What the fuck is going on?
JC Chasez, yes, the one from *Nsync, his new single?
The new "angle" for ex boy-banders (apart from swaying over cracked out Timbaland shit) is now indie rock?
This track "Until Yesterday" sounds like some futureheads/voxtrot/indie fucker throaway b-side. It has a fucking real band. The terrible thing is that its not 100 percent terrible. Its 89 percent terrible, which is way too low for my comfort.
And its not just me, either. I will bet you my nuts that they are going to try and push this thing as an indie rock record. They are already marketing it on cornerstone compilations, right between The Bishops and The Pierces.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
There was a pillow fight in Union Square
I flipped my phone open, somewhere on 13th street, sunny, unwashed from the night before, and dialed. Something about smacking a perfect stranger upside the head with a pillow makes you want to call your grandma. Odd that her number isn't in my phone, because out of anyone I could call in this world, she is the one who truly appreciates it.
5 minutes later I wandered into the New School, the same place that the homos from Project Runway go to argue and use sewing machines. The grassroots media conference had been there all day, but it was 2:30 pm by now, so I got the hangover rate of 15 bucks. Plenty of prissy bloggers wearing indie jeans, girls with dreads, activist buttons on backpacks with way too much text to read at a glance.
I walked out about 3 hours later, now realizing that any male in Senegal could out-rap any American rapper any day, realizing that municipal wireless networks are a shifty possibility, and realizing that I am crazy. Literally and completely.
I have a "go-getter" virus, I see opportunities to crack people wide open and spill their professional inclinations all over the ground like so many piggy banks, (mine included) with the intention to engineer and create something new. I am never not having delusions of grandeur. A one man movement. That last sentence is lofty and cocky and untrue, but damn it looks good on paper.
I only say professionally, if I happen to do this to people emotionally and personally, I have completely blocked it out and I choose to neglect it.
What the fuck is he talking about? I walked into that conference and walked out with a hairbrained idea for a massive NYC radio show, sponsored by the magazine and party promotions people I deal with. The scope of such a thing is staggering, and would involve a lot of work and consideration, but once I get such an idea, and I feel I have the people and resources to get it done I do everything I can to make sure this happens. 1 email and 2 IM conversations later it was done.
I love the way things work, and I don't do this go-getter shit as any kind of reputation building vanity project, I do it as a reputation building vanity-humanity project.
Vanity-humanity project. Fuck me thats cheesy.
Ok, overwrought shit aside, I sort of quit drinking for the month of february. Sort of. The only exceptions were the super bowl, the titty bar for my roommates birthday, the last Beautiful Decay release party, and the night out in the meatpacking district which sucked ass solely because of two many seven dollar beers. I did get to meet Bobby McFerrin's son though, who is cool as hell.
POST SCRIPT ONE DAY LATER: I think thats the reason I've been so damn ambitious lately. I'm not fucking hungover all the time. I like it, but it is March now, I'm going out and I am going to be hungover tomorrow. I rule.
I also realized I have not name-dropped in a while. I am going to be on set for a Masta Ace music video next weekend, which is going to fucking rule. There, you happy?....all 4 people who read this thing who might know who Masta Ace is.
"Why don't you update your faggot corner more often?"
-Drew
Because of posts like this buddy.
5 minutes later I wandered into the New School, the same place that the homos from Project Runway go to argue and use sewing machines. The grassroots media conference had been there all day, but it was 2:30 pm by now, so I got the hangover rate of 15 bucks. Plenty of prissy bloggers wearing indie jeans, girls with dreads, activist buttons on backpacks with way too much text to read at a glance.
I walked out about 3 hours later, now realizing that any male in Senegal could out-rap any American rapper any day, realizing that municipal wireless networks are a shifty possibility, and realizing that I am crazy. Literally and completely.
I have a "go-getter" virus, I see opportunities to crack people wide open and spill their professional inclinations all over the ground like so many piggy banks, (mine included) with the intention to engineer and create something new. I am never not having delusions of grandeur. A one man movement. That last sentence is lofty and cocky and untrue, but damn it looks good on paper.
I only say professionally, if I happen to do this to people emotionally and personally, I have completely blocked it out and I choose to neglect it.
What the fuck is he talking about? I walked into that conference and walked out with a hairbrained idea for a massive NYC radio show, sponsored by the magazine and party promotions people I deal with. The scope of such a thing is staggering, and would involve a lot of work and consideration, but once I get such an idea, and I feel I have the people and resources to get it done I do everything I can to make sure this happens. 1 email and 2 IM conversations later it was done.
I love the way things work, and I don't do this go-getter shit as any kind of reputation building vanity project, I do it as a reputation building vanity-humanity project.
Vanity-humanity project. Fuck me thats cheesy.
Ok, overwrought shit aside, I sort of quit drinking for the month of february. Sort of. The only exceptions were the super bowl, the titty bar for my roommates birthday, the last Beautiful Decay release party, and the night out in the meatpacking district which sucked ass solely because of two many seven dollar beers. I did get to meet Bobby McFerrin's son though, who is cool as hell.
POST SCRIPT ONE DAY LATER: I think thats the reason I've been so damn ambitious lately. I'm not fucking hungover all the time. I like it, but it is March now, I'm going out and I am going to be hungover tomorrow. I rule.
I also realized I have not name-dropped in a while. I am going to be on set for a Masta Ace music video next weekend, which is going to fucking rule. There, you happy?....all 4 people who read this thing who might know who Masta Ace is.
"Why don't you update your faggot corner more often?"
-Drew
Because of posts like this buddy.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Apathy, Boredom, and Zombies!
I just googled "zombies".
Five minutes ago, I was watching a video of a 5 year old singing "lonely" by Akon.
Five minutes before that I checked to see if "Dawn of the Dead (2004)" got a good review on rottentomatoes.com
Is this what people do at work? I'm ready to fuck my computer screen when i see gossip about that Kardashian chick. Miss USA. I almost bought a Pretty Ricky ringtone but decided against it and went for the free iphone. I've been harassing people I barely know for concert tickets and CDs I barely care about. Checking my email. Hitting on girls via myspace, facebook, telepathy.
Work, blisters, callouses, work. My department, the one tapped to run advertising for an entire major record label has just been slashed and burned, right after our fearful leader defected. Its down to me and one other person.
Removing the head, or destroying the brain. Thats how you get it done.
We will completely cease all traditional media advertising and go balls-first into the digital sphere. Fuck the lawnmower man. This business needs a change to stay relevant and lucky me i get to spearhead the "new way"...
...great, just let me finish looking at the Vice "Do's and Dont's"...again.
Apathy is the name of the game here, in work, and fuckin a, in this post.
So, bored as fuck, I wrote a zombie story. Maybe I will write more, who fuckin knows. Apathy baby.
--It was never clear where or how these patrons ended up going. The "how" was eventually taken care of first by a busboy, then a cop, then a coroner, then a bunch of people in green scrubs saying, "what the fuck?" quickly before they had their throats ripped out.
See, for us it was so dark on the floor that no one ever really noticed the 8 year old with the glass of brown liquor, the trail of dark blood leading from the booth, to the bar, to the pinball machine, to the change machine, back to the pinball machine. There were other more malicious things to worry about, like the fucking black handprints all over the highball glasses. Black and murky like asphalt, smell like a science classroom on dissection day.
In fact, blood was normal, fists shredded to the bone and beyond were not. Manual tooth extractions were not. Instrument free dentistry was not. Not for me at least. Our policy was usually, "just let them scrap it out and pick up the loose change once they're done". But these weren't typical brawls, blacks would lose an arm and keep fighting, reds would rip off someone's lower jaw, throw up thick syrupy shit and get right back to their shitty rail and water.
Like I never said, apathy and routine took hold.
We never changed many lightbulbs, and it always smelled like that. Like so many old ladies, we had gotten used to our musk. We didn't give a fuck and the regulars didn't either.
The first inclination I had that anything was off the tracks was under the bar, changing a half expired keg for another less expired one. We never could sell much beer, real alcoholics didn't have time for it, they only bought it when they were too broke to afford anything else. Herpes, a "busboy" was down there. I hadn't seen Herpes in about 3 months. That was typical too, they would get their money for the night and run off to blow it all on bad junk, buying it with a needle in their arm in some other shitty bar's bathroom. Saved me the clean up. I figured the same happened to Herpes, apparently it didn't. When he stood up, groaning, I thought it was the junk and told him to fuck off, find a hotel room and never come back.
He was pissed, and I was armed. It didn't take much time or thinking or bullets. His blood didn't look right though. It was too brown, too thick, and his eyes, they weren't the watery desperate eyes of a smackhead. That's probably why i wasted him, that look in his eyes suggested that nothing good was going to come from my little intervention. The back of his head ended up all over a bunch of spare tin, and I went back up and closed the door.
When I came back, I was asked repeatedly about "that shot", but no one gave an inch of piss about the other one, the one for Herpes.
--"This place is completely fucked", he told me over the phone. Fucking Prick. Big fucking surprise I thought, the only reason I ever speak to this guy is when something, someplace or someone is completely fucked. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
I got there and did a line off the dashboard, and then put my fist through the driver's side window. I opened the door from the outside and wandered over to what was left of what had to be the shittiest bar in the shittiest town in the world. He stood there all dramatic lighting a cigarette, inhaling slowly and exhaling as he turned to look at me. All I wanted to do was break his fucking neck, but instead i just focused on the blood that was running off of my hand, I felt it cling to my knuckles until the last second when it dropped and patted the asphalt. It was bliss.
He gestured with his faggoty American Spirit and said, "some of them are still moving". I looked. They were. Some of them looked like the falling action in a shitty horror movie about construction site disasters. All twisted limbs with steel and glass stuck through them. Some of them just looked sad, crying. "WHO FUCKING CARES!" I screamed at him, feeling the blood vessels pop in my eyes. He just shrugged.
I went to the car, grabbed my gun, a mutant Pakistani Desert Eagle, drilled, rebuilt and fucked with by God-knows-who-for-crack. I've shot planes out the sky. I cocked it and walked up to the different faces, ignored the watery ones who asked me to "please stop" and put one in each. I heard Prick say something similar, but he knew why I was there and he knew he wasn't going to stop me. Only I can do that.
I came back, wiped off their "blood", licked some of it off my hands and ran the rest through my hair to keep it back. Their blood isn't contagious, the shit is motor oil, brown, useless, stagnant, delicious. Its their saliva that gets you. Of course there could be traces of it in their oil, I could have swallowed some of it, I could have been turning right then and there, but I didn't quite give a fuck.
"Nice job", he said, flicking his cigarette. Fucking Prick.
I huffed ether in my car and waited for the next shit storm to come.
Five minutes ago, I was watching a video of a 5 year old singing "lonely" by Akon.
Five minutes before that I checked to see if "Dawn of the Dead (2004)" got a good review on rottentomatoes.com
Is this what people do at work? I'm ready to fuck my computer screen when i see gossip about that Kardashian chick. Miss USA. I almost bought a Pretty Ricky ringtone but decided against it and went for the free iphone. I've been harassing people I barely know for concert tickets and CDs I barely care about. Checking my email. Hitting on girls via myspace, facebook, telepathy.
Work, blisters, callouses, work. My department, the one tapped to run advertising for an entire major record label has just been slashed and burned, right after our fearful leader defected. Its down to me and one other person.
Removing the head, or destroying the brain. Thats how you get it done.
We will completely cease all traditional media advertising and go balls-first into the digital sphere. Fuck the lawnmower man. This business needs a change to stay relevant and lucky me i get to spearhead the "new way"...
...great, just let me finish looking at the Vice "Do's and Dont's"...again.
Apathy is the name of the game here, in work, and fuckin a, in this post.
So, bored as fuck, I wrote a zombie story. Maybe I will write more, who fuckin knows. Apathy baby.
--It was never clear where or how these patrons ended up going. The "how" was eventually taken care of first by a busboy, then a cop, then a coroner, then a bunch of people in green scrubs saying, "what the fuck?" quickly before they had their throats ripped out.
See, for us it was so dark on the floor that no one ever really noticed the 8 year old with the glass of brown liquor, the trail of dark blood leading from the booth, to the bar, to the pinball machine, to the change machine, back to the pinball machine. There were other more malicious things to worry about, like the fucking black handprints all over the highball glasses. Black and murky like asphalt, smell like a science classroom on dissection day.
In fact, blood was normal, fists shredded to the bone and beyond were not. Manual tooth extractions were not. Instrument free dentistry was not. Not for me at least. Our policy was usually, "just let them scrap it out and pick up the loose change once they're done". But these weren't typical brawls, blacks would lose an arm and keep fighting, reds would rip off someone's lower jaw, throw up thick syrupy shit and get right back to their shitty rail and water.
Like I never said, apathy and routine took hold.
We never changed many lightbulbs, and it always smelled like that. Like so many old ladies, we had gotten used to our musk. We didn't give a fuck and the regulars didn't either.
The first inclination I had that anything was off the tracks was under the bar, changing a half expired keg for another less expired one. We never could sell much beer, real alcoholics didn't have time for it, they only bought it when they were too broke to afford anything else. Herpes, a "busboy" was down there. I hadn't seen Herpes in about 3 months. That was typical too, they would get their money for the night and run off to blow it all on bad junk, buying it with a needle in their arm in some other shitty bar's bathroom. Saved me the clean up. I figured the same happened to Herpes, apparently it didn't. When he stood up, groaning, I thought it was the junk and told him to fuck off, find a hotel room and never come back.
He was pissed, and I was armed. It didn't take much time or thinking or bullets. His blood didn't look right though. It was too brown, too thick, and his eyes, they weren't the watery desperate eyes of a smackhead. That's probably why i wasted him, that look in his eyes suggested that nothing good was going to come from my little intervention. The back of his head ended up all over a bunch of spare tin, and I went back up and closed the door.
When I came back, I was asked repeatedly about "that shot", but no one gave an inch of piss about the other one, the one for Herpes.
--"This place is completely fucked", he told me over the phone. Fucking Prick. Big fucking surprise I thought, the only reason I ever speak to this guy is when something, someplace or someone is completely fucked. Fuck. Shit. Fuck.
I got there and did a line off the dashboard, and then put my fist through the driver's side window. I opened the door from the outside and wandered over to what was left of what had to be the shittiest bar in the shittiest town in the world. He stood there all dramatic lighting a cigarette, inhaling slowly and exhaling as he turned to look at me. All I wanted to do was break his fucking neck, but instead i just focused on the blood that was running off of my hand, I felt it cling to my knuckles until the last second when it dropped and patted the asphalt. It was bliss.
He gestured with his faggoty American Spirit and said, "some of them are still moving". I looked. They were. Some of them looked like the falling action in a shitty horror movie about construction site disasters. All twisted limbs with steel and glass stuck through them. Some of them just looked sad, crying. "WHO FUCKING CARES!" I screamed at him, feeling the blood vessels pop in my eyes. He just shrugged.
I went to the car, grabbed my gun, a mutant Pakistani Desert Eagle, drilled, rebuilt and fucked with by God-knows-who-for-crack. I've shot planes out the sky. I cocked it and walked up to the different faces, ignored the watery ones who asked me to "please stop" and put one in each. I heard Prick say something similar, but he knew why I was there and he knew he wasn't going to stop me. Only I can do that.
I came back, wiped off their "blood", licked some of it off my hands and ran the rest through my hair to keep it back. Their blood isn't contagious, the shit is motor oil, brown, useless, stagnant, delicious. Its their saliva that gets you. Of course there could be traces of it in their oil, I could have swallowed some of it, I could have been turning right then and there, but I didn't quite give a fuck.
"Nice job", he said, flicking his cigarette. Fucking Prick.
I huffed ether in my car and waited for the next shit storm to come.
Wednesday, February 07, 2007
Free Spirits (pt.3)
In Vino Veritas, In sobriety...what? Weed? Girlfriends?
Alcohol, a common ground with so many holes drilled, I love thee. "Tonight make me unstoppable", I pray. Benevolent god of rye and peanut shells, allow me to win. When I trip over human debris, let me hold my friends up so they don't step in it also, but give me the wisdom to laugh my balls off when they do.
Allow me to go the way of Bill, the prophet with tunnel vision, who found the lord by mightily whipping off the used condom and sticking it to the wall above his bed like a vinyl U2 sticker everytime he "smote" a chubby one. That is fuckin funny.
Reward me with good stories. Curb intentionally the stories about being sober and making some damn internal discovery about "what you want in life", for these are terrible stories. "Good for you John Boy, but where are the tits and inflatable goalposts?"
Socrates was a DRUNK FUCK. "Jesus, CO, and my last PO", were not.
I pray, to the patron saint of "same again", progenitor of the buy-back, and lover of those cold and stumbling.
Furthermore, oh god of chirping birds at 5 am, I rebuke thee. Begone foul fowl, back to hell with you.
Amen.
Alcohol, a common ground with so many holes drilled, I love thee. "Tonight make me unstoppable", I pray. Benevolent god of rye and peanut shells, allow me to win. When I trip over human debris, let me hold my friends up so they don't step in it also, but give me the wisdom to laugh my balls off when they do.
Allow me to go the way of Bill, the prophet with tunnel vision, who found the lord by mightily whipping off the used condom and sticking it to the wall above his bed like a vinyl U2 sticker everytime he "smote" a chubby one. That is fuckin funny.
Reward me with good stories. Curb intentionally the stories about being sober and making some damn internal discovery about "what you want in life", for these are terrible stories. "Good for you John Boy, but where are the tits and inflatable goalposts?"
Socrates was a DRUNK FUCK. "Jesus, CO, and my last PO", were not.
I pray, to the patron saint of "same again", progenitor of the buy-back, and lover of those cold and stumbling.
Furthermore, oh god of chirping birds at 5 am, I rebuke thee. Begone foul fowl, back to hell with you.
Amen.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
So apparently I review tracks now.
Juelz Santana (ft. Lil Wayne): "Black Republicans"
The pre-track banter makes the whole damn thing worthwhile. Weezy sounds fuckin DRUNK in the beginning, "that's that 'can't feel my face' shit". His flow sounds a little oiled-up also, but not in a bad way, like that time you "slayed" some dude while waiting in line for the bathroom at Southpaw. Or the time I grabbed the mic at my graduation party. Like that.
And Juelz? Hilarious. “Have my London boys English muffin you”. “Fuck a tongue, she put a lung on it”. That dipset fuckin NONSENSE that is so fun to listen to.
By the time Wayne said he would "get all in her mouth like Polident" I almost fell off my chair at work. Sorry Grandma.
Get it here.
And now...
Shady Milos
Gross. You can keep that, to redeem an otherwise lazy post.
The pre-track banter makes the whole damn thing worthwhile. Weezy sounds fuckin DRUNK in the beginning, "that's that 'can't feel my face' shit". His flow sounds a little oiled-up also, but not in a bad way, like that time you "slayed" some dude while waiting in line for the bathroom at Southpaw. Or the time I grabbed the mic at my graduation party. Like that.
And Juelz? Hilarious. “Have my London boys English muffin you”. “Fuck a tongue, she put a lung on it”. That dipset fuckin NONSENSE that is so fun to listen to.
By the time Wayne said he would "get all in her mouth like Polident" I almost fell off my chair at work. Sorry Grandma.
Get it here.
And now...
Shady Milos
Gross. You can keep that, to redeem an otherwise lazy post.
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