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.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
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?
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?
Saturday, December 04, 2010
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.
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.
Thursday, November 25, 2010
What This Guy is Thankful For (2010 Edition)
Ah, Thanksgiving...the time of year where most stuff themselves with turkey and other random delicious crap. Oh yeah, and it's also the time of year where thanks are given.
I've always been a little confused about this part. Are those thanks supposed to be given in a public setting, i.e. the dinner itself? Or are they supposed to be a private matter, like counting your blessings or praying to the Baby Jesus? If option "A" is the correct choice, I've failed the Turkey God miserably. I have never given thanks in person to anyone, or to any THING on the day itself.
So to hedge my bets, I'm just going to blog the shit out of what I am thankful for this year. Hopefully, those closest to me (I'm looking at you, my immediate family, my ladyfriend, and my circle of friends who puts up with my drunken, rambling, inane ass on a daily-to-weekly basis) understand that I am eternally grateful for them being here in my life. Seeing as how they are the most important and they know it, I am going to spend the rest of the blog focusing on some of my lesser thankfuls for the year. And awaaaaaay we go...
What I am thankful for this year:
Coffee
Yep, pretty sure I couldn't get by without you. You are my raven-colored (and sometimes creamy mocha-colored) mistress, friend and mother. Thanks for being there every morning in all of your guises.
The MLB Network
As a tubby little boy growing up in Brooklyn Park, I often prayed for a channel that showed baseball highlights all the time, along with old games and the occasional re-airing of the Ken Burns documentary Baseball. When I got older and more jaded I thought that prayers often go unanswered. The MLB Network proves this wrong.
Half Price Books
More specifically, the clearance LP and CD sections at these stores. Where else could I have been opened up to many kinds of music that I thought I never would listen to? Five years ago, I never would have thought I would even listen to the likes of Fleetwood Mac or Cat Stevens. Now I realize that they are glorious mom-jean rock.
Surly Beer
I am thankful for Surly for murdering my love of Miller Light and other shitty lawnmower beers. Except for PBR. I totally fucks with PBR still.
My New found Love of Cooking
Well, I should say it's not so much "cooking" as it is "not eating takeout/fast food all the goddamn time". As one who embraces trash culture at every turn, I thought my life would consist of me solely eating Taco Bell and SuperAmerica hot dogs for eternity. In the last couple of months I have come to the realization that making a salad and a tortilla rollup leaves you feeling much less degraded than a Whopper or a Chalupa would.
Shitty 80s Pop Music
Shitty 80s pop music got me through the Summer of My Discontent. Special thanks to it's sexier cousin, Shitty 80s New Wave, for still being there for me in much happier times.
NBA Jam for the XBOX 360
Even though I haven't played this yet, I am sure it's going to kick ass. I mean, you can play as Bill Clinton, Len Bias, Larry Bird and (probably) the Phoenix Gorilla. What's not to like? Thank you for letting me revert into 12 year old Jake, sans the business mullet and the Notre Dame sweatshirt.
Katy Perry's Rack/Tunes
Strangely, I find both her bazooms and her music compelling at about the same level. I'm not sure what that says about me as a man, but I don't fucking care. I am just glad those sweater kittens are there, along with her sappy pop confections from the gods.
Well, there you have it. I guess you could say that at this point in 2K10 I am living a Teenage Dream, much like Miss Perry. But with a much less fantastic rack...
I've always been a little confused about this part. Are those thanks supposed to be given in a public setting, i.e. the dinner itself? Or are they supposed to be a private matter, like counting your blessings or praying to the Baby Jesus? If option "A" is the correct choice, I've failed the Turkey God miserably. I have never given thanks in person to anyone, or to any THING on the day itself.
So to hedge my bets, I'm just going to blog the shit out of what I am thankful for this year. Hopefully, those closest to me (I'm looking at you, my immediate family, my ladyfriend, and my circle of friends who puts up with my drunken, rambling, inane ass on a daily-to-weekly basis) understand that I am eternally grateful for them being here in my life. Seeing as how they are the most important and they know it, I am going to spend the rest of the blog focusing on some of my lesser thankfuls for the year. And awaaaaaay we go...
What I am thankful for this year:
Coffee
Yep, pretty sure I couldn't get by without you. You are my raven-colored (and sometimes creamy mocha-colored) mistress, friend and mother. Thanks for being there every morning in all of your guises.
The MLB Network
As a tubby little boy growing up in Brooklyn Park, I often prayed for a channel that showed baseball highlights all the time, along with old games and the occasional re-airing of the Ken Burns documentary Baseball. When I got older and more jaded I thought that prayers often go unanswered. The MLB Network proves this wrong.
Half Price Books
More specifically, the clearance LP and CD sections at these stores. Where else could I have been opened up to many kinds of music that I thought I never would listen to? Five years ago, I never would have thought I would even listen to the likes of Fleetwood Mac or Cat Stevens. Now I realize that they are glorious mom-jean rock.
Surly Beer
I am thankful for Surly for murdering my love of Miller Light and other shitty lawnmower beers. Except for PBR. I totally fucks with PBR still.
My New found Love of Cooking
Well, I should say it's not so much "cooking" as it is "not eating takeout/fast food all the goddamn time". As one who embraces trash culture at every turn, I thought my life would consist of me solely eating Taco Bell and SuperAmerica hot dogs for eternity. In the last couple of months I have come to the realization that making a salad and a tortilla rollup leaves you feeling much less degraded than a Whopper or a Chalupa would.
Shitty 80s Pop Music
Shitty 80s pop music got me through the Summer of My Discontent. Special thanks to it's sexier cousin, Shitty 80s New Wave, for still being there for me in much happier times.
NBA Jam for the XBOX 360
Even though I haven't played this yet, I am sure it's going to kick ass. I mean, you can play as Bill Clinton, Len Bias, Larry Bird and (probably) the Phoenix Gorilla. What's not to like? Thank you for letting me revert into 12 year old Jake, sans the business mullet and the Notre Dame sweatshirt.
Katy Perry's Rack/Tunes
Strangely, I find both her bazooms and her music compelling at about the same level. I'm not sure what that says about me as a man, but I don't fucking care. I am just glad those sweater kittens are there, along with her sappy pop confections from the gods.
Well, there you have it. I guess you could say that at this point in 2K10 I am living a Teenage Dream, much like Miss Perry. But with a much less fantastic rack...
Monday, November 22, 2010
Chili-Wacked
I have mixed feelings on the Purple firing Brad Childress. On one hand, he was a totally overmatched coach who had no idea how to run an offense or modivate his players. For reals, he was like a 16 year old getting an Aston Martin as his first car instead of a Ford Tempo. He just looked confused about how to operate the damn thing and then ended up crashing it into a telephone pole.
On the other hand, Chilly provided so much material. He looked like one of two things most days. Depending on the day he looked like either a sex offender or the star of 90's sitcom Major Dad, Gearld McRaney. The sex offender days were when he wore a black Vikings sweatshirt like my dad wears to bum around the house, and the Major Dad days were when the Vikings were getting plowed like Jill Kelly. Plus, his play calling thing looked like a Denny's menu, which provided at least 10 "Run 86 red right and get me a Super Bird" jokes. Per game.
At this point I am so damn numb from the farce that this Purple season has become I really can't feel a thing. I think anyone could coach this team better than Chilly, but I really don't care right now. I sort of hope Fav-ray retires and they throw T-Jack to the wolves to see if he can cut the mustard as a starter. And hopefully if they do, they can run 78-Trips-Left Moons over My Hammy a few times.
Here is a song to get through the Purple Malasie:
Hear that? It's the happy sound of seeing your chick with another dude. Oh, who the fuck cares? Do you hear fucking how joyous this is? I mean, with whistling, hand claps, and a freaking live audience who needs that two timing ho? Big ups to Cat Stevens for writing this and the Tremeloes for playing it.
On the other hand, Chilly provided so much material. He looked like one of two things most days. Depending on the day he looked like either a sex offender or the star of 90's sitcom Major Dad, Gearld McRaney. The sex offender days were when he wore a black Vikings sweatshirt like my dad wears to bum around the house, and the Major Dad days were when the Vikings were getting plowed like Jill Kelly. Plus, his play calling thing looked like a Denny's menu, which provided at least 10 "Run 86 red right and get me a Super Bird" jokes. Per game.
At this point I am so damn numb from the farce that this Purple season has become I really can't feel a thing. I think anyone could coach this team better than Chilly, but I really don't care right now. I sort of hope Fav-ray retires and they throw T-Jack to the wolves to see if he can cut the mustard as a starter. And hopefully if they do, they can run 78-Trips-Left Moons over My Hammy a few times.
Here is a song to get through the Purple Malasie:
Hear that? It's the happy sound of seeing your chick with another dude. Oh, who the fuck cares? Do you hear fucking how joyous this is? I mean, with whistling, hand claps, and a freaking live audience who needs that two timing ho? Big ups to Cat Stevens for writing this and the Tremeloes for playing it.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Purple Pride?
I watched most of the Purple game today (up until Fav-ray's dumbass fucking pick #2). Then, subconsciously, I played this song on my iPod. It pretty much sums up my feelings on this lost fucking season...
Yep, I went from crying like I just got dumped after the NFC Championship game last year to summing up my crushed hopes and dreams with a Chicago (3rd incarnation) #1 hit. Look Away indeed, guy who is not Peter Cetera or Terry Kath.
Yep, I went from crying like I just got dumped after the NFC Championship game last year to summing up my crushed hopes and dreams with a Chicago (3rd incarnation) #1 hit. Look Away indeed, guy who is not Peter Cetera or Terry Kath.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
Drinkin' Alone
For the last week, I have been out of commission with a case of strep/tonsillitis. Due to this aliment, I missed stuff. This is extremely disappointing due to the fact that sickness caused me to a) miss one of my closest friends birthdays b) miss out on a karaoke night and c) caused my girlfriend to quarantine me. Above all this, sickness caused me to not drink.
So tonight, after feeling 95% of Jake-tastic, I decided to get loose with my old friend Windsor and his life partner Diet Coke (yes, I assume Diet Coke is gay). Here is a rundown
- Went on Amazon.com and bought one XBOX game (Mass Effect) and one New Wave compilation CD (The Rhino released ones, this one with "Wouldn't It Be Good" by Nik Kershaw). Grand total: $17.80.
-Watched the new South Park. Thought the Shake Weight coming on Stan's wife's face was pretty funny, and also enjoyed the take on food porn.
-Signed up for mint.com. Was shocked that I only spent $14 bucks on booze this month. Vowed to triple this output by December 1st.
-Followed the Wolves game on my phone because David Kahn is a vampire crossed with a meerkat who is killing my joy by not televising a goddamn Wolves game even though Kevin Love is a beast this season and Beasley dropped 30 AGAIN tonight! (Rant over).
-Enjoyed a Kennedy Assassination documentary on History International that claimed Kennedy was shot by Oswald alone. Yelled "bullshit" alone in my room at my stolen TV.
-Made a Facebook invite for my 28th birthday. Realized its a direct facsimile of my 27th birthday, except at a bar 8 blocks away. Came away satisfied nonetheless.
-Did a load of laundry. Probably mixed whites and coloreds.
-Bumped "Angelia" by Richard Marx. Twice. This confirmed perviously held sober beliefs that Richard Marx is extremely underrated.
-Received three bootleg Pearl Jam CDs from a courier (my landlady/future sister-in-law)which she received from Sir Rich Abraham at a chocolate party. Googled lyrics to songs I have never heard so I could put them on my flawless iPod.
The biggest realization out of all of this was that I get more done while drinking than when I am sober. The only conclusion that can be drawn is that I need to drink alone a whole lot fucking more.
So tonight, after feeling 95% of Jake-tastic, I decided to get loose with my old friend Windsor and his life partner Diet Coke (yes, I assume Diet Coke is gay). Here is a rundown
- Went on Amazon.com and bought one XBOX game (Mass Effect) and one New Wave compilation CD (The Rhino released ones, this one with "Wouldn't It Be Good" by Nik Kershaw). Grand total: $17.80.
-Watched the new South Park. Thought the Shake Weight coming on Stan's wife's face was pretty funny, and also enjoyed the take on food porn.
-Signed up for mint.com. Was shocked that I only spent $14 bucks on booze this month. Vowed to triple this output by December 1st.
-Followed the Wolves game on my phone because David Kahn is a vampire crossed with a meerkat who is killing my joy by not televising a goddamn Wolves game even though Kevin Love is a beast this season and Beasley dropped 30 AGAIN tonight! (Rant over).
-Enjoyed a Kennedy Assassination documentary on History International that claimed Kennedy was shot by Oswald alone. Yelled "bullshit" alone in my room at my stolen TV.
-Made a Facebook invite for my 28th birthday. Realized its a direct facsimile of my 27th birthday, except at a bar 8 blocks away. Came away satisfied nonetheless.
-Did a load of laundry. Probably mixed whites and coloreds.
-Bumped "Angelia" by Richard Marx. Twice. This confirmed perviously held sober beliefs that Richard Marx is extremely underrated.
-Received three bootleg Pearl Jam CDs from a courier (my landlady/future sister-in-law)which she received from Sir Rich Abraham at a chocolate party. Googled lyrics to songs I have never heard so I could put them on my flawless iPod.
The biggest realization out of all of this was that I get more done while drinking than when I am sober. The only conclusion that can be drawn is that I need to drink alone a whole lot fucking more.
Thursday, November 04, 2010
The Tao of Kenny Rogers
Half Price Books holds many books in its hallowed walls. I am sure somewhere in its musty, lusty confines it even has a bible. But what was found there today trumps all these books. Strangely, it wasn't even a book. It was an audio document of how to be a man, nay, be THE MAN.
This meisterarbeit was called "Kenny Rogers 20 Greatest Hits".
Now before you get all highfalutin hipster on me and say "Kenny Rogers fucking sucks," let me tell you why Mister Rogers songs are a template on how to live a richer, fuller life. I am going to limit the Tao of Kenny to ten lessons, but there are more. Take this as a beginners guide to the Bearded Chicken Slinging Gideon.
1) Don't fall in love with a dreamer. Cause he'll break you every time (from Don't Fall In Love With a Dreamer)
Pretty self explanatory. Level headed or crazy partners are the best. Because dreamers are unrealistic and will break the fuck out of your stride.
2) If a crazy hot chick is at the bar and takes off her wedding ring, go drink whiskey with her (from Lucille)
Bonus points if the chick's husband comes in and bitches about how she left at an inopportune time (say when there are four hungry kids and crops going to shit). You then do what Kenny did and dismiss this guy as a pussy and take the broad to a no tell motel to totally do some nasty cougar hucklebuck. And probably steal her Pall Malls afterwards.
3) Never let a 16 year old Ginger stripper dominate your life (from Scarlett Fever)
Sure, we all like going to strip clubs called the Lucky Star and falling for girls who claim they are older than they are. But we never let them be a proxy for are lifelong dreams. Cause one day they are going to chase their own dreams without you, and you will be left a lonely, broken shell of a man. Possibly with a deadly fever.
4) Drink cheap booze, because it somehow is sweeter than the top shelf shit (from Life or Something Like It)
According to Kenny the cheaper wine is somehow sweeter than the good stuff. Although he may be referring to the woman who is trashy and who is accompanying him to a no tell motel (Again with the cheap motels Kenny? Do you not have a Holiday Inn in your magic town?). This advice loses some credence though because it is set to a beat that vaguely recalls "Margaritaville".
5) If your girlfriend is sexually assaulted, beat the shit out of the perpetrators. Even if your dead daddy told you not to (from Coward of the County)
Kenny knows that fighting is wrong. Mainly because his dad died in prison for fighting. But sometimes not fighting gets you called a pussy. And it makes marauding bands of Brothers Gatlin feel the need to pull a rape train on your girlfriend. Even though your daddy may have made you promise on his deathbed not to fight, sometimes you have to go to the local bar (where the Gatlin's gather, natch), lock the door, and fuck those Crackers up while the other patrons watch. That will show em who's a coward. And it will show great Dalton-in-Road House-like restraint. Because any other man would kill those raping bastards.
6) When crippled in the war, don't trust broads named Ruby. Because they will totally fuck other dudes (from Ruby, Don't Take Your Love To Town)
Make sure you know who is loyal to you. Because sometimes shit happens. Like getting paralyzed in Vietnam. And when you come back, your lady may want to screw everything and anything with her painted up face because the tackle doesn't work the same. Trust your base instincts and get your shotgun and "put her in the ground" if she can't stay with you for the few months you have left to live. After all, you just need some company.
7) Sing duets with hellafine 80s chicks (see Don't Fall in Love With A Dreamer and We've Got Tonite)
Always pick duet partners who don't fit with you (Sheena Easton's fine Scotch ass? Kim "Bette Davis Eyes" Carnes?). Because its more fun to dance into the unknown sometimes. But don't duet with chicks named Dottie West. Because that just may suck...
8) Let love turn you around and lift you (from Love Will Turn You Around and Love Lifted Me)
Love can truly turn you around. Especially if it is sung as the theme from a movie about Stock Car racing featuring Diane Lane. And love can lift, especially if sung about in a raspy, mannish yet soothing voice.
9) Heed the words of formerly funky ass black dudes (see Lady)
If Lionel Richie comes to you with a song about a lady, you sing the fuck out of that song. Because those in the know know that LR is not only beloved by Islamic men (and may be the key to ending the War on Terr)but also can write a country song better than anyone else (for those doubters, pleeeeeese YouTube "Stuck on You" and "Sail On"). Sometimes, that song may even go to #1 and become your biggest pop hit.
10) Listen to dying men on trains (from The Gambler)
Train trips suck I bet, with all that jostling and staring at cornfields. So if some dude who is wheezing and coughing comes up to you and notices you are out of aces, give him some of your hooch if he asks for it. Because he may impart you with advice such as "you gotta know when to hold em, know when to fold em, know when to walk away and know when to run." This may be the most universal, succinct and brilliant life path ever put down in a pop song.
There you go. Use these ten tips as a starting point, not an endpoint, on discovering the Tao of Kenny. Take it to heart, and LIVE!!! I just may drop in to see what condition your condition is in from time to time...
Sunday, October 03, 2010
Sunday Morning Comin' Down
Oh Jesus Fucking Christ, this weekend was a blur. Is it even possible to nurse a hangover from two days prior when you drank the night beofre? Mainly I stuck to Schell's Dark at the Milla wedding last night. I don't think the body could take any more hardness after the Sailor Jerry/Vodka Lemonade duality of Friday night. Still, barely can get out of bed this morning. Just sitting around, Google Image searching for the chick who published the Duke Fuck List PowerPoint and listening to pre-Buckingham/Nicks Fleetwood Mac. Which is surprisingly fucking good, for those who are interested.
Sometimes I wonder how long one is supposed to party like this. It especially hits me when I go to a friends wedding and the majority of the guests leave before eight. And those guests were not the old lady silver fox set, but my contemporaries. Those wonders usually pass when I realize that those who leave weddings before eight are boring fucks, the kind of people who eat brunch without Mimosas and only get it on missionary except for once a year to "spice things up in the bedroom". These people never once considered screwing on a couch or in a kitchen.
So I guess for now I will keep on keeping on going like I do. Singing karaoke at a shitty VFW and making out in some random lawn in Uptown is much more interesting than antiquing anyways.
Sometimes I wonder how long one is supposed to party like this. It especially hits me when I go to a friends wedding and the majority of the guests leave before eight. And those guests were not the old lady silver fox set, but my contemporaries. Those wonders usually pass when I realize that those who leave weddings before eight are boring fucks, the kind of people who eat brunch without Mimosas and only get it on missionary except for once a year to "spice things up in the bedroom". These people never once considered screwing on a couch or in a kitchen.
So I guess for now I will keep on keeping on going like I do. Singing karaoke at a shitty VFW and making out in some random lawn in Uptown is much more interesting than antiquing anyways.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Game of Pricks
Greatest song ever sung by a hard charging drunkard ex-elementary school teacher, or just one of the greatest songs ever? You be the judge.
Saturday, September 04, 2010
US Open Fight (A Deconstruction)
And this is why I have no desire to visit New York anytime soon...
This video encapsulates almost every goddamn stereotype about New York that has ever been bandied about. You have the fat Italian woman screaming at the guido because he was being "rude" (when is screaming at a complete stranger not rude?). You have the random public "fucks" in that disgusting accent. You have a Greek chorus of other disgustingly accented Noo Yawkers screaming random shit instead of actually helping resolve the conflict. And finally, you have a fat man in a Mets hat throwing in his two cents long after the whole thing should have been finished.
No wonder most of the world hates us...at least the French would have made a public sporting altercation look sexy.
Monday, August 30, 2010
Ladies of the 80s: Belinda Carlisle
Today I was on a serious 80s kick in the Focus and I went to one of my standbys whilst rocking the fuck out. That standby is former Go-Go Belinda Carlisle.
I've had a crush on Belinda Carlisle since I was like five or six, and even though she was super 80s hot (look at that sleeved tube top!) I would like to think its because of the tunes. A Belinda Carlisle song FEELS like falling into a crush. For some reason, whenever I hear "Mad About You" it reminds me of going around on one of those octopus things at a carnival with some cute chick. But its never modern times, its always 1986 and I have a jean jacket and she has Bon Jovi bangs...
The big hit was "Heaven is a Place on Earth" of course, and if you've ever heard it you don't need to be told of its greatness. All of her songs are like that. Some sort of amazing girly concotion of rock guitar, cutesy vocals about being weak or heaven or sand circles, and then the chorus repeated in the fade. There isn't sistas doing stuff like this anymore. Well, maybe Kelly Clarkson (who was also derided for being chubby but whom I actually found sexier with some chubb) and her songs are more about not hooking up with drunk dudes and breathing for the first time.
So I salute you Belinda. The real life Miss Carlisle drank during her pregnancy and made Elton John look like a recreational coke user, but in song, you were the perfect crush for a little fat kid from Minneapolis.
Sunday, August 22, 2010
I Hate Mike Napoli's F*****g Beard
With the Twins taking the Los Angeles Angels of Anaheim-Orange County Burbank to the woodshed this evening, I figured it would be the perfect time to comment on the one thing on the OTHER L.A. team that bothers me.
I hate Mike Napoli's fucking beard.
Now, I really don't know all that much about Mike Napoli, other than he's a) of Italian descent b) he's been on the Angels for at least two years and c) his mom has excellent tits (Google that shit, now!). What I do know is that he has, by a wide margin, the shittiest beard in MLB.
I first laid eyes on Napoli's facial follicles in the opening series of 2008. Me and my roomies at the time were transfixed by the Angels catchers beard. It wasn't particularly that he had a beard that offended me, it was the way it was trimmed. That shit rides higher on Napoli's face than Steve Urkel's pants. The offensive beard leaves neck pudge visible, which is a no no. The beard is also not very full, nor has it ever been. It's sort of like a George Michael crossed with Don Johnson thing.
Now every Twins-Angels game since then has had me staring at Napoli, wondering if he will let the face salad grow full and free of its cheek constraints onto his neck (as nature no doubt intended). Every time, I end up disappointed because the high rising 80s shadow beard remains. So until Napoli wises up and grows a Jayson Werth face thicket or a Kevin Youkilis Greek God Goatee, I will forever be hollerin' "I hate Mike Napoli's Fucking Beard!!!!!"
Thursday, August 19, 2010
Softball Recap 8/20/10 (Kings of the Yard)?
Fall ball got off to an epic start this week. Tuesday night consisited of a revamped Revolution Softball Club splitting out our doubleheader in Plymouth. We played the city champs close, losing by three in the nightcap. Seeing the old legend "White Power" Bill was a treat, as his bat was still hotter than Katy Perry in a pillowfight.
The Friendly Fridley on Thursday however was much more epic. The 1-2-3 Kids mistakenly signed up for upper D. Personally, I thought the squad would get crushed...especially when I saw our brahsome opponents. I have never seen so many trailer trash chinstrap beards, cargo/Jean shorts, flatbills and brah faces in my life. One fucker even cocked his flatbill sideways.
It didn't get much better during the game. The Tupac Fan Club jumped out to a 7-2 lead, and I got doubled off second. Cocked flatbill felt the need to comment on my girth in a way only someone who thinks he's united for Compton can. This got the squad amped, and the 1-2-3 Kids rolled for the win. Then we rolled into the second game where I went yard, Tom Klick went yard, and Jordan Eickholt went yard. Somehow Jeff Hill drew like four walks, and we ten ruined the Dirtballs or the fucking Balls Deep or whatever the fuck brahskis call their squads.
Most satisfying site was seeing their bleach blonde Aveda trailer queen ladies leave the game early because their men couldn't hold a candle to our rag tag squad. I'm sure they were hitting up some Two Stooges or some A-Town spots.
The Friendly Fridley on Thursday however was much more epic. The 1-2-3 Kids mistakenly signed up for upper D. Personally, I thought the squad would get crushed...especially when I saw our brahsome opponents. I have never seen so many trailer trash chinstrap beards, cargo/Jean shorts, flatbills and brah faces in my life. One fucker even cocked his flatbill sideways.
It didn't get much better during the game. The Tupac Fan Club jumped out to a 7-2 lead, and I got doubled off second. Cocked flatbill felt the need to comment on my girth in a way only someone who thinks he's united for Compton can. This got the squad amped, and the 1-2-3 Kids rolled for the win. Then we rolled into the second game where I went yard, Tom Klick went yard, and Jordan Eickholt went yard. Somehow Jeff Hill drew like four walks, and we ten ruined the Dirtballs or the fucking Balls Deep or whatever the fuck brahskis call their squads.
Most satisfying site was seeing their bleach blonde Aveda trailer queen ladies leave the game early because their men couldn't hold a candle to our rag tag squad. I'm sure they were hitting up some Two Stooges or some A-Town spots.
Monday, August 09, 2010
Broken Social Scene Is My New Favorite Band!!!!!!!!!!
OMG!!! And I havent even fucking heard them!
So I was at Starbucks on Saturday night, buzzed on Surly and preggo with sushi (a freaking SPAM/Pinapple/Cream Cheese loveroll) and I came across one of those free iTunes download cards of a group called Broken Social Scene. I immeadetly fell in love. These peeps were everything I wanted in a indie fucktard band looks wise. The above is a similar pic.
I mean, come on! From left, you have the following;
Fat Bearded Hipster Fuck - I bet this guy is the drummer
Hipster Fuck Who Thinks He's John Doe from X - Probable lead singer/guitarist
Chuck Klosterman Hipster Fuck - This guy loves both basketball and Warrant
OMFG Feist! - The most hipster chick on Earth 2005
Bald Ironic Hipster Fuck - Nice Alferd E. Neuman shirt
Lounge Lizzard Hipster Fuck - The Serge Gainsbourg fan in the group
Strokes Looking Maritime Jacket Hipster Fuck - This guy probably plays synths
Other Hipster Chick in the Band Who I Would Love to Fuck - Pretty self explanatory
Rick Rubin Circa 1986 Stoner Hipster Fuck - This guy somehow has to DJ. Or he is their dealer. Or he may spike the punch with Spanish Fly and put a pie in Tabatha Soren's face
Mike D Hipster Fuck - Actual name: Clarence. And of course he's hugging on Rick
From what I remember hearing about this band like five years ago, they may be powerpop (me likey) and they are for fucking sure from Ca-Nada (me also likey, if it can get me some Molson Dry). What I KNOW about the Scene is that I would murder for their record collections but would never want to talk to them, you know, because my records would be shit to their sensabilities.
I also wonder what the Scene dreams in their loft apartments at night. Do they lament the probable lack of Pabst Blue Ribbon in Ottawa? Are their adventures to Willamsburg to get boat shoes and "I Love Intercourse, PA" t-shirts? What do they eat for breakfast? Have they ever played Rick Astley anthems un-ironically? So many unanswered questions that my new favorite band poses to my feeble non hipster brain.
Sunday, August 01, 2010
Comfort Music?
The last few weeks I haven't been quite myself. A breakup can do that to a man.
Besides having conflicting sad/angry emotions, sometimes crippling self doubt, and a general loss of appetite, I have been listening to a lot of music. I'm not sure what most people turn to musically when something traumatic happens. I would assume 70s singer/songwriters or maybe Slayer? Not this guy though...I play the most inane pop music of the 80s.
I have about 15 gigs of 80s Top 100 Billboard charts on my iPod, and they have been on shuffle for the last couple of weeks at home, at work, and in the car. It's gotten so bad at work that one of my co-workers actually said (after I explained exactly WHY I was listening to "Kyrie" for the 15th time that week) "now you are making us all suffer". Yet I still turn to my comfort music.
Comfort music is not like comfort food (although they both theoretically share Meat Loaf). At least I don't THINK they are the same. One man's "How Will I Know" could be another man's Cure or maybe Otis Redding. Hell, I don't even know if anyone else does this. My personal belief is that my favorites (whether it be "The Blue Album", "Ten", "The Low End Theory" or "Exile on Main St.") should not be tainted by bad memories of the down times. I want to hear "Rocks Off" in a month or two and shake my sexy white ass without thinking about all the bad shit that I am currently going through.
Fortunately, 80s shit pop is untouchable like Elliot Ness. One cannot put special meaning on Jermaine Stewart or the song "Look Away" by Chicago. All those songs remind me of are being five years old and running through sprinklers and jumping on beds and trips to 7-Eleven for Slurpees and Tony Gwynn's jheri curl on a 1989 Donruss baseball card. The disposableness of those joints makes them have no emotional heft, and I can only tie them to positive memories at a time in my life where I really couldn't feel hurt. They are my aural Salisbury Steak.
Besides having conflicting sad/angry emotions, sometimes crippling self doubt, and a general loss of appetite, I have been listening to a lot of music. I'm not sure what most people turn to musically when something traumatic happens. I would assume 70s singer/songwriters or maybe Slayer? Not this guy though...I play the most inane pop music of the 80s.
I have about 15 gigs of 80s Top 100 Billboard charts on my iPod, and they have been on shuffle for the last couple of weeks at home, at work, and in the car. It's gotten so bad at work that one of my co-workers actually said (after I explained exactly WHY I was listening to "Kyrie" for the 15th time that week) "now you are making us all suffer". Yet I still turn to my comfort music.
Comfort music is not like comfort food (although they both theoretically share Meat Loaf). At least I don't THINK they are the same. One man's "How Will I Know" could be another man's Cure or maybe Otis Redding. Hell, I don't even know if anyone else does this. My personal belief is that my favorites (whether it be "The Blue Album", "Ten", "The Low End Theory" or "Exile on Main St.") should not be tainted by bad memories of the down times. I want to hear "Rocks Off" in a month or two and shake my sexy white ass without thinking about all the bad shit that I am currently going through.
Fortunately, 80s shit pop is untouchable like Elliot Ness. One cannot put special meaning on Jermaine Stewart or the song "Look Away" by Chicago. All those songs remind me of are being five years old and running through sprinklers and jumping on beds and trips to 7-Eleven for Slurpees and Tony Gwynn's jheri curl on a 1989 Donruss baseball card. The disposableness of those joints makes them have no emotional heft, and I can only tie them to positive memories at a time in my life where I really couldn't feel hurt. They are my aural Salisbury Steak.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Most Disappointing Fast Food Items
When one thinks of fast food, one thinks quick, cheap, good, but a little slutty. Or at least that is what I think. I always feel like I looked at some really messed up internet lovin' after I eat a Big Mac. Sure I feel satisfied and great, but I sort of hate myself afterwards. So recently, I cut down on the fast food to once a week. Subway, Jimmy Johns, Quiznos, and Chipotle are excluded because they are like a comitted relationship, not the sleazy trysts that await at Maca Dons.
This lack of fast food in my life has got me thinking about limited time offerings that I have had over the years. Some, like the late beloved McCheddar Melt, will live in imfamy in my brain. Others, like the Cuban Sandwich I had at Subway today, are on my no-fly list. Here are a few others that broke my cholesterol choked heart:
The Arch Deluxe - McDonalds dropped this bomb on us in the mid-90s. The Arch Deluxe was supposed to make baby boomers eat McDonalds at times when their whiny kids didn't want it. The sandwich was a failure, probably due to over advertising (I specifically remember getting free coupons in Sports Illustrated for a month for free sandwiches). My whole family also got food poisoning from these bad boys, probably due to the shitty djon sauce they used on the crappy potato bread roll.
Any Grilled Stuft Burrito - Who the hell came up with this idea? The press (so magical with the quesadilla) burns the shit out of the burrito, so every flavor consists of char and bean. Negative bonus points for the Ceasar Wrap Burrito T-Bell tried a few years ago. Nothing says awesome like grilled fucking lettuice.
The Cuban Sandwich - Subway dropped the ball with this one. The Cuban is a bland Islamic/Jewish nightmare sammich in general(nothing but pork on pork, much like the Rosanne-Tom Arnold union). Subway's bland way with things make eating this taste like munching mustard coated sawdust. Even sexy ass red onions couldn't save this 12" Titanic.
Ribs at Burger King - I never tried these things, but Burger King gets me sick as all hell when I eat there for some reason. So I assume the ribs there had to blow. I mean, come on! McDonalds doesn't do foie fucking gras. Stick to your guns, Whopper Land!
The Bert Burger - When I found out about the Bert Burger I was super amped. Wendy's used to have a melt burger back in my college days with Thousand Island that killed. And what was that on Bert's eponymous burger? Yep, 1-0-0-0 Island! Too bad they used just a little dollop, and the huge ass bun soaked it all up. It just goes to show, don't be shy with that sauce!
Honorable mention goes to the Double Down at KFC, even though I believe they were being hipster ironic and daring fatasses to eat the thing. As a large American with a weakness for MSG and irony, I tried it. And it blew, but I knew that deep down in my being going into it. It was sort of like watching a Dane Cook movie. No substance, but high ironic comedy.
Thoughts, feelings, suggestions?
This lack of fast food in my life has got me thinking about limited time offerings that I have had over the years. Some, like the late beloved McCheddar Melt, will live in imfamy in my brain. Others, like the Cuban Sandwich I had at Subway today, are on my no-fly list. Here are a few others that broke my cholesterol choked heart:
The Arch Deluxe - McDonalds dropped this bomb on us in the mid-90s. The Arch Deluxe was supposed to make baby boomers eat McDonalds at times when their whiny kids didn't want it. The sandwich was a failure, probably due to over advertising (I specifically remember getting free coupons in Sports Illustrated for a month for free sandwiches). My whole family also got food poisoning from these bad boys, probably due to the shitty djon sauce they used on the crappy potato bread roll.
Any Grilled Stuft Burrito - Who the hell came up with this idea? The press (so magical with the quesadilla) burns the shit out of the burrito, so every flavor consists of char and bean. Negative bonus points for the Ceasar Wrap Burrito T-Bell tried a few years ago. Nothing says awesome like grilled fucking lettuice.
The Cuban Sandwich - Subway dropped the ball with this one. The Cuban is a bland Islamic/Jewish nightmare sammich in general(nothing but pork on pork, much like the Rosanne-Tom Arnold union). Subway's bland way with things make eating this taste like munching mustard coated sawdust. Even sexy ass red onions couldn't save this 12" Titanic.
Ribs at Burger King - I never tried these things, but Burger King gets me sick as all hell when I eat there for some reason. So I assume the ribs there had to blow. I mean, come on! McDonalds doesn't do foie fucking gras. Stick to your guns, Whopper Land!
The Bert Burger - When I found out about the Bert Burger I was super amped. Wendy's used to have a melt burger back in my college days with Thousand Island that killed. And what was that on Bert's eponymous burger? Yep, 1-0-0-0 Island! Too bad they used just a little dollop, and the huge ass bun soaked it all up. It just goes to show, don't be shy with that sauce!
Honorable mention goes to the Double Down at KFC, even though I believe they were being hipster ironic and daring fatasses to eat the thing. As a large American with a weakness for MSG and irony, I tried it. And it blew, but I knew that deep down in my being going into it. It was sort of like watching a Dane Cook movie. No substance, but high ironic comedy.
Thoughts, feelings, suggestions?
Sunday, July 18, 2010
SUGAR - If I Can't Change Your Mind
I'm in a real sad sack mood lately, and I think I've probably listened to this song about 20 times in the last three days. Man, Bob Mould must have had some SHIT happen to him with dudes breaking his heart. A friend of mine claims that most of these songs are secretly written about Husker Du mate Grant Hart, and I don't know whether or not to believe her on that one...but it makes sense.
Any way you slice it, one of the most carthartic break up songs of all time. Thanks Mister Mould for making my world a little brighter with your pain and suffering.
SIDE NOTE: Did you know Bob Mould was one of the writers for WCW during the Monday Night Wars era in the late 1990s? I've always wondered what angles he planned...and why he was working as a wrestling writer. What other indie legends could have done this? Billy Corgan tried to buy ECW back in the day too I guess...all I gotta say is what the hell?
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Vegas Baby
After having spent a weekend in Las Vegas, I discovered that the old adage about a city having its own personality holds very true. For example, Milwaukee is a messy, lazy city built on the commerce of one export, beer. And the city loves it. It is comfortable in its own skin.
Vegas, on the other hand, is fake. Fake skyline, fake tan, fake tits, fake everything. And I was incredibly enamored with it. At the newsstand in my hotel they sold the one local Vegas daily, but also the New York Post, The London Daily Mail and a Japanese daily. No one cares about the local news, the city just serves as a sandbox for outsiders. This is the charm (and the curse) of Vegas.
My crew decided to venture off the strip to go to In-N-Out Burger. Let's just say the experience was eye opening. A pimp tried to grift my phone from me. Persians did shots of some sort of lemon liqueur while screaming "fuck" every other word. And a local in a Justin Bieber t-shirt and stunner shades claimed he was a regular, and then preceded to botch his order at the counter.
The key to the above paragraph is the location: In-N-Out is off the strip. The strip is clean, a joy to behold, safe. The off strip locations from what I saw were dirty, filled with low rent hotels and gas stations, and void of any people. When I stayed in Vegas a few years ago, I stayed at the south end of the strip past Mandalay Bay and it was very similar. Dead area, dicey.
On the strip though, the fakeness can be amazing. Watching a fountain show in front of the Bellagio (in a city that should have no water) is fun. Drinking Coca-Cola products from around the world is fun. Losing 100 bucks while playing slots is also strangely fun. But all these experiences are absolutely fake. You can't do any of these things in real life, in any other city in America(save for the gambling thing, and its not as fun to drop a Hondo with the old blue hairs at Treasure Island or Mystic Lake).
So Vegas is fake. But I wouldn't have my strip experience any other way. So I'm going to stay in the sandbox.
Vegas, on the other hand, is fake. Fake skyline, fake tan, fake tits, fake everything. And I was incredibly enamored with it. At the newsstand in my hotel they sold the one local Vegas daily, but also the New York Post, The London Daily Mail and a Japanese daily. No one cares about the local news, the city just serves as a sandbox for outsiders. This is the charm (and the curse) of Vegas.
My crew decided to venture off the strip to go to In-N-Out Burger. Let's just say the experience was eye opening. A pimp tried to grift my phone from me. Persians did shots of some sort of lemon liqueur while screaming "fuck" every other word. And a local in a Justin Bieber t-shirt and stunner shades claimed he was a regular, and then preceded to botch his order at the counter.
The key to the above paragraph is the location: In-N-Out is off the strip. The strip is clean, a joy to behold, safe. The off strip locations from what I saw were dirty, filled with low rent hotels and gas stations, and void of any people. When I stayed in Vegas a few years ago, I stayed at the south end of the strip past Mandalay Bay and it was very similar. Dead area, dicey.
On the strip though, the fakeness can be amazing. Watching a fountain show in front of the Bellagio (in a city that should have no water) is fun. Drinking Coca-Cola products from around the world is fun. Losing 100 bucks while playing slots is also strangely fun. But all these experiences are absolutely fake. You can't do any of these things in real life, in any other city in America(save for the gambling thing, and its not as fun to drop a Hondo with the old blue hairs at Treasure Island or Mystic Lake).
So Vegas is fake. But I wouldn't have my strip experience any other way. So I'm going to stay in the sandbox.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
It's Been A Long Time Since I Left You...
...and I'm back kids!
So I have bought a guap of new CDs lately, and let me tell you, this has been an amazing summer for music. Tuesday I picked up the new Kele (the lead singer of Bloc Party) and The Roots. The Kele joint is sort of like Depeche Mode crossed with the gayness of Erasure, and the song "Tenderoni" is probably not about the same girl Bobby B was singing about if you get my drift. Still, I knew what I was getting into when I bought it...I wanted me some sexually ambiguous techno pop.
The Roots disc is murky and solid like their last three. Listenable all the way through. I really dig the track "Radio Daze" (it sounds like the hook was crooned by Gil-Scott Heron) and the Jim James guest starring "Dear God 2.0". The Roots boys should just do a whole album of reworkings of others songs ("Dear God" and "The Seed" 2.0s both being fire).
Next for this guy...Vegas baby! I will be so money this weekend I won't even know it. Here's to eating Del Taco/Weinerschnitzel at 5AM in some sort of weird food court!
So I have bought a guap of new CDs lately, and let me tell you, this has been an amazing summer for music. Tuesday I picked up the new Kele (the lead singer of Bloc Party) and The Roots. The Kele joint is sort of like Depeche Mode crossed with the gayness of Erasure, and the song "Tenderoni" is probably not about the same girl Bobby B was singing about if you get my drift. Still, I knew what I was getting into when I bought it...I wanted me some sexually ambiguous techno pop.
The Roots disc is murky and solid like their last three. Listenable all the way through. I really dig the track "Radio Daze" (it sounds like the hook was crooned by Gil-Scott Heron) and the Jim James guest starring "Dear God 2.0". The Roots boys should just do a whole album of reworkings of others songs ("Dear God" and "The Seed" 2.0s both being fire).
Next for this guy...Vegas baby! I will be so money this weekend I won't even know it. Here's to eating Del Taco/Weinerschnitzel at 5AM in some sort of weird food court!
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