In Defense of Rex Ryan

Over the last two days, there has been a lot of talk about YouTube videos of a "mature" lady out of Maryland who goes by the (awesome) name of Ihaveprettyfeet. The only reason that folks are jabbering is that Ms. Feet may be the wife of New York Football Jets coach Rex Ryan. And that Ryan may have took the videos.

And this is fucking awesome.

You see, too often in life we are bombarded with scandal and who is screwing who drama when it comes to our celebs. There is no drama here, just a tubby sonofabitch who likes to videotape his wife's feet and possibly swing with her as well. Nothing is wrong with this, except for the fact that the media is making it a story.

Look, we all have our kinks. If Rex Ryan wants to videotape his wife's feet and delve into a little cuckholding, what does it matter? Is it going to effect his coaching? Probably not. Last time I checked, wanting to view all three of your wife's holes filled does not correlate with planning a game strategy against the Pats or the freaking Bills.

So let us reserve our scorn and disdain for those who really deserve it. People like the shady ass North Koreans, Congress, and the insanity of the Mexican judicial system. Leave poor Rexy and his awesome three way havin', foot suckin' fat ass alone.

Birfday Drunk. Birfday Drunk

Snowmageddeon III fucked my birthday plans in the arse, hard, and without a breath mint or a cuddle afterward. Due to being all dressed up with nowhere to go, I drank. Heavily, and a variety of different booze. Here's a rundown of my birthday merriment:

-Watched the Fuse Top 40 videos of 2K10 countdown. This was hosted by some fine little German-Mexican hybrid and a jackbooted dominatrix. The top 2 were Ok Go and Eminem. I liked Fuse much better when it was MuchMusic, and I liked music much better when it was 1995.

-Ordered a bacon explosion pizza from Papa John's. Yep, I made a delivery guy drive that shit out during Snowmageddon. It was sinful, greasy, and tasted like what I assume going down on Miss Piggy would be like. In short, heaven.

-Went up to the Pixie Liq and bought cans of Four Loko and a four pack of Surly. Basically, I was going as classy and as methed out as possible. After drinking the Four Loko I called my mother because I thought I was having a heart attack. This feeling passed. What did I do to celebrate, you ask? I drank another Four Loko my sadistic brother bought me as a "birthday present"

-I ate a fruit pizza.

-Watched biographies on Pro Wrestling, David Bowie, Fleetwood Mac, and Blondie. By the Bowie one I guess I blacked out. Supposedly, I said Bowie invented 80s pop music (true), that I have seen Debbie Harry pantsless (also true), and that Fleetwood Mac Rumours was one of the five best albums ever (not true).

-Came to out of the blackout and made a drunk Facebook invite for my birthday remix this Saturday. Entitled it "Fuck Da Snow" and invited a shit load of people I somehow forgot while making it sober last time. I blame my non-passout on the crack like powers of the Four Loko. That shit it bad, y'all.

So overall, I give the birthday a B- for fun, but an A+ for drunkenness. And I probably will never fucks with the Loko again. Let the winos and frat boys have it, I say.

Random Shuffle Cut O' The Day

Sometimes the magical little box known as the iPod spits out an unknown pleasure by even bands you thought you knew. Recently I stumbled upon this little beatuy:



Yep, Wheatus. Of "Teenage Dirtbag" fame. Off their third album (which I bought about five years ago but never familiarized myself with). Ignore the abosolute shittiness of the video and the fact that there is like two minutes of nothing after the song ends. Bathe in the MOOG-ness, the crunchy guitar, the whiny vocals.

I still can't decide what era this song belongs to. I have narrowed it down to late 80s alt-rock (think Transvision Vamp or some other crunchy Britpop) or early New Wave (the Cars would have owned this joint). Maybe, just maybe, it's timeless?

Record Show Journal 12/4/10

Magic ouccured again today at the Uptown VFW for the quarterly Twin Cities record show. There is nothing more magical than the smell of musty records, bearded hipsters, hot dogs, farts and dirty military jackets. It is a stew for the sense of smell, I tells ya. Well, actually, the sense of smell may be a little envious of the sense of sight due to all the old Starter jackets and skinny jeans on the premesis...

Anyways, the record show always provides its fair share of interesting convos to eaves drop on. Being the creep that I am, I induldged again today with reckless abandon. The highlights were as follows:

-40 something dude talking to sexy(ish) hipster chick about how 78 RPM records are the new hot thing. I guess I could have entered a time warp to 1918, but that still wouldn't explain why Elvis Costello would be recording two exclusive songs on 78. Because, you know, Elvis Costello was about -30 in 1918.

-The same 40 something pimping his tape review blog to the hipster chick, THEN pimping his tape only record label by bringing over another disheveled 40 something that was his prized signing on the label. (NOTE TO DESPERATE SINGLE LADIES: If you are looking for any sort of attention, a record show is a great place to get it). Obviously this guy is onto something with the antiquated tech being "the next big thing". I wonder if he is going to release some films on 8MM anytime soon? Maybe a LaserDisc of the new Tron movie? God, I can only hope and pray.

-Two fat old bearded dudes arguing about how Obama sucks and "if the Republicans were in charge, none of this shit would have happened." Sadly, I never got to hear just what the "shit" was. I assume it was probably involving the blacks, the queers, and/or the abortionists though.

The Republican arguement was really interesting, because I always assumed that people digging through crates of old albums were pretty liberal. But I guess that the record show is the ultimate showing of survival-of-the-fittest capitalism along with a perfect example of selling to a captive audience. For example, I could look on eBay for a Carole King record and probably get it for fiddy cent. But at a record show, I have to pay like 3 bucks for a shitty copy of Tapestry (Please note: I own this record and would have never payed more than a buck for it. Even though it's fucking rad). I would have no other option but to fork over my money to the dude who looks like a cross between Santa Claus and a Lot Lizard raping truck driver if I want to hear "It's Too Late".

Plus, the old lady who runs the enterance and collects the $2 enterance fee is totally a Tea Party member. Totally.

Here were my finds for the day:
Lou Reed - Coney Island Baby
Dexys Midnight Runners - Searching For the Young Soul Rebels
Gary Numan - Telekon
The Blues Project - Projections
Willie Hutch - Havin' A House Party (winner of best album cover of the day, due to sexy chicks in halter dresses, a living room designed to do coke in, and the old cat with the cotton colored balding afro and sideburns combo in the background)

Total spent: $19
There you have it, records really ARE your best entertainment value.