I was given the day off today, and given that there are more things going on in my life that will fit in the body of this entry, I'll keep the blog formatted and feed you one topical blog at a time for the next three consecutive days.
Today, you will be briefed by material that will testify my laurels as a blogger and you will likely feel compelled to postulate the mysteries that surround YOUR lackluster ineptitude when it comes to proficiently fishing for decent chicken of the sea (music on the Internet) and you will realize that your music consumption is not as deliciously amazing as my savory palette is accustomed to reeling in.
Disclaimer ... in 5..4..3..2..1 ...
Fret not though, I am humble despite the aforementioned comment and I will share with you some noteworthy tracks getting heavy rotation with me. I also surfed upon Mambo#5 and it wasn't in grave error either. And I'm sure if you had the day off you likely wouldn't devote a good hour to finding music either. So if we were to create a Power Rankings of most douchey and absurd comments, that music snob comment takes the cake at the top!!!!
Everyone has their own preferences, but I enjoy finding new and unique music because I exercise this logic: Rooting for Justin Timberlake is like rooting for Bill Gates to find a $20 bill ... It's not imaginative, courageous or fun. It might be good music, but I'm looking for stuff that's personal, that I can call my own and raise my nose to on occasion when an uniformed person asks "what's this crap?"
Before I drop an unsuspecting play list on your head like an anvil ... understand that if you ever want to know how to ruin a perfectly dull and lame coffee shop experience, consult with good music and thoughtful marination over a hearty cup of Dominican coffee and scan through a to-do list as you make convincing eye-contact with attractive girls in bright colored sun dresses.
No matter what you say, that small formula between the hours of 1 and 3 p.m. worked for me.
It's no secret. White Denim makes good music. Enjoy. It's likely my favorite band out right now. Their highly anticipated album is set to release some time this summer.
White Denim - "Migration Winds"
But what's this link right below you ask? Well, I'm glad you asked. If you're a big fan of Menomena (PORTLAND!!) you'll likely take an interest in their side project called, Lackthereof. I'm really liking it and can't wait for their album to drop on July 22.
Lackthereof - "Last November" Mp3
These guys are called the Kiss Off. It's like Hot Chip meets Junior Boys in a lo-lit alley somewhere and they both conspire after the 2 a.m. last call to make sweet passionate love to the late '80s, who was drunk out of her mind, walking home all alone ... and they make lots of bastard children with a dope ass drum pad and synth key-tar!
The Kiss Off - "Amplify"
Wish you had money to download good music? Really good music that's getting more buzz than a bee hive full of vodka and Red Bulls? Peep this Web site. The downloads are free SUCKA!
Free Indie
Hit it hard, with a closed fist. It's seriously good music for free, and it downloads super fast. You can thank me by giving me your first born child.
It's all about finding new stuff, getting rid of the old. I can't stress that enough ... cool little track that shifts midway through.
Dr. Dog - "The Old Days" mp3
Here's the awesome new video for No Age. They're an electronic/experimental outfit out of Los Angeles with an uncanny knack for slightly otherworldly post-punk rock. I'm surprised MTV got a hold of this band ... waka waka.
No Age - "Eraser"
The Calgary (that's Canada) band Women are catching my attention lately, mainly because they're working with Chad vanGaalen. You'll love this too.
Women - "Cameras" mp3
And here's Bon Iver playing an impromptu take away show for blogotheque in Paris. I highly recommend Bon Iver.
Ratatat is BACK! And damn I love this track called "Falcon Jab." It's safe to assume all tracks involving animals are amazing. Remember wildcat?
Ratatat - "Falcon Jab" mp3
And for good measure, here's a song by Alias called "Crosswalks" that is also winning some of my attention. It's an epic track.
Alias - "Crosswalks" mp3
So there you have it people. An actual blog embedded with multimedia components, albeit skin and bones, but still interactive nonetheless.
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
Sunday, June 29, 2008
You're so Weird
You can peep this article and over 100 pictures at the Statesman. Go to www.austin360.com/getout
It was a day where collecting sideway stares from your peers garnered respect and mutual appreciation. The more zany, bizarre and weird the more at home you might have felt since the idea was to be different.
If you’ve ever had the most random urge to run 3.1 miles downtown in an unruly Speedo as passer-bys marvel at your mullet and pale under belly that’s never seen the light of day, then the Austin Weird 5K was definitely your type of fun.
Logic would suggest that the Austin Weird Fest was an event that I could safely afford to attend, considering I always wanted to run downtown in a urinal cake costume.
It was an opportunity to revel in a collaborative fission of individualism that celebrates the essence of Austin. The rich diversity of costumes, eclectic characters and randomness seemed to flow cohesively as runners spilled into the street at the start line.
The race began at 6 p.m., but calling it a slow jogging parade draws from varying degrees of accuracy since the scorching sun was beating down, baking and punishing all those who weren’t wearing a Speedo, making the run challenging.
It’s safe to say that it was the most entertaining and wacky race since the old reality TV show Man vs. Animal. There was a collective of Dr. Seuss characters, a robot did the electric boogey on skates across the Congress Bridge and a scuba diver ran beside me.
As we turned onto 1st Street/Cesar Chavez Street, I had already begun panting like some asthmatic dog and I needed water. But in lieu of a water stand I saw an Amy’s Ice Cream stand, of course. So I stopped and fueled up, realizing it was better than water.
The heat and the non-serious nature of the race meant I might finish it in just under one hour, which would be a deplorable feat on any given day. But I could care less.
On the final stretch I saw a man on stilts, people rowing in a cardboard canoe and two women running with walkers.
While music from What Made Milwaukee Famous and Alejandro Escovedo entertained families and racers were looking to cool down, I looked around and realized why I enjoy Austin so much.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
I'll Still Hoop Your Mom Up
After conclusive evidence, I have decided that challenging a female NCAA basketball player to a game of one-on-one is not the best way to earn a certified man-card.
Especially if you lose and then create elaborate explanations as to why it was nearly impossible to slide a slice of pizza under your sneakers as you hop shamefully for a rebound.
I found myself blaming my inability to hoop it up and cut across the court with the speed of a puma on anything from a loose shoestring or a missing contact lens (I don’t wear contacts) to the fact that we were playing with a girl’s basketball. I even blamed my sluggishness on the fact that my recent breakup with my girlfriend was emotionally heavy.
I might as well have entered a cookie-baking contest and followed suit with an extensive Lifetime channel movie marathon, complete with knitting, gossip and romantic novel reading club discussions.
As you can imagine, it’s the perfect way to exhaust and destroy any unbridled level of ape swinging bravado or machismo you may have. Why you ask?
Let me refer you to a little (BIG) event circa 1973, the Battle of the Sexes tennis match, between Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean King. For all intents and purposes, Bobby Rigg’s career was remembered mostly for his loss to the great Billie Jean King.
I left my legacy on the basketball court, enduring not only one, but two convincing defeats. I had no idea that I was getting myself into a lose-lose situation. If I win, great, I’m expected to win, if I lose, I deserve to retire any inclinations I may once have had to watch the Godfather or eat 16 oz. steaks.
To recap the game is somewhat painful, however, I must add that Katelyn Benz (Washington State University) was one of the nation’s best basketball players and she stands at a modest 6 feet.
Once the game got underway she jumped out to a quick 7-2 lead, and I began to panic. So I considered flopping, calling fouls if she breathed too heavily on me and/or I considered throwing jokes around to make the game appear more casual, as if I weren’t really playing hard. Truth be told, I was in “Rocky” mode and could only hear the “Eye of the Tiger” theme music in my head.
She posted me up and it was turnaround jumper after the other. I think she even yawned at one point and asked if I could touch the net. That game ended with me pointing to my ankle and the blister that threw the game for me, so we played again.
And though the second game had her winning 12-11, it was even more painful because it proved that the first game was no fluke. There was nothing I could do. And when things did go my way and I blocked her shot really hard, I felt really out of line for my obnoxious Mutumbo-like swat (but it sort of felt good).
I could have asked for a third match, but I feel like I would have entertained a perilous voyage into shame that would have proved to be minimally satisfying since she was losing interest in the challenge of playing me.
I thank the hardwood heavens that only a handful of people were witnesses to my crushing defeats.
There was an important lesson learned here though. I used to scoff at women’s basketball because I’m not a fan of jaw dropping lay-ups or bounce passes, but co-ed sports will never be looked at with the same futility and casualness as before.
Remember guys, if you don’t play hard, you’ll lose, regardless of gender, and I’m empirical evidence of that.
Now I must go redeem my man-card by absorbing countless punches to the midsection from Chuck Norris while reciting every line to the Godfather as I aggressively box out any motion to ask her for a rematch.
Especially if you lose and then create elaborate explanations as to why it was nearly impossible to slide a slice of pizza under your sneakers as you hop shamefully for a rebound.
I found myself blaming my inability to hoop it up and cut across the court with the speed of a puma on anything from a loose shoestring or a missing contact lens (I don’t wear contacts) to the fact that we were playing with a girl’s basketball. I even blamed my sluggishness on the fact that my recent breakup with my girlfriend was emotionally heavy.
I might as well have entered a cookie-baking contest and followed suit with an extensive Lifetime channel movie marathon, complete with knitting, gossip and romantic novel reading club discussions.
As you can imagine, it’s the perfect way to exhaust and destroy any unbridled level of ape swinging bravado or machismo you may have. Why you ask?
Let me refer you to a little (BIG) event circa 1973, the Battle of the Sexes tennis match, between Bobby Riggs and Billie Jean King. For all intents and purposes, Bobby Rigg’s career was remembered mostly for his loss to the great Billie Jean King.
I left my legacy on the basketball court, enduring not only one, but two convincing defeats. I had no idea that I was getting myself into a lose-lose situation. If I win, great, I’m expected to win, if I lose, I deserve to retire any inclinations I may once have had to watch the Godfather or eat 16 oz. steaks.
To recap the game is somewhat painful, however, I must add that Katelyn Benz (Washington State University) was one of the nation’s best basketball players and she stands at a modest 6 feet.
Once the game got underway she jumped out to a quick 7-2 lead, and I began to panic. So I considered flopping, calling fouls if she breathed too heavily on me and/or I considered throwing jokes around to make the game appear more casual, as if I weren’t really playing hard. Truth be told, I was in “Rocky” mode and could only hear the “Eye of the Tiger” theme music in my head.
She posted me up and it was turnaround jumper after the other. I think she even yawned at one point and asked if I could touch the net. That game ended with me pointing to my ankle and the blister that threw the game for me, so we played again.
And though the second game had her winning 12-11, it was even more painful because it proved that the first game was no fluke. There was nothing I could do. And when things did go my way and I blocked her shot really hard, I felt really out of line for my obnoxious Mutumbo-like swat (but it sort of felt good).
I could have asked for a third match, but I feel like I would have entertained a perilous voyage into shame that would have proved to be minimally satisfying since she was losing interest in the challenge of playing me.
I thank the hardwood heavens that only a handful of people were witnesses to my crushing defeats.
There was an important lesson learned here though. I used to scoff at women’s basketball because I’m not a fan of jaw dropping lay-ups or bounce passes, but co-ed sports will never be looked at with the same futility and casualness as before.
Remember guys, if you don’t play hard, you’ll lose, regardless of gender, and I’m empirical evidence of that.
Now I must go redeem my man-card by absorbing countless punches to the midsection from Chuck Norris while reciting every line to the Godfather as I aggressively box out any motion to ask her for a rematch.
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
It's a Washboard. Yup.
I recently considered lifting my T-shirt up and over my head, removing it completely from my body and exposing some torso ... in public, at the running trail on Town Lake. Yes, I contemplated being that guy, only for a moment though.
It was a haste thought that was gone once I consulted with the ‘how to behave stupidly’ guide.
I remember several years back when my roommate asked me which laundromat I take my laundry for washing. I responded by pouring a glass of deep purple wine on myself and then ripped my shirt off like the Incredible Hulk and began washing the stain out of my shirt on my abdomen like some arrogant donkeyass in an infomercial.
That varies slightly in truth, but point being, I’m going for gold in getting a ripped midsection. That is why I joined a core fitness class.
It kicked my ass today and pummeled me into a mound of hamburger meat that was left on the grill, charred and chewed, but hardened, like gum beneath your desk.
But the fact that it also kicked Derek Johnson’s ass made me feel better. Yes, that’s right, the former Longhorn and NFL pro-bowl player and I were the only two guys in the class.
We don’t really know each other, though we did have a class together back in 2004 and we worked on a group project, which I shouldered all the work.
He parked his aerobic step next to me and we started talking about the secret gold mine that the class was … lots of “honnies” as he put it. I asked him if he'd ever done the core class before and he made it clear, "Hellz naw holmez, but I am now."
At any rate, class started and we were both so off the mark in keeping up with everyone it was just embarrassing. People were laughing at us. The instructor made little effort to go more than five feet away from us because we were out of control and shitty at core development apparently.
And we were only 10 minutes into it and I had already switched on the ‘profuse sweating’ button that I typically reserve for trips to the sun, saunas, awkward conversations with girls and fevers.
He then started grunting uncontrollably once the instructor asked us to pick up the weights to do some knee lifts. I thought the grunts were unnecessary. Everyone already knew he was struggling, why drill the point deeper? It's like saying, "Hi, I lift weights in my spare time and when I'm not doing that, you can find me lifting heavier weights."
“I can’t do this,” he said to me. I said nothing. But the instructor came and put her hand on my lower back to correct me and encouraged me to push. Apparently I couldn't either.
You’ve got to be kidding me though. An NFL linebacker who gets millions for his athletic prowess can’t lift 20 pounds and lunge forward at the same time like some homosexual ninja trying to stretch out his fancy pants?
It certainly made me feel better about barely being able to do a reverse kickback while pumping my shoulders in the air to the tune of Night of the Roxbury theme music.
This leads me to believe that if I endure these classes twice a week and stick to my running regiment, I’ll be washing clothes in public. Word.
It was a haste thought that was gone once I consulted with the ‘how to behave stupidly’ guide.
I remember several years back when my roommate asked me which laundromat I take my laundry for washing. I responded by pouring a glass of deep purple wine on myself and then ripped my shirt off like the Incredible Hulk and began washing the stain out of my shirt on my abdomen like some arrogant donkeyass in an infomercial.
That varies slightly in truth, but point being, I’m going for gold in getting a ripped midsection. That is why I joined a core fitness class.
It kicked my ass today and pummeled me into a mound of hamburger meat that was left on the grill, charred and chewed, but hardened, like gum beneath your desk.
But the fact that it also kicked Derek Johnson’s ass made me feel better. Yes, that’s right, the former Longhorn and NFL pro-bowl player and I were the only two guys in the class.
We don’t really know each other, though we did have a class together back in 2004 and we worked on a group project, which I shouldered all the work.
He parked his aerobic step next to me and we started talking about the secret gold mine that the class was … lots of “honnies” as he put it. I asked him if he'd ever done the core class before and he made it clear, "Hellz naw holmez, but I am now."
At any rate, class started and we were both so off the mark in keeping up with everyone it was just embarrassing. People were laughing at us. The instructor made little effort to go more than five feet away from us because we were out of control and shitty at core development apparently.
And we were only 10 minutes into it and I had already switched on the ‘profuse sweating’ button that I typically reserve for trips to the sun, saunas, awkward conversations with girls and fevers.
He then started grunting uncontrollably once the instructor asked us to pick up the weights to do some knee lifts. I thought the grunts were unnecessary. Everyone already knew he was struggling, why drill the point deeper? It's like saying, "Hi, I lift weights in my spare time and when I'm not doing that, you can find me lifting heavier weights."
“I can’t do this,” he said to me. I said nothing. But the instructor came and put her hand on my lower back to correct me and encouraged me to push. Apparently I couldn't either.
You’ve got to be kidding me though. An NFL linebacker who gets millions for his athletic prowess can’t lift 20 pounds and lunge forward at the same time like some homosexual ninja trying to stretch out his fancy pants?
It certainly made me feel better about barely being able to do a reverse kickback while pumping my shoulders in the air to the tune of Night of the Roxbury theme music.
This leads me to believe that if I endure these classes twice a week and stick to my running regiment, I’ll be washing clothes in public. Word.
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Chew On This For That Dirty Mouth
I woke up at exactly 7:49 a.m. in all my disheveled glory, despite the unruly exhaustion raging unabatedly through every subatomic particle in my being.
My face was glued to my pillow, muscles and bones snapped, stretched and cracked loudly as if a batch of celery were being twisted. I was still wearing my going-out clothes from the previous night and there was evidence that a mysterious black felt tip sharpie had come in contact with the skin on my wrist. Phallic symbol. How funny. Dragons could have been slain at the slightest exhalation of breath.
It's safe to say I was an ungodly hungover of a mess, rife with cheetos cheese dust in my bed and a fresh stench of that devil brew that made Milwaukee famous likely seeping out of my pores.
And then, just as I yawned and sucked some air down, a bent and bizarre thought struck me harder than a devastating kick to the jowl after a Thanksgiving dinner:
"I didn't brush my teeth last night!"
The thought met me with the urgency and immediacy of some inexplicable priority.
I shit you not. Forget the fact that I was teetering on the brink of comatose. I was under the false impression that since I forgot to brush my teeth, it would inevitably lead to a general demise in my day that would leave my million dollar smile riddled with decay and wayward off-white squalor.
Yes, I take pride in my grill, but it was mad weird to scamper to the bathroom and brush my teeth while lacking the wherewithal to even wipe away the ravine of saliva left on my pillow and emptying onto my face.
Operating under the theory that germs are exponentially more potent with time, meaning there's a direct correlation to the degree of badness in how long something remains idle without being rinsed, washed or changed (see 3 second rule) I guess when I'm nursing a hangover it's all that matters under the adage of 'cleanliness is next to Godliness virtue.'
I could be swimming in puppy urine, but as long as I remember to brush my teeth, life's good.
p.s. I'm not really as unhygienic as this post suggests.
My face was glued to my pillow, muscles and bones snapped, stretched and cracked loudly as if a batch of celery were being twisted. I was still wearing my going-out clothes from the previous night and there was evidence that a mysterious black felt tip sharpie had come in contact with the skin on my wrist. Phallic symbol. How funny. Dragons could have been slain at the slightest exhalation of breath.
It's safe to say I was an ungodly hungover of a mess, rife with cheetos cheese dust in my bed and a fresh stench of that devil brew that made Milwaukee famous likely seeping out of my pores.
And then, just as I yawned and sucked some air down, a bent and bizarre thought struck me harder than a devastating kick to the jowl after a Thanksgiving dinner:
"I didn't brush my teeth last night!"
The thought met me with the urgency and immediacy of some inexplicable priority.
I shit you not. Forget the fact that I was teetering on the brink of comatose. I was under the false impression that since I forgot to brush my teeth, it would inevitably lead to a general demise in my day that would leave my million dollar smile riddled with decay and wayward off-white squalor.
Yes, I take pride in my grill, but it was mad weird to scamper to the bathroom and brush my teeth while lacking the wherewithal to even wipe away the ravine of saliva left on my pillow and emptying onto my face.
Operating under the theory that germs are exponentially more potent with time, meaning there's a direct correlation to the degree of badness in how long something remains idle without being rinsed, washed or changed (see 3 second rule) I guess when I'm nursing a hangover it's all that matters under the adage of 'cleanliness is next to Godliness virtue.'
I could be swimming in puppy urine, but as long as I remember to brush my teeth, life's good.
p.s. I'm not really as unhygienic as this post suggests.
Friday, June 20, 2008
Ode to Summer
The greatest season on earth is making its arrival this weekend and I haven't done anything outrageously adventurous, spontaneous or noteworthy thus far.
Highlight of my summer? Getting a roll of pennies and discreetly spreading them across the sands of some beach only to watch some guy with a metal detector uncover the biggest buzz kill treasure ever.
No not really, but I'm also holding to the fact that summer hasn't even started yet.
Unlike most people, I really enjoy summer's heat and the discomfort that being outside may create. Whether that means constantly pulling away sweaty pants clinging to your thighs, generating Olympic size pools of underarm sweat, or grazing some waterhole with the synergy level of a pregnant cow and a slow moving rod of lightning during a lazy summer shower.
I love summer.
Every day is like taking a walk down Lollypop Lane, only more dope. With attractive girls in sun dresses abound how can you go wrong? Everyone looks impossibly tanned, and a lot of time will be spent on patios and lawn chairs. Life is simple, the way I like it. Austin summers even smell awesome.
Unlike one summer in Mexico City several years ago. That's one smell I'm still working to forget. There's nothing like stepping outside to the smell of bum urine that's been baked in the stagnant summer air.
Today smells a lot like the first of March, which also smells like your mom stepping out of the shower. Douche! [bag] comment ... on a Summer's Eve ... ZING. Wow! Why am I so dope?
In the spirit of summer, I want to continue compiling the experiences that will be wired straight to the memory bank. Not some offshore account, where I'll forget in a drunken haze. I mean, real time summer adventure.
That said here are some realistic and tentative goals I plan to achieve this summer:
1) Throw darts at a spinning globe and head to that place ... and then realize I can't afford going to Argentina to ride a mule into the countryside just yet, so I throw a dart somewhere in Texas ... MARFA, TX!
2) Marvel at the rich diversity of ass during at the next 'Mom Jeans' convention ... arguably viewable at your local Whole Foods.
3) Take a pale moonlight paddle on Town Lake by myself. Wearing a snorkel and fins.
4) Go to a family reunion and feel strange and stirring feelings towards your third cousin from Arkansas who convinced you that you're not related. KIDDING.
5) Attend a friend's wedding. I'm attending more and more of these and they're scary, because it's just a reminder I'm getting older.
6) Park my car in the sun and turn off the engine. Sit silently with the windows rolled up until the visions come.
7) Skinny dip with morbidly obese people and then vomit profusely.
8) Stay for an entire set of a live music show. Until the very last song. I just realized I've never done that.
9) Run the Margarita 5K and get so slosh faced that I attempt to run it backwards and call it a day after I stagger into a ditch half-way through the run.
10) Wear a suit to the grocery store and chat it up with some attractive lady at the produce aisle. Only if I'm able to grow an unruly mustache though. A sweet alternative, drink water from a yard hose in that suit. I've always wanted to do that.
11) Create a devastatingly funny T-shirt. One that involves literal and figurative speech, coupled with duo-meaning and Nintendo references.
12) I have just over one month to decide and plan my life out. That's no joke. My lease ends and I'm getting bored with my job. Changes are coming. Exciting.
13) Seek the advice from a grizzled Tom Waits look-alike who's bloated from Lone Star and BBQ and talks in a syrupy southern drawl. I have questions.
14) Slay a school of salmon with the ferocity of a native Ameircan and/or a black bear ... I need to go camping or fishing, in other words. I'm thinking when I go to Marfa, TX I'll do these two.
15) Eat ice cream in the dark. What the fuck JJ? Thanks for comin' out.
16) Write something very prolific that is very unlike me.
17) Think heavy and hard about a plan to make Argentina work.
18) Have a really bad, ill-advised conversation with my news director about being real.
19) Make more money, without having to whore myself out in the process.
20) Get back to the basics. It's the little things in life and in summer more specifically that make it so memorable for me. It's just the little things. Reducing shit to the most common denominator.
Highlight of my summer? Getting a roll of pennies and discreetly spreading them across the sands of some beach only to watch some guy with a metal detector uncover the biggest buzz kill treasure ever.
No not really, but I'm also holding to the fact that summer hasn't even started yet.
Unlike most people, I really enjoy summer's heat and the discomfort that being outside may create. Whether that means constantly pulling away sweaty pants clinging to your thighs, generating Olympic size pools of underarm sweat, or grazing some waterhole with the synergy level of a pregnant cow and a slow moving rod of lightning during a lazy summer shower.
I love summer.
Every day is like taking a walk down Lollypop Lane, only more dope. With attractive girls in sun dresses abound how can you go wrong? Everyone looks impossibly tanned, and a lot of time will be spent on patios and lawn chairs. Life is simple, the way I like it. Austin summers even smell awesome.
Unlike one summer in Mexico City several years ago. That's one smell I'm still working to forget. There's nothing like stepping outside to the smell of bum urine that's been baked in the stagnant summer air.
Today smells a lot like the first of March, which also smells like your mom stepping out of the shower. Douche! [bag] comment ... on a Summer's Eve ... ZING. Wow! Why am I so dope?
In the spirit of summer, I want to continue compiling the experiences that will be wired straight to the memory bank. Not some offshore account, where I'll forget in a drunken haze. I mean, real time summer adventure.
That said here are some realistic and tentative goals I plan to achieve this summer:
1) Throw darts at a spinning globe and head to that place ... and then realize I can't afford going to Argentina to ride a mule into the countryside just yet, so I throw a dart somewhere in Texas ... MARFA, TX!
2) Marvel at the rich diversity of ass during at the next 'Mom Jeans' convention ... arguably viewable at your local Whole Foods.
3) Take a pale moonlight paddle on Town Lake by myself. Wearing a snorkel and fins.
4) Go to a family reunion and feel strange and stirring feelings towards your third cousin from Arkansas who convinced you that you're not related. KIDDING.
5) Attend a friend's wedding. I'm attending more and more of these and they're scary, because it's just a reminder I'm getting older.
6) Park my car in the sun and turn off the engine. Sit silently with the windows rolled up until the visions come.
7) Skinny dip with morbidly obese people and then vomit profusely.
8) Stay for an entire set of a live music show. Until the very last song. I just realized I've never done that.
9) Run the Margarita 5K and get so slosh faced that I attempt to run it backwards and call it a day after I stagger into a ditch half-way through the run.
10) Wear a suit to the grocery store and chat it up with some attractive lady at the produce aisle. Only if I'm able to grow an unruly mustache though. A sweet alternative, drink water from a yard hose in that suit. I've always wanted to do that.
11) Create a devastatingly funny T-shirt. One that involves literal and figurative speech, coupled with duo-meaning and Nintendo references.
12) I have just over one month to decide and plan my life out. That's no joke. My lease ends and I'm getting bored with my job. Changes are coming. Exciting.
13) Seek the advice from a grizzled Tom Waits look-alike who's bloated from Lone Star and BBQ and talks in a syrupy southern drawl. I have questions.
14) Slay a school of salmon with the ferocity of a native Ameircan and/or a black bear ... I need to go camping or fishing, in other words. I'm thinking when I go to Marfa, TX I'll do these two.
15) Eat ice cream in the dark. What the fuck JJ? Thanks for comin' out.
16) Write something very prolific that is very unlike me.
17) Think heavy and hard about a plan to make Argentina work.
18) Have a really bad, ill-advised conversation with my news director about being real.
19) Make more money, without having to whore myself out in the process.
20) Get back to the basics. It's the little things in life and in summer more specifically that make it so memorable for me. It's just the little things. Reducing shit to the most common denominator.
Wednesday, June 18, 2008
Marinate on This Bitches ...
This is my 2nd blog post in less than 30 mins. but shit, I can get away with it (please refer to the very top of this blog ... Who's dope?).
I just had to share some thoughts on something.
The wimpy Brits behind the song "Yellow" ... you know, Coldplay ... well, I just listened to their new album in its entirety this morning.
And yes, I am fully aware that their target audience might be young women with heavy hearts, but fuck that ... their new album is - dare I say - a trippy bombast of good shit.
Some people might balk at such appropriations but each song carries a unique otherworldly element that finds a natural place in the wide-open sound.
It makes me want to fly. gay? yes.
Correction: It makes me want to crack the spine of some dusty book sitting in the dark and dampened corners of my head and reread it while strumming memories and sturdy melodies backed by universal themes ... because that's what this album is all about.
As the title suggests, it's all about love, war and peace ... and people, I promise this is the ONLY fagelleh post I will ever write, but I appreciate fine art, and this harkens that, and the album's triumph lies in how exciting Coldplay makes the prospect of love, war and peace seem.
Everyone knows I tend to shy away from mass appeal, but listen to the album and tell me you don't like it, and I will take you to Austin's finest eatery (at your expense).
I just had to share some thoughts on something.
The wimpy Brits behind the song "Yellow" ... you know, Coldplay ... well, I just listened to their new album in its entirety this morning.
And yes, I am fully aware that their target audience might be young women with heavy hearts, but fuck that ... their new album is - dare I say - a trippy bombast of good shit.
Some people might balk at such appropriations but each song carries a unique otherworldly element that finds a natural place in the wide-open sound.
It makes me want to fly. gay? yes.
Correction: It makes me want to crack the spine of some dusty book sitting in the dark and dampened corners of my head and reread it while strumming memories and sturdy melodies backed by universal themes ... because that's what this album is all about.
As the title suggests, it's all about love, war and peace ... and people, I promise this is the ONLY fagelleh post I will ever write, but I appreciate fine art, and this harkens that, and the album's triumph lies in how exciting Coldplay makes the prospect of love, war and peace seem.
Everyone knows I tend to shy away from mass appeal, but listen to the album and tell me you don't like it, and I will take you to Austin's finest eatery (at your expense).
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