The New Me Will Still Run in the Rain

People generally respond to about 70 percent of what I do with a stern inquiry. They ask me, "What were you thinking?" in a tone that contains a host of further questions.

And more often than not, I respond with an overreaction rife with sarcastic disdain accompanied by raised eyebrows which invites the question, what were YOOOOOUUUUUU thinking ... in bed?"

It's a tacit rhetorical assumption that extends the scope of confusion and invites parallel comparisons of me to mules with heehawing futility. So effectively, I answer their question with another question.

You are invited to imagine what it would be like to walk in my shoes and make zero sense regularly, but it's difficult. I submit to you that you have no idea at all where to begin the leisure expedition to becoming an all-nonsense person.

With age, comes wisdom, so they say. This is why I picked up a book recently and analyzed its cover intensely when some jackass told me "It's a real page turner." Thanks for the tip, but I know how books work.

But I got older earlier this month and the natural order of things would suggest that I abandon these tricky childish ways of mine.

In a grotesquely limited way, I am good at impressing people with this ability to celebrate nonsense. Need more evidence you say?

I purchased a yacht from my high interest savings account. Yes. I don't live in Cape Cod, nor do I own boat shoes or rock neatly tied sweaters around Ivy League T-shirts. I suspect that I will have zero use for this water traipsing piece of decadence.

Having ripened to a new grizzled age of over-the-hill twenty-something earlier this month, I've noticed some changes that likely explain this purchase. So sit down, sip on your fat free whatever latte and get to know the new me.

Growing older is a tamped-down variant of suckyness that points to responsibility with manic zingers, and to some it's more depressing than a Zoloft commercial played upside down. You'll have to forfeit your affinity for Lucky Charms, and you will begin to see truths. For example, saying Lucky Charms has 10 vitamins and minerals is like saying there are inflatable bouncy castles in hell. You realize your aspirations to get neck tattoos will effectively render you unemployable and you will ultimately acquire a taste for money, and reasonable solutions.

This was challenging, but under a high powered microscope I can now study my growing inclination to settle down and become a yuppie. I hear yuppies are fun to emulate, mainly because they enjoy activities like building a stronger vocabulary and critiquing the shit out of everything. They are also ultra conscientious about their lifestyle.

I rarely drive now. I take my road bike everywhere, and embrace alternative transportation like a newborn baby who makes rainbows with every hug. I'm considering ziplining my way to work, actually.

I envision a new job with high-rise office spaces, Yoga ball chairs, gourmet chefs, expense accounts, and nubile interns who will polish my shiny shoes. I will entertain myself in social circles that discuss the New Yorker magazine, upside-down mortgages and refer to everything in golf metaphors.

Having such goals means I can no longer achieve the high score in Ms. Pacman and then remove my shirt and walk around downtown pretending I was a member of the U.S. Olympic Swim Team, because grown-ups don't participate in such antics.

Growing older also narrows my hopes of falling ass first into huge piles of dough if I'm still working at News 8, so I'm thinking with ferociously imaginative power which triggers chortling snort fests, how to get rich quick. I've heard it all, too. Click here to see me in all my News 8 glory, lackthereof.

"J.J., write a book"
"Dude, swallow some intense hallucinogens and then a dictionary and write"
"You should strip for old women at nursing homes"
"Become a post-college graduate-post modern dropout and bottle your inspiration in the form of perspiration and sell it to abstract artists for oil paintings"
"Sell a kidney, having two is a little excessive anyways"
"Find a rich girlfriend and dump her when she gives you everything"

I will channel my creative gusto as an entrepreneur with patented products to market, like a stay young forever drink. It will be a life-prolonging serum of refined alien ore and minotaur semen. I will make millions. It'll be tight! Like Sher's face.

Living downtown Austin has made me think this way. I even caught myself saying "Hey there, chief" in lieu of the typical "whaddup, bitch." Even my wardrobe is slowly being manipulated by yuppie tendencies, with high quality, swanky threads that are reserved for GQ cover shoots.

There's a fine line between yuppie and douchebag, and I'm walking the tightrope, poised to spill to my doom as a full blown adult looking back at the old me who was only snobby when it comes to music and whose mom I chose to fornicate with.

I've been hovering in the pretentious stratosphere of music snobbery ever since I can remember, but you wouldn't know what that feels like because gravity has rendered you incapable of attaining such heights of splendor to even recognize it. I breathe the good air up here, (great for my asthma) but you intensely inhale the exhaust of petroleum vapidity through a straw, sucking at the very notion of attaining higher sensibility in aural pleasure. (Douchebag assertion).

Therefore, I sometimes plummet to your earthly level to prove that I am not a douchebag through acts of generosity. This is performed by bestowing gems of awesome music for you to enjoy. Not today though, since I'm too busy playing my hand in investing stock options as a newbie yuppie. Perhaps next blog, I'll send some new music your way. But this is the yuppie blog.

I also wanted to nform you that in my last week alone I attended the Ratatat show and hung out with them too, saw White Denim shred the Mohawk and am gearing up for FOUR amazing days at ACL. Typical week for music.

Continuing this yupster theme, it's safe to say I have taken twenty dollar bills and left them in places you've never dreamed, like trashcans, paper shredders, Zaire, or the front shirt pocket of a fast food cashier. But you, ... you manage to take said twenty dollar bill to far reaching places that I will never venture to ... like seven days worth of meals with the remaining money being stashed under your pillow. So consider my purchase of a yacht a precursor to what is to come.

Picture it now: Donald Trump and Bill Gates made love, and sprouted this beautiful embryo, then gave it to Prince to store in his multi-billion dollar Armani velvet coat pocket, nestled and incubated it, and when it hatched the result is a stylish time piece from the future that deposits $1 trillion dollars into a mutual fund bearing my name on it with every tick and tock, because time is money and money is what we're here for! Zing.

But yesterday I was co-mingling (because yuppies don't hang out) and I postulated an even deeper truth about the new me. I reminded myself that I'm a modest dude, despite what this dope ass blog dictates, but even my own laurels have been jaded by old age and refined goals, which brings me to the second part of this blog that will beg the question, "What were you thinking?"

I bought a cardigan sweater, which doesn't completely negate my previous claim that I don't tie sweaters around my torso. But that's when I knew I had crossed the line. Or was it that I am truly growing up and thinking about my future now? I doubt a cardigan sweater points to either - but it says, "Hey, slow down JJ, open a book, kick back and and make dinner dates with your girl friend and others." I do enjoy living the lavish life, but I don't think it's quite me. I go to music shows, tirelessly work to grow a maniac mustache and maintain authenticity under the street guise of keeping it real.

So how can I possibly be a yuppie? I am not. And that's why I'm totally joking about the yacht. Fuck that shit. I could care less about money. I've learned that much and realized that with my new old age. And I don't think I had ANYONE fooled about me being a yuppie either. I'm back on track with things and will start blogging twice a week. Get ready to scoff at me twice a week.

Here's me after the marathon relay being all nonsensical.

Unnatural Thoughts on Keeping It Organic

As any well informed, modern thinking man of wit and style who pens original thought as often as he fathers nonsensical free flowing bullshit will tell you, there's a market for fortune cookie writers at Whole Foods (gluten free, of course).



I know this because I once scribbled two sentences on a Whole Foods napkin and pasted it to a wall and it yielded astonishing results.

A few people read it. They showed it to others. Others began reading it. Soon, they noticed changes: They felt younger, more alive. Their warts and blemishes disappeared. Their reproductive organs swelled with lustful fury. Their hearts were filled with song and they limped from painful laughter. They reclaimed their wayward palates and found chiseled six-pack abs bursting from beneath their T-shirts.

Rumors surfaced that relief organizations got a copy of what I wrote and stopped shipping food, and began simply dropping copies of the napkin on hunger-stricken villages, which miraculously revived the area.

What can I say? I have an uncanny knack for writing nuggets of fecal repose that not only belong atop urinal cakes to reflect upon, but in your pocket during times of duress as well. That my friend, is called wisdom!!!!!!! I think.

But my wisdom is the kind you find in unnatural places, so this brings me to the inspiration driving today's blog, which of course has an unknown destination, but comes in the form of organic, freshly picked thoughts that occurred while shopping at Whole Foods.


Yes, it has been suggested among highly refined circles that I am a magnet for finely crafted laughs, both good and bad. If those laughs were physically manifested as iron filings, they would fly to me. They would cluster on my body, perhaps in the shape of a handlebar mustache, actually.

While I was standing at the produce section today I began to delve into some super deep thought about truths and myths of what's real, and natural, both in Whole Foods and in my head.

As I stabbed a diced pineapple with a toothpick (free sample, bitch) and picked up some bananas I let some wicked thoughts flow out in unruly tangles and watched a sordid revolution unfold in my head.

I'm a healthy mutha' 'ucka who prefers freshness, but when it comes to bananas, I'm impatient and prefer not to wait for the green ones to ripen. Therefore I opt for sullied, bruised and wise ones on the brink of becoming charred and black from time.

If we consider the produce food shopping experience to be akin to picking up women, then I was standing at the intersection of epiphany and fantasy. And then I looked around.

I thought to myself: "Why is that cougar rubbing eggplants and looking at me like I've set her hormones in a tizzy?"

I was appalled. No, I do not want some shimmying soccer mom with lonely housewife agendas staring at me. Maybe a little ...

There comes a time in every man’s life when he reaches a sacred right of passage, and the lessons he has learned congeal into a thick grease of responsibility and maturity. That said, sure, I've always wanted to hit up the organic produce section and ironically pick up more than just apples ... i.e. numbers, staggering cougars, fallen expectations and dignity, but no more.

If I were a Whole Foods fortune cookie writer, I would say:

"How do you like them apples? Beware, the only unnatural things are the highly coiffed blonds who shop here."

Zing.

I then made my way over to the meat market section. I wanted to find the finest quality barbecue and burgers. Instead, I postulated who the butcher reminded me of ... and instantly, I figured it out!

That stupid fucking Microsoft Office paper clip. Yes. He wouldn't let me decide on my own what I wanted to eat, treating me like some incompetent vegetarian who enjoys having his hand held at all times. The paper clip guy never lets me write on my own.

That annoying paper clip talked to me once while I was writing a letter.

Paper Clip: Let me help you with that. Oh, come on. I don't want anything. I just want to lend a helping hand.

Me: Fuck off you little shit. [Click]

Paper Clip: Look at me, I have eyebrows! I need attention. But that is all I need. Feed me attention and I will solve all your problems. It looks like you're writing a letter. I love writing letters. I love reading letters. I just finished reading The Collected Letters of Van Gogh in three volumes. That man could write a letter. Plus, he could paint. But you, look at you. You can't spell. I have to AutoCorrect most of your words. Don't be mad, I have eyebrows!

Me: WTF? Go away you little krud.

Paper Clip: It looks like you're writing a BORING letter. Let me spice it up with quotes. Did you notice that below my eyebrows are actual eyes? These eyes of mine have seen many things but nothing more pathetic than your attempts to write a letter. Click F10 and I'll replace that uninteresting, grammatically weak, lexically poor sentence with one that will— Please don't, I have more suggestions. I can change shapes! Look, I can—

(CLICK. CLICK.CLICK. ... Vanishes.) Never saw him again. And I never wanna see that annoying butcher again either.

From that, I give you a fortune cookie gem of wisdom:

"Avoid meat eating uncertainty by surrounding yourself with vegetarians and watch your testicles ascend into your stomach region."

After the meat market, I moseyed on over to the candy section. I gawked at the flowing chocolate fountain and began thinking very inappropriate things, like how it might feel to rub the chocolate over my bare nipples while the girl behind the counter fed me strawberries, topless.

The illicit illusion lasted approximately two-and-a-half seconds, after which my powers of imagination failed and I fought back an overwhelming desire to weep, because I might have been enjoying that moment of imagination a little too much.

Fortune cookie says:

Following the edict of never playing with your food is nonsense. Play with that shit like you're retarded."

I was forced to leave that insular community of sweet insanity due to the sideway stares and I picked up sushi of all things to eat. With no hesitation. I walked over to the checkout line. The checkers are for the most part, really chill and cool. Not on this particular day though.



My checker was a robot (really, a robot) and said some scripted joke to me which won a blank stare from me. I began to wonder what it must be like if an actual robot were performing stand up comedy. He would totally get a lackluster response like the one I gave the checker.

In the spirit of robot awesome shit, hit this track featuring HEALTH.

Crystal Castles - "Crimewave (Crystal Castles vs HEALTH)"
It would likely go like this:

Robot: What level is everyone's excitement currently at?

Crowd: ...

Robot: I'm sorry. I cannot hear you. Would you please repeat your excitement, preferably at a louder volume? Thank you. I am also excited.

Crowd: ...

Robot: I'm sorry; I did not hear your response. Could you please repeat that?

Crowd: Go fuck yourself!

Robot: You said you were from "Go Fuck Yourself." Is this correct?

Crowd: Fuck yea!

Robot: You have collectively said, "Yes." I am not familiar with Go Fuck Yourself. The closest location I could find is Bastrop, Texas. Is this the location you mean?

Fortune cookie:

"Your brainstorming leads to a genius bumper sticker: I'd rather be calibrating."

Call it a raw complexity but I sometimes heed to stereotypes. After I checked out and walked to the dining area to eat, I saw the token black guy who works at Whole Foods. You know exactly who I'm talking about. Nice guy, smart and well-spoken ... but every time I see him I think of what it must be like to listen to rap lyrics from his perspective.

It's like a gentrification of rap lyrics and it likely goes something like this:

Actual lyrics: I spend more money than a fat bitch at a McDees."

Translation: My expenditures this fiscal year are of such magnitude they are best expressed as a metaphor involving a corpulent female at a processed food establishment.

Actual lyrics: I smoke fools by busting a cap in 'em/Then I smoke again.

My enemies and narcotics are similarly compressed into a fine powder, which I regularly ingest to achieve intoxication that is akin to Native American warriors eating their enemies.

Actual lyrics: Sippin' on some Syrup ... S-S-S--S-S-ippin on some sizzer

Translation: I'm swilling copious amounts of medicinal and alcoholic adult beverage combined, causing a slippery tongue which fortifies my ability to stutter and enunciate the letter 'Z' in speech.

Fortune cookie wisdom says:

"Remember your dictionary and cough syrup for your next visit with Dr. Dre."

On my way out, I looked at my receipt and concluded that the price had an inverse correlation to the amount of food I bought. I crumpled the receipt and grew intense with a juggernaut level of passive-aggressive energy.

Sometimes, I wonder why I even own a bank account if I never monitor the amount that enters and leaves it. How the hell did I graduate middle school?

In my fit of passive-aggressive thunder, I went back inside, stuck my hands in my pockets and flicked everyone off, in my pockets. I tried to make a lewd gesture in my pockets as I walked by the "$6.99 per pound" sign by the food bar, but there wasn't enough room in my pockets. I then walked outside, balled my fist and promised not to shop there again. Curses to you Whole Foods. Curses!

Fortune cookie nugget:

"You'll regret the anvil of wisdom I've dropped on your head. Only a fool would turn to a cookie for wisdom."

SNAP!

Guide to Triumph: The Lost Edition

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Be Abrupt! Live A Little!

I enjoy beginning blogs the very same way I end them: abruptly.

Therefore, it should come as no surprise when I say my dating life has been pretty damn dry lately. Like a tandori lightning blast of tofu-chipotle-mint flavored chorizoless rancid battery acid cake.

That's actually too much taste and shitty flavor in the aforementioned ridiculous description, which is not off the mark.

There's a vague interest I have in acting before thinking, and making statements that blanket and shroud the expected. That said, I digress ... a lottle.

I clearly work with the premonition of leaving spaces blank and acting out of left field but there's some method to today's blog about the ladies and escaping them ...

What the hell could he possibly be talking about??

It's a facile exercise in lampooning every laughable cliche possible at the very mention of my love life right now, which is non-existent. But I like it that way, within reason of course.

Wow, I just revealed a dope-less moment about myself in this blog!! Yes, I'm more bold than an indecent proposal forwarded to your grandma via my iPhone. (She'll never get it anyways, so chill).

Snap!? Your mother's mom whets the appetite. If this blog were a food product it would likely be a dope ass burger. Werd.



Gotta love how I aimlessly try to work in visuals with the blogging. This awesome video by Fujiya & Miyagi echos my efforts. Fujiya and Miyagi - Knickerbocker


But since there's nothing electric (more like erratic) happening in that department (girls, not burgers), I should leave that aggressive blend of fact and fiction to debate. I won't though. Why has it been so lackluster you ask?

A truly satisfactory answer demands equal measures of hard science and hard liquor, but put simply, it's either my ability to suppress yawns has diminished or I'm more concerned with being as unrestrained as the wind. But I'm still truly enjoying the luxury of being single, no interpretation is needed for that. Dating is fun for now.

But in keeping melody with abrupt subject matter, you know you're dope if you are in the midst of planning a trip to the bowels of outer space and you don't even have to vomit profusely during space training or even leave Texas for that matter to get there.

I experience the most overwhelmingly peculiar things, which merits me saying I am awesome, more times than you care to register.

Not because I feel I have suffered unrequited recognition or anything, but because it's a genuine goal of mine to keep everyone (and myself) on their toes. It also helps that I can make a discussion about toilet paper taped to the business end of your shoe seem engaging.

"Now he would never write the things that he had saved to write until he knew enough to write them well." -- Ernest Hemingway

Dog shit on the pavement is strikingly similar to writing about boring things like how I feel or what what I will eat or listen to today. You want to avoid stepping in that heaping, smelly pile of feces at all costs. Instead, I do stupid (dope?) things for the sake of experience.

And that, my friend, is why I enjoy bizarre musings. Like living in a real leper colony in Hawaii, jogging in Israel with soldiers, hiking up the grand canyon to sit on a calcified stoop to pray to the New Mexcio Zim Gods, as I plead for a new pair of running moccasins.

So with a nothing-to-write-home-about love life, coupled with a ravenous hunger to absorb some quirky punches to the solar plexus of life, I've decided to take a little escape. A vacation, if you will. Something to get the bloodflow hot and heavy again.

There are many things people do to escape. Some get on a bike. Getting a new job is popular, or altering your routine in life. Others massage apathy into their meanderings and some bury themselves in sand and let beach crabs cramp their style. Some guys will retreat to a female's bosom.

I prefer to do things on my own accord, by myself, and enjoying every step of the way. Hopefully, I'll have enough money. And if you were wondering what the sound of pennies being thrown sounds like, listen to this dope sound.

The Cool Kids -- "Pennies" MP3

I'll be celebrating the day I jumped out of my mother's womb next month (I think the world will be honoring this day too by simultaneously making the most obscene and grotesque face at noon ... sort of like a personal flash mob, but in my name).

So I'm headed to Marfa, TX to honor that day.



Marfa is synonymous with "what the fuck's there?" Answer: Nothing. But therein lies the beauty. Art in open space, mingling with small town locals, watching the Marfa lights and soaking up the western frontier.

Before you continue reading, to gauge my mindset about Marfa, listen to this song. It explains why I'm going I think. It's a little bit of a somber, bombed-out hippie vibe with acoustics that gently strum your reclining thoughts into an unkown world. Word.Fleet Foxes -- "Blue Ridge Mountains" MP3

To gird my oversized ego is not a goal in going there. I will not be heading there to court local country bumpkin girls, though of course, I'm never opposed to it. It's more of an escape, remember? An escape to somewhere completely different. In the morally uncomplicated landscape of the fraternal picture, it's bros before hos, of course. Some friends will likely meet me there.

Once this trip is over my summer list of accomplishments will look like a heavyweight marshmellow sex stud with a swirling mustache in bed. And then ACL will cap it all off!

It will be sublimely silly and I'll never win points for tidiness in going to a destination with a purpose and goal, and I would never have it any other way.

ROAD TRIP! All you really have to do ... just do shit out of the blue, abruptly. !!!

Absurdity: The 'Huh?' Edition

It's time to turn up the volume and submit recklessly ridiculous thoughts that I'm pushing and pulling in my head right now. I'm gonna spill them like jars of spoiled milk that will make you gag and cry.

Of course, for the purpose of preserving the tacit agreement I entered when launching this blog, which is to leave you quibbling in jocular inquiry. And it can only be quelled by fostering a compromising fashion sense that embraces the dampened crotch look.

Yes, making you urinate on yourself while orbiting cosmic, out-of-this-world thought that's still down-to-earth is a short-sighted goal of mine. I also aim to bounce thoughts and ideas from my head, and hazardously ricochet them off your noggin like explosive literary devices tend to do.

Thus I bring you the following streaks of dim brilliance that hail from the bastion of low-brow intellect. That loosely translates to mean the things you are about to read will easily satisfy all drunken conversation requirements and will go down easy and pleasantly, like a Fiber One flush. BOOYA Bee-yatch!

I will start by posing the simple question: Have you seen my beeper?
I seem to have misplaced it and I can't find it anywhere. I've retraced my steps, jogged through my memory and I'm blanked by its disappearance. I even took a day trip to the '90s and it bothered me that I was the only one without one. I checked my belt loop, the visor on my car and even called the neighborhood drug dealer to see if he had snatched it from me. That beeper is responsible for 99% of the attention I receive from girls because it beckons them to partake in my decadent lifestyle of luxury. All they wanted to ever do was watch me page people, and now it's gone.

Being beeper-less prompted me to downgrade my taste and style for the finer things in life. Consider it a learning lesson for me. I know it's crazy, going a day without a beeper, but so is eating only vegetables, grains and fruits all day.

I recently forced myself to acquire a taste for vegetarian food. It's part of an attempt at micromanaging my own palatability because my sense of taste (and style for that matter) is so impeccable that I felt it necessary to dilute it. It's only fair to others. Plus, I wanted to see what it feels like to be a foolish, dainty, estrogen fueled dumbass. So I invited some vegan hikers with me to Meatball Mountain and I teased them with tenderloins and pig's feet. They cracked like the spine of a book they were carrying called 'Smart & Healthy Eating' which has obviously never been opened. Forcing yourself to believe a vegetarian diet is the right thing is gayer than a collective of wizards poofing fashion trends.

*These disorganized thoughts are appearing in a mild stream of conscious-like manner, with very little rhyme or reason ... but are certain to combat the mundane backlash that you likely become acquainted with when not perusing through a blog penned by yours truly.*

Speaking of awesome, peep this video by the Octopus Project. It's chaotic, colorful and random.


As an avid culture consumer, who's a generally vague and mysteriously intriguing collector of all things eclectic, I have virtually no allegiance to one particular thing. I tend to avoid things that suck, flock to live music shows, and engage in narrative sprawl in the form of writing that is highly recommended for anyone struggling with illiteracy ... but I have a newfangled interest in the laughably schematic inspirational tract through something called 'planning ahead.'

Shit, I can't even fool myself into thinking that's faithful in fact, since it's more fiction than Super Mario stopping by your crib to shower you with growing shrooms and share with you all the secrets to warping. But I was told if I want to make a habit of something, to do it repeatedly for 21 days. WE SHALL SEE.

What? You just wanna dance you say?

Here's White Denim's latest which was released in the UK, I believe. It's a polaroid shaker. Makes you just wanna do the crazy white boy/no rhythm dance. Word!

White Denim -- "Shake Shake Shake" MP3


Here's a nice little track from Grizzly Bear. Listen carefully, because the keyboards are actually a tune from Snoop Dogg. Either way, the song stabs you with infectious hooks and vocals.

Grizzly Bear -- "Two Weeks" MP3

So, getting back to some thoughts ... I'm generally a fan of flying by the seat of my pants, so it made my day yesterday when I learned that I am no longer homeless. Yes, I was couch surfing for two days. Thank God, because I was really close to moving to a house in the drug-infested, quasi-gentrified hipster oasis area in East Austin. Although, who could decline an offer that promises you'll live like a pimp with a renovated John in the bathroom?

Here are some unfortunate 'That's What She Said' precursors in casual sports that I'm waiting to use:

Tennis: "There's absolutely no way that's in."
Foosball: "Spinning the little man is illegal."
Basketball: "Give it to me down low."
Football: "He really hit it hard and worked the clock like a champ."
Sudoku: "Heck yea! I understand how it works!"

Because who hasn't talked to their stove?

I absolutely hate Kashi's cereal called "Good Friends" ... It tastes like a sour relationship, where roughage is abundant. I propose a swift and orderly name change to from Good Friends to Strictly Platonic O's.

I'm ill from the disdain that's collecting in a pool of piss from the lack of mustache growth on my upper lip. It is really annoying. Why are you so wack and fruitless o-harbinger of fuzzy shame? Among my peeves are big, conceited bodies of water, especially Lake Superior, snooty people, the blinking numbers on alarm clocks, passive aggressive wind when I'm pissing into it, and my lack thereof 'stache.

So yes, it's safe to say I have deftly jotted dope subject matter at a stroke. You're welcome to escape your workday any time aboard the tenacious pterodactyl that is my dope ass blog.

Thanks for comin' out! And please, fellas, put a stop to the effeminate way you stick your pinkie out when downing a Schlitz.

I will enter blogs more consistently, I promise.

Open Letter to Party in My Pants

Dear Party in My Pants,

I would be remiss if I didn't take the time to thank you, pants, for being such a gracious host the other night to the swelling throng of people who showed up to my theme party appropriately dubbed, 'In-Control Party: the Summer Edition.'

It was a festival of easy riding, non-debauchery, completely void of excitement, noise or disturbances typically associated with its counterpart parties: 'Outta Control.'

Perhaps it was the DJ? The tranquil sound of ocean waves crashing shorelines with the clamor of humpback whale samples crooning like some mysterious Enya remix certainly got the party crunk. I mean there was little traffic coming through and not much going on, which makes perfect sense for an 'In Control' party.

But then word got out that my party would be holding an impromptu Yoga class and the tables turned. Maybe it was the intense concentration of soy products, hemp, gluten free bread and organic free range thought that got it poppin', because people piled in. Breaking ice was effortless, since it was hot as balls.

Attendees particularly enjoyed the boom-boom room that was completely vacant, dark and left to brainstorm, meditate and pontificate about transcendental things that most people at parties tend to do. Oh - snap, party-goers were so bent out of shape from the warm-up poetry jam session and sleeping dog poses that they felt compelled to get acquainted with their pillows periodically through the night. That's crazy! It was insane, which loosely translates to mean it was completely serene and unruffled by the winds of chaos due to the pure lack of energy and donkey kicking fun.

It could be said that it was getting out of hand (out of control) once it became common knowledge that my pants were featuring five-pockets of fun in the form of lent and old receipts. Hell yes. But we were no longer adhering to my 'In Control' theme, sadly.

Once again, pants, thanks for being so tight around the buttocks, because that made it not only a well-defined party, but an exclusive one that had me turning people away because there was no room.

People were trying to even sneak in because they wanted to take part in mundane activities like stretching, breathing and talking at a library volume. But pants, you were always a step ahead and were tight rolled at the hems to prevent any rogue party-crashers from nearby pants parties from entering.

If it weren't for you pants, I'd be without pants and shit out of luck when it comes to throwing awesome epic parties. Forget basements, music venues, hotels or pools ... throwing parties in your pants is where it's at!

Sincerely,

-- Acid Washed Mayhem

p.s. I'm never taking you off and my cool faded Smarty Pants might get jealous. But those pants don't throw good parties.

The Art of Wasting Time

It's Monday, and that means you're likely miffed at the prospect of ending your weekend and emptily oozing into your workweek with the fluidity of toothpaste remnants being forced and squeezed out.

It's OK, I've got you covered, Brah!

If you're anything like me (which you're not ... unless your name is thrown around social circles with excessive joy) then you're likely taking pleasure in the fine art of wasting time.

Procrastination is a lot like magic. Not the lame type of magic where David Blane announces that he's locking himself in some Ivy League business school for four years and will not leave until he's satisfied all degree requirements for graduation but the kind that mysteriously makes time vanish with no trace.

So prepare to slap yourself with a disappointing line of inquiry that begs the question, 'what happened to the last five minutes of my life?' I will know I was wildly successful at that point.

In Bruce Lee like fashion, Enter the Dragon of awesome snap-kicking procrastination. Enjoy, young-grasshopper-martial-art-time-wasters.

Before my time here at News 8 expires, I will sneak into the girl's bathroom to write a brief ode to squatting and pushup bras and even include my phone number on the bathroom stalls. I don't suggest doing this unless you are a highly dope individual who will not be deterred if girls walk by you and scoff like you're running a seminar on jock itch, but the next best thing is opening the door and flicking the light switch off while people are using it.

That got me through 1 minute of my morning.

I then arrived at my desk and attempted to replicate the cadence of the vulgar melody associated with gaseous emissions. People may refer to this commonly known act of wasting time as "farting around."

In order to satiate my need for guffaws, I grabbed a clip from Flight of the Conchords and laughed out loud. If you fail to chuckle when watching this, scientific evidence points to psychologically disturbing facts that you are attracted to the same sex.



That was an additional two minutes.

Immediately thereafter, I noticed at my desk were many photos of my brooding mug posted EVERYWHERE! placards and mini pics of me were taped to my phone, monitor, headphones, beneath the mouse, over the face of Ms. July on my calendar of burly women firefighters of Austin. It was absurd and sickening.

Some people snagged some pictures of me off a major news site (the photo to the right was not it, but it's on the site too ... sucks being so dope).

They asked me why I was being seen everywhere in Austin. If we consider ubiquitously landing myself in ridiculous situations, then yes, I am a formidable figure in that regard. But more or less, it simply involves strategic social presentation and a knack for being the butt of jokes. (I secretly printed the hordes of pictures myself and posted them around the newsroom to seem semi-important). ha, Yea right ... give me some credit please.

***Please, do not be mislead in thinking I'm not in any way shape or form anything short of devastatingly lame after posting my picture (seen above) to drill a point. No one has a greater level of self-deprecation than I, so I cordially invite everyone to screen print a pastel colored T-shirt that says "Douchebag," urinate on it, and include one of those immature little Valentine cards circa the 5th grade that says "you're cool ... NOT!" and send it to me, please.***

My mind wanders all the time. Even if you are absolutely convinced that you own 100 percent of my undivided attention, I am likely thinking about how non-threatening a bear riding a unicycle and wearing a tutu really seems. But in spirit of general attentiveness, I just completed my first work task this morning. I found some new music to sink my teeth into.

Here's a video Tokyo Police Club's new video from their latest album Elephant Shell. I like this video because it's not everyday you see some indie rock kids playing inside an antique store with lights and lamps everywhere.


Graves - Tokyo Police Club

I absolutely love Broken Social Scene, so when I heard that Brendan Canning was dropping a solo project I wanted to do cart wheels and make sweet passionate love to the air. Brendan Canning makes the case that he might be the guy really responsible for the band's glisten, summoning goose bumps with gossamer strings and arranging rockers that simmer but don't singe. Love it!

Brendan Canning -- "Hit the Wall" (MP3)

I'm feeling this band out of Boston who goes by the name Passion Pit. It's something different and sounds a bit ethereal and a bit badass, with equally awesome synthesizers jaunting out like morning bending sunshine in your face to wake you up.

Passion Pit -- "Sleepyhead" (MP3)

And here's a track from Wolf Parade's latest album. I'm getting excited to see them this weekend.

Wolf Parade -- "Language City" (MP3)

Fleet Foxes are the rare breed of band that makes me embrace folk rock. It's able to revive a timeless sound that makes me want to drink ice tea out of a mason jar on a screen porch and talk about rolling hills, watering holes and lazy nights under the moon.

Fleet Foxes - "Ragged Wood" MP3

And this Austin band (now defunct) needs no introduction. Sound Team. I just really like the idea of them parading through East Austin, detesting gentrification and high rent costs, likely.

#SPLIT 07 - SOUND TEAM - No More Birthdays
by lablogotheque

This is typically how I spend the beginning of my workday: drowning myself in procrastination with Facebook like implications. I will say that I have potentially landed a job with the Houston Chronicle courtesy of Facebook, but that's an entirely separate blog in itself.

It's nearly one hour later now and I have made heroic strides in gussying up zero motivation to take heed of the serious carpal tunnel-like discomfort I've developed from the rampant clicking and surfing. I've managed to proficiently stare blankly at work tasks and deflect responsibility with ease.

How do you do it so well you ask? Or maybe I asked the question ...

In order to consider a certain amount of time as wasted, the primary factor is that there is no personal, spiritual, social or material gain at all. But it's hard to argue that it's not beneficial in learning what the entire cast of The Goonies is up to now.

I'm sort of pathologically leery of admitting to my tendency to procrastinate, considering editors at major publications have easy access to me now through Facebook, (I've been contacted already, no joke) so in light of that, I only procrastinate because I'm so far ahead that I have plenty of down time.

Look at this when you get a chance.

But doing it later is the name of the game.