Jamie's Got A Job

Dedicated to my friend Jamie, who starts a great new job tomorrow. To the tune of "Janie's Got A Gun":

Jamie's Got A Job

Dum, dum, dum, look what jamie's done
Dum, dum, dum, guess he won't become a bum
Dum, dum, dum, look what jamie's done
Dum, dum, dum, become a bum, a bum...
Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah....

Jamie's got a job
Jamie's got a job
His whole world's full of fun
Future looking bright as the sun
What did his resume do?
Is he glad unemployment is through?

They say Jamie was real invested
To find a job that wouldn't fry his brain
Oh man, he had it comin'
Now that Jamie's got a job
He's gonna buy tons of new games

Jamie's got a job
Jamie's got a job
His best day's just begun
You know his last job, it wasn't fun
Don't tell him now it's untrue
He told that job 'screw you!'

He went to Baltimore with his lady
We moved their shit in the rain
With nothing to hide under
The lightnin' and the thunder
We'll never help him move again

Run away, run away from the rain
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah

Run away, run away from the rain
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Run away, run away, run, run away

Jamie's got a job
Jamie's got a job
His best day's just begun
You know his last job wasn't fun
Don't tell him now it's untrue
He told that job 'screw you!'

That job it wasn't easy
Almost put a bullet in his brain
The work it made him queasy
His boss was such a sleeze
And the compensation was so very lame

Run away, run away from the strain
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Run away, run away from the strain
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
Run away, run away, run, run away

Jamie's got a job
Jamie's got a job
Jamie's got a job
Everybody is on the run

Jamie's got a job
Long days just begun
Now he can buy some rum (but he doesn't have a drinking problem)
'Cause Jamie's got a job (like me he's really white)
Jamie's got a job (it can't be used for robbin')
He'll need a place for the rum (His frigde is full of sprite)
This weekend we'll have some fun
'Cause Jamie's got a job

You Tried, Cockblocking Greenline

Boy, did you ever try Greenline. I applaud your efforts to keep me from having sex Saturday night.

If there is anything Casino Royale should have been good for, it's being the kind of movie to get men and women in the mood. Scary movies are good for that too, but Bond movies have exotic locales and eye candy for every sex and taste(The movie was very good even if you don't count it's potential to facilitate fucking, incidentally).

Exiting the Regal theater that night, all seemed to be going well. Kisses before, during, and after the movie. Light touches, heavy touches, and just the right amount of anticipation. Then you stepped in.

The wait at the Chinatown stop for a train going back to Columbia Heights was 17 minutes due to track work. A long time to wait. Now, I'm not saying I can't keep anticipation building for seventeen plus minutes - I'm not a teenager anymore - but this was compounded by the fact that we had seen a late show, and some dreaded yawns were slowly escaping both of our mouths. Plus, she hates waiting any longer than eight minutes for a train(that's the New Yorker in her). Fatigue and irritation, twin mood killers staring me right in the face.

I persevered though. Tender embraces on a stone Metro bench; kisses on the forehead. Chemistry that comes from great physical and mental compatibility is a powerful ally. You weren't finished, though, where you? You played your strongest card, Greenline.

Vomit.

I can play around a lot of things to preserve the mood, but a drunk man puking in the phone booth - right in front of us - is not one of them. There isn't much romantic about vomit, or slurred words of apology to no one in particular. You weren't finished with that, though, were you Greenline?

A bar playa sat his very drunk conquest right next to us, and her odor finished off any thoughts we had other than for the love of God please let the next train be ours, before we start running down the tunnel just to escape the smell of puke and bile!

Finally, our salvation arrived, and I'll bet you thought your work was done, didn't you Greenline? I'll grant you, sex was the last thing on either of our minds as we finally exited Columbia Heights and made the cold walk back to my apartment. But that's what John Legend, Al Green, Sam Cooke and Marvin Gaye are for. That's what a warm bed and a back massage are for. You failed that night, Greenline, and I succeeded.

The next morning too.

Folds, Black, and Dobler

Ben Folds is going to get me into trouble. Maybe killed.

His very merry, very catchy cover of Dr. Dre's Bitches Ain't Shit is in heavy rotation on my iPod. Folds has turned it into a real sing along; which is what I have found myself unconsciously doing while walking, at a Subway Restaurant, and even on the Metro. Happily bobbing my head side to side, singing "Bitches ain't shit but ho's and tricks, lick on these nuts and suck the dick, just get the fuck out after yer done, and I hops in my ride to make a quick run!"

I have a very low sing-along voice, so luckily no one has heard me yet(that I know of). I really have to work on controlling myself when that song comes on. If I get caught, it won't be cute like the scene in About A Boy where Marcus is caught singing along to Mystikal's "Shake Yo Ass". It will be ugly, like the scene where Marcus sings Killing Me Softly at the high school talent show. Except with more violence.

Ben Fold's interpretation of a gangsta-rap classic is part of my recent pursuit of cover songs, both obvious and obscure. It had led me to purchase the sound track to High Fidelity, just to get Jack Black's rendition of Let's Get It On(which is good, and if you didn't know that, I've just ruined the movie for you. You're welcome). Actually, I'm a bit surprised I didn't already own it since a) I loved High Fidelity and b) John Cusack and Nick Hornsby have great taste in music.

Incidentally, after High Fidelity Nick Hornsby said he wanted John Cusack to play the lead in every film based on one of his books. Sadly this hasn't come true - though in the case of the Jimmy Fallon vehicle Fever Pitch, that's probably good for Cusack - but I don't blame Hornsby for wanting Cusack in all of his movies. In the aforementioned About A Boy, the role is played by Hugh Grant(and he was great), but I could easily picture Cusack in the role. Hornsby writes about the everyman, and Cusack has made a career out of playing the everyman. Cusack also has something extra, though.

I think Chuck Klosterman, in his excellent book Sex, Drugs, And Coco Puffs, summed up Cusack's appeal best:

It appears that countless women born between the years of 1965 and 1978 are in love with John Cusack. I cannot fathom how he isn't the number-one box-office star in America, because every straight girl I know would sell her soul to share a milkshake with that motherfucker. For upwardly mobile women in their twenties and thirties, John Cusack is the neo-Elvis. But here's what none of these upwardly mobile women seem to realize: They don't love John Cusack. They love Lloyd Dobler.

Lloyd Dobler, of course, is the hero from the 80s flick Say Anything. A charming, lovable and sometimes goofy teenager, Dobler uttered one of my favorite movie quotes of all time, in a scene in which he tries to explain his future plans to his potential girlfriend's father:

I don't want to sell anything, buy anything, or process anything as a career. I don't want to sell anything bought or processed, or buy anything sold or processed, or process anything sold, bought, or processed, or repair anything sold, bought, or processed. You know, as a career, I don't want to do that.

You really have to see the movie to get the full effect.

But anyway, I love John Cusack - not because of Lloyd Dobler - but because he always seems like an effortlessly cool, charming guy who somehow falls half-assed into attractive women by virtue of being himself all the time. Not too attractive to be other-worldly, but attractive enough that his movie relationships/hook-ups are always believable: Lisa Bonet in High Fidelity, Julia Roberts in American Sweethearts, Minnie Driver in Grosse Pointe Blank, Annette Benning in The Grifters, Kate Beckinsale in Serendipity, and even Angelina Jolie in Pushing Tin. In none of these movies does the attraction ever seemed forced(incidentally, Lisa Bonet is my favorite; she was so beautiful in High Fidelity that it hurts me now as I write this to think about it).

Once, an ex compared me to Cusack and Lloyd Dobler. It certainly wasn't based on appearance, I might be as pale as Cuscak, but my hair is dirty blond and my eyes are blue, plus he is at least an inch taller. I think it was simply because she fell in love with me for the same reasons Diane Court fell for Lloyd(or at least that's what she told herself at the time).

This has the potential to ruin my love life. Thankfully, I have a girlfriend. For argument's sake, though, let's say I didn't. Now I have a concrete notion of what made one woman fall in love with me. I might try and emulate this niche character as much as I can, banking on this behavior to get another woman to fall for me. In fact, I already often find myself wondering what I could do to act more like many of Cusack's movie characters. It seems to work for him, and with a range of women from the really cute(Driver, Roberts) to the incredibly beautiful(Bonet, Beckinsale and Jolie), the upside would be incredible.

Doing this would also be incredibly stupid. Movies are fake. I know this seems obvious, but most of us forget this routinely. How often have you compared your life to a movie, or a TV show? And I don't mean wishing your life was like that of Carrie Bradshaw, Tony Soprano, Chandler Bing, or Rory Gilmore(or Dexter Morgan, for the really sick people out there). I mean you actually think your life is remarkably like that of a fictional character.

This means you are ignoring all the warts of real life: morning breath, bed-head, grocery shopping, work, dullness and well, no drama. It's impossible for fiction to show us everything that would happen in real life. If it did, we wouldn't watch it. Which means we are essentially living a life we wouldn't watch on TV(the Navy plays on this fear quite well in their commercials). Not, at least, without some goddamn good editing. The night spent watching re-runs of The Fresh Prince? Out. The night you drank too much, punched a guy, but sang karaoke(at a non-karaoke bar) with him later that night, witnessed a taxi cab crashing into a storefront during your drunken walk home, and woke up with the local weather girl? That's in, baby.

Unlike our movie and TV doppelgangers, however, we can't skip the uninteresting parts. They are always several worlds removed from the one we live in. And conducting yourself in this world as you would in the movie world can only lead to disaster and disappointment.

Though, on the outside chance you could land Lisa Bonet, maybe it's worth a shot.

Horror Of Horrors

I walk ten minutes in the cold to see this:



I just want some hot chocolate! Get some hamsters in a wheel or something! Pedal a bicycle! I'll do it; I didn't walk here for nothing!

Oh well. There's always tomorrow for Starbucks.

There better be.

A Late Weekend Recap

Friday

A Foosball table cut my wrist up good this weekend. It looks like I tried to kill myself with a slab of concrete, skinning my wrists instead of slitting them.

I was helping my friend Jamie unload the table at his house; he's storing it for our friend Aaron who is moving to an apartment too small to handle his table. One of the sides caught my wrist when we turned it over. I didn't even notice cut for a while.

Jamie picked me up at the Greenbelt Metro, in a truck, with a small wooden table in the passenger seat. That I was expected to have in my lap for the drive back to Baltimore. Not exactly the ideal set up for having good conversation ("Sup, table bitch!"), to say anything about safety. So I shoved that fucker in the back, despite Jamie's reservations about being decapitated.

"Well, before I would have been decapitated."

"Yeah, but I was fine with that."

On the way to Baltimore, we stopped at my parents' house in Laurel. They were painting the kitchen(they means my brother Scott, which is the real reason I wanted to stop by; I hadn't seen him in at least two months). Now, the last time I saw the kitchen it was in a series of re-paints. I had misunderstood my mother's explanation on what part of the stage they were at, and I thought the color I was looking at was the old color. I said it was hideous; then she told me that was actually the color they had settled on.

"Oh...well, it's dark in here. I'm sure it will look great with all the lights on." I said this in the midst of broad daylight with a straight face.

Anyway, the room Friday night looked great. The hideous color actually looked gorgeous once it dried and was set against some white trim.

Scott seemed a little out of it; I learned later he was taking sleeping pills because he had been staying up for 40 hours at a time the past two weeks. Jamie, Scott and I admired my parents new HD TV for a while, talked some bullshit about football and I agreed to be at my parents house to watch the game with Scott and my Dad.

Jamie and I went the rest of the way to Baltimore with the table still in Jamie-decapitating position; thankfully we made it without any heads rolling. Our friend Paul met us for dinner at a nice Chinese restaurant, were we learned that Jamie and Paul were born in the year of the Monkey, and I was born in the year of the Horse. According to the calendar, I should marry a Dog. Which, according to my ex-wife's birthday, I did. The description of the year of the Dog said Dog's were known for their loyalty.

What do the Chinese know?

Afterwards, the three of us and Jamie's wife Cheryl played a fun game whose name I can't remember. It involved playing roads, castles, and churches(some with roads, and some in the middle of nowhere I guess). Paul was hyped and couldn't stop from looking at his piece before his turn and come up; I was forced to hide the box with the pieces in it.

I slept on a couch in the basement and had a dream that Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers was force feeding me the world's worst chili at the DC 101 Chili Cook Off. This reminded me I had to buy some cans of Turkey Chili Sunday when I went grocery shopping(I forgot, and I'm terrified of what dream Flea will do to me now).

Saturday

"Your face it dances and it haunts me
Your laughter's still ringing in my ears
I still find pieces of your presence here
Even after all these years"

- Colin Hay, I Just Don't Think I'll Ever Get Over You

Saturday morning I awoke to Flea's voice morphing into Jamie's. It was 10 am; time to head over to Aaron's to help him move. We stopped at McDonald's for some breakfast. The cashier in training had a unique way of handing me my change: she just stuck her open hand out, palm up - evidently expecting me to snatch it out of her hands. Jamie observed the trainer of the trainee struggling with removing his ordered milk without spilling the coffee creamers that were piled on top of the milk.

"She'd be a shitty Jenga player," he observed.

We arrived at Aaron's to find his parents, his sister and her husband were already there. Aaron raised his hands in exasperation at our time of arrival, which was curious because he must of known there was no way we would be there any earlier that 11 am on a Saturday.

Things went very smoothly. We loaded most of Aaron's stuff into a large crate for storage; the care was being picked up later and driven to a warehouse. I was completely unaware that such a service existed.

The only thing that went wrong was when Jamie, Aaron's brother-in-law Glenn and I dropped Aaron's mattress in a puddle. It was only one corner, but it was very noticeable since we dropped it right in front of Aaron, in the parking lot. Technically, Glenn lost his grip and it caused his and Jamie's end to drop. However, whenever Aaron referred to the incident again, he eyed me and Jamie exclusively. Such is family loyalty.

After the bed, Aaron's bedroom was barren save a few discarded items from his desk on the carpet. Aaron asked me to get a box from his room. It was near his closet, and next to it, out of the corner of my eye, I caught something peculiar. A flash of some familiar colors. Two pictures were partially concealed beneath a sheet of printer paper. Through the paper I could make out one of the pictures.

Me and my ex-wife, on our wedding day. Probably the last thing I expected to see while helping my friend move. She looked beautiful; I looked happy. I wish there was a word for all the sorrow, foolishness and grief I felt. Only for a second. I wiped away a few tears(thankfully I was alone), asked if I could throw them away, and that was that.

Sunday

I went over to my parent's house to watch the game. The Redskins lost 20-17 to the Bucs, and Scott, James, my father and I screamed at the TV the entire time. It was a frustrating loss.

Afterwards, I helped Scott move a couch and love seat into his girlfriend's house. He and his girlfriend both work at Outback Steakhouse; the furniture was generously donated by a regular. An older, almost sad regular who was giving three waitresses some furniture because he probably gets a thrill getting some bought attention from young, pretty girls.

Sunday night I worked on some record reviews(that hopefully you will be able to read soon), bought some songs off of iTunes(including the Mad World cover from Donnie Darko and the Gears Of War commercial).

Waterfalls

Today's weather is three kinds of shitty: wet, cold, and dark. This morning, I woke up late, realized I forgot to dry/iron clothes for work, and then spent a half hour looking for my umbrella. My search was not successful.

Surprisingly, walking to work in a steady cold rain is making me feel like I'm about to be sick. It feels like my body is glowing red at an increasing frequency, like a video game bomb about to explode(if you never played Legend of Zelda or it's many incarnations, this makes no sense, and I'm fine with that because you are obviously some kind of heathen). I'm hoping a nice hot dinner and some rest will reverse things.

My usual cold lunch was not going to cut it on a day that looked like the day before the apocalypse, so I set out to a nearby Subway for something hot and more filling. As I sat down to eat, TLC's "Waterfalls" came over the restaurant's radio.

I hadn't heard "Waterfalls" in at least seven years, possibly more. There was a brief period in 1995, however, when I heard it at least 100,000 times a week. Besides being all over the radio and MTV, my brother Scott loved that song and played it all the time. Tionne Watkins, Rozonda Thomas, and the late Lisa Lopes where in my house, my friend's houses, the family car, and even school. There was no escape. Even at Pizza Hut.

Once a week my family would eat out, and "Waterfalls" was the soundtrack to every one of those meals for at least a year. My brother would get a dollar, play "Waterfalls", something by Mariah Carey, and maybe something by Oasis, I can't remember. I, being in a defiant classic rock phase, would play "Free Bird", "Walk This Way", and "Go Your Own Way". It was always a game to see who could get their songs to play during the main part of the meal(which was pointless because the jukebox seemed to play the songs in a random order). Our waitress did compliment me on my taste in music one day, making me very happy. Which was strange since she was basically saying "You like music that people twenty to thirty years older than you enjoy, way to go!" and I was at the age when that should have been devastating. My brother(being more socially aware) picked up on it though, and it validated his musical tastes as well. What a waitress.

Anyway, today - with no sibling rivalry to give the song context - I really enjoyed the 13th greatest song of all time(according to VH1, I shit you not. What, can you name twelve songs better? Are you thinking 'Do I have to stop at twelve?'?). I probably enjoyed it 1995 too; though I would never have admitted it. Though the narrative is pretty depressing(drug killings, AIDS), it has a great hook and a memorable chorus. Plus, Chili looked killer in the video. You could eat off those abs.

Giant Lobsters and CDs

One of my favorite things to do at the Giant(a north-eastern supermarket chain) is a thing of the past.

No, it's not staring at the lobster tank(that was fun when I was a kid though...OK, fine, it's still fun now but the Giant near my apartment doesn't even have a lobster tank...no really...OK, I still like to stare at the lobsters).

What I am going to miss is the gloriously messy giant Giant CD display. Every week, I stop by - often letting my frozen wares get dangerously close to thawing - and go through a huge pile of CDs, all piled and thrown about on a little table near the magazines and greeting cards. The chaos of the pile dares me to try and find a hidden gem. It's my poor man's version of record hunting. Or it was.

I did find a few albums for myself deep beyond the first layer of Jessica Simpson, Toby Keith, Avril Lavigne, and For Her collections: Black Sabbath's Greatest Hits for $3, Josh Stone's The Soul Sessions for $8, The Ramones Greatest Hits for $6, and Gordon Lightfoot's Summertime Dream for $9.

Last week, I was surprised to see Corb Lund's Hair In My Eyes Like A Highland Steer near the bottom of the corner nearest the bagged candy(I noted this for future reference). Canadian country just isn't a genre I thought a supermarket would carry. I have the song "All I Wanna Do Is Play Cards" off it, and I really liked that so I thought about picking it up. Next week, I told myself. I'll get it next week.

It's next week, and all the CDs are gone. The table has neon picture frames and other assorted nick knacks on it now(at least I think it does, I was too upset to take a really close look at it).

No more CD hunting to liven up the grocery shopping. Oh well, there's always the lobsters.

The Boys

A father and his boys. I found this picture while going doing some late(by about three months) unpacking. It was taken - I think - three years ago. I don't remember whose idea it was, but all the boys of the family where asked to stand together: My younger brother Mike, me, my younger brothers Scott(the Marine) and James(in the red), and my father.

It's the only picture I have and may be the only picture that exists of all five of us together. In the three years since it was taken, Scott has left the Marines with an honorable discharge, Mike and James have both graduated from high school and gone on to college, and I've gone through a divorce.

For most of that, we weren't together. Mike and James still lived in the house we all grew up in, Scott was at various times in California and North Carolina, and I was in between places in DC. Wherever I was, I had this photograph. At one point, I had two copies; one for work, and one on my nightstand, resting on the lamp(I was always meaning to get a proper frame, but I kept forgetting).

Through the hard and hardest times, the photograph would remind me I was not alone. It was taken before my grandmother's funeral, one of the hardest. And even in the wake of grief, we managed some joy. We were all together,all four of us; and when that happens, something unspoken - that assurance of home, comfort, and belonging - takes over. It's having three best friends who will always be there; they will always have your back.

Now, instead of four boys, my parents have four men. James, the youngest, is 18, and I, the eldest, will turn 28 soon. The bonds that bridge ten years are strong, but men need more room then boys do. As boys we played, went to school, fought, cursed, and laughed with each other for what seemed like endless days. As men, the times together are shorter, and they come less and less. School, jobs, careers, and girlfriends all take up our time now. The endless days have ended.

Yet, when we get the chance to hang out, get drunk and play some video games, and fuck with each other the way only brothers do; we get to go back in time. Even if it's only for a night.

My father has one brother, and they rarely speak. That's what years, distance - life - can do. I can't imagine that happening to us, even though as of today, I haven't spoken to Scott in weeks since he moved to a new apartment in Crofton. Where do we find the time? Besides, I will see him(and the rest) at Thanksgiving. Right?

I hope that photograph is never the only reminder I have family.

Giddy As A Schoolboy

My review of the Killers' Sam's Town has been used by BigYawn.net! I'm geeking out! :)

Beautiful Beach House

After nights of heavy drinking, I contemplate weird scenarios: What would happen if Lars Ulrich hadn't stolen the name of his band, would a band named Metal Mania sell millions of records? What if Bob Dylan and the Beatles had never met? And most importantly, if the White Stripes were kidnapped, bashed repeatedly over the head with aluminum tubing and ivory sticks, what would their next record sound like?

Thanks to Beach House's self-titled debut album, the last question has finally been answered: almost ambient, beautiful sounding music, with slide guitar and organ replacing the guitar and drums combination. The comparison to Jack and Meg is pure rubbish, really, it's simply by virtue of the band being the Baltimore duo of Alex Scally (guitar/keyboards) and Victoria Legrand (vocals/keyboards) and not Alex, Victoria, and some other fellows. The Stripes are so ingrained in the music scene now, though, that any guy/girl combo is going to have to deal with it.

On the band's MySpace page, the duo describe their sound in some unique ways: a penny dropping into a cup of oily water, a diamond's best girlfriend, twin camels taking a luscious nap in the Sahara, sound of the ocean through an expensive cell phone. I can't describe it any better; it's eccentrically beautiful.

Is it good? I don't know, it just sort of "is". It's light rain outside your bedroom. It's not unpleasant, and it has a lot of gorgeous moments - but it will have been over for ten minutes before you notice it's gone. This isn't to say the songs are ambient background noise; Legrand's voice is too beautiful and distinctive for that. It's more like the soundtrack to a French film about autumn changing to winter, perfect for scenes of chilly days with wind-blown leaves whipping about some tall, thin, cigarette smoking figure. Whereas in my American fall scenes I'm used to hearing California Dreaming or the theme from Rocky.

The album is very consistent in it's slow, mellow tempo and mood, making it the sort that really deepens with repeated listens. Moments that were at first indistinguishable come into relief, and others recede as the individual tracks start to stand out. Tokyo Witch, Apple Orchard and Auburn and Ivory are my particular favorites. Getting past that first listen, though, might be more than some are willing to give.

This is different, and as I stated earlier, I don't know if it's good. It's beautiful, and let's leave it at that.

Some Local Flavor

Baltimore band ilyAIMY describes their sound as "acoustic mayhem". After seeing them recently at College Perk, I'd have to agree. Beyond mayhem, it's an acoustic attack, an explosion of percussion, joined with powerful, haunting vocals. I bought their album The Fifth Circle right after the show.

Frontman Rob Hinkal plays the hell out of his guitar with such ferociousness it pounds and resonates like a team of hardcore drummers. Hinkal's band has been called an acoustic Tool, and part of that has to be his voice's resemblance to that of Maynard Keenan. Hinkal, however, possesses not only Keenan's howling prog-rock rage, but also a growling, guttural range that makes his vocals more primal than the Tool singer(Incidentally, ilyAIMY members Sharif Kellogg and Rowan Corbett did a kick-ass cover of Sober before ilyAIMY's set at the Perk, part of their IO project).

Hinkal and vocalist Heather Lloyd are the creative core of ilyAIMY(which stands for I Love You And I Miss You). Live, Lloyd pounded on the djembe(a hand drum, being lame I had to look up the real name), belted out songs and was the gravitational center of the band; everything seemed to flow from her. All this while seated with a bad leg(she came in on crutches). I can't imagine how dynamic she is when her mobility is not limited.

Keyboardist Sharif Kellogg and percussionist Rowan Corbett round out the attack. Corbett's double-handed drumming is something that has to be seen to be believed; it's the 400 pound bone-hammered heart of the band.

Fifth Circle does a great job of capturing ilyAIMY's live energy. Any band with a signature sound flirts with the danger of all of their songs sounding the same. Every time I felt I could apply that label to this band, they kicked my ass. Whether it was a vocal harmony, a surprising electric guitar or violin, ilyAIMY shows great depth. My favorite track Strain hits the musical trifecta with music, lyrics, and a vocal styling that perfectly match each other. It's a song that you imagine was born, not written.

Buy this CD now, you won't be disappointed.

Slowly Getting Through Monday

It's taking a little longer than usual to break into the work week and get my brain out of a bus-lagged fog.

Today, I came into work and noticed my cubicle was darker than usual(the fluorescent lights underneath my shelves were out), and I decided this was obviously because of my new flat screen monitor not being as bright as the old one, despite the fact that the monitor wasn't turned on.

I went to get some breakfast. I bought two small boxes of raisin bran. I sat down, emptied a box into a small styrofoam bowl, and stared at it with the vague sense something was wrong and I usually didn't eat raisin bran like this. Oh yeah, I forgot to buy milk.

After a lunchtime run at the gym, I showered. Successfully. Maybe I was snapping out of it, I thought, as I raised my deodorant to my face with the intention to use it as moisturizer.

Luckily, I caught myself.

Next Time I'll Use Amazon Like A Civilized Person

Where did all those fucking kids come from?

I went to Pentagon City during my lunch break, and teens and tweens or whateverthefuck were all over the place. Do schools let out for a two hour lunch break now? There was no escaping them. I just wanted to quickly buy my girlfriend's birthday present and get out. I didn't count on the pushing and nudging through a wall of minors who stand around slack-jawed, not realizing they are idling in front of the god damned cash register and every one above the age of twenty assumes they must be in line.

"Oh, I'm not in line...sorry!" she says, taking a sip of her McDonald's coke. In the fucking store.

This wasn't just ignorance or rudeness, this must have been some kind of cruel performance art. This was some bohemians' senior thesis entitled "Oblivious Teens In Store Drive People Batshit Crazy, Number Seven".

This means I'm getting old, doesn't it? Shit.

A Puppy Story

Today, I witnessed the rare event that in it's brief life goes from cute, to cruel, to disgusting(this excludes all baby-related stories).

I was having my early-afternoon Starbucks break, when I saw a man walking the world's most adorable puppy(like babies, the most recent puppy I've seen is always the world's most adorable). I have no idea what breed the dog was; I'm very ignorant of such things. Dogs, to me, fit into same three categories as movie popcorn: small, medium, large. Lassie is a medium, the Taco Bell dog is a small, and Marmaduke is the rare jumbo bucket.

This dog was small. He resembled a miniature fox. As he trotted behind his owner, he looked happy in that blissful, clueless way dogs do.

The puppy slipped, and his back legs gave out. His owner, irritated, dragged him along on his little doggy ass. I briefly considered murdering this man for treating something so cute with such disdain. Then, the puppy began to pee.

And he kept peeing, streaking dog urine for a good ten or twelve feet of sidewalk before finally getting back on his feet and merrily trotting away. I stared at the urine streak. I watched as - gasp! - joggers ran over it, business men stepped in it while hailing cabs, and others went about their day with no idea they were stepping in dog piss.

Maybe it was the angle of the sunlight that allowed me to clearly see the streak, a thick nasty brushstroke of liquid reflection that people obliviously kept stepping in and smearing across the pavement.

Well, I certainly wasn't going to walk there.

Anyway, on the non-urine front, I'm frustrated that I don't have the extra money to pick up all the new albums that I want to listen to. Beck, Meatloaf, Jet, John Legend, The Dears, Albert Hammond Jr.'s solo disc, and even My Chemical Romance's latest, The Black Parade.

I know all five of you who read my blog love reading my album reviews, but I would like to make them a little more timely. Oh well, soon enough I will have extra money. It's always fun to write about music; even if it's just for my own amusement.