Color commentary part II: bad album covers

Nicely put, Captain Picard. Commence awkwardness.






As uncomfortable as this is to look at and think about, they mercifully placed the camera OUTSIDE of the toilet. This could have been a lot worse. Just sayin'.



Ok. Not only is the photo just awful, I just get a really bad vibe from the title. I don't really want to talk about it.



That girl's got a great smile.. especially when you take into consideration that there are four serial killers standing behind her, and one has an ax.



Also, I'm God's matching sweater-vest.


..I poisoned it and had it taxidermied for a terrible album cover. What else you got?



Four reasons to ditch choir practice.



I'M COLONEL SANDERS, BITCHES... I'LL DO WHAT I WANT!



Yup... that's how it goes when you enjoy murdering people. It just looks like he's saying some sick fuck things at the grave of one of his victims.



Ever seen a ventriloquist dummy stone someone to death? Me neither. Something tells me we missed out, bigtime.



If I may make this one more gross than it already is, those bitchin' shades had to hurt on the way out.


Arnold is widely considered to be Wolf's "album for the diehards". Great. Thanks.



The "stuffparty" happens whether you buy the album or not.



No snappy comments here. Just pointing out that it exists.



An epically homoerotic album cover? Why not, sayeth Manowar?



Nice title. Really, what else could you call it? It is what it is.



Available for free download at www.thisiswhyyourefat.com



Clearly, "eilerts jul" is Dutch for "you gonna get raped"



Um... insert John Wayne Gacy joke..... awwww, too soon?



Why, yes, I did save the best for last!! I mean, just look at the smile on that pig's face.
Shocking and disgusting: you're doing it right.

Ok, that's about it.

Personal ball-washers

I guess the purpose here is to get things off my mind, and one of them happens to the asskissers of the world. I know this is an easy topic, but pretty much no one is exempt from dealing with these walking, talking piles of clothing, myself included.



Yes man, asskisser, brownnoser, personal ballwasher, suckup, all of these names are for the same person; the spineless twerp who knows they have no say in what happens, so it's best to stick to those who do, rather than actually contribute anything. Like a fucking lamprey with it's filthy circular sucker-mouth latched onto a big fish that depends on little fish to keep it alive. (marine biology reference, CHECK)



Actually, let me take part of that back.. often times, said corporate cocksucker DOES have a say in what goes on, but I've found that it's small time. Little things, like flowers out front. Pointless meetings. Emphasis on things that do not matter. Fucking christmas decorations. I feel like I'm narrating the beginning of Trainspotting here.



The two fucking useless sacs of human void I'm refering to, are of course, the two people who "run" where I work. They are fucking liars in every aspect of their pathetic lives. No one likes them. Outside of work, they are flaccid, piss-poor excuses for even a passing score at having a reason to be alive. At work, they are even more pointless wastes of oxygen. They waste time, do nothing, except keep a nice, warm, moist home for the owners' old crooked dicks.



How can one, without being the owner, make more money doing nothing and generally getting in the way than the people who actually run the place, and make things happen? This whole setup infuriates me in a way I can't describe. I should probably throw in the fact that I unintentionally made one of them cry once. Like, weep uncontrollably. Picture a grown man, crying at his stupid desk because one of his employees just called him out and threatened to quit. What a fat bitch. Seriously, just fucking die already, whale tits.



Oh, and stringbean can fucking choke on the spikey, shit-smeared cock of death, too.

Textbook fucking human leech. I hope you outlive your family, then blow your fucking original thought-less head off your scrawny, unused body.



Helpful Checklist:

1-Do your fucking job. If you don't, those that you work with are affected. Clearly, hatred will follow. And sooner or later, you're going to piss off the wrong person. (I didn't mean that as a threat, just to clarify.. I am not that "wrong person")

2-If you are called out, in any form, for any situation, you are probably doing something wrong, Correct it. Don't cry your little eyes out, then do the same thing. Asshole.

3-Be active. Be aware of what is going on. Don't be clueless.

4-Go fuck yourself.



To mop things up, I'd like to say I don't hate my job. I have a lot of fun there, actually, it's just certain people that work there that are as useful as a teaspoon exhuming a mass grave.



...it's just not going to get the job done.

the w-bomb

How about wiggers? Dudes (or chicks, occasionally) that happen to be white, but also happen to emulate black people? The music, the culture, the background, the day-to-day life of American black people, so we're told? Really? Let's start with the music.

There is rap... and some of it is good. Like, really good. Then there's the bad stuff.. and it's really bad. No need to give examples, because it's so god-awful in every way that you have to know what I'm talking about. The "I got mad money for no reason" shit.

Here's where the fudging of the facts start. The "music" is where it starts, I think.

There is the "thug life". Selling drugs, killing people, acting like an animal because you have to to survive. It happens. I get it.

There is the image. Huge shirts, sagging jeans, never smiling in pictures, doing things with your hands that may/may not be gang signs.. do they still make gangs? Anyways..

Then there's the speech. Multiple southern dialects smacked into one, embraced, unfortunately, by many.

That said, I would like to say my wish is not to offend anyone. Unless you find offensive funny, then that is my intention. Take your pick! This is not a blanket of hate on black people. This is a blanket of hate on the ignorance that certain people choose to embrace.

You are in control of your life, you can make your choices as you see fit, regardless of things like your upbringing, the friends you had, people that pissed you off, any hard times you may have come across. You are in control, and you don't have to act like a piece of shit.

And I say piece of shit meaning anyone who has not been through much other than having shheads for parents. If you're "all growed up" with an alcoholic dad, deal with it. If your mom brought boyfriends home, grow a pair. There's no need to blame your parents for the way you are. It's called making choices about who you'd like to be. Not acting like a fucking shithead that expects things handed to you.

Ok. That said- if you're a wigger, I fucking hate your guts. Way to fail at life. You took what was given to you FAILED. Have fun smoking blunts, fucking fat chicks, sucking at life, sucking at easy jobs, and bringing more of YOU, an ignorant, hand-out wanting, lazy sack of worthless, yet neverending supply of garbage like you. Keep fucking. Keep making more cabbages. There are dishes to wash.

Color commentary

Ok. I mercifully did not write this. Someone I know had this sent to her in a random email.
I am simply going to make jokes as it goes. Think Mystery Science Theater 3000.

His words are in normal font, mine are in bold red. Don't confuse. Please.




My Dear,The possible connection we share in our mutual enjoyment of self pleasuring could be sharpened to such a fine edge when we share our erotic energies in a concerted effort towards intensifying the explosiveness of our inevitable release. Ok, anyone have douche chills yet?I certainly do. The visual and tactile enticements that our two bodies and minds will rend for each other will begin to strip away the haze of our lust until like a laser we are focused, without any misconceptions, on the startling clarity of our orgasms. Lasers and orgasms. Great comparison. Top notch. Clear and unmistakable, we commit to our releases for those shinning moments, knowing that our spark is the tip of the flame of lifetime devotion to our passion and that the intensity could be heightened to unknowable levels when we empower each other.Consider thisA luxurious evening spent enjoying a fine meal, good wine and the sultry anticipation of our private passion to come. I have access to information that this guy most likely lives with his mother. At age 47, mind you. We revel in each others beauty and energy and fan our flame with words and movements that tease our already lust filled minds. Our desires to demonstrate our passion is matched only by each others desire to witness it and to reciprocate in total lock step. Lock step? You've tried and failed at being "poetic" but that just makes no sense. That energy carries us to your home. You disappear into the bedroom to slip into something more revealing, as I prepare our nest for the scene of our ultimate release. Watch how many times he uses the word "nest". On the floor, in front of the mirrors, I place a large towel and plenty of pillows for you to recline on. Beside our nest I place some love oil (or giant eagle canola) and some wine and a pile of towels. The lights are set to a warm sultry glow, and the piano light set to highlight the nest, perfect for watching each other so that no detail of our explorations could be missed by the other.When you emerge from the bedroom, I can feel the burning intensity of your fire and can see immediately in your eyes the embers of your passion blazing just beneath the surface of your sexy, sultry countenance. Countenance? What fucking century is this? As you inspect our nest I begin to undress. You pause and watch me and I entice you as best I can as I disrobe until I am standing naked in front of you. With practiced ease, I brush my hands across my penis and explore my testicles while you gaze intently at me. Ok, by "practiced ease" I take it that means he masturbates. A lot. Not uncommon, and definately nothingi to brag about. As my manipulation begins to entice you, you step towards me with your hands outstretched. Lovingly, I place my cock in your hands and together we delicately explore my heated shaft. You coo and I moan at our delicious meanderings on my sex. Do ya? Looking up at me our faces brush and I can feel the heat of your breath escaping from your beautiful lips. Our tongues explore those lips which lips, again? with light erotic strokes that send quivers through your spine. I reach for your shoulders and spin you around away from me and towards the mirror dropping your robe at our feet to reveal your torso and your breasts. And, ya know... everything else. Unless he's seducing an amputee. Pressing up against you we feel my throbbing penis on your back as I reach around you and brush your nipples with my fingers. Immediately they respond. As do you with a sigh. My continued exploration of your nipples they're really not that big elicits the movement of your hands inextricably which means impossible to break free of, so how does the following happen again? to your vagina as you begin to explore your wetness for us. Passionately I disrobe you from your panties causing you to spread your legs after they are removed. From behind I begin to explore your vagina for myself. Together we delve into your sex "sex" is keyword for genitals apparently, being that he called his weenie his "sex" earlier, our focus beaming on your divine wetness, your fingers and nails which are attached to fingers, and actually might hurt a bit dancing on your clitoris and my fingers exploring your depths. Your legs spread more and your knees become athletically bent in your effort to concentrate on the intensity of feelings from between your legs. Looking at us in the mirror the image of our abandon and our approach to your orgasm is succulent. On that edge we stop with you quivering on the edge of cascading into a ringing orgasm! The incredible tension in your muscles relaxes as you exhale a passionate deep breath. I step from behind you to reveal my hugely engorged erection, itself quivering to the excitement we both feel. How intoxicating it is to know that we are both so excited that the slightest provocation would send us reeling into an explosion of orgasmic energy. Indeed. Yet we yearn to tighten the tension in the knot of our passions to an ever more powerful potential that when finally released will reward ourselves with a scene of such awesome proportions we will revel in it for days to come and use it as a reference point from which to build. Just to clarify, we are talking about sex still, right? With nowhere to go but up or two thumbs down, yuk yuk, I pull you down onto the pillows. When properly ensconced in them you are reclining and facing the mirror easily allowing you to view yourself both in the mirror and directly. Together we spread your creamy thighs was "creamy thighs" really necessary? and begin to explore your gorgeous vagina. The intoxicating wetness of your lips is revealed as you spread your labia and expose the crisp taughtness of your clitoris.Time out. There is nothinging "crisp" about a clitoris. Seriously? Entranced I move back onto my heels, kneeling directly to your side, we begin to administer expertly to the demands of our libidos.The exhibition of our engorged passions is twisting the knot ever tighter. The utter beauty of our questing for the intensity of this greater plateau together is amazing. Is it, ya fuckin cheeseball? With both my hands(?) I gently caress the shaft of my penis languishing in the pure pleasure it brings. I turn and move closer to your head extending my shaft out before you, the head of my cock just inches away from your sexy face. Together we gaze in the mirror at the incredible erotic image we make. My hardness and your wetness entwine and pull us inexorably towards the wondrous final destination we seek.Luxuriantly we wander through the visual and tactile pleasures we so ardently exhibit for each other. This could be the corniest sentence ever written, no joke. No sounds are heard but for our quiet sighs and gasps and the sound of fingers and hands ministering to the incredible self pleasuring we are displaying. Cradling my testicles, they are high and tight in their sack, filled to the brim with the seed you have stimulated to gather within. Yuck, yuck, and yechh...I caress them for you and tease them for you and taunt you with the power of the expulsion we will witness together. I stand and move above you at your head and face the mirror. Your position allows you to gaze up my powerful erection rapist much? above and to gaze at the mirror to at once see yourself and me stroking above you. My view allows me to gaze past my engorged cock to your sultry face below and to view in the mirror your unbridled lustful fingerings of your labia and clitoris. The incredible heat of your vagina shines in the dark red and fiery lips of your vagina as we are now hurtling without recourse to our eruptions.My knees bend slightly as I feel the oncoming rush of my orgasm approaching. I offer to you, "I cannot hold back any longer. I'm going to cum." ...on the high school letterman jacket Mother embroidered "football" on for me when I was 30.With that your pace quickens on your clitoris, my knees bend slightly more as every fiber of my being is centered on my throbbing cock and the vision of you before me. Then it happens. Like time standing still the convulsion and contractions of my loins over take me. Time can't stand still. And you're jerking yourself off. I'm just sayin'. I am paralyzed by the sheer magnitude of the pleasure. The eruption of my semen begins sending wave after wave of huge gulps of cum exploding from the end of my cock. Stream after stream erupts so powerfully they splash against the mirror at your feet. Everything seems as if it is slow motion.Looking past my exploding penis my eyes absorb your sexy face as your own convulsions over take you. Writhing beneath your fingers and under the hail of my river of lust, you cum. If you're creeped out and ya know it, raise you're hands...Straining against your fingers your vagina explodes into the ecstasy of pure release we have sought so long together. With my cum raining down upon you the intensity of your orgasm is astonishing and the lustful contortions you exhibit as you cum are ambrosia too me, enticing me to shoot more cum than I could ever imagine, but this is the hold you have on me and I give it too you with every abandon I can muster. Hey, thanks! Just what I wanted... raining cum. Don't eat the ambrosia. As we begin to emerge from the torrents of our pleasure and the last delicious peaks of our orgasms pass and we shudder into the last glorious emissions the sight before us is awesome. Below me you glisten and glow in the unbelievable capacity of my seed and the sweat of your magnificent attentions to your gorgeous vagina.Slowly I sink to my knees, my still hard shaft cradled in my hand (shocking) and presented loving for you to adore, I am still spasming in the last throws of pleasure from our incredible tryst. My whole body throbs with the power of the events we have shared and the intensity of our pleasures lingers in every delicate stroke of my hands on my cock. Slowly I release my hands from my center and begin to caress your face stroking your flushed cheeks as your heavy sighs decry the enormity of your satisfaction. Over and over again you smile and cringe finally, a realistic reaction as you too are still caught in the delicious ending throws of your incredible orgasm.Slowly I begin to towel you off, gently absorbing the fruit of my loins I have so prolifically painted you with. You are absolutely glowing. Your sensitivity is so high you can barley (which is a grass) withstand the light touch of the towel on your skin. You are remarkable in this and I adore you for it.Cradling you against my chest we open the wine a sip the delicious nectar letting ourselves be absorbed into its taste and languish in the incredible after glow of our sublime activities. I am languishing reading this. Lingering on the edge of sleep for sometime and sharing simple caresses, it is time for me to go. I rise and dress quickly but offer you impassioned gazes at my penis and testicles which I so enjoy. What? Ew. What the fuck?Giving you a peck on the cheek I disappear out your door leaving us to the musings of our night ahead and the rich and restful slumber which will surely embrace us when we lay our heads on the pillow. The dreams we dream this night shall be on the incredible passion that were and the prospect of fulfilling even more prolific passions in the future.bye,bye sweet regards,Nik


... Oooo-kaaaayy....
Through the person I was sent this by, I have seen this guy's pictures. He's 47 years old, has a dating website profile, looks like a fucking kid toucher, and "takes care of" his 75 year old mother. Which he probably lives with. Say hi to mom for us, soul mate.

Stop, drop, and be nice!!!!

Ned Flanders called, he wants his blog back.
Time to get nice.
This is about a book called "The light of other days" by Arthur C. Clark and Stephen Baxter.
I have read many books (as people tend to do) and this just might be the best one I've come across. Ok, I can't choose the best. I'll narrow it down to five later.

In any case, this particular one deals with being of a single mind, literally. Call me a hippie or even a communist, but that sounds like a good idea.
In the story, "wormholes" are discovered.

It starts simple, like the telephone, one voice being heard through a medium that at the time seemed impossible, and grew into a technology that revolutionized the way people live. Sound familiar? Basically, a way to develope "rips" in space and time was developed, and it progressed, over years, into the death of privacy. Any person could view any location, any person, at any date, undetected. Historical mysteries were solved. Unsolved crimes were solved. No one in all of history was safe from the unblinking eyes of everyone else.

Naturally people adapted to this and started behaving as if there was no one watching. Crimes of all kind stopped. People had sex on park benches in the middle of the day with people everywhere. I'd say "sound familiar" again, but then I'd have to punch myself in the face.

In the beginning, this happen via computers. In the later stages of it, people were having it implanted in their eyes, so that whatever one sees, everyone sees. Everyone sees everything, everyone knows what everyone else knows, people are able to act immediately if a threat is detected by even one, like a flock of birds. (There is a part in the book where they do just that)

I guess I am saying that I hope evolution takes this kind of turn. I've heard that humans are exponentially evolving, and that we'll begin to see drastic changes in our lifetime, and I hope this is the case. It's already a very different world than it was ten years ago.

5 favorite books, in no order:
dune by frank herbert
the stand by stephen king
invisible monsters by chuck palahniuk
the gods themselves by isaac asimov
the light of other days by arthur c. clark and stephen baxter
I'll end this silly piece of echh with one word:
OBAMA!

One of the funniest things I have ever seen.

Ok, so the Beeze and I...checkity check him out at http://thebeezestalesfromthefishhouse.blogspot.com/ if you haven't already.
We both work at "The Fish House", and one day, got to talking, as we often do, about what would be really funny/disturbing/wrong/cheesey/awesome. So, we came to the conclusion that Beezey-pie coming out of the breakroom in full uniform, minus pants would be hysterical. (and believe me, it was.)
So, one cold saturday morning, I finally convince him to do it (this took a whole lot of arm-twisting) and he comes out, just like I described before, full of piss and vinegar, spitting corny "motivation" on the prep cooks, while throwing an apron on. The prep cooks that day consisted of an old guy who got a purple heart in vietnam, and a retard with multiple college degrees. Old guy just laughs (he's used to this shit, as most of us are) and the tard/genius gets beet red and says "I think you forgot something"...
I was behind Beeze wheezing from laughter the whole time.
There are times I wish I didn't work there, but then, look at what (and who) I'd have been missing out on if I didn't.

Coldplagiarism (GET IT?)

Time to put Coldplay on the couch. I'm sure the allegations of them lifting riffs from other people could be considered a tired topic by now, but f*ck it. I'm still pissed. Especially since I used to like them. (Parachutes was a great album, they got progressively lazier after that.)

Here we go, ya'll.
Let's break it down album by album.

Parachutes- July 10, 2000
Their first. It's echo-ey guitar driven music, nothing really special. It's very well written, solid. Very friendly music, accessable to almost anyone.
However... I read in an interview that Chris Martin (the chotchbag singer) said that when they were first getting started they were trying to sound like Radiohead. Red flag alert, anyone?

A Rush of Blood to the Head- August 22, 2002
The follow up to a hit. This one featured more piano, more echoes, explored new themes... mainly of the messiah complex variety. The lyrics became more protective of an unknown victim... the music got more layered. But still nothing that hadn't been done before.

X&Y- June 6, 2005
Yikes. Talk about dissapointment. It appears Coldplay had stopped trying, and just wrote a bunch of crap that they knew people would like, regardless if was hollow and filled with nothing. Clearly no effort here. They got lazy. So lazy, in fact, that they started to "borrow". More on this furthur down.

Viva la Vida- May 25, 2008
Ok. While they tried to take a turn with this one and go ambitious, here's where the shameless copycatting comes in. (Chris Martin, has again, referenced "Kid A", Radiohead's EXTREMELY ambitious follow up to their super-hit "Ok Computer") The songs don't follow the typical lazy Coldplay outline. This would normally be a good thing, and a sign of growth and creativity in a band, but let's stop right there.

To quote Chris Martin in a Rolling Stone interview:
"We're definitely good, but I don't think you can say we're that original. I regard us as being incredibly good plagiarists."

Ok, pally... the song "Viva la Vida" sounds remarkably like Joe Satriani's "If I could fly" AND The Creaky Boards' "The songs I didn't write" (ironic, I know.) Check these songs out, f*cking anywhere. Try youtube.

The Coldplay song "Talk" is a direct ripoff of the Kraftwerk song "Computer Love". I later found out that Coldplay legally obtained the riff of that song, but come on. Coldplay is internationally famous, not a cover band. Write your own shit, douchebag. Lots of people do it, so can you.
Once again, check it out. It's on youtube.

So....... this blatant aping of other people's music (not just in the music itself, but admitted to in countless interviews) leads me to believe that Chris Martin is under the impression that he doesn't have to try anymore. He believes he's the next Bono. The faggot/liar version.

He's not. He's a limey shithead who has done nothing but write middle-of-the-road, non offensive limp-dick milquetoast music spanning his entire career. And he can't even do that anymore, so has turned to ripping people off. Now your daughter (Apple, way to go, asshole) is going to be ripped on mercilessly for having you as her father. That is, if you and your cockchugging f*cking weakling coat-tail riding leeches that you call a BAND are still relevent when she's old enough to interact with other kids can still ruin her childhood for being the daughter of a soulless cumdumpster. (I'm not talking about Gwyneth Paltrow, she's alright; could do better.)
I hope Christ Martin and Chris Cornell (that clown is on the couch next) somehow end up with eachothers' car engines in their respective chests. (hypocritically, I lifted this fantasy from Beeze)

Chris Martin should have been a stain on his parents' bedsheets. Wiped off, forgotten about, eventually washed. Only because his skunky parents would have gotten tired of being reminded of the one night they got drunk and daddy pulled out instead of wrapping up. I hope they f*ckin' are now.

F*CK COLDPLAY. I'm done.

The interview game

1. If you walked out of your house one day and noticed a bird with a broken wing huddled in some nearby bushes, what would you do?
I would let nature run it's course. I'd feel bad, but the bird would be there, hurt, regardless of whether I was or not. I'm not going to go digging through the woods looking for wounded animals. It happens. I'd hope the bird had a chance to heal though.


2. If there was a public execution on television, would you watch it?
Absolutely I would. Unlike the wounded bird, the person being executed clearly would deserve it. I'm assuming public execution has been legally and morally reinstated here...
who wouldn't want to watch a serial rapist/killer get greased?

3. Would you like to know the precise date of your death?
Not unless it's soon. As in under a year. Because then it would be freeing. If I knew that I was going to die on a specific date 50 years from now, it would just be menacing.

4. Is there something you've dreamed of doing for a long time, but haven't done it? If so, what is it? And why haven't you done it?
Base jumping. I haven't done it because I'm conflicted between an intense thrill/dying.

5. When did you last yell at someone?
I think I yelled at myself, to myself.

Blow with a ho. (fo sho.)

I'm sure all of you have had a similiar experience, give or take a few "juicy details", and this is one of them. After my Radiohead post got a whole lot of nothin', I talked to Beezebag and we came to the conclusion that "angry, embarrasing, and sexual" gets the attention. Not that I'm in it for attention. No. I'm. Not-tah.
So, this is the story of a one night stand. A really good one, I might add.

I was working at this restaurant a few years ago. 2005. This was prior to my current tour of duty at the Fish House. Like restaurants tend to be, the staff was very close, and often went out together after work. This place was no exception.
I had been hanging out/messing around with one of the bartenders. (fun fact: we saw 40 Year Old Virgin together, one of my favorite movies). Let's call her "Bartender".
Also, as restaurants tend to do, we had a slew of eccentric regulars. One of them was an older gentleman maybe in his late 40's; let's call him "Al". (as in al-coholic, GET IT??)
I was cool with him, he was always buying me drinks towards the end of the shift, and he was having a party at his house, and him and Bartender invited me. So I go to his house and there's Bartender, Al, and some people I don't know. He introduces me, then calls me into the bathroom. He offers me some coke, to which I more than happily take part in. I hadn't done it yet at the time, but who am I to turn down a good time? And it is... a good time. So there's booze, pot, more coke, people keep arriving. I'm pretty sure I was the youngest person at this party too. Bartender was even a few years older than me. Awesome party though. I had a great time.

Ok, so now the good part. Bartender's friend showed up, so let's call her "Tramp Stamp", because, well... as I later found out, she had one, much to my not-so-suprise. Bartender and Al had some thing going on together, so I started talking to Tramp Stamp. She was a long haired blonde, hot, well-proportioned, with a high-class dumper. Also, she was pretty cool to hang out with. And do some more coke with. Also not suprising, we hit it off very well.


So... the party's winding at whatever o'clock, and she mentions she's in no shape to drive. I mean, I'm sure I wasn't either, but come on. There are certain times when you just have to knuckle up. So I asked if she would like to come stay at my place. She immediately said yes. (giggity)

We get home unscathed, and it's maybe 5 minutes inside my apartment that we're going at it like f*cking champs. I mean, like we just discovered we could do this sh!t. I'm not gonna go into details, but it was good, and it was NASTY. And this carried on until around 8:30 in the morning, when she finally said she was tired.
I dropped her off the next day at Al's house where her car was, she gave me a peck on the cheek, and that was that. Transaction complete.

It was honestly some of the best sex I've ever had, probably because it never had the chance to go beyond "getting some strange", you know? Nothing even slightly negative to associate with her, just that one really good time. F yeah.

Dating and relationships and love and all that sh!t definately have their strong points, I know, but this kind of thing deserves a mention as well.
What a great night. This one goes out to Tramp Stamps everywhere.

in praise of Radiohead.

Anyone who knows me knows that I am almost unhealthily obsessed with the music of those limey pricks, Radiohead. When I was just a young jurk, age 13, the song "Creep" came out. It instantly polarized with me, not because of the lyrics so much, but the music. I dug the chord progression, the voice, and the impossible to ignore "chuh-chunk" of Johnny Greenwood's guitar. I taped it off the radio (god, remember those days?) and eventually squirrelled up enough money to buy the cassette. (remember those days too?) From that point on, I WAS DONE. I knew I had found my musical taste wheelhouse. I'm all over the place musically, but I've had the same favorite band for the past 16 years. No one else has come close.
Here is an attempt similiar to my "breakdown" of Linkin Park, the positive version.


A- Let's start with Thom Yorke's voice. The phrase "often immitated, never duplicated" comes to mind. It started great, and only got better; this is a common theme in Radiohead's vast catalogue. More on that later. It is not only pleasing to listen to, but in my opinion, an iconic sound. No one sounds like Thommy boy. Thommy like singy!

B- Moving on to their song-writing process. I have read that Thom will bang out a rough draft of just about every song, play it for the other 4, (Johnny Greenwod, Colin Greenwood, Phil Selway, Ed O-Brien) and they will have at it. Each one adding their own genius until a Radiohead song is created. If you look in the liner notes on any of their albums, each song's writing credit is "Radiohead". No names.
I can respect this. F*ck Paul McCartney. F*ck John Lennon. WE wrote this.

C- The fact that they've dared to do things that could cause critical backlash. In particular, the albums Kid A and Amnesiac. Have you heard this? They're not noise-rock, they're not unlistenable, (they're actually very melodic) but those two albums were such a departure from the extremely lauded OK Computer that I've read people call it "a betrayal of fans". Not true. Kid A went platinum with no single, no videos, no radio play, very little hype other than fan anticipation and word of mouth. Also, their latest release "In Rainbows" was released online for the price of "you choose". And it was announced on their website 10 days prior to this. That's it. Yet they made more money off this one than 2003's Hail to the Chief, their last obligation to EMI.

D- The songs are just so DAMN GOOD! Seriously, they have gotten better and better over the years. Here are a few key tracks I highly recommend, in no order:
-Paranoid Android
-Like Spinning Plates
-The National Anthem
-Morning Bell
-2+2=5
-A Wolf at the Door
-Myxomatosis
-Idioteque
-There There
-Reckoner
-15 Step
-The Amazing Sounds of Orgy
-Paperbag Writer
-Cuttooth
-How to Disappear Completely
-Fog

...well, there it is. Get to listenin'.

E- Live. Seeing Radiohead live. This is something that CANNOT be passed up, should you have the chance. Not only do they sound incredible, but they use some unique visuals to enhance the experience. I saw them this past august, and they had what I can only describe as what appeared to be pipe organ pipes, all over the stage. Yet when they started playing, these "pipes" came alive with light somehow, and at one point, there appeared to be a condensed galaxy on stage. That's the only way I can describe it. Besides amazing.

Well, that's it, I love me some Radiohead, always will.
Keeping with the music theme, next on the couch: Coldplay.

The most embarrassing moment of my life.

Ok, so before I launch into this cringe-fest, it needs a little set-up. Here goes: My sister and I, when we were kids, always had this obsession with cheesey pro-wrestler moves, mostly what I believe is called the "elbow drop". We would do it all the time; off a chair, off a bed, stairs, whatever. It was something that never stopped being funny. It always involved the dropper to tap their elbow several times before delivering said drop, like a taunt. You know what I'm talking about. So... fast foward a few years........ My sister had been studying abroad in Germany for a year. I had not seen her for at least that long, and I think I had talked to her maybe once. So when she came back, my entire family (except me, I think I had to work) went to the airport to pick her up. I went to my parents house to wait for them. I was watching TV when I heard the car pull in, and got really excited that they were home, like a german shepherd. I ran out the back door, and my sister was coming up the stairs. I went to go into the previously mentioned wrestling move, but gained a little too much momentum, and kind of just went down the stairs a bit too fast. I went to grab her shoulder to regain my balance, but instead.......... Can you see where this is going? Yup. My hand landed right on of my sister's breasts. Not just a graze, but a full on cup. A handful, if I may. Like I said, I had some momentum going, so it lasted long enough to be even more awkward than it should have been. After I hadn't seen her in a year, this is how I greeted her. Right in front of my whole family. Both parents, my other sister, and my grandma all saw it. A rewind button might have come in handy right about then. No one has ever brought it up since, and rightfully so... until now.
I'll end with this-
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1ytCEuuW2_A&feature=related

Linkin Park- on the couch

Ok, so I hate linkin park. Like, pretty passionately. I always have, and I hold them at least partially responsible for the angst-mongering, desperate, whiny douchebag garbage that plagued popular rock radio in the early 00's, and continues to bug intelligent, musically tasteful people to this day. I don't mean to sound pretentious with that last part, I basically just mean people who aren't sh1theads.

Someone I know recently made a point; and it's one I couldn't agree with more. If the singer (Chester Bennington) had recieved JUST ONE hug from his mother when he was a kid, we would be living in a world WITHOUT Linkin Park. Imagine it. Let's call this world "heaven".

Ok, enough disgust. I am writing this to get to the bottom of my hatred for this inexplicably popular loser music by breaking it down. This is my attempt at an objective view at the sadly NOT late, NEVER great Linkin Park. Keep in mind, this is not easy for me.

Starting with lyrics:

papercut- I don't know what stressed me first, or how the pressure was fed

numb- I've become so numb, I can't feel you there

breaking the habit- memories consume, like opening the wound, I'm pickin me apart again

...............Ok, I can't find it in myself to continue. And that even sounds like a LP lyric. UGH.

Let's string those three lyrics together, shall we? They, as their lyrics tend to do, deal with:

A- external torment. (it's not me, it's you.)

B- inability to healthily interact with people. (more on this one below.)

C- a probably skewed perception of past experiences. AKA IT WASN'T SO BAD, DUMMY. GET A HOLD OF YOURSELF.

-add on to B: their lyrics CONSTANTLY hold a message of "not fitting in" while being in an ongoing, and never successful, struggle to do so.

-also, there is an ever-present "you" in the songs, placing the blame on the so-called "antisocial behavior" on someone else.

WHICH LEADS ME, to "external torment", or A. What musician has been hammered flat by people so badly that EVERY song needs to have, give or take a few teardrops, the exact same theme? I gaurantee Chester the one-toe-water-tester has not. Look it up. He was a "drug addict" (a term that is often fudged in order to get attention) that worked at burger king before his "stinkin' park" fame. In other words, the clown you PROBABLY know, or have known, who happened to make it big. By crying. A lot. And this particular clown continued crying, even after he made it big. Shocking, I know.

Here's what I picture: There's this little baby bird with it's beak open, cheeping, cheeping, just wanting a worm, ONE LOUSY WORM from momma-bird. And momma-bird never comes back to the nest. He thinks maybe she got eated by big bad Mr. Owl! But really momma-bird just got tired of his incessant chatter. Baby birdie resents her, very very much, and his lil' brother and sister birds soon learn to fly and find their own wormies! But back in the nest, there's still little baby chester, all grown up and no one to feed him. But he's just a hungry lil' baby!! No one ever taught the lil' fella to fly, or to catch his own wormies to snack on! So there he sits, cheeping away, hoping momma-bird will come back someday and teach him how to be a big bird, instead of a helpless chewed up piece of bubble gum with a greedy complaing f*cking mouth.

ANALYSIS: I f*ckin' hate linkin park.