Women

Anne Frankly my dear, I don't give a damn about that tomato soup OR incest.

Taken out of context, these could seem offensive to fetching, Daniel Boone-era partridge flurry-probers:

1. (Ice cream=cool?)

Albatrosstracize: were they male or female?

Brevi(wet)tyshirtcontest: one of each. not sure who gave me the 10 though. probly the ho

A: probably the guy - wanted some of that backdoor action

B: yeah you're right he did write his number and an lolSmileyFace on an unused doily that he slipped into my breast pocket when i wasnt looking

A: the weirdest part about that scenario is only that he would write it on a doily instead of an unused ballot or something

B: i thought so too, until i was sipping tea off of Shmordan's naked, childlike body later and realized i needed a doily more than i needed a blowjay. so i called him and told him how thoughtful he was. he called me a dirty jew and hung up. what did you do for halloween beeteedubbs?

A: dressed up as queen frostine from candyland, went downtown with my friends princess lolly and lord licorice to a loft party on the west side. had a silly time. what about you?

B: you do truly embody silliness. i dressed up as Slutty Mrs. Doubtfire with my friend Braille and then went to Fell's not once, but twice. i have zero recollection of the first time and i have no idea why i went back. but i probably had fun

A: i'm not sure if i even want to know how one dresses up as slutty mrs. doubtfire

B: that's like my friend Ronald saying "no, don't" when i offered to pick up his $560 tab at the strip club last week. of course you want to know.

A: not like that, no. cuz in Ronald's example, he ultimately gains from you picking up the tab and he's just trying a thinly masked attempt at sincerity. whereas i don't really gain from having images of sexy mrs doubtfire float around in my head. sort of like images of jordan's naked childlike body. but thanks for these stunning visuals

B: firstly, he ultimately loses because he doesnt gain the valuable lesson of taking responsibility for his actions. but im glad you're enjoying the image flotation. also, i just hope you wouldnt try to stymie the freedom of expression of mid-60s women with hairy legs and, as it turns out, junk down below.

A: psh i am not a stymier. to each his own

2. (Amid Afghanis and overwhelmingly saturating smells. hint: it's under the way)

Lieberschnitzel: well if we all technically have relationships with everybody, then you have a relationship with Sheeny, no?

Ms. Idle-vice: no. of course we have a relationship, but we're not in a relationship like you and Cindy. I keep Sheeny at arm's length. But that bitch is obsessed with you. she's gonna fucking kill you some day.

L: What are you talking about? i gots that ho on a strang. child please, you sluttish Von Trapp wannabe.

M: Oh really? you think you got her under control til she flips out one day and goes all Elin Nordegren on your ass. she's gonna kill you and then rape you.

L: Girls can't even rape dead bodies! you ignorant chuckleface. one more advantage of having that Y chromosome. you're really just grasping at camels' backs at this point, you gook-loving bucket of spinal fluid!

M: You can't deter me with your slightly-less-than-far fetched insults! Just because I have a bucket of baby spinal fluid in my garage doesnt mean that I am one! Of course she could find a way to rape you. She'll do it. You fucking watch out. she's gonna inject you with some mixture of Fiji Water and other things that will render you rapeable. Get out while you can, shartsnuffer!

L: Hold on, she's calling me.... Hey babe....yeah, where?

3. (And finally, a gangster rap battle on the streets of Newport News, VA)

Young Siggy Freud: Crackin' yolks like I'm crackin these jokes, when I'm servin you an omelet, funny-side up.

The Chinese Fireball: I take yuh yolk and make flied lice, serve it up real nice, while ya bitch Sheondra imbibes the fruit of my loins thrice

Y: I got no qualms to embalm you after I stomp you, show you how it feels to get-eh-eh-to get beat for real

T: Negative B, plus or minus the square root of B-squared minus 4AC, ALL over 2A, nucca!

Y: I'm keen for this sticky green, a bean ain't the magical fruit no more, I'm sticky-icky-icky to the core

T: Cannabis is a genus of flowering plants that includes three putative species, Cannabis sativa, Cannabis indica and Cannabis ruderalis Janisch. These three taxa are indigenous to Central and South Asia.

Y: Puffin on the magical dragon, aka reefer, aka weed, your words i don't heed, my high is all i need

T: THAT'S WHY I FUCKED YOUR BITCH YOU FAT MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!!!!

Y: aight man, you got it. chill.

"It had impaired my ability to have a sculpture garden"

Homegirls and boys, welcome to the Mansfield Wrotto Memorial Winter Wonderland Sexxxtravaganza:

I kissed Pat Burrell and I liked it

The taste of his hairy plas-dick

I kissed Pat Burrell just to try it

Now I call him Mr. Fantastic

It felt so fab

So he said, "Thanks!"

Burrell looks exactly like Tom Hanks

I kissed Pat Burrell and I liked it

I liked it

Watch all the funny shit I posted over there above Joe Mauer. Those guys are all close buds so any support means a lot.

The best album I've ever heard (right now) is something I spent $4 on and is called "Rare Hendrix." His guitar sodomizes my soul with its beauty every single track [Good Feeling, Voice In The Wind, Go Go Shoes Part 1, Go Go Shoes Part 2, Good Times, Bring My Baby Back, Suspicious last but best Hot Trigger]. Just believe me.

ATTN****beep-boop. Do you read me? Messrs. Nutt and Street, we have a problem.****ATTN:

Random sampling of the top 100 comments from the peanut gallery in my head:

3. Why am I wearing pants?

28. Why hasn't she gotten me food yet?

79. Why are you talking to me right now?

44. Fuck that shit.

41. Hey, you, get offa my cloud!

15. THAT'S what's really hood bitch!

69. There's no way I actually have to get out of bed for at least an hour.

Thanks to the sexiest former-rasta/quaker in Waterville for this!:

i just need a woman who's intelligent and passionate

and cook when i dont ask

you know i don't hassle halibut

-->Do work Wale

One and one and one is three.

Something I was thinking of over the summer:

"i have a lot of time to think at my job. here's what i came up with. top 5 non-sexual fantasy:

Michael Westen narrating key moments of my life with his deadpan delivery and overused metaphors.
Samuel L. repeating "fuck" or "motherfucker" every time I say them (i would obviously say them more)
Stu Scott saying, "he put that SAUCE on him" every time i do something awesome
Sir Charles saying, "Bwah Asa bwah,"(bwah=boy) every time i do something questionable or unknightly.

i think i need one more voice to complete the pentfecta. i guess the only thing preventing this from actually happening is that Westen isnt a real person. fuck."

-A younger me

AMERICA THE BEAUTIFUL: Nationalism

And finally, some wisdom from our dear friend, Gucci Mane:

Da way my wrist gliss I make a hood bitch say damn

My necklace, rubbers and da fact I go ham

It's lonely up here man I need to come down

So many O's I made da bank teller pass out

My traphouse floor lookin like a magic city monday

but ain't no singles its just big head hunnits (hundreds)

My car is gettin washed by this ugly ass junkie

I keep laughin like a woman but ain't shit funny

[above are actual song lyrics]

With Love,

-Starlin Kubarius Castro

2300 Wilson Circle, Nepal.

The Fifteenth Day of December, 2009

P.S. Iodine poisoning ain't a joke. Ask this guy or these guys.

PEACE bitches

(Christ on) A Cracker on Christ

You know what? Fuck vampires. TEAM JESUS for life.

The theory's not developed. It smells. Like poo; and it doesn't hold water.

I don't think it matters. The start of that song sounds like a frogger frogging.

D-D-D-D-D-Dirty Pop!

"Unlike many of the counties in the southern part of Arkansas, the city of Baltimore does not prohibit one from tossing handfuls of Hot Cheetos out of the sunroof of a motor vehicle moving in excess of 30 m.p.h. Now you can see why my weekend was so exhausting," my friend Darrell said all in one breath.

Then he gave me a cursory pound-pound-bump (I try to always refrain from exploding the fingers), turned on his heel and bounced away. The back of his shirt said "Thick & Syrupy," and I wished I had more time to consider what it meant. Those two adjectives could be a desired result, a side effect, a type of BBQ sauce, an entry on a CSI's crime scene report or a hooker's catchphrase in some of the sadder parts of the country. But I didn't have time to stew about this question, I had to see my Finnish friend Sebastien and his latest litter of mongoose pups. There was an albino! That's a portent of five bountiful harvests in parts of Africa. And I don't fuck around, so I stole that shit. I don't even think Sebastien cared, he was too pooped from his latest 14-hour ice fishing shift. And to think that's an administrative position in the largely unstudied government of such an inconsequential and frosty nation.

Out of all the indignant and whiny European nations, Finland wins its place at the bottom of that group, a generally inoffensive and piffling state (sometimes referred to by geography/processed food enthusiasts as the easternmost hot dog of Scandinavia). Its capital, Helsinki, has gained world renown for its inordinate number of Slinky factories, architecture, pigeons and snowfall that often exceeds 3 cm in height! UN Peace Keeping Officers were called into Finland in the early '90s, but they remain unable to keep down the attacks of cloven-hooved insurgents. Even today, wild animals, chiefly moose and reindeer, cause several thousand traffic accidents every year.

[Additionally, it's interesting to examine the term, "Finlandization." This concept dates back to the Cold War and describes Finland's acquiescence to the Soviet Union and general lack of any testicles whatsoever. As political cartoonist Kari Suomalainen so artfully paraphrased the words spineless president Juho Kusti "Cash MONEY" Paasikivi, Finlandization is, "The art of bowing to the East so carefully that it could not be considered mooning the West."]

OK, so Finland sucks. But that's not important now. And "Thick & Syrupy" isn't even important, although it's gonna haunt me until I see Darrell again and can ask him about that shirt. What IS important, however, is what he said to me, and the implications of it.

Firstly, the hot cheetos. We all know regular cheetos. They're dangerously cheesy and stain the fingers worse than Jonah Hill's period pants in Superbad. Unbeknownst to much of white/suburban America, however, are the equally delicious but infinitely more toxic "Flamin' Hot Cheetos," which have been ripping shotgun-blast holes in the stomachs of their consumers for the last 12 years. This variation on the original Cheetos is truly a potent substance. While the crisp itself appears to be similar in color to the standard Cheeto, it is almost impossible to see under a thick layer of a curious firetruck-red mixture. Out of the 135 ingredients in this thick, bright coating, only cayenne pepper, powdered sulfur, FD&C food colorings Red #4, #2, and #40, Drano, salt and goat blood are accessible by way of public record.

Nextly, since when has the city of Baltimore become so progressive on Cheetos-tossing rights? It's possible that Obama stimulus plans contained such liberalizations of the laws (right in line with the demands of the Tasty Cheesy Crisp Tossing Coalition) in order to boost the snack food market by encouraging extra-vehicular crisp tossing. It worth noting that this same tactic worked well for Old Reagan back in the day under the name Cheeto-Down Economics.

Post-penultimately, I must question Darrel's story itself. You may have only know him for a few months, but D and I go way the fuck back. All the way back to middle school. I knew him when he was a stupid little tweener, chasing girls around the playground and eventually form-tackling them to the ground (he caused upwards of nine broken bones), because it took him years to grasp the concept of playful flirting. And as long as I've known Darrell, he has never, not once, turned down a sticky handful of Cheeto goodness. He's not morbidly obese, but a few years back he started cropping up in fringe dictionaries (no M-Dubbs, son) next to the entry for rotund. So it just struck me as inconceivable that he would have frivolously chucked handfuls of delicious Flamin' Hot Cheetos to the sky like Pacman Jones chucks Benjamins.

Something had to give here. I called every person in my phonebook who wasn't a ginger (never trust them with anything worth more than a pocketful of rye), asking if they knew about big D's whereabouts this past weekend. No one knew. Sandy Trapstein said he'd seen Darrell but he couldn't remember where. Earl Roth told me Darrell had taken a long weekend in Kosovo. Elias Johnson and Rosalita Forbiñoso both provided equally suspect stories. As I scrolled in reverse-alphabetical order through my phone, I was beginning to think the universe had little interest in my knowledge satiety. Finally though, Serendipity, that slut of beautiful timing, came through. She appeared, like Tinker Bell hovering over my left ear, and told me to press "send." The name on the screen was DonnieDonowitz. Donnie's a good egg, very trustworthy (more so than processed milk I assure you) and has his ear to the ground, hot for gossip like the best Sioux scouts. Tangent: Hey Sioux, maybe don't be such gossiping little sluts and Andrew "Old Hickory" Jackson won't have to reach out and fuck you up and down the Trail of Tears with the long dick of American law.

Back at the ranch, I get Donnie on the phone. He says he's hesitant to tell me about Darrell, but I wear him down with promises of increasing numbers of FlavorIce. Ice-T actually has nothing to do with them; they're simply tasty freeze pops. The offer of 4 cartons gets Donnie to admit that Darrell had gone to a Lady GaGa concert--but he won't tell which Parmesan cheese refinery hosted the concert. Two more cartons gain me that morsel, plus the rest of the story. Apparently Ms. GaGa was spraying the audience with LSD-infused Jarritos mandarin soda, and Darrell managed to catch a real load of it right in the kisser, which rocked his world more than hookers rock Berlusconi's mondo*. Philandering italians aside, Darrell's night really shot through the roof when he decided to hit up his friend Rhonda, who was working the concert along with her gang of fellow pa-pa...pa-pa razzi. Darrell supplemented his psychedelic drugs with a healthy measure of cheap tequila at the urging of his new batch of shutter-happy home slices. Several unclear hours of Galifianakis-esque proportions followed, culminating in the most intense scene of all. As the story goes, Darrell, Rhonda and several unidentified comrades were the aggressors in a high-speed car chase with Lady GaGa's car up and down North Avenue in Baltimore (shades of Princess Di). The GaGaMobile ended up escaping unscathed andunphotographed, but the car with Darrell and the paparazzi crashed through the front window of a bustling King's Fried Chicken. Luckily there were no serious injuries to the passengers or patrons, although the owner of the King's franchise is suing the driver for damages based on 150 spilled gallons of cooking grease. A Cochran-led defense is relying on the defendant's claims that Lady GaGa was tossing Hot Cheetos at his car in order to throw him off of the chase, though there is little forensic evidence to support this theory of the case. Darrell was never formally charged with anything, as the LSD wasn't his and he was asleep in the trunk at the time of the crash. Just a wild weekend. Wish I had been there. But I'm much less adventurous and probably wouldn't have rolled with the 'razzi crowd; I most likely would have just danced.

*Thanks to Ms. Brome for this.

Heave-ho poncho mess

Stream of consciousness

Beam of raunchiness

Blonde of salon genius

Pond of talon penis

Pom pom ballerinas

Bubblegum subpoenas

Under rum we'll drink us

Sunder plumbed Bullwinkles:

Slinky thunder bunker shingles.

-DB

Observations

1. I hope line cooks never get outsourced. I just couldn't trust anyone that isn't Mexican to prepare my Chinese, Italian, Indian, Ethiopian or Mexican food.

2. There is no evidence that Lil' Wayne is not from a planet other than Earth. In fact, there is lots and lots of evidence to suggest he is, in fact, a martian.

3. Whoever coined the term "sub-par" understood golf about as much as JaMarcus Russell understands NFL defenses.

4. According to a sign near me in the library, Motorola DynaTAC 8000x (1984) phones aren't allowed. I guess JHU is too good for cellular dinosaurs.

5. When the question is really, “Do you want to have drunk, sloppy intercourse later?” why does it come out as, “Yeah! Should I bring my Michelle Branch CD collection over too so we can compare?”

6. There's just no way Robespierre was French.

7. Cedar al (My partna dem)

Adamsville (My partna dem)
Bowen homes (My partna dem)
Simpset (My partna dem)
Ethel ridge (My partna dem)
U know westside (My partna dem)

Ok once you start no stoppin him
Can stop dem from jockin him
Braylen b da watch for him
Jupitor we spotted him
Old schools {My partna dem}
New schools dey got alot of dem
Maserati new farries all o dem {My partna dem}
30 inches hard as dem
Deep dishes like pizza rims
Diamond cole like keyshia dem
Ritz frozed like freeze and dem

Kc marley murry mel mel dey believe in him
Everyday we eat steak and shrimp
Because Benihana my partna dem

I'll stop at 7 for now because it's a magic number and my primary goal in about 85% percent of anything I do on a daily basis is to please Harry Potter.

Just a sunny day

***This piece was originally published on Sept. 30, 2009, in the Dexter Flank Literary Journal and is posted here now due to the boundless generosity of that institution, for your reading pleasure.***

Today, after slightly early release from my Urban Politics class (taught by the alarmingly entertaining Lester Spence--take a class with him if you can), I was seated at a picnic table on the little patio southwest of MSE (just behind Krieger). The sun was warm on my broad, rippling shoulders and the sweet intonations of Kelly "Heart-Melter" Clarkson emanated from the twin speakers on my wonderful Apple machine. My attention was shared betwixt "Breakaway", a story on the Twins recent victory over the Tigers (now 1 game back, yay!) and the assorted passerby. As my eyes combed through the students wandering in and out of the library, searching desperately for a lad(y) worthy of more than a moment's glance, a large figure flashed across my view. Who, you ask, was this striking person capable of catapulting himself from the periphery of my vision to the singular focus of it? It was the suavely disoriented Samuel Eckstein, somewhere between a trot and a canter, accelerating but not yet exceeding the Olympic regulations for speedwalking. His phone was to his ear, his mouth was equaled only by his churning legs in exertion and his head was on a swivel as if searching the windows and rooftops for enemy snipers. He saw me and managed but a small wave, however, I was less interested in his salutation than his mission. The main question pressing through my inquisitive brain at the walls of my captivated head was, "Where the fuck is he going? And what is there which he needs?" As Sam traversed the brilliantly sunlit marble terrace, brushing bewildered asians aside, I began to chart his movement in an attempt to predict his destination. He wasn't taking a sensible route to Krieger, nor was he veering left toward my perch and the stairs beyond. There was no logical end to his dash in sight, the only thing in front of him being the black metal railing guarding against a multi-story plunge to the pavement beneath. As young Sam picked up speed going toward nothing but this railing, however, my breath gathered in my chest as I realized his true aim was to take the leap over the boundary at a run, perhaps to land in the soft bed of a speeding truck below or maybe to be caught mid-fall by a giant snowy Egret sent by Agent Sam's handlers back at the base. Excitement mounted within my loins, as now I knew the true reason for Sam's quirks and the cause for his strange disappearances and his possession of such a perplexing assortment of talents. Excitement built, too, from the knowledge that I was to see the extraction of high-level agent, usually something that occurs on abandoned rooftops under cover of night. I tried to yell, "Good luck!," but my voice caught in my throat and my whole frame was taut as he drew within mere feet of the leap. The leap, however, never happened. Instead, Sam skidded to a halt just short of the railing, bent over double (affording me a generous sight of his shapely tushy) and grabbed a packaged set of plastic silverware--complete with tiny salt and pepper pouches--from amidst a pile of dry leaves.

I have yet to ask Agent Sam what the meaning of this action was, but I suspect the extraction was somehow red-flagged and called off at the last second, though I may never know. We can only guess what was contained in that tiny plastic package; Sam probably isn't at liberty to enlighten us. No matter, I now feel safer that we have someone of his status among us.

I solemnly swear that all the facts contained herein are true. He did all the things I describe and though my mind added the rest, it wasn't so far-fetched if you had been there.

Peahzy

Fairy Tale or Lies?

As I sit on B Level of the MSE library--to most who pass, just another unobtrusive head, barely popping above the wooden walls of my horrible little cubicle--studying the jumbled Sand- & Shit-storm (also known as the Arab-Israeli Conflict), my adventurous mind begins to wander. After my third (and by then, sweaty) set of Kegel exercises, it's time for some close observation on the herpes-esque scab on my wenis (the 'W' right there is crucial). No new developments were observed, however, so for the 14th consecutive time, my medical log book reads simply, "No signs that this ugly shit is anything except a FAT case of the herp-a-lerp." As my attention wanes and waxes like the fucking moon on methamphetacrack, I continue my search for something to stave off having to interpret another "Towelheads vs. Fat-nosed Christ-Killers" dance-off illustration that dominates my notebook in lieu of written notes (high-five, me!).

My desperate search comes to a sudden close as my eyes rest upon the most intriguing thing I have seen in days. On a shelf across from where I am seated, sits a book that I believe is the reason for so many asian peopre studying at American universities. The title of the book is simply: Fertility In Asia. Now let me get into my theory.

I have this friend, let's call him Butterscotch Fritter*, who I share a number of views with. He and I combine for some, dare I say, very astute observations. One rainy day, as we discussed everything from discuses to disgust, we came to the stunning realization that we have never seen a pregnant asian woman before. Not only that, but we had never smelled, tasted, heard or touched one either (although B-Fritts said he may have smelled one once, but he thinks it was maybe just an accumulation of scents as he walked down Canal Street). This realization seemed especially odd considering the fact that China is home to 16/17ths of the world's population, and this number is growing (some predict that the fraction will soon become improper, as crazy as that sounds and may eventually have to be converted into a mixed number). We consulted our friends, and determined that not a single person that either of us knew, had seen a Preggasian. This was the only picture that Google provided me with. Anyway, we came to the conclusion that asians must be mass-produced (a la milk, see upcoming post) without the aid of any uteri, placentae or love. We speculated that all the rice patties across the great country of China, must really be disguised growing fields, like in The Matrix. No wonder so many are pumped out so fast! Hot with our new discovery, B-Fritts and I caught the first train to the District in order to alert Mr. Nobel Peace Prize to the secret Chinese plan to engulf planet Earth with their growing numbers. We were headed off, however, mere miles from the White House, by the ever-vigilant Rahm "Bahm-Ba-Dahm" Emanuel, who told us plainly, "Come back with proof you fear-mongering Yiddiots."

And find proof we did. After over-hearing two little yellow men whisper about "The Plan" while in deep cover at the E.L.Q.R.E. (East Lansing Quarterly Rice Exchange, duh), we knew it was time to take matters into our own hands. And by "matters" I of course mean "Asians, against their will." We performed several abductions--mostly in broad dayright in front of several of Baltimore's finest--and proceeded to interrogate our prisoners for information on The Plan. After several hours of arduous waterboarding (great for triceps and lats!), we got the information that we required. The truth may shock you. It turns out that the secrets to The Plan (codename: Operation YelloWash), are contained within a small book that was lost many years ago by its caretaker Bao Yu Xiang (codename: Crouching tiger, hidden poonsnatch). "Where is that book?" you might ask. It is the same Fertility In Asia book that is currently resting between Fertility Policy In Israel and The Decline Of Belgian Fertility, 1800-1970, not seven feet from where I sit.

It turns out that the Chinese government suspected that the book was housed in one of the libraries of one of the United States' top universities. Thus, China deployed its brightest and best, spreading these young products of YelloWash to America's top centers of higher learning from Stanford to Samford, in an attempt to locate the all-important book. The most talented droids were sent to the best universities, as these institutions usually have the most extensive book collections. "So THAT'S why they spend so much time in the library!" you are now saying to yourself. The answer is yes. Additionally, you're welcome. I can't decide what's stronger in me now, the pride I feel for being an American Hero or the surprise that I found what the army of enrolled asians never were able to.

You're welcome too, Barack Hussein. I saved your ass. Between paragraphs I got up and secured the most important book in the world, stowing it deep in the safety of my JanSport. There's a chopper waiting on the roof, so I got to get going in a second, in order to personally deliver the key to American hegemony into the capable hands of the Leader of the Free World. Save your congratulations world, just promise me you'll attend the parade in my honor. I am proud to be the vanquisher of the evil designs of China. America, fuck yeah.

Stay classy, folks.

*Butterscotch Fritter is not my friend's real name.

Up a creek without an Orr

Onetime Atlanta Brave, Pete Orr, is a player that few people will remember. He's known by some in Atlanta as a scrappy, fast, utility infielder. Well for some reason he cropped up in my life, and I came to a happy realization about the Canuck. I mean what the fuck ever happened to Pete? Turns out, he is currently not only a Canadian national, but also a Canadian National. Get it?

Paul Wall knows two to five SAT words

"Turn your hazard lights on when you see them hoes." I totally forgot about this gem of a song. Never have I gotten such good advice in my entire life. Kanye used to know what was up. Paul Wall makes grills so we already know he knows what's up. I mean, if he has a bad day, at least at the end of it he can feel better about himself because he made thousands of dollars selling blinged out braces to grown ass men. Anyway, I digest. The song is DRIVE SLOW and it's Kanye and Paul Wall, whose SAT words are maybe more like an 8th grade vocab quiz: evident, immaculate and genetics. I could have sworn there was something akin to an 'opaque' in there. Oh well.

I promise I'll get back to which artists are going to play my birthday concert soon in addition to B.o.B.

Can you feel turbulence?

Bobby Ray (aka B.o.B) is the real deal. I personally feel like the phrase "the real deal" is pretty stupid so if I use it, rest assured it's not being used lightly. I'm not going to waste time comparing him and talking him up, because, 1. He is going to blow up very soon regardless, and 2. He talks himself up enough for the both of us. Let me analyze him using unconventional but worthwhile criteria: his ability to perform live. I've seen him twice, at the Apache Cafe in Atlanta in June and at Sonar Club in Baltimore in September. His energy and utter seizure of the audience makes his performances a full immersion experience. Even people who had gone to Sonar to see Schwayze (eh) were compelled to rave. Bonus: he plays some guitar and his band is very solid (check out Asian bass man who smiles widely throughout the show). YOU need to acquire YOU some right HERE.

My First Post [MUSIC]

In honor of the reference in the jocular title of this here weblog, my first post will concern music, more specifically, hip hop music. When the mood strikes, I like to kick back and consume some dirty rap songs. I'll tell you what a dream concert would be. Above are some rappers I've seen and should all get together and put on a concert for my birthday.