You Are Now Free to Look About the Cabin

Southwest_Airlines_4c-2009

So I’ve been on a few airplanes in the past month, and I’ve come to a pretty basic conclusion. Airplanes are full of extremely bizarre people. That may not be the most novel statement you’ve heard recently, but in the last several weeks- I’ve found it to be extremely accurate.

Now. I’m not extremely wealthy. In fact, I’m rather poor. Pauperized, if you will. If my mom invites me to lunch, I’m going to go. Every. Fucking. Time. What this means is there is only one airline I empower. Don’t get me wrong, Southwest is great. I repeat: SOUTHWEST IS GREAT. If you’re sitting next to a decent looking girl and you’ve got a few drink coupons, it’s probably going to be an enjoyable experience.

Reasons why that NEVER fucking happens:

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Music Video Breakdown: How to be The Man – Riff Raff ft Slim Thug & Paul Wall

So the time has finally come. Riff Raff, that ridiculous white guy with the crazy corn rows/ zigzag chinstrap we’ve all been seeing more and more of during this past year, is finally about to release his debut album – Neon Icon. Keep in mind it’s original release date was the early fall of ’13. It’s now summer of ’14 and we’re ALL STILL DROOLING FOR IT. That’s because we’re all idiots, and Riff Raff along with his mentor/friend/puppet master, Diplo, know it. They’ve strung us along like a group of quivering baseheads…dropping crack rocks in the form of singles every couple of miles/months. We pick them up, (find the song) load them in our filthy little crack pipes (stream them via a number of different music sources e.g. spotify, grooveshark, torrents, pandora), smoke the shit out of them, (listen) and then talk about crazy new business ideas (gossip about how riff raff ‘is actually kinda sick’). Soon enough it’s been a little while since we’ve gotten that rush, and we’re peeling off our own skin, biting through our cheeks, and screaming like a pack of famished banshees.

ENOUGH OF THOSE STUPID METAPHORS YOU IMBECILE

But honestly….How does he do it? Look at this fucking guy.

RiFFRAFF640

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Being Hungover

wile e

I’m not entirely sure when it happened, but somehow hangovers have slipped out of the shadows and begun choking the life out of my Saturdays, Sundays, and occasionally Mondays. Hangovers have slowly evolved from funny, spill your orange juice and laugh your ass off mornings to self assessing, emotionally and spiritually questioning journeys through darkness. Hangovers. They’re here. Like an army of orcs standing at the city’s gate. Waiting to just ruin your fucking day. Waiting to chop down your door, pull you from out underneath your covers and put your head on a stake outside the city.

So hangovers are shitty now. That has become factual in my life. They are now much shittier than they used to be. At first they just didnt exist; In my early drinking days. I’d wake up at 9am after being completely blacked out at a family dinner – made a huge fool of myself to the point where dad says ‘i’m done with this bullshit’ and leaves the table after i make some heinously inappropriate comment to one of our guests – and be ready to go play 18 holes.

Then in college they became a bit worse. But with the right strategies, they could be almost completely avoidable. Drink water until it spills out of your mouth. Drink it until one more swallow and it’s all coming back up. Go to sleep feeling like a water balloon, and wake up feeling like Davy Crockett. It was that easy.

But now, unfortunately, I haven’t found out any fail-safe techniques to the issue. I guess the logical answer would be to just, stop drinking so damn much. If you don’t drink until you cant speak, then you wont feel like a cold bag of shit the next morning. Simple. But that is terribly unrealistic, and would be borderline social suicide in my present situation. The common denominator amongst all my friends, and i’ve only come to realize this very recently, is that we all enjoy getting unacceptably inebriated at the drop of a brown suede fedora.

So with that in mind, the consequence inevitably drops its sledgehammer on my soft cranium the following morning and I have to find out a way to deal with it. The most obvious answer is of course excessive masturbation. For some reason it just feels right to crank out a round or two in the AM of an earth shattering hangover. But here’s the problem, it may feel more satisfying because the feeling of joy seems so far away to the depressed mind of a hangover, yet sensational and vision blurring pleasure are just a few minutes away with the help of a roommates ipad…but about 15 seconds after finishing, you’d just as soon jump headfirst into a swimming pool of gasoline holding a road flare in your teeth. My advice? Do it, obviously. But dont count on it turning things around.

(that suggestion comes with the assumption that you don’t have a girlfriend, because a lengthy session of passionate love-making followed by a lazy afternoon of romantic comedies, cut into sections by steamy sex in funny places around the apartment is the magical cure to pretty much any bad situation. But this isn’t addressed to the lucky folks with that privilege. I’m talking about about cold, solitary suffering with nothing but your own thoughts to back you away from the ledge.)

Another option is exercise, a word that i can never manage to spell correctly the first time. A lot of people like to go to yoga after a night of hard drinking and, ‘sweat out all the toxins’. As if they’re going to just crawl into the yoga studio on their hands and knees begging to find a loaded handgun somewhere in the building, and leave covered in sweat and chatting with the cute girl in hot pink spankies who taught you how to properly arch your back in downward dog. I dont think so. Here’s what happens. You go to yoga, you think its going to suck, and it sucks even worse than you could imagine. You forget your water because you’re not thinking straight, then you notice you’re the only person in the 40 student, sold out yoga class that didnt bring some form of hydration, so you spend the first half of the class wondering if you should even be in the fucking studio if it’s even safe to be doing this. Then the crazy instructor who you think has it out for you starts turning on all the heaters that you didnt even notice were there and it starts getting really really really hot. You start sweating profusely and know that your neighbors are probably getting drunk off your fumes, and that a shot glass full of your sweat could more than likely kill a small village of clueless aborigines if you went about it tactfully. You then realize that your mind is racing and that you are beyond dehydrated and need to get a drink of water from the water fountain in hallway. You exit the studio and everyone stares at you. You take a long drink of water and realize there is no point in going back in, so you go home and take a shower. You feel weird and slightly embarrassed so you take a 2 hour shame nap, which turns into a 5 hour slumber and your day is over. Namaste.

Another popular option is binge eating. Ya know, ‘get some fuel in ya’. Because that’s what everyone needs when they don’t know which way is up. A 5,000 calorie meal covered in syrup and a tab for 75 bucks. There’s honestly nothing worse that waking up somewhere you don’t want to be, and being surrounded by people you don’t really know who all want to have a post-blackout group hangout session while ordering disgusting food and laughing about the night before. Sounds like fun, but it’s not fun. People are trying to be hungover funny, and I’m ready to burn the diner to the floor and unload a hot, frothy load of bright yellow dehydrated piss on the ashes. Now I’m not saying it’s impossible to laugh with your buddies when you’re all impossibly hungover and looking for answers. That’s great. But it’s me and two, maybe three close friends telling close/interpersonal jokes and making fun of everyone else we hung out with the night before. It’s not me at the end of an 8 top trying to remember everyone’s names and whether or not I’ll scare the group if I order a shot of whiskey while Henrique and Felicity laugh at how they bought an 8 dollar bottle of champagne from duane reade at 2am and it was just ‘so ridiculous’. Then the bill comes and everyone just toss their cards in the bowl and ‘just split it up evenly, thanks.’ 75 bucks later you’re in bed trying to forget it all happened. No thanks. Just jerk off and go back to sleep.

The final, and best method in my delusional brain, is the idea that in order to regain any sort of feelings of normalcy…you must simply continue drinking. That means the green light is glowing as soon as the jeans are buttoned and the sweatshirt comes down over the disheveled rats nest. It means scaring people who are unfamiliar with this method. It means realizing you’ve filled in the ‘option D’ bubble on the first question of the ‘are you an alcoholic’ test. ‘Do you ever drink alcohol the morning after a night of heavy alcohol use?’ I used to be so confused by that question.

Who does that?

That’s scary stuff. 

That’s what old divorced men do. 

Now it’s what I do. And guess what? It fucking works. But sadly, it is only a temporary remedy; it only postpones the inevitable. Hangovers have now become a looming glacier that starts crawling toward me as soon as that first IPA touches my lips at 7pm on Friday, and crushes me on Monday morning. It’s as if i’m running up the wrong side of an escalator, and there’s a buzz-saw at the bottom. It grabs the heels of my shoes, sucks me inside, and then pours me into a 5 gallon bucket that people can use to attract sharks on some lame port of call expedition from Carnival Cruises.

So enjoy those early days. Wake up and give your mother a big ol hug and say, ‘sorry about that mom. I guess I just need to know my limits. It won’t happen again. I’m going down to go play tennis with Andrew in about 30 minutes. It’s so nice out!’

But if those days are gone, just accept the evolution of the consequence…and snap open a cold one in the AM before you even think twice. You won’t regret it. Yes you will. But not until Monday morning. And that, my friend, is a loooooong ways away.

Here’s to the weekend.

No One Cares About Your Stupid SnapChats

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So SnapChat is the newest cool app these days, and I’ll admit with a shred of guilt that I was very happy with it for about a week. Then it started sucking. Because just like everything else on this planet, the more people there are that do something, the more it sucks. Because humanity, as a whole, is almost inexplicably retarded.

Here’s how it works. Someone smart thinks of a smart idea and explains it to all his smart friends. They all love it and start using it. Then some other people hear about it, who are not-so-smart, but they still understand the basic idea, and they start using it. Then all the not-so-smart people show it to their not-smart friends, and they don’t really get it, but they use it anyway. Then the not-smart friends show it to all their idiot friends, who just use it because everyone else is using it by now even though they have no idea what it is, and it’s original purpose is so far in the rear-view mirror that the creators are all sitting at the round table drinking vodka from a plastic bottle and playing russian roulette. This rule is universally true with almost everything. Think about anything that used to be cool and now sucks. The blame lies on the shoulders of idiot people who want to be part of the team and the skill/talent/uniqueness/beauty is quickly diluted with stupidity. It starts with MJ and Lebron having a 3-point contest and it ends with Johnny and Jeffy trying to stuff the basketball up each other’s asses.

And there is no current situation that represents this de-evolution more perfectly than SnapChat. It started with two people who are semi attracted to one another getting drunk and sending dick/tit pics to each other, and it ends with your co-worker sending you a picture of her cat taking its pills. No one cares about tiny little snapshots of your life that you think are funny and feel obligated to send to everyone who made the mistake of accepting your snapchat friend request.

our awesome neighbor made us cookies!! : P

bloody mary #2? guilty!

fat french inhale like a #boss

That’s not what the app is for and STOP SENDING THEM TO ME.

A$AP Rocky May Have a Fuckin’ Problem

A$AP and the gang recently released the official music video for ‘Fuckin Problem’ ft Drake, 2 Chainz & Kendrick Lamar, and I just watched it. Of course I watched it. I had to watch it. Look at that lineup. But like pretty much else everything in life, I was skeptical.

But bro…its a$ap…

Yeah I know. The guy has a pretty impressive resume. If you wanna talk a$ap, then I’ll happily discuss how great LiveLoveA$AP was/still is. But if you tell me that the guy is gonna be all over the radio with Drake? and 2 Chainz? before he even released an album?

I’d say maybe it’s time to pump the brakes. Think about where we are in our careers. How far we’ve come…how far we must go. Then I’d hide in my room, smoke weed all day, and write my debut album…and it would be glorious. Because I don’t doubt his talent.

But here we go. Let’s watch this thing together shall we?


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Music Video Review: Thrift Shop, Macklemore & Ryan Lewis

I’ll preface this review by stating prior to hearing his new album, The Heist, which I’d highly recommend, I had only heard of this guy a few times..never actually listened to what he had to say. This is a scene by scene, shot by shot review of his music video for the album’s hit single, Thrift Shop. 

So the video begins with a wide shot of a bunch of haggard looking people rocking really weird shit. Roller blades, fur coats, and scooters. Thrift shop shit. The crew is lead by a particularly strange looking fellow with a particularly strange looking haircut wearing a particularly strange coat. We’re thinking this is probably Macklemore, but there’s no way to be sure… because I’ve never seen a picture of the guy, and this dude is very very white.

Woahh a DeLorean. If thrift stores sold cars, they would sell DeLoreans. We’re to assume the driver of the car is Ryan Lewis – the album’s producer.

And there he is again, flanked by two bizarre looking women sucking down big-gulps and pulling him along on his scooter while he just chills. It looks pretty fun, to be perfectly honest. At this point we know he’s our protagonist. He hops in the whip.

0:40 – Macklemore starts rhyming immediately upon entering the club. His opening line, “Walk up to the club like what up I got a big cock/nah I’m just pumped up on shit from the thrift shop” He’s totally jazzed on his get-up. Mink, jeans, hoes. Standard proCEEJah.

“Ice on the fringe is so damn frosty/the people like, damn..that’s a cold-ass honky.” Says the convinced-looking black dude in the club. We’re starting to get the vibe, and we’re starting to rock with it. The song is incredibly catchy, and Macklemore flows quick with wit and we try to keep up, smiling most probably. We’re all starting to think we knew a kid exactly like this guy in high school.

“Draped in a leopard mink, girls standing next to me, prolly shoulda washed this, smells like R Kelly sheets….PISSSSSSSS” and we see an improvised R Kelly roll past the camera, blindfolded, and smiling like a pedophile.

1:06 We are now in a massive thriftstore/warehouse where Macklemore is hopping from sofa to sofa in a billowy mink while a crew of shady looking people dance through the aisles. Intercut with slow motion, and the beat is juiced. We cut to a creepy looking old man as Macklemore references stealing grandpa’s style. “They had a broken keyboard/I bought a broken keyboard/I bought a ski blanket/then I bought a kneeboard.” This speaks to the ridiculous assortment of shit one will find in any random thrift store. We see a cut of Mack kneeboarding, which is funny.

“I’m gonna pop some tags/only got twenty dollars in my pocket/looking for a come-up/this is f*#^ing awesomeeeeeee”

Hook time. We witness, throughout the video, that the hooks are performed by various people..none of whom are the actual artist.. well I’m not totally sure of that seeing as I can’t find any evidence that this person, Wanz, actually exists. But I’m guessing it’s not the first character featured on the hook – A massively obese white woman who stares at the camera like it’s an infant while she flawlessly recites the lyrics. It’s pretty funny, and is paired with solid camera work.

We’re off to the second and third verses, where Macklemore continues rapping about how awesome the items he finds in store are, and we watch as he and his conglomerate of ridiculous looking amigos get buck in the warehouse.

“They be like ohh that gucci that’s hella tight/I’m like yo, that’s 50 dollars for a t-shirt../limited edition lets do some simple addition 50 dollars for a t-shirt that’s just some ignorant bitch shieettttt/I call that get swindled and pimped, shiett/I call that getting tricked by a business/ that shirts hella dough/ and having the same one as six other people in this club is a hella DONT/ peep game, come take a look through my telescope/ tryin get girls from a brand, and you hella WONT”

Keep in mind that this album is currently the #1 selling album on iTunes, and is getting some serious pub. And it’s cool that his message is what it is. I mean, on its surface is completely stupid, but the overall thought is valuable. He’s on top and he doesn’t care about the material stuff we’re all so used to hearing about. The thrift store itself can be a symbol for either an actual thrift-shop, or more importantly for individuality…as cliche as that sounds. He’s from Seattle, this track is one of many quality songs you’ll get on The Heist…so go get it.

Laughter in the Dark: a simple review

I had not read any Nabokov. A simple fact that astonished a family friend of mine, and he insisted I do so right away. He retreated to his study and returned with the 1938 English translation(a translation done by the author himself) of Nabokov’s 1932 novel, Laughter in the Dark (previously, Kamera Obskura). 

Having just finished John Kennedy Toole’s, A Confederacy of Dunces, I was ensured a smooth transition from Toole’s protagonist: the horribly entitled and pompous fat man, Ignatius Reilly, to Nabokov’s lead role: Albert Albinus, the socially blind and lascivious middle-aged art critic. Both heinously flawed characters, Albinus’s voyage into idiocy is a bit more gradual than the outspoken and ever-aggressive Reilly whose constant threats to have his adversaries, “lashed until they collapse!” are slathered upon us from the opening paragraph.

Although we are informed of his ill-advised decisions almost immediately,

“He was rich, respectable, happy; one day he abandoned his wife for the sake of a youthful mistress; he loved; was not loved; and his life ended in disaster.”

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