Just picked up tickets for a Bruins game that I won at work. This year's motto, as printed on the tickets, is:
"Devotion... it's called Bruins."
Is that even grammatically correct? Does it even mean anything at all?
"Boy, Stan really worked hard on the Thompson account."
"He sure did. That was a whole lot of Bruins he showed."
"Here's to Stan."
[cracks open a beer]
"To Stan."
"To Stan."
"How is Cindy?"
"Oh, all right. We had a big talk about commitment yesterday. Commitment and...
"And what?"
"I forget the word."
"Bruins?
"Yeah, Bruins. Commitment and Bruins."
"Fuck."
"Fuck is right, man."
Bruins.
Wednesday, November 02, 2005
Saturday, October 29, 2005
detox/retox
I always get really down on the days after shows. Something about the confluence of a week of stress leading up to the show, the emotional toll of reciting lyrics that despite their grounding in nonsensical blabberings are actually, cryptically, often quite meaningful to me, and the physical toll of performance always renders me perfectly useless the next day. To wit:
1. Today I woke up at 10.
2. Instead of finishing editing essays for the application essay company I moonlight with, I emailed my boss and took myself off the the project. To be perfectly honest, I should have done it a long time ago, but tried to power through it plus the workweek plus band stuff.
3. Instead of working on tracks for the solo album I wrote three random verses to Kanye's "Golddigger" that I will probably never want to recite to any track but "Golddigger," and any track I make would sound like a "Golddigger" rip-off, so they're completely useless. Good, but useless.
4. Made an oven pizza at 11 am.
5. Did not go to the gym,
6. Nor shower.
On the bright side, 18 days without coffee and substances. Being not jacked up on caffeine is starting to feel like my regular state of being.
But I could use a beer or eight right now.
This entry ceased to be entertaining a long time ago.
1. Today I woke up at 10.
2. Instead of finishing editing essays for the application essay company I moonlight with, I emailed my boss and took myself off the the project. To be perfectly honest, I should have done it a long time ago, but tried to power through it plus the workweek plus band stuff.
3. Instead of working on tracks for the solo album I wrote three random verses to Kanye's "Golddigger" that I will probably never want to recite to any track but "Golddigger," and any track I make would sound like a "Golddigger" rip-off, so they're completely useless. Good, but useless.
4. Made an oven pizza at 11 am.
5. Did not go to the gym,
6. Nor shower.
On the bright side, 18 days without coffee and substances. Being not jacked up on caffeine is starting to feel like my regular state of being.
But I could use a beer or eight right now.
This entry ceased to be entertaining a long time ago.
Monday, October 10, 2005
New Song - Going To I'm Going To
I like posting lyrics on this thing every once in a while.
Ricky wrote a sick keyboard line a few weeks ago and I have been trying to mold it into a song ever since. I think I got it. Three sort of altered choruses, three well-crafted verses. Now all Rick and I have to do is sell it to the band. Should be like passing pork in Congress.
I'm immensely proud of these lyrics. Lots of fun wordplay within a semi-serious topic. Look for baseball references; sports cliches; names of indie bands next to slightly altered names of bon jovi b-side singles; children's story references; some good religious imagery; political stuff; mike tyson's punch-out references; some halfway decent internal rhyming; some actual words that other people use in rap songs; and whatever else you can find.
These verses are all 16's with a half-line tagged to the top. So if you're at home trying to figure out how the hell they're recited, which might prove somewhat difficult, at least give yourself a shot by starting on 1 with the second line of each verse.
This song is going to kill.
paz.
abe
p.s. The chorus is to be sung, in three part harmony, poorly by me, competently by Evan and Rick.
I don’t know where
I don’t know where
I don’t know the place I’m going
To and I am going to explode if I don’t get to where I’m
Going I don’t know where I am
Going to I’m going to I’m going to my destination
- - - - ready set swing miss!
abraham keep your weight on your back foot
jump at the offspeed pitch and go ka-put
mighty casey up with the game on the line
at the bat, at the last inning of time
you could be, willing of mind
but your spirit is soft
or have the, shot in your sights
but your sights were off
a millimeter to spare and it's a game of inches
from, starting at fullback to riding the benches
riding the fences, siding with henchmen not leaders
shirtless and drunk, picking fights in the bleachers
99 degrees in the shade hot hot heat
bitching bout the rich folks and how they got box seats
knock kneed with a pigeon toe to boot
some people play the field, some belong in the booth
nobody wants the truth, it gets so absurd
talking bout "man i would have gone pro for sure"
You don’t know where
you don’t know where
you don’t know where I am going
to and I am never gonna tell you where I’m going to
end up I might end up nowhere
nowhere can be somewhere and that somewhere is a destination
he’s a fraud in those emperor’s
clothes so I choose to expose his ruse
in a four chord blues cause his flows are used
do you, quote the news or do you know your views
you could turn on the light or simply blow the fuse
abused in the back, man his soul is bruised
what's the world come to man i'm so confused
and you could roll on dubs or just roll them twos
snakes eyes, any way you roll you lose
put your finger on the trigger man and squeeze it twice
or take it on the chin in memory of Jesus Christ
you could read your rights, and dot your i's and t's
on the cross in the breeze with condoleeza rice
you can go out like a martyr be on top of the world
or you can try a little harder make your world understand
I might stumble to the finish but at least I saw the clock when it
Struck my time to shine and now we just
I don’t care where
I don’t care where
I don’t care where I am going
To as long as you are going to be there to hold my hand
No fuck it I can do it on my own if you don’t want to come
I’ll go alone you’re always welcome but I need to go right now
get em up now
wave your hands if you just don’t give a fuck
pot smoking ideologue he’s a sitting duck
yin to the yang man we all need the villain’s touch
safety off hair trigger, keeping all real and such
smoke a dutch smoke a parliament smoke congress
smoke constituencies up in smoke promise
pull a rabbit out of the hat it’s an illusion
smoke screen vote green add to confusion
separate the light from the top of the headpiece
you can, get on the bus, man, it’s practically empty
ride it to the front or do your time as a sentry
drive your daughter to the prom in a dress too skimpy
too limp to stand with a cracked backbone
too far removed to take a cab back home
take out another loan and never press select
when an uppercut would snap his neck
I don’t care where
I don’t care where
I don’t care where I am going
Ricky wrote a sick keyboard line a few weeks ago and I have been trying to mold it into a song ever since. I think I got it. Three sort of altered choruses, three well-crafted verses. Now all Rick and I have to do is sell it to the band. Should be like passing pork in Congress.
I'm immensely proud of these lyrics. Lots of fun wordplay within a semi-serious topic. Look for baseball references; sports cliches; names of indie bands next to slightly altered names of bon jovi b-side singles; children's story references; some good religious imagery; political stuff; mike tyson's punch-out references; some halfway decent internal rhyming; some actual words that other people use in rap songs; and whatever else you can find.
These verses are all 16's with a half-line tagged to the top. So if you're at home trying to figure out how the hell they're recited, which might prove somewhat difficult, at least give yourself a shot by starting on 1 with the second line of each verse.
This song is going to kill.
paz.
abe
p.s. The chorus is to be sung, in three part harmony, poorly by me, competently by Evan and Rick.
I don’t know where
I don’t know where
I don’t know the place I’m going
To and I am going to explode if I don’t get to where I’m
Going I don’t know where I am
Going to I’m going to I’m going to my destination
- - - - ready set swing miss!
abraham keep your weight on your back foot
jump at the offspeed pitch and go ka-put
mighty casey up with the game on the line
at the bat, at the last inning of time
you could be, willing of mind
but your spirit is soft
or have the, shot in your sights
but your sights were off
a millimeter to spare and it's a game of inches
from, starting at fullback to riding the benches
riding the fences, siding with henchmen not leaders
shirtless and drunk, picking fights in the bleachers
99 degrees in the shade hot hot heat
bitching bout the rich folks and how they got box seats
knock kneed with a pigeon toe to boot
some people play the field, some belong in the booth
nobody wants the truth, it gets so absurd
talking bout "man i would have gone pro for sure"
You don’t know where
you don’t know where
you don’t know where I am going
to and I am never gonna tell you where I’m going to
end up I might end up nowhere
nowhere can be somewhere and that somewhere is a destination
he’s a fraud in those emperor’s
clothes so I choose to expose his ruse
in a four chord blues cause his flows are used
do you, quote the news or do you know your views
you could turn on the light or simply blow the fuse
abused in the back, man his soul is bruised
what's the world come to man i'm so confused
and you could roll on dubs or just roll them twos
snakes eyes, any way you roll you lose
put your finger on the trigger man and squeeze it twice
or take it on the chin in memory of Jesus Christ
you could read your rights, and dot your i's and t's
on the cross in the breeze with condoleeza rice
you can go out like a martyr be on top of the world
or you can try a little harder make your world understand
I might stumble to the finish but at least I saw the clock when it
Struck my time to shine and now we just
I don’t care where
I don’t care where
I don’t care where I am going
To as long as you are going to be there to hold my hand
No fuck it I can do it on my own if you don’t want to come
I’ll go alone you’re always welcome but I need to go right now
get em up now
wave your hands if you just don’t give a fuck
pot smoking ideologue he’s a sitting duck
yin to the yang man we all need the villain’s touch
safety off hair trigger, keeping all real and such
smoke a dutch smoke a parliament smoke congress
smoke constituencies up in smoke promise
pull a rabbit out of the hat it’s an illusion
smoke screen vote green add to confusion
separate the light from the top of the headpiece
you can, get on the bus, man, it’s practically empty
ride it to the front or do your time as a sentry
drive your daughter to the prom in a dress too skimpy
too limp to stand with a cracked backbone
too far removed to take a cab back home
take out another loan and never press select
when an uppercut would snap his neck
I don’t care where
I don’t care where
I don’t care where I am going
Monday, October 03, 2005
Buy our shirts, bitches!
Indef-Art shirts now available. White with black printing. Logo tees. Nice looking. Classy. Available in S, M, L, XL.
Navigate to our myspace page to buy one of those badboys. They are so much the beautiful!
done
f.a.
Navigate to our myspace page to buy one of those badboys. They are so much the beautiful!
done
f.a.
Friday, September 30, 2005
Monday, September 26, 2005
The Anti-Battle Rap
battles in the annals now are wack fucking tournaments
rappers should be writers not smack talking journalists
stop the bleeding of the country, ad hoc tourniquet
scribes writing fables next to a turntablist
the message is the blessing and it's not who's the ablest
keep us on the A list and strike back at those who label us
writing battle rhymes is an extraneous ingredient
sitting next to sybillance and civil disobedience
you feeling it? these beats are so the people can be free again
not so you can lip off as a battle rap comedian
not so you can stand on stage and feign to shut it down
because a man's a man no matter how often you cut him down
the strength is at the roots and at the roots you cannot spray
or spit lyrical venom, fuck it, you choose the cliche
for tyrants rule for 50 years and then thier glory fades
but poets live forever, and forever is today
rappers should be writers not smack talking journalists
stop the bleeding of the country, ad hoc tourniquet
scribes writing fables next to a turntablist
the message is the blessing and it's not who's the ablest
keep us on the A list and strike back at those who label us
writing battle rhymes is an extraneous ingredient
sitting next to sybillance and civil disobedience
you feeling it? these beats are so the people can be free again
not so you can lip off as a battle rap comedian
not so you can stand on stage and feign to shut it down
because a man's a man no matter how often you cut him down
the strength is at the roots and at the roots you cannot spray
or spit lyrical venom, fuck it, you choose the cliche
for tyrants rule for 50 years and then thier glory fades
but poets live forever, and forever is today
Thursday, September 01, 2005
a brief word on morally unassailable liberal attacks
Let me preface this by saying that I am not in favor of the war. Not at all.
That said, it strikes me as quite stupid that liberal protestors - or any anti-war protestors, for that matter - continue to use the "would you send YOUR son or daughter to Iraq?" tactic to point out the allegedly innate hypocrisy of government officials waging a war against a foreign country. All a politician has to do to fend off such an inane attack is say, "My son/daughter is an adult and capable of making their own decisions. Whether or not they choose to participate in the war effort is their own decision." That's it.
In fact, the most astute thing Dan Quayle probably ever said was similar to this. He was on TV stumping for anti-abortion laws and was asked what he would do if his daughter, then over 18 years of age, was confronted with an unwanted pregnancy. He said something to the effect that he would counsel her to have the child, but that she was an adult and it would ultimately be her decision.
Even when Michael Moore did this, it was kind of stupid. Parents don't sign their children up to go to war. What he should have addressed (and bless his soul - the man needs days of screen time to address the complexity of the situation, but people don't want complexity) was why the military finds most of its recruits primarily among the poor and underprivileged populations of America.
Then he should have asked various congresspeople to sign their children up to be poor.
That said, it strikes me as quite stupid that liberal protestors - or any anti-war protestors, for that matter - continue to use the "would you send YOUR son or daughter to Iraq?" tactic to point out the allegedly innate hypocrisy of government officials waging a war against a foreign country. All a politician has to do to fend off such an inane attack is say, "My son/daughter is an adult and capable of making their own decisions. Whether or not they choose to participate in the war effort is their own decision." That's it.
In fact, the most astute thing Dan Quayle probably ever said was similar to this. He was on TV stumping for anti-abortion laws and was asked what he would do if his daughter, then over 18 years of age, was confronted with an unwanted pregnancy. He said something to the effect that he would counsel her to have the child, but that she was an adult and it would ultimately be her decision.
Even when Michael Moore did this, it was kind of stupid. Parents don't sign their children up to go to war. What he should have addressed (and bless his soul - the man needs days of screen time to address the complexity of the situation, but people don't want complexity) was why the military finds most of its recruits primarily among the poor and underprivileged populations of America.
Then he should have asked various congresspeople to sign their children up to be poor.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Air Bud
Do you think that the producers of the Air Bud movies pick the sports that Air Bud plays based on his relative skill in the sport or whether or not they can make a dog-related pun out of the title (i.e., Air Bud: Seventh Inning Fetch)?
There are lots of highly-paid people making these decisions. It would be interesting to know what goes into their thought processes.
I think that given the recent surge of interest in poker, high-stakes gambling, and the like, Air Bud's handlers would be smart to make a movie about Air Bud counting cards at a casino or something. Some sort of Rainman-esque thing.
The title? You guessed it. Air Bud Craps All Over the Casino Floor.
That is all.
There are lots of highly-paid people making these decisions. It would be interesting to know what goes into their thought processes.
I think that given the recent surge of interest in poker, high-stakes gambling, and the like, Air Bud's handlers would be smart to make a movie about Air Bud counting cards at a casino or something. Some sort of Rainman-esque thing.
The title? You guessed it. Air Bud Craps All Over the Casino Floor.
That is all.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
Eloquence
from a cnn.com article about the couple (a prison security guard and her felon husband) who escaped from jail a few days ago:
"
Cab driver Mike Wagers, 33, said he didn't realize he had picked up the fugitives until he was alerted to TV reports later that evening.
He said his suspicions weren't aroused by anything the couple said, except that they didn't try to aggressively recruit him after telling him they were Amway salespeople.
"You know, Amway people are all about Amway, and when they didn't -- when they didn't try any conversation further about it, that's when I pretty much thought, well, they're not with Amway," Wagers said.
"
Thanks, Amway. Now get started on the Struggle Against Violent Extremism like we asked you to a week ago.
"
Cab driver Mike Wagers, 33, said he didn't realize he had picked up the fugitives until he was alerted to TV reports later that evening.
He said his suspicions weren't aroused by anything the couple said, except that they didn't try to aggressively recruit him after telling him they were Amway salespeople.
"You know, Amway people are all about Amway, and when they didn't -- when they didn't try any conversation further about it, that's when I pretty much thought, well, they're not with Amway," Wagers said.
"
Thanks, Amway. Now get started on the Struggle Against Violent Extremism like we asked you to a week ago.
Friday, August 05, 2005
National Insecurity
Security guards at North Station are working for the terrorists. I'm serious. It's not on purpose; rather, it's more like how the pot smokers in those terrible anti-drug commercials are working for the terrorists, except true. Story:
Sunday morning, 8:30ish. I am sitting in beautiful North Station waiting to take the commuter rail out to Phil's house, where I will eventually nail two tracks destined for my solo album. Around 70 people at the station. No trains on the platforms. I am hung over.
As I sit on a bench in the lobby trying to choke down a dry Dunkin' Donuts bagel bu drowning it in iced coffee, I spot one security guard with a puzzled look on his face talking into his walkie-talkie to another security guard. Let me note here that his badge looked like one of those Junior Police Officer badges that they used to give away in elementary school. Here are the snippets of walkie-talkie conversation to which I am privy:
"We have an unattended bag on the platform..."
"...don't know what is inside."
"...suspicious..."
"Bring it inside."
!
And they do. They bring the goddamned unattended bag inside the station and set it roughly 3 feet in front of my face. More conversation snippets:
"Do you know what it is?"
"...I don't know."
"Open it."
!!
Yes, "Open it." And they do. Right in front of me. There are clothes in it. In accordance with homeland security training techniques, the highly trained security officers POKE THE CLOTHES WITH THEIR WALKIE-TALKIES. I feel safe.
Do I have to comment any more on how ridiculous this is? Moving a potentially hazardous bag from an empty train platform into a lobby? I don't. So I won't.
It's not that I'm scared of terrorists, but if I were one, and I read this, I would die laughing.
Now THAT'S homeland security.
And THAT (above) is a bad punchline.
Sunday morning, 8:30ish. I am sitting in beautiful North Station waiting to take the commuter rail out to Phil's house, where I will eventually nail two tracks destined for my solo album. Around 70 people at the station. No trains on the platforms. I am hung over.
As I sit on a bench in the lobby trying to choke down a dry Dunkin' Donuts bagel bu drowning it in iced coffee, I spot one security guard with a puzzled look on his face talking into his walkie-talkie to another security guard. Let me note here that his badge looked like one of those Junior Police Officer badges that they used to give away in elementary school. Here are the snippets of walkie-talkie conversation to which I am privy:
"We have an unattended bag on the platform..."
"...don't know what is inside."
"...suspicious..."
"Bring it inside."
!
And they do. They bring the goddamned unattended bag inside the station and set it roughly 3 feet in front of my face. More conversation snippets:
"Do you know what it is?"
"...I don't know."
"Open it."
!!
Yes, "Open it." And they do. Right in front of me. There are clothes in it. In accordance with homeland security training techniques, the highly trained security officers POKE THE CLOTHES WITH THEIR WALKIE-TALKIES. I feel safe.
Do I have to comment any more on how ridiculous this is? Moving a potentially hazardous bag from an empty train platform into a lobby? I don't. So I won't.
It's not that I'm scared of terrorists, but if I were one, and I read this, I would die laughing.
Now THAT'S homeland security.
And THAT (above) is a bad punchline.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
"Weekend at Bernie's," the beginnings.
Transcript of the meeting in which "Weekend at Bernie's" was conceptualized:
Executive One: Know what's funny?
Executive Two: What?
Executive One: Corpses.
Executive Two: I'm listening...
Executive One: Oh... well, that's all I was saying, that corpses were funny.
Executive Two: We are prepared to offer you $50 million for your idea.
Executive One: But I don't even have a script...
Executive Two: $60 million
Executive One: ...
Executive Two: Production starts next week.
Executive One: Know what's funny?
Executive Two: What?
Executive One: Corpses.
Executive Two: I'm listening...
Executive One: Oh... well, that's all I was saying, that corpses were funny.
Executive Two: We are prepared to offer you $50 million for your idea.
Executive One: But I don't even have a script...
Executive Two: $60 million
Executive One: ...
Executive Two: Production starts next week.
Thursday, July 21, 2005
Recording in NH
I am so ridiculously lazy with this blog. I am so sorry [tear]. So sorry [tear]. So.
So, given the lack of recent blog updates, there is really no reason why anyone that reads this should know that we were up in New Hampshire recording our album on Sunday and Monday. But we were. We really, really were. And it sounds amazing. In fact, it sounds so amazing, even without Evan having finished his guitar overdubs, that I am somewhat intimidated to do vocals over it. What if I can't reach the standard that Phil and Ben (our producers) and the rest of the band has set? What if I suck?
Of course, I know I'm going to nail the vocals. But I'm still a bit nervous.
Recording was nervewracking. Brandon got bit on the face by a radioactive bug the night before we were supposed to leave, rendering him nearly blind and half-dead. We had to cancel our gig in Tewksbury on Saturday to make sure that we were adequately prepared and that Brandon was at least three-quarters alive for tracking on Sunday morning. That worked.
We spent a long time getting sounds, putting mics next to instruments, and generally exploring the studio space before we got to tracking our first song, which was Monster. Monster took 3 hours to get right. Three hours. By the time we were done I was already deep into my second cup of voice-saving organic tea, which was hilariously named "Throat Coat." And no, the joke was not one of Paul Revere riding his horse through Boston yelling "The Throat Coats are coming!" It was much diriter and had no historical backdrop.
Evan is going to Ben's rehearsal space on Sunday to record his guitar, and then it's all up to me to put the finishing touches on the album. Then we will sell it and become famous and I will hire someone with a similar writing style to update the blog on a daily basis. Superb.
I will attempt to post more often from now on.
paz
abe
p.s. Vote: What's a better album title?
A) The Grand Applause
B) Break the Monotone
So, given the lack of recent blog updates, there is really no reason why anyone that reads this should know that we were up in New Hampshire recording our album on Sunday and Monday. But we were. We really, really were. And it sounds amazing. In fact, it sounds so amazing, even without Evan having finished his guitar overdubs, that I am somewhat intimidated to do vocals over it. What if I can't reach the standard that Phil and Ben (our producers) and the rest of the band has set? What if I suck?
Of course, I know I'm going to nail the vocals. But I'm still a bit nervous.
Recording was nervewracking. Brandon got bit on the face by a radioactive bug the night before we were supposed to leave, rendering him nearly blind and half-dead. We had to cancel our gig in Tewksbury on Saturday to make sure that we were adequately prepared and that Brandon was at least three-quarters alive for tracking on Sunday morning. That worked.
We spent a long time getting sounds, putting mics next to instruments, and generally exploring the studio space before we got to tracking our first song, which was Monster. Monster took 3 hours to get right. Three hours. By the time we were done I was already deep into my second cup of voice-saving organic tea, which was hilariously named "Throat Coat." And no, the joke was not one of Paul Revere riding his horse through Boston yelling "The Throat Coats are coming!" It was much diriter and had no historical backdrop.
Evan is going to Ben's rehearsal space on Sunday to record his guitar, and then it's all up to me to put the finishing touches on the album. Then we will sell it and become famous and I will hire someone with a similar writing style to update the blog on a daily basis. Superb.
I will attempt to post more often from now on.
paz
abe
p.s. Vote: What's a better album title?
A) The Grand Applause
B) Break the Monotone
Sunday, July 10, 2005
better to remain quiet and be thought a fool...
...at least for some people. Overheard at Herrell's, Sunday afternoon:
Guy to pretty girl who is eating a salad: I used to work at a four star restaurant putting salads together. I'm trying to identify exactly what kind of lettuce that is...
Girl: It's spinach.
I can't make this kind of stuff up.
Guy to pretty girl who is eating a salad: I used to work at a four star restaurant putting salads together. I'm trying to identify exactly what kind of lettuce that is...
Girl: It's spinach.
I can't make this kind of stuff up.
Tuesday, June 21, 2005
Sunday, June 19, 2005
Calling Uncle True - piece o' prose
Why don't we post anymore? So many loyal readers constantly disappointed. I'm sorry. It's tough. We're busy. Ohmilordy, we're busy. More shows on the horizon, pub for Middle East is in full effect.
I have been brainstorming my children's book lately. Want to read it? Shut up, it's not done. It's all a bunch of rough notes. The main character is named Owen. I want to name my first son Owen but am afraid that if i write this book I'll never be able to name my kid the same name. I am so cracked out on odd sleep patterns. I love non sequiturs.
"Do you think you know you're right? Or do you know you think you're right?" The man's question seemed to make sense, but Owen felt confused.
"I don't know," he responded.
"So then you think." said the man, whose logic seemed to Owen to be patently absurd.
"I really don't know," Owen said again.
"Then it's settled." said the man. "Detroit it is."
"Detroit?" asked Owen. "There's a Detroit where I come from."
"I wouldn't be surprised," said the man, who seemed completely unfazed by Owen's reiteration of the fact that he came from another dimension. "Detroit is a good name for a place. In fact, I named my cat Detroit."
"But your cat isn't a place," Owen said.
"Sure it is," the man said, with the matter-of-fact delivery that made his statements seem almost more ludicrous than they already were. "Wherever the cat is, that's a place. Which brings me back to what I wanted to tell you at the beginning: it's confusing to name your cat the same name as a place, but not nearly as confusing as naming your cat the same name as another cat."
Owen was growing ever more comfortable with being confused.
paz
FA
tracks: weird shit at Herrell's of Allston Rap-Rock Citay.
I have been brainstorming my children's book lately. Want to read it? Shut up, it's not done. It's all a bunch of rough notes. The main character is named Owen. I want to name my first son Owen but am afraid that if i write this book I'll never be able to name my kid the same name. I am so cracked out on odd sleep patterns. I love non sequiturs.
"Do you think you know you're right? Or do you know you think you're right?" The man's question seemed to make sense, but Owen felt confused.
"I don't know," he responded.
"So then you think." said the man, whose logic seemed to Owen to be patently absurd.
"I really don't know," Owen said again.
"Then it's settled." said the man. "Detroit it is."
"Detroit?" asked Owen. "There's a Detroit where I come from."
"I wouldn't be surprised," said the man, who seemed completely unfazed by Owen's reiteration of the fact that he came from another dimension. "Detroit is a good name for a place. In fact, I named my cat Detroit."
"But your cat isn't a place," Owen said.
"Sure it is," the man said, with the matter-of-fact delivery that made his statements seem almost more ludicrous than they already were. "Wherever the cat is, that's a place. Which brings me back to what I wanted to tell you at the beginning: it's confusing to name your cat the same name as a place, but not nearly as confusing as naming your cat the same name as another cat."
Owen was growing ever more comfortable with being confused.
paz
FA
tracks: weird shit at Herrell's of Allston Rap-Rock Citay.
Saturday, June 11, 2005
Daddy Yankee, I would offer a close friend to have your children. Not someone I liked in a romantic way myself, but someone cool nonetheless.
"Esta noche haremos el amor bailando"
"Tonight we're going to bang dancing"
How can this guy be so goddamned good? I don't know. But cop the album. The spanish word for cop is "policiar."
paz
abe
"Tonight we're going to bang dancing"
How can this guy be so goddamned good? I don't know. But cop the album. The spanish word for cop is "policiar."
paz
abe
Thursday, June 09, 2005
Don't that thing there got that mail what for you don't have to use stamps?
That title makes no sense.
Sorry for the not-blogging delay. I have too much to do. Story of my life. A boring one, but that's what it is.
Quickly: we're working on a theme song for the pilot to my friend Rob Fried's sitcom, "Serious Business." Once we're done, it will be serious business, because we'll be seriously hooked up with some seriously funny people with serious connex in the H-wood. For serious.
The song will be nothing like you have ever heard IA play, mainly because it will be new. But it will also be somewhat different from our normal fare - something lighter, in a duck sauce, something that goes well with a fine white wine.
God damn, keeping the mo' up for this band is a tough thing. And mo' is all we need right now. Mo mo'. Moo.
I have nothing to say. I shall return with topics of interest shortly. Sorry for the no-writing thing. It will be remedied.
paz
FA
Sorry for the not-blogging delay. I have too much to do. Story of my life. A boring one, but that's what it is.
Quickly: we're working on a theme song for the pilot to my friend Rob Fried's sitcom, "Serious Business." Once we're done, it will be serious business, because we'll be seriously hooked up with some seriously funny people with serious connex in the H-wood. For serious.
The song will be nothing like you have ever heard IA play, mainly because it will be new. But it will also be somewhat different from our normal fare - something lighter, in a duck sauce, something that goes well with a fine white wine.
God damn, keeping the mo' up for this band is a tough thing. And mo' is all we need right now. Mo mo'. Moo.
I have nothing to say. I shall return with topics of interest shortly. Sorry for the no-writing thing. It will be remedied.
paz
FA
Friday, May 27, 2005
observation
Know what the problem is with those socks that wick away moisture to keep your feet dry? They wick the moisture right into your shoes and in 5 days your shoes smell like a football locker room.
Riddle me the answer to that, modern science.
FA
Riddle me the answer to that, modern science.
FA
Thursday, May 26, 2005
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