The Odyssey of Breakfast: A Pitchfork Review

::Three blogs in just as many days is unheard of, I know. But I'm kinda on a roll (yes, I am actually butter) so I might as well keep it going::

Best New Albums
Pretentious reviews of this week's new album releases pertaining to JJ's breakfast experience at a coffee shop. Since he is alone, and in a coffee shop, he can safely afford to make hyper critical observations that claim unjustified merit.


Produce Aisle Vegetables
Nothing to Write Home About
[Supermarket Records;2009]





Chewing on the Produce Aisle Vegetables latest release is anything but fresh. It's a lot like trashy but savvy brats, where you just want to hit it, quit it, and then spit on it. The limp celery in my omelet doesn't quite mesh well with the rotten tomatoes. It's reminiscent of the empty sonic sound associated with sticking your index finger in your cheek and making that hollow, unsatisfying, childish 'ploop' sound. A disappointing attempt at conceptualizing the marvelous morning by way of a not-so-fresh omelet. Opening track, "Spinach plus artichoke" is ultimately as trifling as refrigerating after opening is essential.


The Sick Thrills
Roller Coasters Are Good Places To Be
[Up and Down Records;2009]




On the title track, of the Sick Thrills' third album, we get a glimpse of true formless songwriting that's ragged, raw and downright thrilling. Themes as bold as French roast, people watching, spilling muffin crumbs on your pants and searching for vacant power outlets are fierce. The album makes sitting in a coffee shop seem energized, whimsical and painstakingly charming. The ups and downs of melancholy and isolated mayhem come alive in a textured homage to flipping your stomach inside-out and vomiting when listening to the "quiet mumble of people chattering" and "yoga moms come here to blog." Sitting with your laptop open becomes exciting, and the Sick Thrills highlight a deft percussion when patrons croon with baristas about the joys of caffeine, which take you to limitless realms of conversation and work productivity.


Gourmet Coffee Snot
The Poetic Sound of Coffee Dripping
[Half & Half Records;2009]





The Poetic Sound of Coffee Dripping is an unheralded work of pompous, appalling and inhumanely possible craftsmanship that lacks craft. Imagine empty notebooks sitting next to uninviting pens, patrons sitting cross-legged, with unlit cigarettes dangling from lips while holding books that never get read and that's not unlike Gourmet Coffee Snot. The album grows massively unqualified and tragic with incredibly nonchalant tracks that lack cogent melody like "Bike-Sexuals, mustaches and neck tattoos." Your skinny pants dreams, ironic T-shirt acceptance and inner 'litster' (hipster + literature nerd) is never really questioned in their latest album. They simply go with the trend. Not cool.


The Random Electric Shuffles
On Repeat
[Heavy Rotation Records;2009]





The Random Electric Shuffles release their latest compilation of music and progress from one song to the next with deft abandon. The term 'apples and oranges' is redefined in this record as Brittney Spears follows Grizzly Bear, who precedes that "I like to MOVE-IT-MOVE-IT!" song in complete incoherency. The order and arrangement of songs will suck the life from you. Comparing hyenas to uranium is the new 'apples and oranges' since apples and oranges are too similar for this dangerously unbalanced album. To make this hellish experience even worse, some tracks are disturbingly played again, and again.


Reading Lazy Rainbows
Taking Care of Business
[Don't Procrastinate for Me Argentina Records;2009]




Moving at a glacial pace when studying, or getting work done in a coffee shop is at the heart of the latest concept album by Reading Lazy Rainbows. Staring at tasks and responsibilities with a crushing indifference becomes paramount, but the sound is too similar to trite Chinese fortune cookies and proverbs. The songs run loops of unmotivated, rickety choruses that run off-beat with knotty-linguistics about Gchat. In the spirit of procrastination, this album was long delayed but I wish it was never created, especially after wasting my morning. The lone highlight of the album is the song "Focus You ADD bastard," belting lyrics like, I text, chat, and surf the Web/I might as well have never left my bed. The album is slightly less mild than the yawn inducing, sloth subject matter itself.


The Chairs
Sucky Posture
[My Neck, My Back Records;2009]





Fussily polished post modern rockers get too fancy and create a disastrous mess that's painful to the ears and the back. There's nothing fans of The Chairs can do but hope that the Swedish IKEA knockoffs disband and regroup after studying the principles of Feng Shui more earnestly. Form sadly shadows function in My Neck, My Back and the music mostly lies limp form the beginning. That tingly, numbing sensation you get in your butt is never a good one. This record is as uncomfortable as it is horrible.


Driving Hard Bargains
The Cost of Living Fast
[Soul For Sale Records;2009]




Forgoing the flimsy sound of their typical catchy loops rife with cash register *cha-chings* and baller bling-bling subject matter, Driving Hard Bargains embraces a new sound that's eerily similar to that of thumbing through wads of cash. It's experimental freak-folk that falls flat on its face, however it's a cheap way to pass the time and grab a reasonably priced bite to eat. But then again, so is McDonalds. Driving Hard Bargains should stick to what they know: down south booty bumping music.

We'll Make You Famous
Forget What You Heard
[Word of Mouth Records;2009]




This follow up to their 2006 debut is packed with thick and gauzy guitars, manic synths and unbelievable buzz. Experiencing this coffee shop is an enhancing trip full of depth and otherworldly, furious instrumental passages that beckons fans of all interests. Tracks like "I Told You It Was Good" shine like malevolent moonlight. We'll Make You Famous finally lives up to their hype, and makes music that does the impossible: loudly exceeds their reputation. It's best to listen to Forget What You Heard with headphones, since you will be forming your own opinion of the coffee shop.

Interview with the Cookie Monster

::The following is a recent conversation I had with the Cookie Monster during a chance encounter at Tiff's Treats::

Me: Yo, whadup Cookie Monster. I didn't know you were real? What are you doing here in the bathroom of Tiff's Treats?

Cookie Monster: ::humph:: {sigh} ....

Me: What's wrong? You look a little down and out. Wanna get something off your chest?

Cookie Monster: Me have problem. Me know. Me tend to get out of control when me see cookies. Me know it not natural to react so strongly to cookies, but me have weakness. Me know me do wrong. Me know it isn't normal. Me see disapproving looks. Me see stares. Me hurt inside.

Me: What are you talking about bro? You're the Cookie Monster. That's what you do. You eat cookies and you have crooked, zany eyes and you mumble incoherent fragment sentences and drivel cookie crumbs. You're a monster.

Cookie Monster: No. Me just furry blue person who love cookies too much. Me no ask for it. Me just born that way. Me hate going back to apartment and can't stand looking me in mirror after cookie binge. Fur always matted with chocolate chip and covered in crumbs. Me try to clean life up, but just can't do it.

Me: Yea. That's because you're a hideous monster. It's cool. We love you for it though. Wanna hug it out homey?

Cookie Monster: Me no understand why me monster?Dracula guy with unhealthy math fetish more monster than me. Me pretty sure he's undead and drinks blood. And Big Bird. Don't get me started on him. He gigantic yellow talking canary. How that not monster? And wooly mammoth very existence monstrous!

Me: Whoa Whoa Whoa. Cooks' chill. I grew up watching you. You inspired me to become the little tub of fat boy lard I was. I even tried to talk like you.

Cookie Monster: Please be quiet. Me thinks me have serious problem. Me thinks me addicted. But since when it acceptable to call addict monster? It affliction. It disease. It burden. But does it make me monster?

Me: You're being way too hard on yourself. I think you just need to have a cookie and relax. Here {Hands him GIANT M&M cookie} There. See? All better?

::Cookie Monster does that thing where he destroys the cookie with his hands and shoots crumbs everywhere but in his mouth::

Cookie Monster: Me wrong. Me too hard on self. Me no have unhealthy obsession. Me love cookies, but it no hurt anyone. Me just enthusiast. Everyone has something they like most, something they get excited about. Why not me? Me perfectly normal. Me no monster. Me OK guy. Me OK guy who eat cookies.

Me: Hell Yea! That's the spirit Cookie Monster! You're so money and you don't even know it. You don't even need cookies. This is a really good cookie though.

Cookie Monster: Give me that! Now! GRRRAAAGH ::chomp chomp chomp:: Who me kidding? Me monster.

Me: Dude. So not cool. You didn't even eat it. You wasted my cookie. You're kind of a mess dude.

Cookie Monster: Me only crumble cookies in mouth, but me no swallow. Me can't swallow. Me no have no esophagus. Me no have no trachea. Me only have black fabric throat. Me not supposed to be able to even talk.

Me: You really aren't a monster. All it takes for you to reach happiness is cookies. That's all you want in life. I admire that. And at a very primordial level, I see myself in you. No moderation with the cookies. Veggie Monster would never work. People can't relate to it.

Cookie Monster: 'C' is for cookie and that's good enough for me!

Me: Word! Cookie Monster, I'm glad we had this talk.

The Skills I Know (In Crushing Detail)

I'm sitting here, late Saturday night, vying for time as I try to revise my resume before my intense euphoria simmers to a perpetually achy, and regretful, sober afterthought.

That's right, I'm writing a resume, fueled by an unruly buzz from drinking the following: caffeine, fructose syrup, beer, unicorn blood, purple stuff, OJ, and fresh African tap water that contains trace elements of lion's urine.

It's working to poetic proficiency as I glom over the skills and experience section of my resume with a glazed, wry smile that smacks with immaturity. Revisiting what you write is key. And don't tell me writing my resume while operating at a 22% brain power is unwise, because it packs a punch, even if it sometimes sits uneasily in your stomach like a vodka-battery acid mixed drink.

My resume glows in the dark now, while yours likely sits in a boring folder called "Resume" and it will never see the light of day. But hopefully, after reading my career objectives and skills that I will be sharing with you, I might mildly inspire you to spill booze on your hard copy resume, sign it with your left hand and draw penises on it with magenta crayola. It's a riveting experience (boozing and resume-ing) that puts your career in perspective.

Let me back up a little. I'm done. [Sips a tall glass of Spain's finest Estrella Damm]. I'm changing careers and I'm done with journalism. Wise men talk of mountains to climb in life, while dull men speak of plateaus, where they have kicked rocks and milked goats with a complacent ambition. I am of the plateau ilk right now. I once saw a man get kicked in the balls by a goat and it reminded me of that sinking feeling of helplessness. Plateaus will get you nowhere in life, and only goats roam those geographical landscapes.

Let's begin. I must preface this all in saying my buzz has grown exponentially in the several minutes it's taken me to reach this point in writing. Beware of swooping pterodactyls, stray exclamation marks, electric pelvic shakes and unrequited metaphors.

!!!!!!!!! (I warned you).

I'm not sure what career field I'd want to enter, so it's a general resume, specifically outlining my not-so-general skills. I got off to a fast start by opening my resume cover letter with the following explosive sentence:

"I am a skillful medieval swordsman who will take your company to the next level by rolling up my sleeves and flexing my Nintendo Power Glove."

My ultimate genius letter writing skills opens with a "what-the-hell?" uppercut to your jowl. Prospective employers might immediately think I just wasted seven perfectly good seconds of their time, and they might think staring blankly at their desk was an alternative of equal merit.

But check out the following sentence:

"I am interested in employment with your company because I have a licensed Zapper that will terminate rogue ducks."

Before you jump to conclusions, the body of my cover letter contains what I truly have to offer.

"Gaining a Nintendo skill set has taken my career to dizzying heights, whether making non-human faces across cubicles or social notworking on Facebook."

(For those who aren't aware, social notworking, is the practice of spending time unproductively on social-networking Websites, especially when one should be working).

My cover letter further explains how I managed to successfully place co-workers in submissive Indian leg-lock holds and force them to do my work for me while I research Dr. Mario's medical credentials, considering he was a only a plumber.

"I have excellent project management skills that illustrate my leadership ability."

While simultaneously demonstrating a stern responsibility to my craft of writing and researching.

"I think creatively while engaging in dubious thumb war battles despite carpal tunnel syndrome. I am resourceful and never back down from a staring contest with my computer screen. I take all my information from the most credible sources, i.e., Wikipedia, blogs and that giant rat from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles."

Stop judging me. It gets better.

"My background in ancient Egyptian literature, combined with my familiarity with Sesame Street color schemes will benefit your company greatly. I embrace obese people with a maternal fondness and will successfully retell stories using pace and detail to entertain co-workers on a consistent basis."

Moving on to my resume, my objective reads as such:

"To obtain a job in the performing arts that requires me to thrust my midsection repeatedly, effectively humping the air, while only wearing a lime green bow-tie on stage in a masterpiece theater reenactment of Chip 'n Dale's Rescue Rangers."

Now to the wizard like skills that I can offer.



SKILLS

▪ Effective troubleshooter who uses wax product from hair to creatively solve problems.
▪ Industry experience wasting time conjuring up passive-aggressive compliments stolen from Prince lyrics; pontificating why Karma is being called a bitch.
▪ Reading and writing, plus some arithmetic skills.
▪ Dance Dance Revolution provocateur.
▪ Takes chaos of office and reforms it into a semblance of simple disorder by applying KFC grease to index finger, thumb and rubbing my nipple.
▪ Interprets socially inept language of IT geeks and relays message to normal people.
▪ Reading and writing, plus some arithmetic skills.
▪ Questions others' work with a 6th grade curiosity about the birds and the bees.
▪ Skilled in creating awkward moments during botched power handshakes.
▪ Analyzes information written on bathroom walls; contributes reports.
▪ Capable of selling ordinary items for extraordinary prices on Craig's List.
▪ Sharp eye for details; the other eye, not so sharp and a little lazy.
▪ Skillfully poof fashion trends and redefine company culture with headband attire.

These are my skills. Any idea what market my skill set might be best for me? If so, contact me at jj.mcla@gmail.com. Yes, there's a new playlist at top of this blog and the video below aptly describes what it feels like to camp out on a plateau in life.

Hi, Watch Me Not Impress You

Alright, so I rarely write about detailed meanderings with the ladies, but this one was too funny not to share.

I met this girl a couple weeks back at the fine social hub -- unofficially designated for grassy gnomes -- also known as DB's on West and 5th streets. I was standing behind her and she set her purse down on a chair in front of me at the bar and I advised her that she shouldn't leave her purse around and she said, "Oh - I've been watching you, so I know."

Not certain what the meant, I got her digits. We texted each other intermittently over the course of a week and finally met again yesterday for coffee.

The first major problem the meeting posed was that I didn't know her name. Since she was simply listed in my phone as "Hot Chick" I considered avoiding the subject all together and call her any pronoun in lieu of her proper name.

So we start talking, conversation is fluid and non stop. I ask her a range of questions from favorite flavored toothpaste to geographical living preferences to interests in flutes and previous week experiences.

Totally legitimate conversation. Until I remind myself that I didn't know her name. So I began scheming like a soap opera villain with wayward intentions. I convinced myself that SHE, in fact, had no idea what my name was too. It went like this:



Unknown girl: Absolutely, but when it comes eggplant and salmon, I'm not sure it's a good combination [CUTOFF mid-sentence]

Me: You have no idea who I am do you? You don't even know my name.


Unknown girl: Um, JJ, what are you talking about?

Me: ::SILENCE:: {{Crickets}} {{Thumb twiddling}} OK. (Stupid blank look washes over my face).

Those who know me, are not surprised at the nature of an abrupt comment like that from me.

Unknown girl: Wait. You don't know my name do you?

Me: What? Don't be ridiculous. I was certain you didn't know my name ... I just don't know how to spell your name, that's all.

Unknown girl: It's Gertrude.

Me: Duh. I know.

Unknown girl: No it's NOT. It's Juliana.

Me: ::SHIT:: OK, so yes I was busted. I didn't know your name.

Thinking it would be a good idea, I made the poor decision to inform her the name that appears on my phone every time I receive a text from her. I dig an even deeper hole to lament in.

Me: This was the only name I knew you by. "Hot Chick"

The girl formerly known as unknown girl: Wow. You have really managed to impress me.

Me: So now that we got that out of the way, what are your plans for the weekend?

{{It's only Tuesday, who the hell plans for the weekend on a Tuesday?}}

Juliana: I don't know. The week just started.

Me: I plan all my social outings two weeks in advance.

{blatant lie}

Juliana: Well, I'm going to this prom, at LBJ or something.

Me: PROM?!?!@?@#?!!?@

{{SHIT! She's still in high school! I must leave this scene as soon as possible. Calmly I continue.}}

Me: So how old are you?

Juliana: How old do you think I am.

Me: Considering you just told me you are going to prom, please tell me I'm wrong when I say this, but 18?

Juliana: Um no. I'm 25. It's called prom, for UT's LBJ graduate school of public affairs. So you think I look like I'm 18 huh? That sucks.

Me: Are you Italian?

Juliana: HUH? No. German and French. Why?

Me: Who going to win March Madness?

Juliana: What? You're asking random questions.

Me: Oh -- look it's almost 8 we've been hanging out for about an hour now and I have to meet some friends. {{blatant lie part II}}

Juliana: Oh - OK. Sure. Well it was interesting hanging out.

Me: Yea we should do it again, like this weekend.

Juliana: I don't know. Actually, no. But we'll see.

So that was that. Lesson to be learned fellas. A) Know a girl's name. It's the least you can do. B) Don't let her know that you think she's hot.

Ernest Hemingway Blogs About March Madness, SXSW and Rebounding

It truly was utter chaos in the nights of South by Southwest and I feel like death, nay like six feet of pummeled lump flesh that is yielded after tracking and shooting bear in the Great Smoky Mountains of North Carolina.

Cheers, South by Southwest. Hazy you were, but nonetheless jolly. I can't say the same for my NCAA tournament bracket though. Coming off the heels of SXSW and jumping into more March Madness of a different ilk is making my noggin spin.

It is fair to say that my blog writing shall be characterized by economy and understatement, so keep that in mind, chaps. SXSW has drained me, and typically I am the stoical man who exhibits grace under pressure, but I am gelatin today.

Of men and glory. Let's talk basketball.



Alas, I wish for you all loyal readers to know that my intentions to write another great American classic novel have been sullied, marred and capsized by moderate drinking habits that are nothing to write home about. But I am writing a short basketball review for the Penny Press Courant, where I analyze basketball teams.

North Carolina Tar Heels

What say you North Carlina Tar Heels? Roy Williams is soft. His hands look manicured. They have never pulled tobacco from the dirt. He has never gutted a fish fresh from the sea. Soldiers shoot soft men in the back rather than follow them into battle. Williams should look out. He should watch his back. But junior forward Tyler Hansbrough is a 2-ton bull in baby-blue shorts. When he broke his nose last year, he saw red. He charged. His horns went down and gored opposing players. I would fight with this man. I would die for him. If a bullet met him, I would cradle his head till he left this earth. After the platoon's soldiers shoot Roy Williams in the back, they'll follow Sergeant Hansbrough into combat. Hansbrough and UNC charge to the Elite Eight.

Kansas Jayhawks

As for my ultimate sleeper team of drunken, hung over death. The Kansas Jayhawks.



I do not trust men from the plains. They have no beasts to hunt. They have no stormy seas to tame. They have no mountains to climb. There is nothing in their lives that tests their constitutions. Men without tests are not men. Coach Bill Self has shown this. In two of the last three years, he has been pistol-whipped by teams in the first round. That does not happen to real men. I have no strong opinion of there poultry mascot, but I doubt he could juke a marlin with his dribble. This team is left without honor in the second round.

Duke Blue Devils

Coach K is a platoon captain. He can lead men to war. Men would gladly die for him. They would run over barbed wire. They would charge into a battery of machine guns. They would limp toward a field of death on his word. In this game, they shoot for him. They press for him. They pick and roll for him. Coach K harnesses the manly terror that only mad men from advertising agencies inflict on competitors from the roaring 1920s. These men are gifted. These men are winners. These men will be the champions.

It is tough for me to write, struggling to bounce back from violent debauchery, but I will say this, the key to winning championships is not defense, or teamwork. It's REBOUNDING!



In my experiences, chronicles, travels and epiphanies, I have discovered that there are seven stages of drunk.

1. Subject's face begins to stretch, as if struggling to keep eyes open, while neck and goiter of subject seems to visually expand and quiver unattractively.

2. Subject begins to threaten loved ones with shoes, staple guns, other unconventional weapons.

3. Small racist man appears out of subject's pants, begins to tell impolite "jokes".

4. Falling violently to the floor, subject begins to bleed from knees, already scabbed over from previous drunk.

5. Subject insists on making a tortilla with beans and lots of mustard.

6. Tarot cards are revealed. Subject insists on reading stranger's cards.

7. Ignoring the concept of time, subject begins calling old friends who live three time zones ahead of them. While trying to form reasonable sentences, subject passes out on couch with head tilted back, mouth open in underwear only.

Gentile Culture, Brah!

In an undeniably disturbing manner, I reach the fruitful nucleus of my day when I do something undeniably stupid. I know all you readers have been begging for a good suckling from the literary mammary gland, yearning for some sweet, sexy nectar gushing forth from the inner depths of my hambro soul.

Having laid out the precursor to what I'm about to say, just remember, it's spring and your mom has sprung.

So I'm fulfilling my stupid quota for the day in revealing a bit of information below.

I love equestrian girls.

I know, weird. I imagine if the ghost of James Brown were to reply to that comment he'd say something like:

Hot pants! Yeow!
Sex machines! Uh!
Whips! Good God!
Blazer! Maceo!
Mashed potatoes! Ha!



I don't have the faintest clue why equestrian girls turn me on the most. Yes, even more than all you little arty girls with pretentious tendencies oozing from your every pore. I wish I could say it was just a fad. A seasonal interest that sweeps in during the Kentucky Derby or the Country Club Olympics or some shit, but sadly, it's year round.

To the reader, sure it might appear as though I need professional therapy, psychotropic medications, a hot bubble bath, a few horseback riding lessons, or a rhino sedative, but I think a bowl of Cracklin Oat Bran cereal will suffice (275% dietary fiber, bitch).

I have concluded it is the gentile culture thing. Having said that, my first reaction, I have to say, is, "Codswallop!" Did I really just say that? I am as ignorant as the proverbial dinner guest who knows not his marrow scoop from his halibut fork after trying to understand the equestrian fetish. On a second thought, no, it's not the gentile thing that drives me insane.

Maybe it's my desire to live the high-brow life? Whatever it might be, thinking about the "equestrian urban chic" is burning my loins, brah. In an unbidden way, this blog reminds me of a song that plays in repeat in my head. Imagine a truly irresponsible, regrettable house party, where people end up naked, the front lawn catches on fire, and someone puts lipstick on the family pig and you make out with it endearingly. It's a hyperactive, spastic fit with 1980s synth ... but I don't know the name of the song.

I should get hyphen-happy and ultra-specific in this blog, but instead I think I'm going to go to Urban Outfitters and shake a Magic 8 Ball that I'm not actually going to buy, and pose the question, "Where are the equestrian urban chicks?"

Leave it at that, bro.

Bro! Dudebro, hambro, sasquatch, brethren ... This blog might not have earned me a three-part power handshake.



Thus, remember back in the day on Nickelodeon's "You Can't Do That on Television" ... well, similar to that show, I feel like I should get slimed for revealing this secret fetish of mine in this blog.

Whatever. Peep the new music playlist. It's dope. I never say that enough. ... and I will prove the naysayers wrong and write two blogs a week, consistently, right after SXSW. By the way, I read a review that claims my crew over at Zebra is Food are the most clever dudes on the Interwebs. Here's my latest for them. Slick Rick talks about Unicorns over here.

Word.

A Recession Guide to Valentine's Day

In a statement that's likely to give impetus to the rapidly growing belief that I'm out of this world (down to earth on a casual conversation basis), I heart Valentine's Day!

Just kidding. Chill, I've never used the term "heart" and my masculinity will not be jeopardized in writing this blog. In fact, it will only be beefed up as I poetically share insights to the most frustrating holiday known to man.

In a time when money is tighter than Sher's botoxed face, I've decided to centralize the topic today, for the love of money, in addition to offering keen advice on how to win major points for marathon love making sessions to the break'a-break-a dawn y'all!

There's no dodging it. The economy sucks. The sagging effects of the economy even managed to hit my Monopoly board the other night. There was a housing crisis, one person collected all the money and refused to redistribute it, the $200 pass-go bailout was eliminated and the credit crunch forced me to nudge my fingers under the board and flip it with angst. I even crumpled a $500 bill and ate it to prove an immature point. I can't lose at board games. Sorry.

With that in mind, here's your guide for a recession-friendly Valentine's Dinner

First, get a napkin and write the short note: Meet me at my house, but please leave your expectations at your place.

Once she arrives, tell her your intentions to take her to a romantic candle lit dinner, but the economy has made that impossible.

Then just as the disappointment sinks in to her face, tell her not to worry since you've prepared a modest meal from the items in your house. Remind her again that it will be special, and there will still be a candlelight dinner (since you could not afford utilities this month and are currently without electricity and hot water) ...


Assure her that you're disappointed too. And then ask her to take a seat like the gentleman you are. (You sold your chairs on Craig's list, so comfort her with a pillow to sit on).

Once settled in, tell her about the appetizer dishes you've prepared. (You only had cheese whiz and some cottage cheese - which is likely curdled milk).

Build up the moment by describing reasons why she should be interested in putting bright processed cheese purchased from the gas station into her mouth. Provide evidence that it is considered a delicacy in certain countries, so by an extension of that thought, it makes it mildly exotic. If she scowls at the thought, direct her to the cottage cheese, and then bust out the emergency raisinets left over from Halloween to accompany the cottage cheese.

Be sure to thank her for bringing the wine. (Feel free to explain to her why you are drinking it from crumpled 7-Eleven paper cups fetched from the back seat of your car. You had to pawn your crystal wine glasses).

Let's head over to the main course now. Tell her you've cooked your famous shrimp scampi in a white-wine-and-garlic reduction sauce. (But it's 100 percent improvised).

Tell her she'll love the creativity in the meal, (in place of linguini, you've used ramen noodles, and you've substituted bacon bits for shrimp).

She will take one bite and certainly ask you what exactly is in it.

Tell her you didn't have any Chardonnay, so you deglazed everything in rubbing alcohol.

Begin eating, out of one large bowl (sine it's all you have) and it should add to the romance. Perhaps the both of you will even choose two ends of the same ramen noodle unknowingly and, slurping your way to the middle, your pursed lips will meet in a moment of preservative-laden bliss like Lady and her Tramp.

Remind her that the meal wasn't much, but it was prepared with love (and bacon grease because you didn't have any olive oil). This is what love is about. Love is about sticking with each other through thick and thin, through good times and bad, through wealth and agonizing, soul-crushing poverty. It's about supporting someone and not judging him, even if he has contracted scurvy and his only source of income is making regular deposits at the local sperm bank.

If she wants desert, try to avoid it (since all you have is a half eaten little debbie snack cookie from last week.

Happy Valentine's Day!

Rule #1: Money can't buy love, so if you're trying to impress her, do it the right way, like with some dope ass poetry that you've compiled from the lids of Sweet Leaf Tea bottles. Not by buying her a silver fleet yacht or a fuckin' diamond.

In an effort to always push the envelope, I contributed a story to my friend's blog. It's called, Shakespeare Finds Sexual Inspiration in Khia’s “My Neck My Back”

Rule #2: Don't ever put much emphasis in Valentine's Day. It's like the economy, except with increased diminishing marginal returns.

Rule #3: Say something genuine (with humor) at the right moment and I promise your chances for having sex will become 99 percent. What to say you ask? Figure it out tough guy, not everyone can place perfectly times comments like I can, I know.

Rule #4: Buy your Valentine the finest Swiss chocolate, but leave it in your car on purpose and let it melt. Then present the gooey gift and remind her that there's only one way to eat it: off her neck. just kidding. I'm sure there are other ways to salvage the chocolate. (no, there aren't).

Rule #5: Don't even think about doing something stupid, like serenading your valentine to Boyz II Men "Water Runs Dry" and climbing her roof and falling off in the rain. Yup. I still laugh about it to this day.



What am I doing on Valentine's Day you ask? Shiiiiiit, I don't do Valentine's Day. I did manage to find an orange Crush soda in a bottle and plan to use that as a nice subtle gift though. I know, why the fuck am I so awesome?

I've made a little play list for y'all. One that strikes the perfect balance of tender, brainy and lusty tracks, a combination designed to make both the mind and the pulse race. The play list should be at the top of this blog.

"It's the only way I can relate to Valentine's Day. It's like ESPN sports anchors telling the story of Jesus Christ through catch phrases: A good carpenter doesn't blame his tools, or No one does the voodoo like Jesus do. -- JJ McLaughlin