.

Requieum
Acryllic, Ink + Oil on Canvas

Uncle: A lot of your work seems to have a mystic quality. What do you see when you look into a blank canvas?

Neil: The blankness of the beginning is complete freedom and, as a painting bears itself, you start to feel responsible for listening and helping it become what it wants to be. The mystical part can never be pinned down.

As you look into a painting, you are looking simultaneously into your depths and mine. In its terrain, we, though we may never meet, have achieved a union. This, I think, begins to speak of a mystic quality. But the blank canvas is complete freedom. And as the paint hits, freedom becomes charged and bonded to life. Life brings color. Color is a reason for life.

The Sol
Acryllic, Ink + Oil on Canvas

You can find Neil online at neilenggist.com.

Get into it.

2008-07-01T08:07:00.003-04:00

Super Chill Monkey, no big deal.

2008-06-30T08:33:00.003-04:00

Hopefully, you have seen the movie MXP (Most Extreme Primate), about a monkey who gets kicked out of the NHL, befriends an orphan, and goes on to become a professional snowboarder. It is an instant classic. Especially on Monday mornings, when the only thing that can get me going is a soggy waffle and some good ole fashion monkey trouble.

Who is Desperately Single?

2008-06-29T18:23:00.029-04:00

Who says you have to be emotionally stable to give good advice?

Dear Desperately Single,
I met a guy at the bar and he seemed pretty nice, but when we ran into some of his friends they all started yelling about some sports game. It was a huge turn off. Should I give him the benefit of the doubt and return his call anyway?
-Annie

Dear Annie,
Everybody yells, please don’t judge him. Last night, I was sitting in my apartment, keeping my couch company, when I decided to start yelling. Fortunately, someone called the police. Thirty minutes later, I was losing my voice and scratching at the TV when an officer knocked on my door. He tried to get frisky with some handcuffs, too, but he left before I could get my bra undone. What’s with men these days?

Point is, you should definitely call him back; this guy is probably the one -- and even if he isn’t, at least he’s somebody. You mentioned he has friends, judging from that he is probably nice and sweet and understanding and kind – even if he drinks, yells at dartboards, and sometimes lashes out in violent fits. Trust me, you don’t want to spend your life alone, half naked, not knowing what to wear, and pleading with a 911 operator to patch you through to a handsome policeman who left before you got his name. You’re not as young as you think you are. Call that man. Call him tonight.

What are you looking at, dicknose? (a letter)

2008-06-29T18:11:00.008-04:00

Dear High School Basketball Hall of Fame,

Yesterday, while meeting in my Tuesday night dodge ball league, I heard the dismaying news that a teenage werewolf was being considered to enter the sacred hall. As the head coach of the Indians – Canton, Indiana’s most tenacious freshman boys basketball team – trust me when I tell you that I know high school basketball. And as a former high school basketball player myself (center, team MVP my senior year), and a person, I can also tell quite plainly that Scott Howard/Teen Wolf is not a human. He is a werewolf.

Good sirs, I am a Christian and a firm believer in acceptance of all people, but, as demonstrated by the string of six consecutive backflips he pulled off while recklessly surfing on the roof of Styles’ WolfMobile, Mr. Wolf clearly is no such thing. His vertical leap and wolfish agility alone put him at a considerable athletic advantage. Not to mention the competitive psychological edge he unfairly gains by going up for jump balls with glowing red eyes, fangs, and a body covered in sweat-matted fur (his headband is not enough!). What if he’s contagious? You think I want my son, Toby, spending the rest of his life chasing Frisbees?

As Americans, it is our duty to draw the line somewhere, and somewhere things have gotten
terribly out of hand. Just yesterday I was talking to Old Man Wilson, who owns a liquor store
the town over, and he said Mr. Howard came in the night before the big kegger and wanted
to be served alcohol, even though he was clearly underage. As a law-abiding citizen, Old
Man Wilson refused him service, only to have Mr. Howard/Mr. Wolf let loose a menacing werewolf growl and demand a keg of beer. Old Man Wilson is a veteran, and that wolf bastard is lucky he caught him off-guard that day. Otherwise, I assure you, that animal would’ve
been sent to the taxidermist right then and there.

If that wasn’t enough, my wife has spent the last ten years raising a brood of prized peahens.
And last night, two of them went missing! I may not have proof that Mr. Wolf burrowed un-
der the fence in my backyard and callously drank the blood of two innocent hens beneath
the light of a full moon, but I have my suspicions! All over town, I’ve heard horrible stories
about this monster breakdancing, fornicating with the prom queen, and thinking he’s really
somethin’ else wearing sunglasses indoors. Quite frankly, I am just plain sick of the whole
mess. I haven’t been this riled up since the day my Indians scalped the Avon Warthogs and
took home the conference trophy. Regretfully, I must warn you, if there is no decency left in
this great country, and a teenage werewolf is inducted into the High School Basketball Hall
of Fame, it will put a stain on the memory of the best four years of my life playing high school
ball. It will also put a stain on the hall itself – to such an extent, in fact, that I would request
any nominations I may have personally received over the years for induction be immediately
doused with gasoline and set ablaze.

This situation, gentlemen, is a very slippery slope, and I for one would rather die than know
that maybe someday, even if I’m dead, my picture might be seen in the same building as that of a no-good, red-eyed, binge-drinking, chicken-stealing, werewolf! If we let him in, we have lost a battle of all things holy. What’s next – Magilla Gorilla on the district court?

I thank you for your time and consideration, and pray that you will not lead high school basketball down a path of disgrace and ungodly ruin.

Sincerely,
Whitey Beigeface
Head Coach
Canton Indians, 9th Grade Boys

Rodney Mullen.

2008-06-29T18:02:00.001-04:00

Introducing Mr. Tony Baritone

2008-06-27T17:34:00.012-04:00

Sam met Tony in a record store in Miami. The stench of rum, the gold pinky ring, the mention of hookers he used to love - all of it said Uncle. He promised to send us some records - "only the good shit" - and he followed through.

From him to us, and from us to you. A never-ending pipeline of tunes, courtesy of Mr. Baritone.

Bruce Ruffin - Rain

Hall & Oates - I Can't Go For That

Greetings from Uncle Johnny.

2008-06-11T19:55:00.009-04:00

Welcome to the worldwide web version of Uncle unmagazine. Sometimes entertaining, sometimes creepy. Our goal is to give you something much gooder than everything else out there, and something that you will hopefully want to be a part of.

Uncle Johnny

P.S. If you want to go swimming later, I'll sneak you some beers.

Uncle Empire

No Mas

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (September 24)

Man Presumed Dead Just Unpopular or Politics as Usual (Part I)

Man Presumed Dead Just Unpopular or Politics as Usual (Part II)

DJ K.O - Picture This

Excerpt from "Blues for John"

Dear Mrs. Hong,

The Ferret

Jack's Last Thoughts Of Evening

Murs & 9th Wonder—Sweet Lord

Dick Cheney in Azerbaijan

Keeping The Lights On

Dear X

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 21)

Mother of Invention: The Spacesuit

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 19)

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 18)

That Rat Don't Care

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 15)

Uncle Presents The Hi-Lo Mixtapes (Number One)

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (8/13)

From Russia With Love

Rest in Peace, Mr. Hayes

Why Country Music Matters

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 6)

Dear Desperately Single

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (August 5)

Union NYC Slings Uncle

Tony Baritone Plays The Hits | Shipment One

Lift and Carry Sessions

Poor Loser Demands Attention

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 30)

Sorry Bout Dat

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 28)

A New York Love Story

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 25)

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 24)

The Drawings of Jon Raye

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 23)

Chosen People Choose All-Century Chosen People Team

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 22)

Cookies and Vodka

New York Slices

Pretty Sweet Street Art

Dear Desperately Single

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 21)

Academy Records slings Uncle.

Dear Desperately Single

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 18)

Unk Could Do That Too

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 17)

Hey, Meet This Guy: Kissed Her Little Sister

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 16)

Hipsters, beware. Your days are numbered.

Uncle Magazine - Issue One

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 15)

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 14)

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (June 11)

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (June 10)

Introducing the Tony Baritone Cut of the Day

Guy Fakes Heart Attack in Court

The Internet is Crazy, Yo.

Party Eagles.

Bachelor of the Week!

Travel Art

Get into it.

Super Chill Monkey, no big deal.

Who is Desperately Single?

What are you looking at, dicknose? (a letter)

Rodney Mullen.

Introducing Mr. Tony Baritone

Greetings from Uncle Johnny.

The Tony Baritone Cut of the Day (July 18)