He says your name out loud; In miniature rooms where no one’s found

You are walking down the streets of Philadelphia . Your sneakers rhythmically tread along the old splats of gum that decorate the sidewalk. The weather is changing and you start to appreciate where you are and how you got there. You might even stop and anticipate the official arrival of Michael Nutter as you hope he can save this fatalist empire. Then you stop, gasp and turn you head like a confused puppy. Is that a dead animal? Has a rodent spontaneously combusted leaving minimal remains?

No. It's a fucking weave. They are EVERYWHERE. Just walk down any street in the city and you will see a weave within minutes. Some of them are HUGE and they often get caught in chain linked fences. There are smaller weave remains that float limply off curbs and through the streets. They often act like vacuums as they roll down the street, picking up stones, sticks, trash and even some blunt and cigarette butts.

My question is: ‘How are they ending up on the streets?’ Are they the result of a street/ cat fight that involved women ripping out their opponent’s fake expensive hair? If they are where the hell are all of these scuffles? I am dying to see a chick fight that leaves a woman weaveless. I could see it now.

Woman 1: I told you I ain’t callin’ yo man on no prepaid cell phone!

Woman 2: My man said you been callin him all the time asking if he got tickets to the Keith Sweat show yet! Well…what is it biznitch?

Woman 1: Do not speak ill of Keith Sweat! I am going to rip out your fake expensive hair if you keep addressing me in such a manner.

Woman 2: Eat a dick Beeltch!

(A fight ensues leaving both woman weaveless and searching frantically through their purses for post-fight Newports)

Another hopeful theory is that they accidentally fall out like when guys lose their toupees in movies and cartoons following a sneeze. I could imagine a woman walking down the street, sneezing and hopefully farting at the same time, and her weave goes flying into the night like a bat that needs a haircut. She would act like nothing happened and proceed walking down the street with a lot less hair.

This phenomenon shall be known as the ‘Tumbleweave.’


I had the pleasure of seeing Sunset Rubdown play at the First Unitarian Church early in October. It might be one of the best live shows I have ever seen, solely based on lead singer, Spencer Kruug. This guy plays like he is on FIRE and everyone, including the band, looks at him in awe. He light the place on fire and had time to save us all from the smoke and flames.

Michael Nutter has the best voice out of any mayoral candidate in the history of politics. Imagine someone saying this with an angry Kermit voice, “Police will stop and frisk whoever they want. It’s not a black thing. It’s not a white thing! (Here is the amazing part) I don’t care if you are purple with white polka dots!

He actually said these things recently regarding the current dangerous state of Killadelphia.

Nutter is trying to sound like an authoritative figure, but a combination of the ludicrous, out of left field voice and reference to multi-hued criminals has me a little concerned. Think about all of those purple white-polka dotted people out there.

There is a purple guy standing on the Ben Franklin bridge as we speak ready to jump because of Nutter’s comments. He sheepishly says, “And they think the red heads have it bad. We don’t even have a group on Craig’s List and our soon to be fucking Kermit voiced mayor isn’t going to let me ride down Broad Street in peace. GOODBYE CRUEL WORLD!” SPLASH.

Don't Tell Me That I Have Changed...'Cause Man Of Course I Have

You slam the empty bottle on the coffee table and pick up a tattered lighter to set some weed on fire and you have a flashback. You wonder where this all began. Why are you doing this? Radiohead’s ‘Creep’ is faintly playing in the background, the ‘what the hell am I doing here….I don’t belong here’ lyrics stick out. The flashback and self hatred subside as you exhale and wait for the next episode of the Two Coreys to come on.


You will always remember the first time you chemically altered yourself no matter what substance it was. That first beer you stole from the garage and drank nervously, prompting you to act and or pretend like you were obliterated. The first time you smoked some grass and realized why some many people liked Pink Floyd.

But where did this all begin? When did you decide to cross that moral line?
It was when you looked across the elementary school lunchroom and noticed one of your classmates writhing in pain. He had just ingested something that turned his face into abstract art. Someone dared him to do it. Someone opened their grimy hand to reveal several pieces of a tightly wrapped colorful candy. Your classmate gulps before he says,” All of them?” “All of ‘em!,” says another classmate as other students cover their faces like there is about to be an explosion. The classmate you saw writhing in pain had just placed 5 Warheads into his mouth.

Do you remember Warheads? If not here is some info via the online witch encyclopedia:

Warheads, also known as Mega Warheads, are a brand of sour candy manufactured by Impact Confections. The candy was invented in Taiwan in 1975 and was first imported to the United States by The Foreign Candy Company in 1993. For a while, "hot" versions of the candy were also available but proved to be less popular.
Warheads are marketed to children as an "extreme" candy. The name "Warhead" comes from the notion that the sour taste of the candies is akin to a real warhead going off in one's mouth, and the brand's mascot, Wally Warhead, is depicted as a boy with puckered lips and a small mushroom cloud eminating from the top of his head. A driving force behind the candy's popularity were informal competitions among schoolchildren to determine who could withstand eating the largest number of Warheads at once.

The last paragraph regarding informal competitions sums it all up. Warheads were your first introduction to the world of drugs and alcohol. You didn’t know it at the time, but those informal competitions and dares were your first foray into doing something that could eventually cause pain (hangovers, bug outs, bad reps) and a sense of danger (operating machinery while drunk or high). Those people daring you to place several Warheads are the same people who persuaded you into getting drunk before high school dances. Those people are the same people who told you to smoke grass before that dude came to your high school to talk about the dangers of tobacco. He most likely talked with one of those evil microphones through a hole in his neck.

It’s the same concept. You knew it was bad for you. You knew there could be some consequences, but you took the plunge. It was exciting and scary at the same time, just like that time you drank jungle juice and vomited all over the bar. Just like the time you took mushrooms and realized that your hand was the most complex living organism on earth.

That kid who was able to place about 10 Warheads in his mouth is most likely in an Old Country Buffet bathroom right now doing lines off the sink. It’s a pit stop on his road trip to an Interpol concert in North Jersey. The kid who decided not to place one Warhead in his mouth is working on Capitol Hill and is married with a nice car.

When you ask yourself ‘what the hell am I doing here’, don’t blame yourself. Don’t blame mom and dad. Blame the Warheads.

Don't Let It Bring You Down...It's Only Castles Burning

BAR REVIEW
By: Cesar Aspadorante

Spot: RED SKY
Location: Old(e) City, 224 Market Street

Dress Code Violations: Sneakers, T-Shirts, Sandals, Frowns, Progressive Thought, Dust and Lack of Profound Jaw Line.

Dress Code Requirements: Collars, Hair Product, Phone Released after May '07.

Red Sky is a delectable lounge in the heart of the history-filled, Olde City district of Philadelphia. The front of the bar is unassuming; however the inside holds a world of blinding red lights and hot jams. Beers cost around $7.50 to $12.00…totally reasonable; whereas mixed drinks are only to be purchased with small sacks of gold. The crowd is twenty to thirty something young professionals looking to get down and dirty on a dance floor that is large enough for you to grind awkwardly next to your mate of choice. One of the most striking qualities of Red Sky is the amazing seating. Mini-cubes of leather provide plenty of butt space for you to sit. They may be extremely low to the ground and wobbly; however where else are you going to be able to sit on some audacious little seats like that!? Don't even think about stepping into the beautiful beacon of light that is Red Sky if you aren't going to at least move a little to the hot beats permeating from the BOSE speakers. This is the perfect place to find the next intro song for your MySpace page or the next great ring tone. If you are a disaffected hipster turn your scruffy cheek the other way and head to Skinner's. Red Sky is for smiles, dancing and comparing tans. Check out the candy rain coming from above at Red Sky next time you are looking for a hot, trendy and simply beautiful spot to hang in Olde City.

CIAO,
Cesar

"We smell the musk at the dusk in the crack of the dawn
We go through episodes too, like "Attack of the Clones"

Every Spark Of Friendship And Love Will Die Without A Home

Ohhh the shore. We will all be filling our duffel bags with deodorant and underwear as 85% percent of the young heads in Philadelphia head to the Jersey shore for the weekend until the summer closes. We can't wait to fight through traffic in anticipation of something that we have seen a million times before. It's like the green light from The Great Gatsby. Our attention doesn't waver as we stare across the bay, but when we get there we see the same sweaty scene as people spray Miller Lite on their friends to the Journey song blasting from above.

The Jersey shore will thrill its visitors until the end of time, and its visitors will never lose faith in their beloved getaway. They will continue to throw cash into a damp shore house as a 'weekend only' participant. They will shine their sunglasses and wash their board shorts. They will look for love and get tickets for peeing in public, which will turn into a great story for a hungover breakfast. People will post 'U GOING TO THE SHORE ?' on MySpace pages when they start to get the shore fever in their cubicles as the work week comes to a close.

Cover bands sponsored by Budweiser will dominate the shore circuit as people request songs from the 80's and early 90's that are already played on repeat in ever bar in the country. Bon Jovi and Poison will get heavy rotation as shots are downed and lips are wiped. The lifeguards will walk around the bar like a blond, curly haired fraternity, who believe that they rule the school.

You will without a doubt run into people from high school and grade school to be followed by awkward “what are you up to these days” conversations.

The girls will rock their latest bright colored tight tops as the dudes don their latest Salvation Army t-shirt. People will dance and the beer flows until everyone makes their way to the streets for the drunken slice of pizza. The guys will try their best to woo women back to their place that houses about 15 dudes, but is only built for three people.

Maybe the outside shower will be a prime spot to get that much needed hook-up? Such a class move. Just take her out back, open that creaky door and lead her into the musty darkness. She will respect herself in the morning when she wakes up on your dirty kitchen floor in a sweaty tank top stained with Jagermeister. She will leave the house full of vigor and become the topic of conversation as you work on your tan at the beach the next day.

“Did you see that chick I made out with last night bro?”

“I don’t know browski I was pretty blacked.”

“Well so was she. In fact she was so blacked that she smoked my pole in the outside shower!”

(High fives ensue)

You soak in the rays and think about the amount of gel that is to be applied to your hair as the sun hides beneath the ocean. What striped button-up shirt should you wear? Will people like your new sandals? Is there a special on Miller Lites this evening? Is blacking out as I dance to arena rock really worth it? Of course it is bro. So is driving to the shore to drink, be sweet, dance, sweat, and do the same shit every weekend.

i know you love to hear yourself speak words that you think i can't follow

You finger through your boring non-electronic mail and stumble upon a magazine/periodical that was sent from your old high school. They usually have clever names like: The Intelligencer, The Explorer, The Book With Pictures Of People Who Donated money, etc. They come about once a month to remind you that it is time to donate money.
These 'zines' tend to be filled with black and white glossy photos of people at fundraisers and sporting events. They read like the directions on your latest bottle of meds and none of the 'articles' are really worth reading or even perusing. There is usually a pic of some old head from the class of '25 at the homecoming game as he is being held up by a piece of galvanized steel. He raises one bony finger in the air to represent his school spirit; however he really is trying let his kids know that he did a number one in his pants.
You will flip through just about every page in these books until you reach the end.
That is when theses zines turn into letters from your old classmates letting you know that their lives are ten times better than yours. You are forced to read down the list of people from your graduating class and learn what they are up to these days. They usually read like this:

Trent Leatherberry '99 : Trent is now married to some ridiculously hot chick from high school that never noticed you in the first place. He drives a fast black car and just bought a huge house on the beach. He has been dominating at his job since he first walked in the place and is expecting to have a gorgeous little baby in the fall. Trent has recently donated a shit-load of money to the school and we are currently blowing him.

Marcus Beefheart '99 : Marcus has completed medical school at Georgetown and is currently working on curing all cancers. Marcus always had a huge penis; therefore we knew he would never let us down. He just got engaged to the hottest woman in Brazil, and they are set to get married in the fall. Did we mention he has a ridiculously huge penis?

This is when you are sitting at your parent's kitchen table (because you still live there) and realize that your life means NOTHING. Everyone else is making moves and babies and you are in the back seat still waiting for someone to pass the grass. You don't even make enough money to rent a studio apartment, and Trent and Marcus are running shit.
Does your high school know what they are doing to you? Don't they know that you aren't running the race like the rest of them?
Of course they do, and that's why they want you to join the race. You join the race, you make some loot, you get a double income….YOU DONATE MONEY.
Someone needs to put an end to these demeaning zines. They should just take out the last five pages so we don't have to look into the past to see that we have no future. I would try to put an end to all this, but I am WAYYYY to lazy. Good luck Trent and Marcus.


SIDENOTE:
TV On The Radio played one of the best shows in the history of time Friday night. That's all I have to say about that.

Disappear here

The stink hits you as soon as you walk into the bar. Perfume, deodorant, hair gel, bar scum, lies, cocaine, lip gloss and false pride make for a nice scent cocktail. A cocktail as potent as the Long Island iced tea that a gelled up guy in a white button-up shirt and jeans drinks as he stands along the bar looking at himself in the mirrors. Everyone is smiling as their Miller Lite bottles glug like the water cooler in your office.

Ear drums are blown as the DJ spins the latest Akon collaboration jam so girls can take pictures of themselves dancing for their Myspace pages. As they dance they laugh hysterically at each other. They then embrace and exclaim their love for one another through subtle kisses on the cheek. When the song ends it's time to flip open the cell phone and stare at their latest glowing text message.

People exchange phony smiles and laughs as their friends scream into their ears over the music blasting throughout the bar. They have no idea what they are saying to each other, but it doesn't matter.

Gelled up guys think they are impressing women by slowly nodding their heads as they leer at the gyrating hips on the dance floor. They follow them to the bar as they stick their hands in their jean pockets to pull out a few twenties. "SHOTS FOR EVERYONE," the gelled up guys will exclaim as they try to decipher if it is going to take a couple of lines to get the gyrating hips back to their apartments.

"Do you live in the city? Really…me too! How is your view? What building do you work in? Isn't there are REALLY good Indian restaurant around there?"

These conversations will be slyly lead into the direction of a yearly salary and what college he or she attended. "I would do anything to be back in college for just a week. Just give me a week man! Were you in a sorority? I was in Kappa Alpha Beta Delta Fresca"

Girls come out of the bathroom and order glasses of white wine as they furiously look around the bar and dip their hands in and out of their purses. They look down at their shoes and grimace when they realize that they are covered in bar sludge. Time for another glass of white wine and trips to the ladies room. They come out of the bathroom again talking on their glowing cell phones with one finger stuck in their unoccupied ear. The people on the other line can't hear and word, but it doesn't matter.

A guy with a backwards hat and popped collar raises his meaty fists into the air as he downs his fifth Red Bull vodka. He is blasted, but his motor is still running on the fuel of Red Bull. He walks out of the stinky bar onto the sidewalk to smoke a Parliament and sneers at a group of adults walking home from dinner. He spits on the windshield of a passing cab, and looks back at his friends with a laugh-at-me smirk on his face. "Fucking terrorists man. I got a buddy in Iraq man. Kid is a fucking hero."

A group of ridiculously good looking blonde-haired girls roll their eyes at a guy in a yellow button-up shirt as he tries to tell them about his job in real estate development. "I work on Walnut street. I go to the gym there too. It's great. They have a squash courts and flat screens mounted on the treadmills. You won't believe the deal I got on this flat-screen at Best Buy." The ridiculously good looking blondes are waiting for him to say the magic words. "Do you guys party?" The blondes and the yellow-shirted guy will walk out of the bar well before closing time.

It's getting late and the crowd gets stuffy when they realize that the lights will be flicked on soon followed by bouncers in tight black t-shirts. "Everyone get the fuck out! You don't have to go home, but get the fuck out of here!"

Cell phones are flipped open for the usual drunk dials and text messages. Booty calls will be made and people will be disappointed. Several guys will desperately walk over to groups of random females to let them know that they have the goods back at their place.

The lights snap on and the bar patrons groan collectively. It's is time to fight for a cab so that they can be belligerent to the driver on their way home. People will fall asleep in the clothes they went out in and wake up early in the morning to call their friends about the night before. "The last thing I remember is dancing to that Akon song! Oh my god…we got pizza. I don't remember that AT ALL!"

You will see the same people doing the same things as soon as you enter the bar next weekend, but it doesn't matter.

Heart's colors changed like leaves

PEOPLE WHO NEED TO BE PUNCHED

I saw a kid walking through Old City today with a t-shirt that read: I fart in your general direction. I wanted to punch him in the face.

I am BLOWN AWAY by the way people walk across the street when a car is coming towards them. I feel some people walk slower when a car is about to hit them. They "up their strut." If that makes any sense. I want to punch them all in the face.

The high school kids who use to food cart in front of my office, and talk to the guy inside like he is a complete asshole. "HEY OLD HEAD. I SAID WELL DONE OLD HEAD!" "DAMN OLD HEAD I AINT PAYING EXTRA FOR NO TOASTED BAGEL! YOU CRAZY!" All of these kids need to be punched in the face several times.

The people who feed the pigeons. They need to be covered with honey and then have bird seed dumped all over them and left under a bridge in West Philadelphia. Just like Home Alone 2: Lost In The City Of Dreams.

The homeless guy who complains that the cigarette I just lent him is not a Newport. He needs to be punched in the face (while wearing a latex glove).

Out-of-shape people who talk about working out all the time. I don't give a shit how hard your spin class was last night or how many miles you ran the other day. These people need to be punched in the gut while doing a sit-up.

People who incorporate global warming into small talk. All global warming is anymore is an extension of small talk. People who have nothing to say to you on the elevator will say something like, "Glad I brought my gloves today…it's FREEZING. (then the kicker) SO MUCH FOR GLOBAL WARMING!" I know weather is a go-to when you have nothing to say to someone you hardly know, and that's acceptable; however stop adding the global warming line at the end. "Man it's really hot out today for March. THAT AL GORE WAS RIGHT ABOUT GLOBAL WARMING!" People who bring up global warming while 'small-talking' should be struck across the head with a weathervane.

Some camera phone picks of the OF MONTREAL show at the Troc that my buddy Teddy Hef took. The show was a blast despite the hipster overload.

You Just Keep Me Hanging On

You are driving along the glistening ice covered streets of Philadelphia. It's beautiful really. You don't even want to step on the few grass patches in the city because you could tarnish the purity of it all.

Until your life turns into an action film/video game/time to become a hero.

You are driving slowly along the highway to avoid slippage and the unexplainable happens. An obtusely shaped ice chunk comes flying off the hood of the car in front of you. Your world stops and the music creeping out your speakers becomes a soundtrack. The song seems perfect because the whole world starts to move in slow motion.

The ice slab floats through the air with grace leaving little bits of ice a snow in its trail like a frozen mist.

The music gets louder and your eyes don't leaving the icy piece of death headed for your windshield.

"Will it smash through my windshield and pierce my heart? Will my high school graduation picture be splattered across local news stations after I die from the flying ice?"

Then calmness flexes through your muscles. You don't think about being the victim of a freak accident. You don't feel so small and helpless. You MAKE MOVES.

As the spinning ice shard nears the windshield you jerk the wheel to the right, but have enough time to check to side mirror to make sure your path is clear. You move just enough and the ice dagger crashes down on your front left wheel. It smashes into about 74 pieces and remnants somersault off the wheel and onto your windshield; however these pieces are small and brittle.

You then slow down and your calmness turns into a swell of emotions. Your heart is sprinting out of your chest and you might even chuckle a little. It's better than any high you have ever felt.

You did it. You survived the horror from above, and you have never felt more alive. You cheated death, and it was easy. You didn’t know you had it in you. It’s a refreshing feeling knowing that you were so money in a dire situation.

Will you be that sharp the next time? Who knows, but that's the beauty of the snow.

This is one of my new favorite human beings. His name is Cadence Weapon and he is a rapper from Canada. He is simply bananas. He raps about Zelda and existentialism. If you hate rap you will love him. The first time you will hear him your intestines will explode from your belly. It will be easy to clean up though because you will have a smile on your face from the maniacally constructed sound.

Oh how I sighed when they asked if I knew his name

With the end of the Eagles season comes the end of information and stats for me to read at work to waste time. There are no injury reports or game predictions to keep my busy. There are no more "Garcia rising out of the ashes" stories to read as the time passes by. There's a black hole in the uselessness throughout my workday. I need something else. I need some more useless information to pump in my brain as my computer screen sucks the life out of my eyeballs.

I recently read a line in Chuck Klosterman's latest opus that struck me: "Prog rock is not music about the future. It about something from the past that never happened." In case you were wondering what prog rock is, here is horrible definition from Wikipedia:
Progressive rock (sometimes shortened to prog or prog rock) is a subgenre of rock music which arose in the mid-to-late 1960s, reached the peak of its popularity in the 1970s, and has continued as a form of popular music to this day. It is commonly associated with symphonic rock and art rock, although the term progressive rock in today's usage often embraces a significantly wider spectrum of music than these styles.

Progressive rock acts often combine elements of jazz and classical music, folk and world music influences with rock formats, often rejecting specific genre norms, and instead utilising relatively uncommon musical structures and ideas. As such, it can be seen as an approach to songwriting as well as a genre of its own.

The most important line in the definition is about it's approach to songwriting. I had always felt that prog rock had theatrical elements dervived from fantasy literature. They sounded more like narratives than songs to me. The first time I realized that I was listening to prog rock was when I was blasting Rush's Tom Sawyer from my beautiful 93' Mercury Sable. I originally thought this song was about a futuristic Tom Sawyer, which I believe it is; however after reading Klosterman I decided that the elements of the song took place in a land from long ago that never was. (Stay with me)

This very concept has fascinated me for about the past 3 weeks. I have never been a fan of fantasy literature. I only read the Hobbit because there was a test on it when I got back from summer break. I have decided that my fascination with song lyrics and meanings has led me to this fascination. A completely nonexistent world can be created and it's story can be told through music that's described as: often rejecting specific genre norms, and instead utilising relatively uncommon musical structures and ideas. BRILLIANT.

Klosterman's idea of this music being from a time and place that never happened is going to be my filler. I am going to use this idea to fill my time wasting internet gap. I have decided the submerse myself into the definition of prog rock.

I have been listening to David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars on repeat while smoking grass and playing Nintendo Wii since the inception of 2007. This is a concept album, which tells the story of an alien who comes to Earth to save it through rock and roll because it is apparently going to end in five years. Ziggy comes to Earth and is consumed by the lavish rock and roll lifestyle, which eventually leads to his death. He was killed by the ideals that he was going to save us from.

This album and it's story have become a part of me. I can see the story as the music plays. Its sweeping and georgeous and I recommend it to anyone that has ears. It isn't the grass either…it's Ziggy.

The question that has haunted me since my recent prog rock/Bowie obsession is this: Can Ziggy Stardust be labeled as prog rock?

Well it sure as hell has a narrative tone that deals with the unknown; however it doesn't contain uncommon musical structures. It contains the narrative elements of prog rock without the musical style. It only takes 11 songs to tell a story that can be played over and over again in your head for the rest of your life. Prog rock contains ideas of a non-existent world created by the artist that are left for you to create.

So I have decided that Ziggy Stardust is a concept album with prog elements. I have also decided that it doesn't matter. Does it really matter what genre of music I am listening too? Should I be concerned with what it has been labeled? Of course not because all art sould be consumed with and individualist approach as opposed to being an idealist. Many people would call me an fool for labeling Ziggy Stardust as a prog rock album. Celebrated rock journalists would call me an amateur, which I am.

Those people are the idealists.

Wait...They Don't Love You Like I Love You

2 Thousand SIZIX

2006 was a delectable year.

People continued to read less.

Dancing with the Stars placed tap shoes on the nation and let us groove with a sick high school wrestler and a former football star.

Whenever we walk into a diner we can't help ourselves from asking for Chicken Noodle Soup with a soda on the side.

The crocodile hunter made us weep…when he stuck his finger up the butt of a completely unaware and innocent reptile.


Music released in '06 that was enjoyable:

TV ON THE RADIO-Return To Cookie Mountain
There is no need to try and understand or say something completely pretentious about this album. It never gets old, and it will haunt you. (Not like a ghost or phantasm)

ADAM SAMBERG AND JT - "It's my dick in a BOX"

THOM YORKE- Eraser
Made you feel sorry for yourself…while dancing.

GHOSTFACE KILLAH-Fishscale
He rapped about mermaids.

Movies released in the year of '06 that were great to view with a friend and some popcorn:

HALF NELSON - An idealist teacher forgets about No Child Left Behind. It's not because he is smoking crack either…it's because he gives a shit.

MONSTER HOUSE - Captured the essence of kids in the suburbs who are bored with riding their bikes down the same street everyday.

Reading material of '06 that people will enjoy with a cup of Earl Grey tea:

CHUCK KLOSTERMAN IV : A DECADE OF CURIOUS PEOPLE AND DANGEROUS IDEAS
Philosopher for a generation that is fully aware and completely confused at the same time. His Esquire piece about the use of the term, Guilty Pleasures, made more sense that your local news anchor.

GREAT GATSBY
Should be on every 'best of' list even though it was published in 1925. When you are upset that someone has a nicer cell phone than you…it's time to pick this up again.

Ban of '06

THE SMOKING BAN(ter)

Remember when you had a friend sleep over, who stole some cigs from an older sibling or Wawa and you had to wait until the middle of the night to sneak outside and have a smoke? That is what you have to do whenever you want to have a smoke in Philadelphia.
There is absolutely nothing wrong with this ban, and it has nothing do with health reasons. It has to do with social skills. You are forced outside to a quieter setting where people are feeling your pain. It's making it easier to meet people in person as opposed to putting them in your top 8 on MySpace.
It's better to talk to someone outside the bar as opposed to screaming yourself horse trying to introduce yourself in the bar. So instead of fake laughing at someone because you have no idea what they said in the bar, you can hear what they have to say outside while smoking. Will this make is easier to talk to the opposite sex? Yes, until you go back in the bar and fake laugh at them when they tell you their grandmother was killed in a Rascal accident on the Ben Franklin Bridge.

BEST CLICHÉ THINGS SAID ABOUT THE SMOKING BAN:

"You know what the best part is? When I go home at night I don't smell like smoke anymore"

"It is actually making me smoke less!"

"At first I thought it was complete horseshit…now I love it!"

"Hey what do you think about the smoking ban? Oh really…cool…the best part is that I don't stink like smoke when I come home from the bar and I smoke less. (fake laugh) Do you want to go out for dinner sometime? Oh cool…I didn't think so. Do you have a light?"

My mind has changed my bodys frame, but God I like it

Many Philadelphians exit this gorgeous smelling city when their work or play day is over by traveling along the Vine Street Expressway/ I-676/The Gateway to Hell. This is a semi-underground roadway that takes no prisoners, and laughs in the face of those who signal when they switch lanes. It can be very convenient if you don't feel like dealing with brake lights while trudging through Center City; however it can also be viewed as another dimension on the verge of an apocalyptic meltdown.
Some choose to travel at ludicrous speeds along 676 causing their headlights to trail as they whiz by your vehicle, and some decide that there is no need to travel over 25 MPH. There is no peace or common ground along the Vine Street. Most of the travelers don't even let you know if they are doing a three lane change at 87MPH because there must be an invisible sign before you get on the road that tells drivers they are prohibited from using their turn signals.
The atmosphere of 676 is reminiscent of the wild car chases in the Mad Max movies. You know where people are swinging axes from the hoods of vehicles as they take out other cars along the roadway. People should start attaching missile launchers to the hoods of their cars if they plan to make it home safely.
City Council should a pass a law allowing the for the installment of heavy duty BOSE speakers along 676 so they can blast speed metal as people are flying or crawling down the road. This would make the experience more fitting and harrowing at the same time. Imagine cruising down the Vine Street with your windows open listening to listening to some Sepultura? You would be taking out Dodge Neons in no time.
There are reports of ghost cars traveling along this highway as well as coffins with wheels traveling over 70 MPH. There is no escaping the Vine Street because it can easily knock a few minutes off of your commute. What should we all do then?
Join the club. Paint gnarly looking flames on your car and tie some sort of animal/human carcass to your bumper. The flames don't even have to flame colored; neon green would work well. Hire a shirtless goon with a nose ring to sit atop your hood while he swings a spiked bat at other vehicles passing by. Smash all of the windows out of your car along with your head and brake lights. Get an anarchy symbol tattooed to your forehead and take the ride baby…take the ride.

Hold your heart courageously as we walk into this dark place

Things you should never be ashamed of:

Being white and blasting Public Enemy from your '93 Mercury Sable

Wearing high black socks with shorts

Sharting

Listening to whatever you want, even if it's the Cheetah Girls

Not being obsessed with the Jersey shore in the summer if you are from Philadelphia

Not having more than 3 friends

Dressing up for Halloween no matter how old you are

Twirling your tissue into a cone and putting it up your nostril to remove a sharp booger

Reading the Comics section in the newspaper

Pooping at work

Riding your bike with a helmet

Eating something greasy

Going to the movies by yourself

Not watching shows like Seinfeld, 24, Lost, Sopranos, Dancing With the Stars, and anything else that people constantly talk about and say, "OH MY GOD YOU NEVER WATCH THAT SHOW! YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU ARE MISSING!"

Drawing pictures of robots for fun

Being Single

Driving a shitty automobile

Practicing dance moves like the Crip Walk or the Carlton

Your family and friends

Just Feel Like Showing Some Love For Things I Love:

I was a lover, before this war

Halloween is a holiday that you will experience in phases. When we are children halloween is a surreal experience. Your grade school teacher most likely dressed up as a witch on this wonderful day and handed out mini-Snickers before morning recess. School was part of the holiday because everyone's spirits were raised, and your teachers knew there was no way you were going to concentrate on Social Studies.
When you were in that middle-school freshman year of high school phase you might have been a bit too cool for school. You most likely went trick or treating with no costume like a punk, sneering as people sheepishly dropped some peanut butter cups in your hands.
Halloween in college can be one of the best nights of the year because this is the time in your life when you can easily get your hands on a susbtance that would make you hallucinate. This makes the Halloween party you are attending surreal, just like when you are in grade school. It's a beautifully vicious cycle.
Halloween was always an underrated make-out holiday as well. Everyone seems to get down on Halloween. Maybe because all women dress up as sluts on this day. Girl just add the word: slutty in front of every costume. SLUTTY cop, SLUTTY witch, SLUTTY vampiress, SLUTTY anthropoligist, etc. etc.

I am sick of seeing pirates and hobos every halloween. People need to get more creative on the 31st. Here are some suggestions:

Steve Zissou (or any member of team Zissou) -- This costume is easy. Blue pants, blue shirt and a tight redd skull cap. You will be the talk of the town.



Bruce Willis (Die Hard) -- This costume is EXTREMELY EASY, and when people find out who you are they will stand and cheer. All you need is some dirty khaki's, wife beater and some scruff on your face.











Howard Taft -- This costume is perfect for a portly fellow. If you are not portly you can add a pillow. This is a conversation starter, and you could spit out facts about the fattest president when people ask who you are. (You will most likely not make out if you were this)


Meth Head -- This is an upgrade from the ever so popular bum costume. You need to wear a dirty white t-shirt and some brightly colored sweats. An empty robitussin bottle would be a good thing to have hanging out of your pocket or hanging from your neck.



Yellow Journalist : Yellow Journalism is a ejorative reference to journalism that features scandal-mongering, sensationalism, jingoism or other unethical or unprofessional practices by news media organizations or individual journalists.
This term is hardly used anymore, but it would make a great costume. All you have to do is wear all yellow and a fedora hat with one of those press cards sticking out from the top. You might even want to have a camera hanging from your neck as well.

Good luck this Halloween and try to come up with something fresh.

Like cows in the city, they never looked so pretty

The Culture Of The Elevator




Elevators have been a part of the office culture since people started getting real lazy and making alot of money. They teleport us to the next region of heaven or hell while we feel almost helpless as the metal cart travels north or south at unknown speeds. Time on an elevator alone can be enlightening or gut wrenching. Traveling on the elevator with others can be a harrowing experience.
When we first step onto the metal box consumed in white noise it's almost surreal. It's comparable to watching a sporting event in a dome for the first time. You are somewhat trapped, but you know there is still alot of room to move. Not that you can do much moving in the elevator, but it moves itself.
The button is pushed, the doors close, the breath is held for a second and almost everyone on an elevator looks upwards. Sometimes to check how close you are to the desired floor, but many look up because it can be somewhat akward in an elevator.
Getting packed in an elevator when you first get into work in the morning can turn into an anxiety ridden event. First off you don't feel like being squished next to Bob from sales and the dude from the web design department that smells like patchouli. (Wiki or Google Patchouli...you will know what it is...or smells like.) Second there is the fear of a conversation with someone from your department that is simply going to bombard you with small talk about your weekend or the weather over the weekend. There is also the threat of morning breath with everyone in the elevator causing people to talk with their mouths closed or they will slyly place their hands in front of their mouth the block to stink germs.
Being on the elevator with just one other person can be troublesome too. If you don't know them there might be a stale hello when you first step on, but what's next? The aforementioned upwards stare. It's bound to happen. The other person with you might lightly clap their hands or casually look at their cell. You might even catch them peering at you for a second, but they quickly flash their eyes upward when you are caught giving a counter-glance. When your tandem elevator ride finally comes to an end you are relieved and ready to sit at your desk and do nothing.
There is also some elevator lingo other than horrendous small talk that is thrown around from time to time to lighten the situation. If you are on an elevator in a building that is only a couple of floors, you have instant comedy. If all the buttons have been pushed and you have to stop at every floor before your floor hits this is usually said: "Looks like were taking the local!" It is usually said by an older balding guy in the office who has been using the line for ages. That is when you fake laugh but cover your mouth in case of bad breath right before you start akwardly staring upwards at nothing.
A CLOSE DOORS button on the elevator is like that EASY button seen in Staples commercials. It can save your mental life. If the IT dude who is never going to stop talking about the upcoming Transformers movie is coming down the hall towards the elevator...BOOM. You just light that CLOSE DOORS button and don't even think about it. Maybe he was in a hurry, but you deserve a ride alone.
Riding alone is sometimes accompanied by singing. I asked several people and they too feel themselves belting out a tune in the elevator when traveling solo. You need to be aware as to when the box is going to stop at the next floor so you don't get caught singing a New Edition song that you secretly rock on your IPOD.
The culture of the elevator needs to be studied more, and a list of rules should be placed in the elevator.
1. No Talking (Especially on your cell)
2. No looking upwards
3. Don't tell a horrible joke (See rule #1)
4. You have a right to dick someone with the CLOSE DOORS button
5. Take the fucking stairs sometimes

Coming up next: Rules and Regulations When Riding a Monorail

The more you try to erase me, the more I appear

The women directly to your left are the rock godesses of the band HEART. Sisters Nancy and AnnWilson were gnarly guitar players and could wail like women who had just been dumped. One of their more popular hits was Barracuda. Barracuda is a song that you don't want to listen to in the car because it will get you so hype that you will achieve speeds of over 100 mph, resulting in a horrible wreck. I was listening to Barracuda once while crossing a drawbridge in New Jersey that was opening for a tutugboat. I disregarded the flashing lights and gave it a shot. Needless to say I made the jump while laughing maniacally and screaming, "OHHHHHHHH BAAAARRRAAACUUUUUUDDAAA!" If I was listening to the Moody Blues in my '93 Sable I wouldn't even had come close to jumping that drawbridge.
One of my personal favorite jams by Heart is Magic Man, which first appeared on their Dreamboat Annie album. It's not as bone jarring as Barracuda, but the lyrics are about a man I aspire to be...the Magic Man. Not the Magician. Not David Blane. THE MAGIC MAN.

Here are some lyrics:

cold late night so long ago
When i was not so strong you know
A pretty man came to me
Never seen eyes so blue
I could not run away
It seemed we'd seen each other in a dream
It seemed like he knew me
He looked right through me
"come on home, girl" he said with a smile
"you don't have to love me yet
Let's get high awhile
But try to understand
Try to understand
Try try try to understand
I'm a magic man."

First things first the magic man is one of the coldest cats to grace vinyl. He was straight chillin at a bar one night when one of the Wilson sisters (pictured above) noticed him from across the room, and as soon as she saw him she knew that if she went home with him she wouldn't regret it. He wasn't the type of dude who was going to end up being a regretful hookup or a vomit inducing one night stand. He was an absolute beast and she knew it.
The lyrics note, "It seemed like he knew me...He looked right through me." Talk about charm. It was seeping out of the Magic Man's pores, and women were helpless when he turned it on.
There wasn't any small talk between the two either because that's just not how the Magic Man rolls. He's a straight shooter. He doesn't sugarcoat anything. He want's the mashed potatoes without the gravy. He simply drops a pimp bomb on her with, "Come on home, girl." She didn't hesitate for a second when he threw this line at her.
The line that really clinched the deal was, "You don't have to love me yet...Let's get high awhile." BOOM is what he should have said because the chick would have hit the floor at this point. He lets her know that he wants no strings right off the bat. He isn't going to wait till next weekend and never answer the phone. He basically tells her, "Listen baby...I am going to take you home tonight and make your toes curl, but I don't want you calling me next weekend."
He uses that creamy line as a segway to "let's get high awhile." You know the Magic Man isn't talking about his own weed. Of course the he is going to smoke the women's shit like a cold killer. Magic Man is the guy who gets high every day, but never bought a bag of grass. Weed finds him because it wants a player of his caliber smoking it.
Then he tries to explain in the simplest of forms: "Try to understand (I REPEAT) Try try try to understand...I'm a MAGIC MAN" He says all that he has needed to say in a matter of minutes. A female approaches him and he shoots from the hip. He lets her know that he is one of the coldest dudes she will ever meet and that he is going to take her home and make earth shattering love to her, but she has to uderstand. She has to understand that this cat is one of a kind. He comes to your home, smokes your weed, tears your shit up, leaves early in the morning and you will remember him for the rest of your life.
The Magic Man doesn't fuck either...he makes love. He makes women cry with joy and tremble for hours afterwards. Every woman Magic Man has ever slept with has orgasmed multiple times.
Magic Man is a man all men want to be. He tells you everything you need to hear in a matter of minutes, and no woman has ever turned him down. Next time you hear this song through your clock radio speakers turn it up, and TRY TRY TRY TO UNDERSTAND.

The Road Don't Like Me

Due to the apocalytpic weather conditions sweeping through Philly and New Jersey it's only a matter of time that a legend "could" be spawned. This is a clip from CBS3.com's (local news) website:

The sky quickly went from beautiful and sunny to dark and stormy as the rain began falling shortly after 4 p.m. on Saturday and parts of Southern New Jersey received much of the wrath.

A strike of lightning caused a bizarre accident in Burlington County late Saturday evening. A 13-year-old boy was shocked while playing an electric guitar when his home was hit by a bolt of lightning in Springfield. The teenager suffered some burns to his hands but he is expected to be okay.

This 13 year old has no idea what path lies before him. A gift from the rock gods has been sent to New Jersey, but this gift can only be opened if this 13 year old fully realizes his new powers. Does this kid know what this means? Does he have any idea that he could be able to shoot lighting from his amp someday?

This power from above that has been bestowed on this boy could go in multiple directions. He could use these new found powers to be one of the greatest guitar players in the world, or he can become one of the gnarliest guitar players to ever rule the land of Death Metal.

The fact that he is from New Jersey could be an obstacle in itself. He could grow up without ever cutting his hair and form a metal band called Skull Fuck. Skull Fuck's lyrics will be riddled with satanic refernces, and they will become and popular among the Death Metal scene, but thats about it.

Some asshole 14 year old, also from New Jersey, will take the lyrics too seriously and show up at junior high with an uzi. Another idiot 12 year old from the Garden State will find a Skull Fuck record in his older brothers collection, which will prompt him to molest the family pet. (It could be any pet...even a ferret)

Skull Fuck will refernce the fact that their lead guitar player obtained his amazing skills through a "mighty force of nature" in just about all of their songs. Their first album cover will have a skeleton holding a guitar like it's his cock in a proud, yet suggestive stance. The guitar will be spewing lighting bolts that will be reminiscent of sperm.

If this 13 year old doesn't go the death metal route he could eventually be a part of rock and roll folklore. Like The Natural his skills will be the product of a force of nature. The legendary bat used in The Natural was made from a tree that was struck by lightning. This boy could be the Roy Hobbs of rock.

He will appear out of the darkness in a smokey bar one night and take charge of an open mic night. He will play like no one in the world has ever played and the crowd will be reduced to tears as his fingers emit electricity that moves the bar patrons. A struggling independent music label owner will be at the bar that night and discover him.

This new legend will be known as Hobbs. Internet geeks will debate for years that the name was taken from Calvin and Hobbes comic strips. They will not even know about The Natural at that point in time.

One night when he is the musical guest on Conan O'Brien he will reveal the origin of his name, which will spawn even more internet controversy. He will also reveal that he gained these musical superpowers from a bolt of lightning causing hipsters across the world to write him off as an overrated mutant.

This young man know has a tremendous burden on his shoulders. His music could change the world. His music could also lead to destruction. Let's hope that we are hearing the latest from Hobbs in the year 2025.

It's deep how you can be so shallow

I am partly responsible for this hurricane of hair.

While in college I landed an internship with the Washington Wizards for the 2000- 2001 season. I was constantly given busy work, like any other internship, but one of my assignments spawned a legend. I would walk around the arena (MCI Center) all day doing ridiculous things like stuffing kiosks with advertisements for monster truck rallys, help the mascot get his gear together and I was once summoned to measure Dikembe Mutumbo's cock when they were playing the Sixers. It's 74 inches.

The All Star game was being held in D.C. that year so I was especially busy getting ready for the star studded extravaganza. I was excited for this event until they dropped a bomb on me. There were no interns allowed on the premises for the whole All-Star weekend. How could they do this to me? I had to measure Dikembe's cock! I needed to put my stamp on this thing somehow.

How did I get involved? I had the wonderful job of punching out the little holes on All-Star ballots for about 2 weeks straight before the game. They wanted Wizards on that All Star team so they had me sit alone all day long and punch ballots. Six out of my eight hours at the job were consumed by punching holes in paper cards by myself in a dark empty arena. I would sit on the courtside seats with a trashcan below to catch the confetti that was created by picking your favorite NBAer for the All-Star game. They expected me to pick all Wizards, but I couldn't sleep at night knowing that I had been punching holes for Jahidi White at Center for the Eastern Conference All-Star game. This was the year Jordan came back with a puffier face and I didn't vote for him either most of the time. Seeing Jordan in a Wizard's uniform took away from the mythology. The Jordan I remember is flying off the charity stripe with his gold chain flailing in the wind.

So as you can guess from above I voted for Nash....about 17 trillion times. Everyday I would come into that arena sit on my foldout chair and poke my ballpoint right through the perforated circle next to: STEVE NASH, G DALLAS MAVERICKS. This was done every day for what seemed like an eternity. I would become delirous and have visions. I would see myself on the free-throw line at the MCI with millions of holes that I punched out of those damn ballots falling from the sky covering the top of my head and shoulders as I hit game winning free throws against the Utah Jazz and Atlanta Hawks. I would see Nash in the late night emerging from the trees in my backyard as I was walking into the house thanking me for voting for him. Voting for Nash became part of my soul, and I made it a point to tell everyone that he would be on the Western Conference All Star team that year. I was going to singlehandedly give him the respect that he deserved at that point in his career.

Did he make the All Star team? Of course not. It was nearly impossible even with my 17 trillion votes for him. The fans pick the starters and coaches pick the subs. Kobe and Jason Kidd were the starters at guard that year, and Gary Payton came off the bench for the West. Whoever was collecting those ballots might or might not have notcied the plethora of votes for that white ball of hair. My constant Nash chatter combined with my strengthening of finger muscles from punching ballots for him started the revolution. I am (partly) the reason that white journalists wrote articles claiming racism when he won back to back MVP awards. I am (partly) the reason why you have been emailed pictures of him trashed and showing random females his nips and chest hair. None of us are that far apart. We are all connected somehow in this wild land of ours. I may never meet Steve Nash, but if I did...he should thank me.

A word that MUST be used more:

Word of the Day
billingsgate \BIL-ingz-gayt; -git\, noun:
Coarsely abusive, foul, or profane language.

Chaney would yell at him in his own particular patois -- an unapologetic stream of billingsgate far more creative than Marine drill instructors or master rappers. (the end of that sentence is amazing.)
-- George Vecsey, "Learning at Temple: Se Habla Chaneyism", New York Times , March 19, 2000
Its style is an almost pure Army billingsgate that will offend many readers, although in no sense is it exaggerated: Mr. Mailer's soldiers are real persons, speaking the vernacular of human bitterness and agony.

I'm like Bond in the octagon

Francis Ford Coppopla directed this 17 minute, 80-riffic, 3-D opus that could only be seen at Disney World. It's Barbarella meets Broadway with it's dance sequences and shiny outfits that no one from the future will ever wear.
According to the legendary IMDB :
At a cost of about one million dollars per minute of film, this was, minute for minute, the most expensive motion picture of all time.
This is something that has to be released on DVD because of the cultural implications. It's Michael Jackson, the first glam-pop star, in his own twisted ludicrious version of Ziggy Stardust. When there were elaborately costumed hair metal bands running around, Michael reminded us that you could be theatrical without spitting beer as you ripped through an ovderdone solo.
There is no denying that Michael was an absolute beast in his prime. No matter what you say about the man now, he revolutonized the music video industry scene with his mini-films and over-acting.
This is the project that he figured would save us all. This was going to make up for the movie version of the WIZ http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0078504/ . How could he lose? People percieved this film as an overdone sci fi opera that would only make money on the names attached. Something that many of us would say if something similar was released today.
How about 50 Cent in a 20 minute sci-fi 3-D IMAX flick with Angela Lansbury as the villianess who is trying to eliminate all forms of music across the galaxy. It's Footlose meets Alien 3. He could have a bumbling computer generated sidekick, voiced by Orlando Jones, who painstakingly tries to act gangster along 50. It could be called TRAPPIN 5-O. Critics would pan it, but it would have a cult following and be even more popular 20 years after it is released. This is a trend that was accelerated by the internet. The internet is a forum for the forgotten. A place where mediums can survive through message boards and websites like 80'sTshirts.com. Just look at the Chuck Norris net boom.
It seems that Ebay is the only place that you will find Captain EO if you are lucky. Would it be an afterthought if we didn't have services such as EBay and trillions of blogs opening media time capsules and reinventing them? Captain EO is now available on YouTube.com so you can your buddies can smoke some grass and watch it in every Sunday after a hard Saturday night. It can become a ritual. Can you imagine a dorm room:

Gnarly Dude: "Last night was bananas bro...I am hungover. Want to smoke and watch Captain EO?"
Crusty Dude: "Broski you read my mind. Michael Jackson was a man child back then. This movie was way ahead of it's time and references our current obsession with the bird flu pandemic."

This conversation without a doubt happened. Maybe not those exact words, but everything has become a significant piece of popular culture due to the word wide web. There is a time and place for everything and the little box that is sucking the juice out of your eyes right now is the why. Just look at the tagline at the bottom of the poster:
WE ARE HERE TO CHANGE THE WORLD.

Gnarly Dude: "How ironic dude...a movie about the future becomes a piece of the future! I think weed makes me smarter."

You look like David Bowie, but you've nothing new to show me

Snakes on a Train

I have talked about Bar Demons before making for uncomfortable situations, but I have another species of annoying humans: Train Snakes. They can demolish your morning no matter what day of the week it is. It could be Friday, and you could be leaving at lunch for a bullshit podiatrist appointment,and your day could still be reduced to rubble. You could be sitting in the window seat all alone in a three seater and a snake will make the beautiful landscape you are scoping look like the post apocalyptic mayhem in the Mad Max movies. Like real snakes they are stealthy and have no idea how much people fear them. Here they are:

The Snapper: The snapper is socially inept. There is no stopping the snapper's lips from flapping. The snapper can't control the volume of his/her voice, nor can they control the anxiety that the other passengers feel when they step on the train. They will talk about ludicrous bullshit like what their kids were wearing this morning as they stepped out to ride the big yellow. The snapper especially loves mondays because then they can talk about every single detail from last night's Soprano's episode. "Do you think Vito is going to get WHACKED?" I wonder if Carmella has a new found love for Tony post-shooting?"
Imagine someone screaming this aloud to the person next to them when all you want to do is sit in silence and wallow in your monday misery. The snapper has the ability to break sound barriers. How? No matter how loud you turn up the volume of your Ipod they will ring through, and not even think twice about it. Snappers will be sued in the future by Apple for the hearing loss that their product causes. It's the snapper's fault we are all going to be deaf by 2013.

Crust Man: Crust man is also not to keen on social situations. Why? Hygiene. Crust man, unlike the snapper has to be sitting close to you to affect your ride. He is most effective when sitting directly in front of you so you can stare at the huge white flakes falling out of his hair onto your pants. Crust man wears the white button-up with pit stains as bright as the shining sun. He wears orthopedic shoes that squeak even if he wiggles his toes beneath his crusty white tube socks. Crust man loves indirectly bumping into victims as he waddles through the aisle. This is how he spreads his snake venom, which is similar to real snakes that spit venom at their prey.
Crust man is usually the IT guy at the office, which isolates him even more from society. This doesn't help his acknowledgement of the grease dripping from his hair. Crust man enjoys drive thru fast food and collecting Doctor Who merchandise. (That has nothing to do with him riding on the train, but you just know it by looking at him)

Ambivalence Woman: Ambivalence woman pretends that her kid doesn't exist despite the fact that they are firing game boy cartridges at the other passengers. She usually looks out the window as her child reeks havoc on other riders. Ambivalence woman's kid usually is the ADD poster child. You know the shoes that light up everytime they take a step. The constant questions that ambivalence woman doesn't even attempt to answer.
Her kids knows no boundaries when it comes to ruining the lives of others. Every once is a while ambivalence woman loses her shit causing her to beat her child without mercy for about 5 seconds making the rest of the train refrain from a thunderous applause. This doesn't last long though. Then the child begins to hysterically cry causing the mother to continue staring out the window pretending her own flesh and blood isn't even next to her.

Being all the train with all three of these snakes can make you jump in front on the train instead of on it. There should be a special car on the train labeled: SNAKES ONLY.

But it's always with trust that the poison is fed with a spoon

Ipod; therefore Ipoot
A Short Story (Not Based on Actual Events)

It's 5:47am and of course I am up before the 6:30 alarm sounds. After a night of extinguishing my stress fire with several rum and cokes this tends to happen. Now for the rollover test. Staring at the ceiling laying completely still feels comfortable, but once I rollover to get out of bed it could all go to shit. So here we go...roll to the left...feet on the ground...BOOM...I feel seasick. Meandering to the bathroom is a chore in itself, but the cold tiles send shockwaves through my barefeet to my brain. A piping hot shower is my only savior right now. As I go to turn the "H" knob all the way to the right I notice something. The sides of my fingernails are stained with a sticky dark red substance.
Blood!? God I hope not. Did I try to steal the karaoke mic again because I didn't like they way they were covering Bowie? No. Karaoke night is Thursday, and I am pretty sure it's Thursday morning. Then it hits me almost as hard as my current hangover. It was the leftover wings that I ravaged when I got home earlier this morning. I vaguely remember not breathing while eating them, and then not brushing when it was all over.
My shower feels great, but I need to sit down due to my current state of nausea. The water snapping on my back reminds me of how I am going to get pounded at the office today. What will be my saving grace today? Will someone pull a fire alarm? Will there be an real fire so we can all leave? Maybe they will tell me I have been working so hard lately that I should just pack it in and take the day off? That's ludicrous, but a kid's gotta dream. If the powers that be don't hate me they will give me enough courage to approach the plethora of hot women at my office today. This would be much better than staring at them with my mouth open while I hold the elevator door. Finally talking to one of the beauties would make this morning amazing considering the circumstances.
I skip the shaving part because I am late and it better suites my current state. Hop in my 15 year old Honda Accord. You know the one with the headlights that pop out of the hood. My headlights are popped and I make my way to the train station. As I begin to step out the car I look the the right and see a crumpled pack of Parliaments resting on my dirty floor. Having a smoke could devastate me even more by seriously increasing the hangover. So I grab the crusty pack and hed to the platform of the train station.
The match is lit and the smoke has begun. The first drag isn't too rough, but it can only get worse. I stare down my nose at the tiny Parliament writing on the cig and it seems to be staring right back at me. I leave about a quarter left and throw the butt onto the tracks. Now lightheaded and just all around funky feeling I stare at the burning cigarette. I am staring so intently that I don't even notice the roar of the train as it stops causing me to jump back like a complete asshole on the platform.
Of course there isn't an open seat on this hunk of shiny metal so I sit on the outside of a three seater. The window seat would have been tops, but I settle for the outside. My IPod is my only saving grace right now. The question is what do I listen too throughout this soon to be harrowing ride? I settle for Neil Young's Cowgirl in the Sand and the train starts to roll. Something else begins to roll with the train and it's my stomach. I silently vow to never drink a rum and coke again as I close my eyes to escape the situation. I try to concentrate on Neil's poetry, but even that can't sure me right now. Sweat beads are forming along my forehead so I wipe it off and glance back to see if anyone is witnessing my suffering.
My quick glance reveals two of the stellar women from my office chatting. My first thought is that they are talking about how dilapidated I look. My face is extremely pale at this point and I fear the "water under the tongue pre-vomit feeling." It's a feeling of helplessness when you reach this stage because there is no turning back. If I have to puke where should I aim? The floor? Maybe get off at the next stop and put on a show for those waiting for the train? My eyes stay closed and I fight it.
I am fighting along with the mean guitar ripping through one of Neil's masterpieces. We fight it out together. It gives me strength as the train nears my stop. I am starting to feel less nautious at this point, but I lose it for a second when have a flashback. I conjure up images of the straw of my drink not leaving my lips and my late night/early morning feast. Then I finally arrive at my stop.
I stand up to get off the train and feel better knowing that I am about to get some fresh air. Stepping off the train I stop for a minute so I can pick a perfect song as I walk to work. I pick Bowie's Life on Mars hoping to cue it perfectly so it kicks in as I reach the top of the escalator. It's little things like this that you need to start off the day right. The jam didn't quite kick in when I wanted it too but it satisfies as I start my walk.
I look around for the good looking gals from work, but they are nowhere in sight. As I am walking my nausea turns into SEVERE gas pains. The kind that doubles you over until you bust some serious ass. So the song plays,

"sailors fighting in the dance hall
oh man look at those cavemen POOOOOOOT!!!"

Wait a second that wasn't part of the song! What was that tremendous farting noise? There isn't a cloud in the sky so it can't be thunder. Has my Ipod malfunctioned? Nope...none of the above. It was me. It was all me as I was lost in song not even thinking about my surroundings. My Ipod sent me to another realm where people can't hear your music playing or your gas passing. Too bad I was the only one in this little world of mine. I then turn as red as the wings I housed last night, which caused this onslaught of agony. Should I even look back?
If it is the ridiculously good looking women from work I will have to jump in front of a bus. If anyone I hope that I farted in the direction of some Hipsters or Jimmy Buffet fans. With the way this day has been going it's most likely the women.
So I dare to look behind and see nothing. Not a person in sight. No hipsters, parrot heads, or hot chicks. Just a homeless man sitting on the ground, who has placed his "WILL WORK FOR FOOD" sign on the concrete as his shoulders shake. He can't control his laughter as he witnessed this overblown debacle. I look at him for a second, smirk and continue my journey to the office.
As I enter the office I suddenly feel better than I did five minutes ago. The nausea and gas pains have subsided. The anxiety of working hung over has left my soul. I push the up button on the elevator and of course the beauties are right behind me as the ding sounds and the door opens. I hold the door for them, but this time my mouth isn't wide open. I have a huge smile on my mug and greet them with a friendly hello.