Friday, January 29, 2010

No, donnie, these men are cowards

I have a pain in my guts that I can’t even begin to describe. I think it comes from eating all the pepperocinis at my work. I’m old. I mean, that’s what it is, right? Because I never got this kind of rotten stomach action before. Jesus. Nowdays it’s all sleep and mild foods and no more than a few cocktails or it’s some kind of dazed craptacular the next day. It’s a real dick punch, man.
Last night I watched the Big Lebowski again and I realized something pretty hilarious. I have no real idea what that movie is about. I mean, sure, I dig that there’s two guys named Lebowski, some mistaken identity and a slutty trophy bride who gets kidnapped and theres a ransom plot and a guy who makes the porn is somehow involved and what’s her name, who’s super hot even though she’s real old…uh, you know her…Julianne Moore! She’s the one with all the money and she wants Jeff Bridges’ child (explained with paper thin reasoning, I’d say) but really…there’s so much of that movie that just breezes by and I don’t have any fucking idea what’s going on, or what it has to do with the plot, or anything. Then, at the end, I’m not really sure what the results even are. It’s definitely not got traditional story arc where something either works out, or doesn’t or someone grows or they don’t or stasis is returned or things are heartbreaking or happy, that much, at least, I got.
Now, before this goes on too far, I’d like to point out that I’m not asking for anyone’s interpretation of the movie. I understand it as well as I’d care to (though I bet [watch for it in the sock drawer] I get at least one dumb asshole explaining the whole thing [poorly, mind you] to me anyway, but hey! That’s why god built the internet. So idiots could explain stupid things poorly to everyone else, whether they wanted an explanation or not).
My point is, I’ve seen this movie somewhere in the neighborhood of fifteen times, and the fact that the story is so nebulous that I STILL don’t really know who the nihilists work for (I think they work for themselves but are friends with bunny from porn, right?) really says something about art and making shit for brain consumption, and that’s what I’d like to talk about today.

People forget that art is entertaining. It’s supposed to entertain. That’s what it does. Now, that doesn’t mean that people have to enjoy it. People can hate it. Hating something can be very entertaining. That’s why people love pro wrestling, throwing tomatoes at the bards in the theater in the round and going on internet message boards. People can be scared, people can be revolted, turned on, whatever. The objective to art is a visceral reaction, be it music, painting, film or uh…’performance art’ which, let’s be honest, is dumb. Heh.
-Now, let me pause for a moment here to talk about this last sentence, because it’s not entirely my opinion. The idea of performance art can be amazing. Especially when you take it to the philosophical, situationist or even Nietzsche-ian kind of level and you’re living your life as some sort of piece of art. That’s a pretty interesting way to go, art wise, even if it’s probably (like most art) not done well very often. However, usually, ‘performance art’ is a term for people who don’t quite dance, but do something that’s kind of not too far off from acting/dancing and/or stand in parks painted up like the tin man waiting for people to drop dollars in their dunkin donuts coffee cup. And that shit is just pussified half stepping (in the first case) or just a way to make crack money (in most cases). I mean, if someone tells me they’re a performance artist, my first instinct is to kind of laugh at them. It’s like calling yourself cutting edge. If you were REALLY cutting edge, the idea of defining yourself that way would be fundamentally at odds with what you’re doing, you know? Sure you do. So, anyway, to end this digression, performance art is dumb, unless you’re a genius or you’re real hot and you leave your tits out while you do it, then it’s fascinating.
Where were we? Oh, right. Visceral reactions. My point (and I’m running out of time, so I’ll be brief) is that people who get into the habit or business of making art tend to get to a point where they’re searching for perfection in what they do. The Perfect Manifestation of Brendan Kelly the Songwriter, for example. And that tends to lead into a process that I’d refer to as ‘softening the edges’ and ultimately ‘getting into a box.’ After a while, there’s such a catalog of things you’ve done, things that may have at one time been huge risks for you (or for the medium in general) that have worked out well, that it becomes very VERY hard to get away from those tropes, or tricks or techniques. This can be everything from doubling vocals to the way you paint noses to the gear you use, to the meticulous detail that goes into making everything just-so. The problem, though, is that though these things started out as risks, or interesting ways of interpreting some outside source, now they’re things you’ve done, and you’re being inspired by yourself, and it’s only gonna be diminishing returns at that point. To use the analogy from yesterday, it’s like eating your own shit for nutrients.
THE OTHER THING, and this is the big one, is that suddenly, you’re creating based on a set of expectations about you, and that’s the stupidest reason to create something in the world (except maybe for ‘to save the marriage’). The reason you should be creating is because you have an idea about something that looks/sounds/feels/ cool and you want to do it. That’s it. And ‘cool’ is subjective, sure. Your “cool” can be my “totally fucking repugnant” but you get the idea. People get to a point where they feel like they have to weave a message into things in order to give them value, but the opposite is true. If you’re making art that’s really based on the notion of doing something that just kicks ass, there will BE a message in it, because art, when it’s good, is ALWAYS rooted in something deeper than just being a painting or a song or a dance. But you don’t PUT IT IN THERE!!!! IT ENDS UP IN THERE WHEN YOU CREATE FREELY! When you put it in there, 100% of the time, you wind up with didactic crap. Period.
And, to bring it full circle, if you really just have fun with what you’re creating, it doesn’t even really matter if it all makes sense, or comes together. If it’s fun enough to view or listen to over and over again, people will love it, even if they don’t understand it. Even if it doesn’t wind up really tying the whole room together, man.
That’s the lesson for today people. Get out there and live. Have a good weekend.

Thursday, January 28, 2010

I got a zit the size of a bait shop on my back...

Based on a new morning schedule, I’m typing this as my kid sits next to me, intermittently screaming at the dogs (who are licking his pacifier, which he threw on the ground) and manhandling a plateful of scrambled eggs with a hasslehoffian grace. It’s distracting. Also worth mentioning is that I’ve recently begun working on a dancy, islandy number that’s all about making people cry after they give you blowjobs and you throw them out of your house, and well, I can’t quite get it out of my head (HA! That’s a pun, assholes!)
What else is going on today? I have to work. The Menzingers finished up their record which sounds fucking AWESOME! I particularly like the songs I sang guest vocals on. Those seem like they’ve really got that special something extra. I watched the president last night, but it all just seemed like the extremely boring precursor to what’s sadly become the ‘real event’ in this country(which is, ironically the very thing that the Pres said the American people were sick of), namely, pundits synthesizing the speech, whittling it down to easy talking points and explaining how people should feel about it. Last night, millions of people patiently waited through the rhetoric and clapping and standing and sitting and longwindedness and oratorical zeal and all that crap and just sat there waiting for Brian Williams, Rachel Maddow, Sean Hannity, Keith Olbermann, Bill O’reily, or John Stewart to tell them how well Barack did. Nice one.
Here’s the funny thing. If you, in fact, didn’t watch the speech, which I’m guessing most of you didn’t, could you wager what these people above thought of it? I didn’t watch any punditry, but I’m guessing (and I’m predicting 98% accuracy on this guess) that it went, in order, cautiously saying it was pretty strong at times but had serious flaws, loved it, hated it, loved it, hated it, makes a dick joke tonight.
These pundits are so beholden to their party lines, and for good reason. They’re up against pundits that are so beholden to their party lines that if they’re not equally zealous, they look like simpering pussies in comparison, and that, my friends is the political equivalent of lacking confidence when you’re going in for the “blow me while I drive around the block” move. No, Lou Dobbs can’t afford to seem moderate, or give an inch, because he’s surrounded by hawks on both sides, and he and his ilk (on both sides) earn all their money pretending to be your old crotchety grandfathers who just hate the way the fags and the abortionists are turning the notion of the american fifties around and around in its grave, OR your (quasi) radical gay uncle who just hates the crotchety grandfather and swings wide to embrace everything he hates even when it’s kind of ridiculous.
Remember when you were a kid and you’d ask your mom “why do I have to make my bed? I’m just gonna sleep in it again.”? Remember that? Well, that’s what we’re doing here with this punditry. We’re skipping the part that takes energy, because fuck it, we’re just gonna lie in whatever ideological trench our favorite pundits (or rockstars or entertainers or lady on the view) have set up for us to pledge allegiance to. And that’s pretty pathetic, America. Even for you.
When you know, you KNOW someone’s gonna fuck you, you don’t want to skip right to the part where you sneak out of their house without waking them up at four thirty in the morning and leave your socks behind, right? When you buy a beer, you don’t just crumple the can up and wait for the headache, right? Right. Know why? Because the shit in between these moments, the meat of the activities, are active pastimes (is that some kind of oxymoron?) that are enjoyable. I’d like to suggest that paying attention to something and making your own mind up about it is as enjoyable as drinking a beer, or getting sloppy head from some fat skank while her roommate snores on the couch (eh, maybe not, but you get the idea). The thing is, most of us aren’t very smart. Our opinions aren’t that sophisticated and we don’t have the benefit of knowing what’s really being talked about all the time. When we watch the State of the Union and make our own decisions and formulate our own opinions, we risk exposing the gaps in our own knowledge of the system, the problems we face as a nation, our obliviousness to the news when we present that opinion. However, it’s Sean Hannity’s JOB to know the significance of every single shred of that speech, and it’s much easier to listen to him, synthesize his (asinine, by the way) viewpoint, and sort of learn by way of the punditry. It’s a little bit like eating someone else’s shit for nutrients though. Yeah, it’ll probably work for a while, but you aren’t building much of a healthy foundation AND you’re gonna wind up full of shit.
SO with that being said, I’d like to go. I’m going to take my kid to school and then step into line in our increasingly service based economy. God bless America. Sheeesh.

Oh, quick thing: Have you seen that ad for the Larry the cable guy special? It takes place at an outdoor arena in Nebraska or something and it’s packed to the gills with mongaloids who don’t care that Larry is really from Connecticut and fakes that accent. He says something like, “wow, fifty thousand of y’all! If you need to go to wal mart, now’s a good time to go.” And boooooy-howdy! The hicks practically shoot their guns at the sky they start hootin and a’ hollerin so loud!
How’s that for fucking great? Celebrate that you shop at a store that undercuts so mercilessly that it’s put American institutions like Rubbermaid out of business and shipped jobs and profits to China, all in the name of the bottom line, celebrating all the while at the altar of a New England sophisticate “faggoty entertainer” who’s mercenarily aping the very culture he appeals to. Everyone clap. Tomorrow it’s back to the photo counter at Walmart. It’s back to the tire rotating dock at walmart. It’s back to the couch on the porch. Sheesh, again, people. Sheesh. The state of the union is uh…well, I guess I don’t like the self righteous liberal douchebags that “see things so much more clearly” than their hillbilly brethren either, so uh, that’s it for me too, I guess.
We’re fucked.
Man, Barack could have saved us all some time and just said that, right? Would have been refreshing.
“Hello. I’m Barack Obama. We’re fucked. Good night. God Bless you and God bless the United States of America. Smoke if you got ‘em.”

Wednesday, January 27, 2010

paid advertisement

I have a friend named Joe. Joe’s a good dude. We’ve known each other for a while and we’ve traveled the world, I’ve hung out and gotten along with his wife, and he’s gotten along with my wife. We don’t swing or anything, just good old fashioned neighborliness. Funny thing, I don’t think our wives have ever met. Not important. Moving on.
Joe and I have consumed multiple bottles of champagne early in the morning and hung out at ridiculous rockstar parties in penthouses in Vegas that neither of us really should have been at for thousands of reasons. I’ve stayed on his floor. He’s stayed on my floor. When I broke my kneecap, he was the first person I went out and got a beer with after the initial recovery period ended. That’s really more coincidence though. Again, not important. Jeez.
SO, you get the idea. He’s a good dude. Anyway, not long ago, Joe called me up and told me that he’d been doing solo tours and he’d made some recordings of himself doing acoustic renditions of some songs he plays with his band. He asked if I’d be into doing a handful of Lawrence arms songs acoustic and putting out a split with him. I told him that I’d think about it, but that was code for “sounds kinda lame, dude” and I kind of put the idea on ice. After all, I got a lot going on, folks. The last thing I need is to step into line behind every other dipshit raspy punk rocker turned balladeer that seems to be the style of the times. I mean, honestly, I’m literally already in ONE line behind Tom and Chuck and everyone. I don’t need to climb into another. That’s DMV style queuing, bro. No thanks.
BUUUUUUUUT, then I thought about it some more, and I thought, ‘you know what? Fuck it. If I can do something interesting, I’m gonna give it a go.” SO, I got my buddy Yates to set up a mic, and I got a new acoustic guitar (thanks to everyone here on the sock drawer who helped me to decide what to get! [sarcasm/old inside joke for real nerds]) and I decided that I’d just kind of go in, somewhat unprepared and do everything one take, live style. I figured that if I’m just doing old Arms songs, I’ve already contributed my vision of them as studio pieces, as perfect as we can get them, and so if I was gonna do it, I wanted more of a raw visceral and intimate quality in the recordings. I ended up doing a couple of overdubs, a riff here and there, but other than that, the recording is seven essentially live tracks, and they’re mostly TLA songs, though one cover slips in there too.
SO, long story continuing on, I finished that shit, and I thought it sounded pretty good and Joe has some songs and we’re gonna put it out as a split. Joe knows a dude named Neil who runs a label called Anchorless and he was apparently the impetus behind this whole project after hearing Joe’s songs. I talked to Neil, he seemed like a good dude, so I said, ‘yeah, fuck it. We’ll do it with this guy.’ Then I weaseled my buddy toby onto the project because I’m the fucking picture of nepotism, and we were set to go. A split release. Me, Joe Anchorless and Redscare, splitting shit like egalitarian dogs alone in a filthy dog park.
I don’t think it’s out of line for me to tell you guys that the shit is called Wasted Potential, which was originally gonna be the title of this blog, but at the last minute I changed it to Bad Sandwich Chronicles. Why? Cuz I’m a marketing savant.
Anyway, listen up. I can’t speak for Joe, cuz well, he lives in Richmond and who knows what kind of hillbilly notions he’s got in his head, but for me, this does not mark a turn for me down the road of being some sort of folk or alt country guy or anything like that. This is simply me doing acoustic versions of songs you’ve already heard and getting a little hang time in with some old friends in the process. Oh, believe me, it’s a selfless endeavor. Need proof?
Fine dipshit, we’re playing a show, Joe and I, Friday, feb 5th at the Mutiny in Chicago. That’s significant because the Mutiny is this shithole famous for four things:
1) a giant urinal
2) individual pabst pitchers
3) free shows
4) the bands don’t get paid.
That’s right bitches and bastards. We’re celebrating this thing with a free show and we’re not getting paid. True! Haki ya mungu! So suck on that, you jaded fucks.

Oh, it’s not the release show or anything, so there will be no merch or anything like that. I don’t even think we get free beer, so bring your wallets you cheap fucks.
That’s everything. Enjoy your freezing ass day.
Oh, Joe is from that band Smoke or Fire.

Tuesday, January 26, 2010

i shouda stood in bed

Man, first thing that happened when I woke up this morning was that, on the way to the coffee maker, I stepped in dogshit. It was early morning, and I was still in my underwear and barefoot. The results were that the dual logs of shit were ground into not only the creases of my foot, but also the rug right in front of the kitchen sink.
At the coffee maker, yesterday’s grounds decided to ricochet off the garbage can and spill all over the floor. An offhand comment by my wife about my stinky ass and a shower and a quick breakfast later, I’m off to my take my kid to his second day of his new school and as I pass my other car, I notice that the rear tire is flat.
I drop my kid off only to realize that the one teacher that I saw him bond with yesterday isn’t there, which sends him into a bit of a ‘don’t leave me here with these fucking strangers, man!’ kind of panic that I (despite my sympathy) just kind of have to shrug off and smile and ignore in order to not wind up raising a total pussy.
Back at my car, the lug nuts were frozen on. The jack was under the seat where the carseat is. I had to struggle for about forty minutes to get the nuts loose (that would be funny if I wasn’t so pissed right now) and then remove the car seat to flip up the regular seat to get the jack and then put it all back, and man, installing and removing a car seat sucks in the best of circumstances and today, it’s fucking twenty degrees outside, windy and snowy, just by the way.
THEN, as I’m on the nasty ground, jacking up the car, I come to realize that the reason my tire is flat is because some dildo knifed it. There’s an inch gash in the sidewall. Where the fuck do I live? In a back alley full of satin-jacketed street toughs behind a broadway theater? Who slashes tires anymore?
Anyway, once I get the car jacked up, the real dickpunch sets in. At this point I’ve been in the cold for almost two hours and I’m pissed, and a little concerned that my kid’s gonna have a rough day at school and I’m dirty and did I mention pissed? Because yeah, I was pissed. And the fucking flat is frozen to the wheel mount.
I got a mallet and a lighter and banged and lit and cursed and kicked and now I’m waiting for triple A like some sort of old lady or otherwise dignity-free pussy who can’t even change a fucking tire.
Now, I’m no mechanic. Hell, I once poured oil into the power steering reservoir in my stepdad’s car. But one thing I can do is change a tire, and this, my friends, has been a terrible day so far, and it’s just gonna get stupider. I’m missing all my meetings. I’m not getting to the gym. I’m fuming like a dumb fake-tanned slightly beer-gutted cunt wearing the same dress as the super fat chick at the club, and thereby drawing unflattering comparisons. I’m fucking bummed, bros and hoes. Bummed.
This morning, between the dogshit and the stinky ass comment, we had vh1 on and were watching videos to see what the kids are listening to these days. That band Train was on, and we saw the video for their song “hey soul sister” which, uh…I don’t even know where exactly to begin enumerating all the things that are fucking terribly wrong about the entire thing going on there.
Firstly, and most glaringly, I suppose, is the name of the song. Um, who are you? Oprah? Because she’s the type of person that shouts woefully out of touch salutations along the lines of ‘hey soul sister!’ I mean, shit. That’s some shit that an old wise black woman would have shouted to Punky Brewster during a very special MLK day episode.
Then, there’s the dude singing. This guy is like, I dunno, fiftyish, and he’s dressed like a twenty year old girl. He’s got all sorts of medallions that hang to his navel and they’re on hemp type burlapy rope, and his shirt is just…no, he, HE is just gross. He’s so old and he’s desperately trying to be young and he looks like the California Raisins version of John Stamos dressed as Mischa Barton and he’s singing this adult contemporary, islandy little song with lyrics that were seemingly written by an 80 year old trying to click with the zeitgeist of the new millennium (sample lyric: “you can cut a rug” [which meant ‘you can dance’ back in the fifties] and the aforementioned ‘hey soul sister!’) and he dances like my kid. Just all flailing and elbows and pointing and he obviously has no business dancing and it’s gross. It’s all just so gross.
Imagine your dad won some contest and the top stylists at the fashion mall in Council Bluffs Iowa made him over like a rockstar and then someone shot a video for that one song that your mom wrote for him. That’s this.
This day sucks so far. Send me pictures of your clams pls. Thanks.

Monday, January 25, 2010

of mice and brens

Good morrow, turdlets. Welcome to another week of mindless drudgery. It’s days like this when we should all take the time to reflect on…no. I’m sorry. I can’t do this. I’ve got a heavy heart. You’ll have to forgive me. I mean, you all know why, right? You know what I’m referring to, don’t you? I mean, it was devastating…well, to all of us frankly. What do you mean you don’t have any idea what I’m talking about? Okay, fine. Fine.
Last week was a pretty rough week for Brendans everywhere. Now, there are a lot of us, mostly in Ireland, sure, but there are sprinkles and pockets of Brendans everywhere, and granted, we don’t have a lot of celebrity Brendans out there, but there’s a few. I mean, there’s Brendan Canty, drummer of Fugazi, there’s me, and I mean, I’m not really famous, (but I’m more famous than that prick kid Brendan Houser who punched me in the stomach and stole my toy semi truck when I was five), and of course there’s the actor Brendan Kelly, who, presumably knows who I am, as we share a wikipedia signpost.
So, well, you get the idea. There’s a few mildly notorious Brendans. Not a lot. Not like Seans or Charlies or Brads. Nah. There’s just a few of us and we don’t really clock in very high on the celeb meter. For that matter, I can only think of a couple of other Brendans I’ve ever met. I have an in-law cousin once removed named Brendan (what’s up, lil B!). He’s probably the best Brendan I know, and he’s followed by Brendan Kelly the guy who’s an actor but not me, and also not the actor Brendan Kelly that we were just talking about. He’s just a guy from Chicago who acted in my movie and made all the email threads confusing as shit.
There’s Brendan Houser, who I knew as a kid, and who, as I mentioned before, stole my truck, and there’s a guy named (I’m not shitting you here) Brendan Dickout (that’s how it’s pronounced, at least. DICK-out) who played guitar in some crappy band that we toured with once. That’s pretty much it, Brendan wise. I mean, once I got called to the gate at the Milan airport only to realize that it was the flight to Dublin calling another Brendan Kelly. That was pretty funny, but you get the point. There’s not a lot of us.
When someone yells “Chris!” around my friends named chris, half the time they don’t even turn around. If someone yells “Brendan!” it’s about ninety percent that they’re talking to me (though lately there’s a lot of moms yelling at about 8 yr old Brendans all around me and my kid when we’re at the zoo and shit like that, but anyway, that’s neither here nor there.)
Okay, so, in this tiny little club, the Brendans, we have one big, grand puba of a leader, and I’m sure you all know who he is. That’s right, the Encino Man himself, B Fray, the biggest Brendan out there, Brendan Fraiser. Generally, I’d say he’s led us with dignity and aplomb by keeping our shared name classy as the marquee star of such kick ass cinema as Airheads, School Ties, Monkeybone, Bedazzled, George of the Jungle, In the Army Now, the Mummy franchise and of course Blast from the Past.
His blank, oafish affability helped me define my own idea of Brendandom when I was a mere pubeless, personality challenged weakling out there on the soccer field trying in vain to not look like a sissy as people hurled variously shaped balls in my direction. Yes, the Fray really piloted his ship of Brendans calmly through the nineties and aughts, and we all went to see all his wonderful movies in exchange. But then, last week something terrible happened.
I mean, what was he even DOING at the fucking Golden Globes? Was he nominated for his role in GI JOE:The Rise of Cobra? Because, well, he was great in it, sure, but we brendans are kind of used to the Hollywood foreign press turning up their noses at BeeF’s work at this point. Anyway, I digress. Point being, right there, on camera, when Deniro and Scorsese were having a moment, as Marty (as I like to call him) was being presented with the Cecil B Demille award by Bobby (as he’s colloquially known) suddenly, the camera shot to BeeF as he’s pulling this retard clap and slap, mongo guffaw combo that seemed so classless and gauche coming from the thespian that had absolutely vanished into the role of Dudley Do Right and melted us when he reprised his famous “Link” character from Encino Man in Pauly Shore’s Son In Law.
Gone was that gravitas. All that was left was a tubby shell of a once great actor who had obviously snuck into the Golden Globes, clapping, chuckling and vibrating like an inbred Georgia orphan watching a dog fuck a goose down by the crick out back.
It was rough.
THEN, Joel Mchale picked up the footage and played it over and over and over and over again on the Soup. It seems like it’s going to become some sort of recurring joke. Our dignity is gone. Thanks B Fray. Thanks for the humiliation, but you know what else? Thanks for everything. Really. You’ve been a great most famous guy with my same first name. BUT, times are changing, and you’ve gotten soft, and, well, it seems like we need a new “most famous Brendan in the world” now. I better leak that sex tape.

Friday, January 22, 2010

It opened up my eyes!

Okay you fucking smart ass. Look at this for a second.

shock1 [shok]
a sudden and violent blow or impact; collision.
a sudden or violent disturbance or commotion: the shock of battle.
a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities: The burglary was a shock to her sense of security. The book provided a shock, nothing more.
the cause of such a disturbance: The rebuke came as a shock.
Pathology. a collapse of circulatory function, caused by severe injury, blood loss, or disease, and characterized by pallor, sweating, weak pulse, and very low blood pressure. Compare anaphylactic shock, cardiogenic shock, hypovolemic shock.
the physiological effect produced by the passage of an electric current through the body.
shocks, Informal. shock absorbers, esp. in the suspension of an automobile.
–verb (used with object)
to strike or jar with intense surprise, horror, disgust, etc.: He enjoyed shocking people.
to strike against violently.
to give an electric shock to.
–verb (used without object)
to undergo a shock.
1555–65; < MF choc armed encounter, n. deriv. of choquer to clash (in battle) < Gmc; cf. D schokken to shake, jolt, jerk
Know why I bring this up? Anyone? Well, yesterday one of my lovely socks suggested that my hyperbolic Avatar review (which, I’d like to add, was neither hyperbolic nor was it a review) contained the selfsame perversions of language that my very brother had railed against in the previous days comments section (check day before yesterday’s sock drawer and yesterday’s post and subsequent sock drawer if you need to be brought up to speed).
Well, firstly, dildo, I’d like to point out that in your haste to suggest that I may be igniting a family feud with my ignorance, you neglected to actually take into account that this definition of shock: “a sudden or violent disturbance of the mind, emotions, or sensibilities” AND this one: “to strike or jar with intense surprise, horror, disgust, etc” LITERALLY represent the emotions I was presented with, involuntarily, mind you, upon realizing that the most expensive and most successful movie of all time was laden with expository dialog so wooden and clumsy that it would be laughed out of a night school screen writing class. SO, therefore, you get the point, right? Right. Okay, no need to fight here. Just want to clarify. I don’t cotton to accusations of stupidity, espesh when I’m in the midst of a dialog about stupidity with my brother in the room. You’re trying to dog me out in front of my family, bro. Not cool. Now, they’re all presumably smart enough to recognize this dog and pony show mock trial that you’ve set up for me in the sock drawer for the banana republic monkey tribunal that it is, but, well, you understand, right? Good.
Okay. Moving on.

Today is my kids last day of school at the bite zone. He’s going to a real, nice scholastically oriented place where the vibe is less chaotic and maybe, hopefully, less conducive to biting other kids all day long. It’s a nicer place. It’s in a free standing school building instead of a store front in a strip mall, for one thing, and, well, I’m pretty stoked. Enough about kids. Let’s talk about what you really want to hear about, namely, my opinion of teen hearts.
Yesterday, in the sock drawer, beneath the suggestion that I don’t know how to properly exemplify my disgust in prose, was a suggestion that I discuss the Teen Hearts, who are, for those of you who don’t know, this fruity band of skinny androgynoids who play some sort of Strawberry shortcake by way of matt and kim synth dance music that’s undeniably catchy and would be completely dismissable as a bunch of dorks doing a less offensive brokencyde except for one thing: they’re a little too old to be doing it.
Okay, so brokencyde has the tubby dude with the combover in their band, so does teen hearts. Teen hearts also features a girl and a singer with an alkaline trio tattoo. Teen hearts ALSO (brace yourselves) seems like a joke to me. I don’t believe for a moment that it’s real. Those dudes are too old, it’s too manufactured and clean to just come out of the gates like that. There’s none of the trademark sloppy youthful exuberance that indicates genuine passion and excitement for finally getting out there and trying to get heard. It’s cold and calculated. I mean, that singer guy is close to my age. They cover ace of base. That means he REMEMBERS ace of base and knows how fucking goofy the situation around him is. It’s an elaborate ruse. That’s my opinion of the teen hearts. AND, if I’m right…well, they’re about the coolest group of people out there, honestly. Wait…Is that too hyperbolic? Maybe. Maybe so. Let’s tone it down. If I’m right…well, that’s pretty funny. How’s that? Better? Good.

There was a band called Hard Skin that was an oi band from England. We played with them on our first tour of the UK. They were all skinheads and so were their fans, EXCEPT, the dudes in the band weren’t really skin heads at all. They were regular guys who wrote all the music as a joke and were as surprised as anyone when it caught on. Their mongo fans, however, didn’t get the joke, which made for one of the most hilarious bits of live theater/rock and roll I’ve ever had the pleasure of witnessing as these dudes openly mocked a room of cheering, bloody skinheads who couldn’t stop loving them and had no idea that they were being made fun of. It was great, AND it truly was one of the best things I’ve ever seen, live show wise. No exaggeration.
So, if the teen hearts are like the fruity hard skin, well that’s rad.
I gotta go to work. Be cool out there.

Thursday, January 21, 2010

whatever happened to twisted sister?

Okay, first of all, I’d like to pull back the curtain on my most articulate of commenters. Yesterday, you all may have noticed an extremely erudite and verbose comment in my sock drawer that dealt extensively with the retardation and active retarding of the evolution of modern thought vis a vis contemporary English. You remember what I’m talking about, right? It was long and pretty funny. The poster’s name was rjk and then some numbers, so like rjk23345, or something like that. Not that his name’s terribly important, just trying to paint a picture.
Well, I went back to check that little essay out again in the harsh sober dawn, and it turns out the author erased it. Seems he’s too good to have his wordy little rants immortalized here on the sock drawer. What happened rjk32245? Your essay was being met with critical acclaim by all the biggest names and brightest stains in the drawer. Did you get nervous? Caught in the spotlight? Icarus complex? Felt the pressure to top that post with another one that’s even better? Look, I’m no stranger to the dangers and fears that accompany massive adulation. Believe me. I’m quite popular. But erasing your footprint is never the answer, rjk23423. That only serves to undermine your most basic of instincts to preserve remnants of yourself long after you’ve gone. Now, I’m no fancy big city lawyer, (that’s my favorite way to start a sentence by the way, and this is a surprise twist way to end it>) but rjk234523 is. I know this because he’s my little brother. No shit. That K at the end of RJK stands for Kelly. Believe that, assholes.
Anyhoo, right now, he’s got his panty hose socks and snakeskin shoes up on his mahogany desk and he’s sipping brandy from a snifter (like a mad homo, yo!) and he’s thinking to himself “damn you, handsome yet unsuccessful bohemian brother, for calling out my hubris and subsequent attack of humility! I should have you written out of the old man’s will!” And he could, too. He’s a powerful bigshot. Hey, how do you think I’ve avoided jail all these years, eh? That’s right assholes. I’ve got people on the inside. Anyway, I’d just like to point out that he’s obviously the smarter of the two of us (told you, asshole!) and he’s the one who erased his comment, not me. Last night he told me that he gets told that he looks like a less attractive howie mandel, which I don’t see, but I wonder if he’s ever really had someone say that to his face. World may never know. Okay, moving on.
Have you dipshits seen this show “locked up abroad”? It’s the single greatest re-enactment series of all time. Here’s why: every single show is about drugs. It starts off with some dumb young Brit/American/Canadian/white person just partying somewhere and they take the time to make the people actually look like younger, more attractive versions of the people who are retelling the story, AND they take the time to make the partying look legitimately fun. SO, here’s this woman, narrating her tale of snorting coke in the bars on the beach in Goa and getting fucked six ways from Sunday by a bunch of filthy dreadlocked backpackers, and they’ve got this girl who looks like the woman, but hotter and younger (cuz, you know, it’s before her prison term), reenacting all of this. Then she gets into smuggling. THEN she gets busted. THEN she goes to jail in India and THEN!!!!!!! She stays there for years and then they show the footage of them actually getting reunited with their families. It’s awesome. It’s everything I love: hot slutty young people making bad decisions, peeks into foreign jails, hilarious hindsight and subsequent self immolation (sound familiar rjk235?) and finally, great tips on what sets off the people who bust smugglers. SO, if you want to internationally traffic cocaine or hashish, I’d say there’s no better place to start than tivoing locked up abroad. It’s really a great show.
Okay, what else? Avatar, right? I saw that shit the other day. Man, oh man. It sucks. It’s the most manipulative, shitty, emotionally bankrupt piece of garbage I’ve maybe ever seen in my life. I mean (spoiler alert!) what a dumb fucking movie. Have you seen the matrix? Have you seen dances with wolves? Have you ever wondered what would happen if the two of them were seamlessly combined in the best looking video game of all time? Well, wonder no more, because Avatar is here to answer the question that no one wanted to waste time asking.
Now, don’t get me wrong. It’s absolutely fucking stunning to watch. I completely dig why people are flipping out over it, but man, really? They’re literally invoking 9-11 imagery, they’ve got bad guys getting hearts of gold, a cripple with a chance to walk again, a guy that dies and is reanimated by the love of a woman, pets dying, the spurned ex lover finally realizing that his romantic rival may be a bigger, better man than he credited him with initially, all sorts of bullshit white man/native dynamics, expository dialog that is so shameless that I was literally SHOCKED (example: “I don’t want you on this mission. I want your dead twin brother, the PHD who studied this project for three years. You’re just a dumb marine.”) and enough beautifully unrealizable cgi bodies to give even the most confident person cause to consider barfing up lunch a few times a week.
In short, you gotta see it. I’m in no way done talking Avatar with you people, but I have to go to work right now, so I’ll pick this up tomorrow.

Wednesday, January 20, 2010

....for me to poop on!

Well, hey there. Sorry about yesterday. I was running all over the place getting shit, setting shit up, emailing from my phone like some sort of loudmouth dipshit at the airport/restaurant/talent show/movie theater. Oh, I seemed important yesterday, boy. Believe you me.
Wait. Believe you me? Is that a phrase? Okay, that’s not what I meant. Of course it’s a phrase. “Believe you me” they say. Like, for example, they’ll ask: ‘oh, was his dick big?” and you’ll say “Believe you me it was!” What I want to know is, who the fuck was running things when this dogshit phrase slipped through the back door and into general usage? Who was the gatekeeper that allowed this lazy piece of syntax into our lexicon?
“Believe you me” is akin to what a cave man might say in attempting to piece together the general idea of “I believe you,” it’s just fucking mongolidian in its etymology.
It’s funny, because when I see certain etymologies, for example, the story behind OK, they sound so fucking retarded that I can’t believe that I sit here on a day to day basis and let the same sort of thing transpire, and even facilitate and indulge in it myself. I know, this isn’t making sense, so let me explain.
“OK”, it’s said, comes from a dark and murky corner of the English language. No one is quite sure where it originated or why. There are competing theories and some are more popular than others. The top few, I’m told, all have their ardent supporters who, presumably, give a shit about this kind of thing, believe it or not.
Okay, anyhow, the prevailing story in how OK, or okay, came about has to do with the hip fad that caught on around the turn of the century that involved purposely misspelling words. OK, some believe, is an abbreviation for Oll Korrekt or ‘all correct’ (though why anyone would ever say ‘all correct’ in response to something is beyond me. That’s the response of a square robot, man [and I mean square like majorly unhip, not like a paralellagram]). Some dumb journalist shortened this dumb phrase in some dumb newspaper (I actually think it was the Post Dispatch, believe it or not) to OK, and there you go. Linguistic history, or linguistory, was made.
So, as I heard this dumb story for the first time (and I heard this for the first time when I was in grade school), I couldn’t help but think “how fucking retardedly lame is the fad of purposely misspelling words? I mean, that’s like “wear an onion on your belt” or ‘wear shortsleeved button ups and bike around with a big moronic hillbilly version of the bible” level, in terms of totally pussified and otherwise dorky fads. BUT, then I think about it a little more, and I realize that if I think shit’s cheesy, like a movie or a song, I usually write cheezy, even though that’s improper. I also find myself writing lite and tonite. Know what that means?
That’s rite, man. I’m purposely misspelling shit as part of a small, insidious dorky little fad that I was, more or less totally unaware of perpetuating until this whole thing about Oll Korrekt came back to me a couple of weeks ago, for some reason. Anyway. Jeez. How’s that for a lame little bit on syntax and spelling, eh? Yeah. Maybe I’m just hung up on the building blocks of education because my kid got into a new school today. That’s right, turds! He’s got a whole new crop of innocent toddlers to chew on! Look out Tyson and Miss Angela!
Okay, none of this has anything to do with what I wanted to talk about today, which is Avatar, but I think I’ll save that for another time, because I’ve got a lot to say on the subject of avatar. I saw it, in “Real D” on Monday, and well, you’ll just have to wait, but yeah. I got a lot to say.
Speaking of entertainment, how bout Jay and Conan, eh? I mean, this is, far and away, the most entertaining thing that’s ever happened to either of their sad fucking pathetic shows. Yeah, sure, sure. Conan used to be pretty okay, but he was never as great as his wildest, drunkest supporters claimed he was. The shit was always amusing, funnier than Jay and funner than Dave, sure, but that’s like saying that you’ve got the biggest dick in the second grade. No, Conan was fine, and when he had guest bits (like Rob Smigel and Triumph) his show rose above amusing mediocrity and really took off, and shit man, the most important quality in a leader is the ability to delegate, recognize potential and weakness and work selflessly towards the good of the unit, and Conan was able to do that sometimes, BUUUUUUT, nothing was ever as magnificent as this strange “Jay vs. Conan united against NBC, backed by Dave who hates them all and fuck me, what the fuck is gonna happen to Carson Daily?????” situation that’s developing here right now.
Personally, I think NBC is retarded to gag Conan, as he’s pulling down the biggest ratings of his tenure as Tonight Show host. They should, in the words of a very astute and erudite humorist of our times, embody the important qualities of leadership and work selflessly towards the good of the unit, right? Right. But of course, that would be the smart thing to do, and it would involve executives not being able to overtly tell people what they were doing, which would potentially lead to some form of fake, manufactured humiliation which is all too messy and sordid for something as important as drunk assholes in their beds laughing vaguely at some shitty halfassed comedian hosts right before they flip off the lights and whack themselves into the drunken oblivious sleep of the damned, right?
Sheesh. Sometimes I think that I need to do everything around here, which is funny, because I’m not allowed to do almost anything.
Oh yeah, we’re goin on tour in the UK in March. We can talk about the UK tomorrow when we talk about avatar. Good god. Is anything good anymore?
I see you, my brothers and sisters.

Monday, January 18, 2010

office closed for holiday

Yeah, man. It's MLK day. If the post office isn't open, neither is BSC world HQ. We can't get our nudes, you know? Right. Anyway, in honor of the day, here's a joke. Be cool to each other and we'll rap tomorrow.

What do you call a black guy flying an airplane?

A pilot, you fucking racist.


Friday, January 15, 2010

I smell gunpowder...

Man, last night was my friend’s birthday party. It was at a bar and I showed up, had three beers over the course of about two hours and then went home because I knew I was gonna have to be up early today with my crazy child eating monster. I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’m becoming responsible or something. It’s terrifying, to put it mildly, but I’m getting to the point where reading sounds like more fun than going out and whipping my dick out on the table at a bowling alley. What’s happened to me? I used to be beautiful, man. Sigh. Well, you know what they say, right? Do you? I don’t either. Ha! Take that. There’s still a little irreverence in me yet. I’m not memorizing tired old adages about getting old and slowing down. No siree. Save that shit for your great aunty, am I right? Good. Okay, moving on.
Did you hear Pat Robertson? He let the cat out of the bag, so to speak, on this whole Haiti thing. Okay, let’s start at the beginning. Pat Robertson is a decrepit old assbag that preys on dumb people who are foolish enough to send him money when he tells them stories about people rising from the dead and walking on water and hating gays. He’s been doing this for years. He’s up there with Anal Roberts and Jerry Falwell (not literally, because, you know, they’re both up in heaven, presumably, with all their 21 virgins and all that, and pat Robertson’s down here overtly cavorting with his saggy old wife [I’m assuming he’s got one of those] and secretly with gay slaves and all that, none of whom are virgins, but we’re really getting off the point)…uh, oh yeah, he’s up there with falwell and Roberts in terms of being a manipulative genius/prick that’s made millions of dollars just begging from people. Howard Stern recently referred to televangelism as ‘one gigantic homeless jar’ and he’s right. You’re better off spending your money watching that guy that’s painted silver down by the shore come to life for a second than sending it to these dipshits. Check out the suits. Those are nice suits. Know who bought these assholes these nice suits? YOU, you fucking mouthbreathing reatards (rip).
Anyway, sorry. I get emotional when I talk about these guys, because lord knows I have a healthy hatred for a huge percentage of the world and I can make up bullshit fairy stories and pass judgment haphazardly with the best of them, but I’m not a millionaire, buying thousand dollar glasses and cufflinks with people’s similac money in exchange for empty promises about mansions in the clouds and a world without gays. Sheesh. I need to focus my energy. I bet falwell was already living in a house with an indoor pool by the time he was my age. Sad. That’s what I am. Just unmotivated. Where’s MY jesus, man? You know?
Anyway, so you get the idea, Pat Robertson, genius, man of faith, got a hotline to god, uh…wealthy, and host of a show called the 700 club. Recently on this show, he let us all in on the bombshell: The people of Haiti made a contract with Satan (‘this is true’ he paused here to interject) and now it’s biting them in the ass.
Let’s pause here to reflect on the fact that a GROWN MAN who’s supposedly a spiritual leader said this on television.

Are we good? Okay. Firstly, dude, Haiti is one of the most overwhelmingly Christian nations on earth, clocking in at over 80%, so well, I guess at least you guys are talking about the same satan, right? Of course, man. Only one devil. Thing is, not a very cool way to shepherd your flock through what may very well turn out to be the greatest natural disaster of your lifetime, P Ro. Kind of leaving those Christians in a lurch, or you know, buried under tons of rubble, just figuratively, of course. Secondly, let’s just assume that there is a satan, and that he’s cutting deals with people. I know. I know. Just bear with me for a sec. They’re estimating half a million dead in Haiti, right? Yeah, that’s the sensational, yellow journalist high number, but let’s take that as fact too. AND, let’s just say that those are the ONLY people in Haiti that signed the deal with satan, kay? Okay. Good. Now, show me exactly how the fuck you get half a million people to come together and agree on anything at all, much less enter into a contract? I mean, fuck, dude. They don’t have hospitals and pipes in Haiti. Much less free wifi and town square flat screens. What’s satan doing, cuz I could use some promotion for my band and my blog and all that, and he seems to really know how to galvanize motherfuckers, even the poorest and most marginalized and fucked with of people, so good on him, I guess. Good on ya, satan!

You know, the ambassador from Haiti was asked to respond to this statement, and he pointed out Haiti’s role in the development of the US, their integral role in the Louisiana purchase and so forth, and said something to the effect of ‘after all we’ve done as neighbors, this is how you’re talking about us when our dicks are in the dust?” Now, that’s a decent answer, but I would have rather seen him say “you know what? I’ve got a massive city in ruins, I’ve got dead and wounded on a level that I never thought I’d see, and I don’t give a fuck what some dumb, ignorant hillbilly has to say right now. There’s real shit going on, man.” That’s what we need in this world, a little more angry dismissal. That way, we don’t have to be subjected to, for example, two weeks of replays of Imus calling those chicks nappy headed hoes. He’s a fucking retatard (rip), man! He’s gonna say dumb shit. That’s what reatards (rip) do, man. Move on.
God. I’m so fucking sick of all the outrage. Sack up you fucking pussies!

Thursday, January 14, 2010

Oh god! you devil!

Man, I’ve been cranking out songs like they’re sneakers and I’m a seven year old girl with real, honest to god motivation to keep working (you know, for the good of the prefecture and all that). I just slayed another one and it’s uh…awesome. Motorheadian, to use the scholastic term. Pretty excited. Here’s a little lesson in songwriting, turds: NOTHING motivates and inspires like success, so if you stumble onto a tune that you’re proud of, you must NOT sit on your laurels and be stoked on yourself. You MUST keep writing. Write the next day and the next day and even that same afternoon. Yeah, it’s rough, because like everything, you’re only as good as the last song you wrote and sometimes it’s brutal to crank out a great song and then just jump back in, but I promise you, that’s the only way to write the really, truly great songs. Now that I’m at 5.5 songs in the can, the pressure is completely off me, and I can do whatever the fuck I want, and THAT, my friends is when shit stops being polite and starts getting real. That’s why there was no entry yesterday, I was writing shit, and you know what? It was worth it. You’ll all be stoked later on. Promise.
Anyway, God sure kicked shit up a notch in Haiti, didn’t he? I guess it goes to prove what we’ve known all along here in the first world: God hates the poor. Sure, he fills the bible with all sorts of references to the meek and the poor inheriting the earth and all that, but those are post dated checks, man. No one’s inheriting any earth, AND even if they were, it’s still a dick slap, because in theory, the rich can live righteous lives and get into heaven and all that too, right? BUT, they also got to be rich while they were alive. That’s better. Obvious favoritism. I mean, you can’t tell me that god would let someone into the great hereafter just because they were poor, right? Like, for example, some rapist who grew up poor isn’t getting into heaven, is he? Just because he was born poor and died poor? That’s kind of fucked up. What’s a rapist’s heaven like anyhow? Just a bunch of nervous women walking around with dead cel phones and it’s nothing but alleys and apartment gangways as far as the eye can see? Unless you go inside and then it’s all keg parties, I suppose. Hmmm. Sounds gross.
Well, it’s rapist heaven. I guess that’s why it’s gross, but see my point? You can’t just have poor people in heaven, just like you can’t keep rich people out if they’re good. That’s not fair either. I mean, as far as I know, the game goes “Be good, go to heaven, be bad, go to hell” and that’s it. And THAT, my friends, means that god hates the poor.
Think about it, when Diddy gets to heaven, not only will he not smell terrible anymore, but he will also be completely at home and comfortable with all the trays of caviar and all the different options for his hi def tv and what to tip the butler and all that. BUT, when the poor get up there (ha!) they’ll be confused as shit. Sure, they’ll get used to it eventually, but there’s always gonna be that lingering thing in the back of their minds, that Jlo thing, where they kind of feel like they don’t belong so they over compensate and end up gaudy and ostentatious, married to a zombie, raising hideous children, jumping off male strippers and falling on their asses all the while wrapped up in a tiny strip of gold saran wrap like some kind of loaf of deli meat, and man, that’s not heaven to me. I don’t want that shit in my heaven, so poor people, sorry. You’re fucked. Listen to god. He hates you.
Well, I suppose technically, he’s killing all those people in Haiti. Some of the most desperate to keep the dream alive would maybe say that god couldn’t wait to get them to paradise, as they were suffering here on earth anyway (Haiti wasn’t all that nice in the first place, you know) but that creates a series of questions: Why not just hook em up in the first place? What’s the difference of a few measly decades in the eternity that is god’s reign? Is dropping boulders on people so they starve to death all mangled in a puddle of raw sewage the coolest way to check these folks out? Is god really that fucking impatient that he needs to shake and terrify everyone? What is he, two?
Look, I don’t know much, but I’ve seen tons and tons of evidence that god loves the rich and hates the poor and almost no evidence otherwise. Also, I’ve seen lots of evidence that god’s a bully, a racist and kind of a petulant cocksucker in general. That’s kind of funny, because it really explains why he chose the envoys he chose here on earth. I mean, oral Roberts? Oral? That’s your name? Oral? Funny thing about oral Roberts: his sister, Anal, was a real bombshell.
Last question: is jesus as much of an asshole as his dad? I mean, he went through that ‘yeah, my dad’s rich and powerful, but I’m rejecting all that, man. I’m kind of a hippy” phase that all trust fund dipshit hippies go through, but then he up n died. Who knows. He might be up there with a smart goatee, hair slicked back in a new suit just laughing around the table with Rockafeller, Oral and Anal Roberts and Bin Laden Senior (a good dude by all accounts that I’ve read).
I dunno, man. I’m going to play the guitar.

Tuesday, January 12, 2010

of wieners and needles (and vaginas and balls)

Okay, so, big stuff on the agenda today. The best stuff, too: sex and drugs. Let’s start with drugs, because, well, because that’s usually how it starts, right? First the drugs then the sex. Especially if you’re a hooker, because then the cocaine keeps you from crying through the whole thing and well, that’s always a plus. Ah, look, I’m getting ahead of myself. Sorry. Okay. Let’s begin.
Mark McGwire just admitted he took some steroids which is shocking (SHOCKING!) to me, and no doubt to the rest of the world. Of course there’s the requisite stink being made and blah blah blah. “How dare he take performance enhancing drugs? What about the children? This calls into question his record” and so forth.
Look, firstly, the dude hit a ton of home runs. You could pump me so full of steroids that my jaw hits my shoulders and my balls turn into tiny raisins, and there’d still be no way I’d ever hit a ball tossed by a mlb pitcher, so there’s that. The dude is amazing. There’s no argument there. “Ah,” some say, “but wouldn’t he have been better if he’d done it without the drugs?” Well, firstly, no. He’d be just as good. Secondly, he wouldn’t have been able to do it, so it’s kind of a moot point, and thirdly, dude, it’s fucking entertainment! It was exciting as shit to watch him and sammy try to hit all those homers AND THAT IS THE WHOLE POINT OF SPORTS, YOU FUCKING WIERDOS! IT’S SOMETHING TO WATCH AND BE ENTERTAINED BY. PERIOD!!!!! When people are doing things for others entertainment, they need to fuck with reality to make it as good as possible. When actors play vampires or paraplegics they don’t really grow fangs or saw off their legs. When porn stars do anal scenes they don’t eat for days and then use enema bags to insure that they don’t shit all over the place. Is that cheating? NO! It’s what’s necessary to keep shit entertaining. Sure, sure. Steroids are bad for you. So’s using enemas and starving yourself! So’s smoking for a role or gaining or losing weight for a role or driving a fucking car around in a circle at two hundred miles an hour, or locking yourself in a glass box over central park, or eating as many horse penises as you can while Joe Rogan cheers you on. It’s all bad for you, man. Entertainment is built on the suffering of entertainers. That’s the WHOLE THING ABOUT ENTERTAINMENT!!! This is, also, an industry standard. Like it or not. We, the crowds, have demanded more exciting baseball and the result is we’ve got all these hopped up players who are doing whatever it takes to get their bodies into the shape it’s gonna need to be in to satisfy our outlandish expectations.
Finally, there are those who would say that it sets a bad example for children. To those people I would offer the following two pronged rejoinder: A) don’t be such a pussy, and B) Look at the fucking world you live in, man. There are women having sex with golden retrievers on the internet and your kid HAS SEEN IT! YES SHE HAS!!!!! If some guy using every advantage available to get ahead, make a name for himself in a cutthroat field and ultimately walk away a multi millionaire is the worst of your worries, well, you should also worry about George Bush, Donald Trump, Barack Obama, Sunny Bono, Brad Pitt, Marilyn Monroe, etc. etc. Save the manufactured, mock outrage, please. The dude looks like the Thing. Of course he’s juicing, man. Jeez.
Now, onto the sex. Ashley Dupree, or “Eliot Spitzer’s whore” as she’s affectionately known, was on howard stern today to talk about, among other things, her allegedly gorgeous vagina. It sounds, from all accounts, that she’s truly a gifted sex worker, and good for her. Prostitution is an important service and it sickens me that it’s so stigmatized. Getting laid is an instinctual need. When people can’t get laid they act out in creepy and sometimes dangerous ways, much like when people can’t eat or sleep.
ALSO, being attractive and/or good at fucking is not something that everyone can pull off, SO, therefore, we’re talking about a specialized skill with definite demand and ancillary societal benefits. What’s the fucking problem? It’s bad because it involves pussies?
Actually, there are two big problems: The unspoken male problem with it: Because it encourages a sort of brazen feminine sexuality that’s not necessarily tied to wanting to be with just one man.
And the oft repeated feminine problem: It’s objectifying and indicative of women’s lack of choices in this phalocentric economic society and it’s soul crushing and blah blah blah.
Look, yeah. In a perfect world, everyone could just get laid. Hell, in a perfect world everyone would be good looking and no one would starve and every place on earth would have a snowy winter and it would last four days, BUT this world is ugly and gross and there’s no chance at that, so here’s the thing: Men are afraid of brazen women, because women can SO EASILY get laid. The woman that doesn’t want to be tied down CANNOT be tied down, be she rich or poor, because there is ALWAYS a dude out there, right around the corner, ready to fuck her. This makes dudes crazy, but guess what? In the words of Bruce Hornsby, that’s just the way it is, so sack up, you fucking babies.
As for the whole thing about lack of choices and objectification and whoring and all that, well, I serve sandwiches to assholes at a bar. In my alley right now, garbage men are taking garbage bags of my baby’s shitty diapers from the dumpster to their truck. My friend unclogs toilets for a living. My other friend sits in a cubicle and makes graphs she couldn’t give two shits about. There are a lot of jobs out there that blow and make you feel like your soul is being sucked out of you. And yeah, sure, being a whore may be one of them, but that doesn’t mean it’s not an important and worthwhile job. Sex is fucking important people. Pretend it’s not. Go ahead. Deny your DNA. See how that works for you. Ten times out of ten it’ll bite you in the ass a lot harder than not getting a haircut or a sandwich or a timely graph made, that’s for sure.
Okay, I’m done. I just thought I’d throw this out there real quick. I’ve gotta get my kid into some new daycares. Ta ta.

Monday, January 11, 2010

The greatest, best blog god ever gave the internet: A special.

Hey dicks, vaginas, various herms and mutilatioids, welcome to BSC 2010. You’ll notice some bold new changes around here. Right? Yeah! Fuck yeah! Firstly, no more bullshit. That’s firstly. Second, hitting the gym, and no more pizza and no more Jager bombs! Thirdly, I’m gonna get that novel published and finally, I’m gonna stop procrastinating. Heh. This is actually just a list of generic resolutions for losers that I think are fairly pathetic, but as I type em, turns out I could really stand to benefit from every single one of these. I guess it’s settled. I’m a housewife. Well, that’s fine. I did some pretty cool shit this weekend. I did a little freelance work and I wrote 2 (pretty totally badass) tunes and I saw some footage from my movie, and I finally trimmed up my neck hairs which were making me look a little bit like um…how do I put this politely? A Persian. That’ll do. Also, I served some girls at my bar who were so incredibly shitfaced that they walked in (11AM) having lost their panties, bras and socks. They chugged seven mimosas and two tequila shots each by 2 and then staggered off to get on a conference call. Gotta love sales. What a profession. Seems like I’ve got the credentials to handle doing sales. I’m a smooth talker with a gorgeous dick and the ability to handle seven mimosas. Not that I know if either of these chicks had good looking dicks, mind you. If their dicks were anything like the rest of them, they weren’t so great, but hey, whatever, man. They were having fun. My point is, and I can’t underscore this enough, it’s been a good weekend and generally a good decade so far. I’m pretty happy with everything as it stands. Even the rapture didn’t really slow me down. I’ll keep you posted for when things go officially to shit.
I don’t really have too much on the docket for today, I’ve been recording my aforementioned totally badass songs and I’m gonna hit the gym and then stop by and see the menzingers in the studio. Should be a hell of a time. As of press time, my kid hasn’t bitten anyone hard enough that I’ve received any phonecalls, and that’s cool. Yup. Pretty good day, even if it is colder than shit, we’re stuck in two wars, the country’s bitterly divided, people like Sean Hannity have tv shows…you know what? I was gonna go on and list my litany of things that kind of suck, but let me stop here. Sean Hannity. This dude is not too bright. I don’t say that because I don’t agree with his politics. I say that because I saw a special that he did called “America: the greatest, best country that god ever gave earth.” If the title isn’t just moronic enough, he actually berated a guest who said that America was just the best country god gave earth. Hannity actually responded with something like “oh, well, see, I think America is the GREATEST, best country god ever gave earth, guess you don’t love America like I do.” Now, I’m paraphrasing a bit, but boy…wow. That’s dumb. That’s like stick-your-tongue-on-the-flagpole-as-an-adult dumb. Also, and here’s the big thing: Hannity is so OBVIOUSLY gay. I CANNOT WAIT for the day that they find him chugging bushels of peen in some park district restroom. It’s gonna be the greatest, best gift god ever gave America, the greatest, best country he ever gave earth. Know what I’m saying? Sure you do.
What else? I dunno. I’m getting back into feeding my brain which is so important in order to produce creative output. For the longest time, the only thing I was consuming was garbage on the internet. Now, I’m watching tv and reading and listening to new music and it’s really paying off in terms of my output. Maybe you’re not noticing it here, on the old BSC, but that’s because I’ve been trying to keep the interweb use to kind of a minimum, you know? One second you’re just sitting there answering a quick email on your way out the door, next thing you know, you’ve gotta look at every single page of look at this fucking hipster dot com, and suddenly it’s eleven forty five and you haven’t even guessed any of your muffs for the day. The internet is addictive. Someday, they’ll have a show and they’ll make up some dumb, bullshit index where they’ll place internet addiction up there between sex addiction and heroin, right below cigarettes.
Jesus. This world is so fucking hell bent on quantifying everything and listing and making sure it’s obvious what’s worse and what’s better. I remember when I was about twenty two, my mom called me in a panic and, in order to scare me or something, she told me that getting tattoos was worse than being addicted to heroin. Besides being one of the most patently retarded statements I’ve ever heard, it served to exemplify just how fucking lost in the rathole we’ve become. In what way are those two things comparable? Sure, they both involve needles and they change the appearance of your arms, I guess, if we’re stretching it, but seriously? What’s wrong with us? Must everything be quantified on some grand, all encompassing scale? Now, I’m not trying to come down on my mom here. Fuck, I do the same thing. Even on the day to day level. Like when I’m at a restaurant and I ask the waiter, “what’s better? The double bacon burger or the pear salad?” as though those two things have any relevance to one another. Mark my words, people. This insistence of comparing and stacking EVERYTHING is gonna bite us in the greatest, best dick god ever gave earth one day. Instead of letting things be good or bad just on their own, it’s always gotta be relative. That’s unhealthy. That’s, not to be melodramatic, really the root of racism and sexism and all that shit. Relative worth. Here’s what I say, categorize things. Fine. That’s cool. Like “Ten things that look like Kevin Spacey” or “fun shit to do at the beach” but the actual rankings are for a very specific set of circumstances, like, for example the Olympics or a dog show. Otherwise, save your greater thans and less thans. I mean, except for America, which we all know is the greatest best country god ever gave America, boy! I’ll fucking defend that shit to the death.

Friday, January 8, 2010


That actually wasn’t so bad, that rapture. What WAS bad was the people in the daycare showing me the black eye on the kid that my kid bit this morning and me missing an important business call from Germany because of it. Now, I’m feeling like a bad business partner, and like I’m directly responsible for this strange looking one year olds black eye, and in a very real way, I guess I am. I produced a beast. Also, I’m listening to TV on the Radio like I’m some dipshit that drinks manhattans and reads spin while wearing stripedy sweaters, and you wanna know the worst part? I’m kind of liking it. That song DTZ is pretty awesome. The rapture has taken quite a toll. Jerry Falwell was right. I feel like everything is topsy turvy.
What’s going on out there? Joblessness is at an all time high in the US. Artie Lange tried to kill himself and it sounds very gruesome and sad. Fred Phelps has his sights on Lady Gaga. Uh, some girl that was dating Tila Tequila died. Jersey Shore is getting renewed. This is the end of times, people. Really. I’m gonna get a sandwich board and go stand on the corner and tell motherfuckers to start kissing each other’s asses goodbye, because frankly, well…it’s a better job than the one I’ve got now. Work outside, meet people, make your own hours, you can have your dick hanging out if you want to. It’s cool. AND, it’s a valuable public service. People need that kick in the balls on the way to work so they can sit there at TGIFridays, over their 550 calorie steaks and say “didja see that poor bastard with his dick out by the North/Clybourn stop with the sandwich board that said ‘kiss each other’s asses goodbye, motherfuckers, because the end is nigh’? What a nut! Hooo. Takes all kinds, I guess. (to disgruntled waitress) Hey sweetie, how bout another Rum Runner?”
A little old fashioned heralding of the end makes everyone feel like they’re not the craziest bastard out there. AND, when the end doesn’t come, as, well, it hasn’t, then suddenly everyone gets yet another reason to feel superior. And they kind of pity you. That’s why you never set a date for these things, fellow heralders of doom, because then, once that day comes and goes, no matter what happens, you’re out of a job and you’re just like the rest of the dipshits out there, worrying about how the fuck you’re gonna pay the bills, continue to socialize in your circle, keep your kid in that daycare with all the other delicious kids. It’s a fucking ratrace, I tell you, and no one is safe.
Fuck. Germany is calling me back. I’ve got to go. Have a great weekend and say hi to your mom for me. HA! I kill me.
Okay, bye. I didn’t even get to what I wanted to talk about today, which is a bummer. Oh well, see you Monday.

Thursday, January 7, 2010

and the rivers will flow with blood...

Well, it's finally happened. God's punishing us in the midwest for our depraved homosexual lifestyle. You've probably read about the tons of frozen water falling from the sky and the temperatures cold enough to kill a chihuahua or an infant or a grandma or a homeless guy, right? Well, it's happening. The end is fucking nigh, and I for one don't have time time to waste jib jabbin with you folks. I gotta get out there and get my end-of-all-things blowjob and repent and get jesus's autograph and find kirk cameron so he can laugh at me like I so richly deserve. SO, with that said, I gotta go. See you all in hell. I'll be by the pool that's shaped like Hitler's mustache, just chilling with Wilt Chamberlain and Judge Ito.
All right. Enjoy the rapture!

Wednesday, January 6, 2010

of course I was high, Charlie!

My kid decided not to nap today, which is crazy because he had his first day of gym n swim, and I thought he’d be knocked the fuck out after, but nah. He’s sitting here eating eggs. Turns out maybe gym n swim made him real hungry too. I dunno. What does all this mean to you and me? Well, it means that this blog entry will probably be very short today, as I’ve got a person to deal with, also, I’m fucking wiped out…I was up working on shit late into the night, and as usual, I had to get up pretty early. Whatever. Not the first, nor the last time that shit’s gonna happen, right? Right.
So, briefly, tiger woods. Heh. He’s got two names that are nouns. That’s funny. What else? He’s a young billionaire athlete, the best in the history of his game, and in a SHOCKING (shocking) turn of events, he’s been found pumping tons of hot chicks. Wow. That’s fucking startling. I mean, if billionaires and pro athletes are suddenly practicing infidelity, what’s next? Corrupt government officials? Bad tattoos? Stray dogs fucking right there in the park like a couple of pro athletes? I mean, shit. I thought beating off in a porn theater was as low as it could sink, but no. Turns out there are men out there who use (get this!) their power and influence and reputation to have lascivious sex with women who aren’t even their wives. I mean, get the fuck out of here! I, for one, am extremely glad the media is covering this so thoroughly and that everyone in America is so pleasantly outraged. It’s really like a Christmas gift from the tiger, to the media to us. I want more details, more pictures, more disgusting and irrelevant tales about who wore no condoms and what amount of jizz was directly deposited into who’s vagina. Yes! That’s the stuff I want to read! More please!
Meanwhile, Charlie Sheen is back at work after holding a fucking switchblade up to his wife’s neck over Christmas. Good. That’s really good. Some dude that everybody SHOULD at least guess is probably screwing around gets outed when his wife physically assaults him (which is a totally acceptable thing to do, you know. There are times when swinging a golf club at an unarmed family member just can’t be avoided, right? Right), well, his life is as good as fucked, but a serial abuser sends his wife, shivering and crying into the kitchen where she makes one of the most chilling 911 calls I’ve ever heard, hey, you know that wacky Charlie sheen! Remember him when he played himself in Being John Malkovich? Oh, man that was great! He talked so cavalierly about drug use! He’s okay. And, he’s on that show where he plays the fun uncle, so he’s got that going for him, personality wise. I mean, you gotta look at the big picture. With tiger playing golf, well, golf looks cheap and tawdry, not to mention such classy brands as Gatorade and Nike! Can’t have people associating Gatorade with a strange, new vagina, can we? Of course not. But think, people! If we put the screws to Charlie sheen? Suddenly, we’ve only got ONE and a half men, and that’s not funny. It’s sad. It’s not even bravely sad, like a three legged dog. It’s just sad like an old homeless lady holding a locket at a bus stop as the wind whips through her tiny shawl on a cold December afternoon.
So yeah, I mean Gatorade an nike and golf still EXIST without tiger (though, it makes golf a lot less black and nike a lot less asian) but without Sheen, an emmy winning show would have to somehow find the cure for Parkinsons and replace its star with Michael J Fox, and who’s got that kind of time? Not the busy execs at NBC, that’s for sure.
I just wish he could have cut her in half before the cops arrived. Then he’d be in the middle of two and a half men and half a woman too. And that’s poetry, folks. Good poetry. Not the gay stuff that your bearded English professor with the yellowing armpits used to kind of mist up about during readings while you waited for ten after so you could go get high and whack off, nah. I’m talking GALACTIC poetry. Where the universe does something so mathematically awesome that you have to sit there and go, “wow. Something’s out there.” Like when they found that virgin mary grilled cheese or when Ian Stewart got hit by the bus driven by the black guy or when Tommy Lee finally sacked up and started wearing white linen suits and imitating uncle cracker. You know what I’m talking about, right? Sure you do. Okay, that wasn’t so bad, and the kid’s still alive. Wow. Uh, see you all tomorrow.

Tuesday, January 5, 2010

I get wet without even trying!

Hey. Good afternoon and all that. Exciting times here. I signed my kid up for the ol’ gym n’ swim program today. He starts tomorrow. It’s gonna be me and a bunch of housewives and babies all in swimsuits in the pool. I’ve gotta imagine it’s gonna be pretty entertaining. Good lord. Um, what else is going on around here? Not much, honestly. The world is kicking back into gear and like everyone else I’m fucking reeling from all the parties and booze and junk food and so forth that’s just part and parcel with hanging around everyone you’re related to. Good heavens.
Speaking of heavens, did you guys hear the new Alkaline Trio song? Well, turns out, that if you watch it on Youtube, I’m the fucking dude that introduces it! Who knew? Not me, that’s for sure. You know what? This just feels wrong. I’m perched on an ottoman in my bedroom writing this for some reason. I’m almost always sitting at the kitchen table, but today I thought I’d kind of fuck around and see what’d happen if I wag my dick in the face of routine. Turns out, my back hurts. I’m moving to a comfortable chair.
Excuse me for a moment.

Okay, I’m back. And I’m much more comfortable. Also, I’m gonna take this opportunity to break my controversial silence (finally!) on the Andrew WK identity confusion thing that’s going on right now. Here’s the deal, for those of you who don’t know- AWK is a dude that wears lots of white, parties hard, and sings a lot about partying hard. He does some kicks, he does some air punching. His band is old men with rad sideburns and he also does some public speaking and motivational group sessions and shit like that. I heard that he gets a new white outfit for every tour and then never washes it. That’s neither here nor there, just kinda cool. Okay, so anyway, last week, Andrew ‘admitted’ that he’s not the real Andrew WK, or, more to the point, that Andrew WK is like the Green Lantern or The Queen of England, or Benji the Dog, in that it’s a post or a part, not a person. There’s apparently some guy with two first names who’s been running around the internet making all sorts of noise about the true identity of AWK or something and so Andrew recently held a press conference and said that he’s a different guy than the original AWK, he’s the second person playing AWK, and that AWK is, in fact, a persona concocted in a boardroom by him and his dad and several other entities, in an effort to make the best front man of a band ever. Yup. That’s what he said.
Here’s the thing though, man. Andrew WK is Andrew WK. His name is Andrew Wilkes-Krier. I don’t really know how else to say this. No dude. You’re Andrew WK. Even if (and this didn’t happen) there was some choach running around dressing like you for a while before you got famous, or even if someone else wrote your songs, or even if your persona was dreamed up in a boardroom [which I want to get back to in just a minute] you’re him. I’ve seen the fucking pictures of you, I’ve seen you live and I’ve even played a show with you. You’re you. YOU’RE FUCKING YOU!!!!! There is no fucking two ways about it. Cover of “I get Wet’: That’s you. That’s also your first album, with your name over the picture of your face. How are you not you? How?
Okay, and as for this boardroom thing…how the fuck were you and your dad in some sort of smoky room with decision and tastemakers before you were Andrew WK? Huh? Answer me that? Is it because you were somehow born into a secret, Davinci code like society? Masons? Is that it? Because otherwise, the way I see it, if you’re back there, making up this persona, naming it after you and bringing (of all the people) your DAD in on it, it’s because you appealed to the tastemakers as some sort of creative commodity. Therefore, you=you. And by the way, EVERYONE crafts their public persona. What do you think this blog is, man? I don’t really sit around with my mom and talk about felching and buttfucking. I’m taciturn and demure for fucks sake. SO, therefore, even if you ‘made up’ the persona, it’s STILL YOU. Ridiculous. The whole thing.
Now, that being said, I think Andrew WK is pretty rad, and I think this whole stupid stunt is pretty fucking awesome too. I mean, he’s got motherfuckers talking about him A LOT right now, and he’s coincidentally got a new record coming out. Pretty clever, mister WK, if that is your real name (it is). I’ve seen people say stupid things like “Ha! I knew this guy was bullshit! Glad I never got into him!” And to that I can only say ‘huh?’ He’s not your husband, dude. He’s an entertainer. Even if he WAS an imposter or whatever, it’s a show, a record and a tshirt we’re talking about here. That’s all. His identity has nothing to do with that. Menudo was a bunch of different kids. Does that make them bullshit? Okay, bad example, but you get my point. The idea of getting self righteous about some crazy hesher from Michigan’s latest ether-induced wacky scheme is a lot like getting bent out of shape at a bag of potato chips. It’s just perplexing and an irrelevant way to waste your energy.
In closing, Andrew WK is cool, whoever he is (he’s him) and that’s all I’m gonna say on that matter. Coming tomorrow: Tiger Woods and the fourteen or so ladies that love him.

Monday, January 4, 2010

it's the end of the decade as we know it!

Hey welcome back. Did you have a nice vacation? Yeah, me too. Where’d you go? Uh huh. Yeah? Oh. Hey, listen. I really don’t care. It’s just something you idly say, like ‘have a nice day’ or ‘I love you.’ It means nothing. Sorry. I don’t mean to come down on you right now. It’s my first day back, after all. It’s just, well, I was all stoked to do my ‘best of the decade’ list and then suddenly disaster struck. My fucking iphone and my computer are fighting. The phone won’t recognize the computer and the computer won’t recognize the phone. Now, this is worse than it sounds because I plug the phone in and nothing happens. It’s not a situation where I’m getting notifications or anything. It’s just straight incommunicado between these two stubborn mac-born entities. I’ve tried different cords and shit, and I’ve restarted both devices, yet nothing has changed. I’d say this is the first official dick punch of the new decade.
Okay, but, but but but BUT! This decade is better than the last. Know why? Because the last one was terrible and if this one’s not better it’s not really worth living in, and I plan on kicking some major ass in this decade, therefore-it’s better. But enough of sucking the new guy’s dick, right? Let’s send this old bastard off with a little semblance of dignity-

Best of the decade:
Best Office buildings- (3 way tie) The World Trade Center towers 1&2 and 7 World Trade Center.
Man, I don’t know what it is, but these buildings really blew up this decade. It’s like one second people like my dad are just making casual arguments about whether or not the twin towers are taller than the Sears tower, next thing you know motherfuckers are going absolutely NUTS for them. Good on ya, towers one and two (and auxiliary building 7 World Trade Center), you’ve won best office building of the aughts.

Best city:
New Orleans
Say what you want about Venice and its gondoliers. I’ll just go to new Orleans and ride a shopping cart around the ninth ward, thanks.

Best industry:
(three way tie) Music, publishing and housing
Hey hey! How bout that publishing industry? The good news is that no one besides Dan Brown and Danielle Steel have ever made a dime writing books, so all the rest of the literati can now feel justified in working at little Caesars even though they’re ‘published.’ Over in the music world, Kid Rock will now need to get a job at little Caesars and so will I. Also my house is worth less than my car. So there’s that. Hey, if we all chant USA at the same time, maybe that’ll do something? Yeah? Maybe? Cool.

Best racist agenda:
Attacking people for looking vaguely Arab or muslim was a close second, but in the end this award went to Jersey Shore. Hey, guess what happens when you stuff six oiled up dagos into a house down at the shore? Well, turns out that they end up fighting and fucking like ALL twenty three year old kids, but it also turns out that they actually like each other and they’re kind of nice, and yeah they stink like cologne, but realistically, they’re the nicest, best behaved most respectful group of kids that ever got to see what happens when people stop being polite and start getting real. I’d rather hang out with Ronny, Pauly D and the Situation et al (and don’t even get me started on Jwow, she’s a fox) than absolutely any other cast of the real world or road rules or any of that shit. These are good little dagos with nothing wrong with them besides massive stylistic disorders, whereas all the other shows like this feature non dagos who are vacuous self centered dildos out to prove how bisexual/conservative/extreme they are. These shore folk all still love their parents, and they cook for each other and take care of each other and share each other’s self tanner. It would be sweet if it wasn’t so dull.

Best Slogan that Completely Fucks Up the Reality of How Completely Fucked the Situation Is:
“Mission Accomplished” was a good one. “Brownie, you’re doin a heck of a job” was another good one. But number one was definitely “Oh babe, no, don’t worry. I’m pretty sure I got most of it on your stomach.” In fifteen years, there aren’t gonna be teenaged boys lurking around trying to fuck New Orleans or Iraq, know what I’m sayin?

Best Tattoo:
Have you seen this girl named Adrenalynn? She’s got a tattoo around her (gasp) asshole that says (gasp) “Jarrod’s little fuck doll”. Around her asshole. Around. Her. Asshole. How fucking awesome is that? I’ll save you the trouble of answering. It’s awesome. Good on ya, Jarrod. Also, she’s a tattoo artist and piercer SLASH porn star, which I think means that, you know, since she’s got a job and money and stuff, she just mostly fucks for pleasure, as opposed to cocaine, which means you can feel free to enjoy the scenes too, ladies.

Best Song that Unintentionally Makes the Big Black Dude Singing it Sound Like A Catamite:
Okay, this is hands down the catchiest song of the decade. I bet R Kelly is FURIOUS that he didn’t write this jam. Yeah, it’s reminding me, as I type this that my Ipod is fucked, but let’s leave all that behind for a minute. Iyaz has hit pop gold with this little ditty about how the “shortie” that’s “stuck in his head” is like “the gun to [his] holster”. Wait. What? SHE’s the gun to YOUR holster? Now, I’m new to the whole concept of consensual sex, but don’t YOU have the gun and SHE has the holster? I mean, doesn’t the metaphor work a little more smoothly in that direction? I mean, if you said “I’m the gun to her holster” it would be the exact same rhythm, the same syllables and you wouldn’t sound like “she” has a penis and fucks you up the ass with it. But hey, if that’s what the song’s actually about, well, that’s even better. As is, the song is full of so many lines that are just NOT POSSIBLY what dude is really thinking that it makes me smile. “When I first saw you you were at the mall with your friends, I was scared to approach ya but then you got closer” Really? Iyaz, bro? You were at the mall scoping chicks and you were scared to approach this girl who was young enough to be hanging out at the mall with her friends? With a soulful musical gift like the one you’ve got? Confidence, man. What are you, twelve? Anyway, moving on. “I’m in the kitchen cookin’ things she likes” No you aren’t. Period. You’re from the British Virgin Islands and you don’t cook at all. And finally, “some day I’m’a make you my wife” is just something you say to get laid, ladies. He’s not finna make you his wife. Just like he’s not cooking for you, just like when he pulled you into the windowless van outside the mall, he felt no trepidation to speak of. Iyaz is a player girls, and if you really, really want to be the shortie stuck in his head, you’d better fuck him up the ass like he asks for in the song.

Best Parents:
Me. My old lady. Yup. Prove otherwise. Honorable mention to my parents and my wife’s parents too. What can I say? We know rearin over here.

Best Way to end Decade End Lists
Stopping in the middle of the sentence:
I’ve done this a few times before, which is exactly what makes it the most effective way to