Hello Everyone,
So it seems to be a trend that while I’m out of town that I won’t come out with a song until the end of a night or at least until after all the hooplas are done with. Tonight’s hoopla happened just a few minutes ago. I was hanging out with a friend who happened to have 3 hotel keys. After a few minutes I realized that she left her keys in my room so I called her to pick them up. I thought I was being nice because ordinarily I would just leave them straggling underneath my door while I’m whatevering. However, I decided to go meet her with all 3 keys at the elevator. I forgot my own hotel key. So I just ended up taking a 15 minute nap on the bench, in the lobby of the MGM Grand, waiting for security while I’m in a wifebeater, barefoot. I’m such a dumb fuck.
But alas, now I’m in my room and I have some free time to douse on some Clear Eyes and have a glass of some premium bottled water (CVS Natural spring water....maybe straight from the sewage treatment plants of El Porto). I sent out a track from this album before and yes, it’s the tried and true covers of Nouvelle Vague. This time they brought guests and I think this is their best album, yet. This will be the last song I send out from their album because I strongly encourage everyone to buy it (if you liked the other track). I label this as “chill” because I really enjoy them more for the mood than the genre. I would pair this album with a nice Vodka Martini (I call this genre “martini music”).
But this song really stood out for me. Just the melody and delivery is guaranteed, 30 minutes or less. Listen to this song when you feel like you’re stuck in a rut, or getting yourself into the same ol’ cyclic mess with your ex lover, or if you foresee yourself to be doomed to repeat the mistakes from your past. Or you can listen to this song when you allow him/her back into your life and then are like, “fuck it. What am I doing? Why?”
Geographically relevant. Nothing more. So, like I say to other people (and I need to heed my own advice sometimes). Like, let’s say there are 5 billion women out there in the world. Out of the 5 billion people, let’s say you have 2.5 billion that are actually possible mates (take out the children and old women and women that can’t stand listening to hip hop). Out of the 2.5 billion in the world, let’s say you have about a few thousand that you will meet in the course of your lifetime. So let’s say that right now, you’ve met a few hundred women that you would have loved to court. And out of the few hundred women, there were only a few dozen that you actually pursued and established something with. So let’s say out of them, you really only fall in love with a handful (or two handfuls, or if you’re tree sap, two handfuls and a foot) of them, you think they’re “the one.” So now, take a step back and see that out of the 2.5 billion potential mates, you really are stuck on that “soulmate.” Isn’t it convenient to think that out of 2.5 billion potential partners, you happened to live within a few miles/in the same job/in the same bar/happens to be friends with your friend/or whatever? Isn’t that nuts? It baffles me sometimes. To think that people exhaust their heart and efforts into a few women that are “the one.” Yes, plenty o’ fish get away but whoopty woo.
So, you mean to tell me, you met him, in college/work/Nebraska and that’s it for you? Cool, senorita.
But for those that are stuck in dead ends, hopefully this song will help you commit to your own rationale. And, if you can truly convince yourself of it, you’ll be fishing with dynamite.
Kaplooey.
-- Sonnyred
THE LAST TRICK
From standing to crouching
Silently falling
Falling from nowhere to nowhere
Nothing between
Nothing beyond
Nothing behind the stars
This is the last trick I'll do
Sound can be seen
This is the main title
Briefly shaking
This is the last trick I'll do
Sound can be seen
This is the main title
Briefly shaking
Remain for some time
Down here below
Allowing the doubt
to feed upon me
And even the ones
Who've never been
Are climbing the wail up ahead
I get up start crawling
Into the same
Over and over and over again
Smelling the plastic
Smelling the spit
And smelling my own breath
This is the last trick I'll do
Sound can be seen
This is the main title
Briefly shaking
This is the last trick I'll do
Sound can be seen
This is the main title
Briefly shaking
The presence convincing
The most of what I've
written is false
I mention this
[ Lyrics provided by www.mp3lyrics.org ]
'Cause I'm talking in
the light of what's
known
I get out of the sun
This is the last trick I'll do
Sound can be seen
This is the main title
Briefly shaking
This is the last trick I'll do
Sound can be seen
This is the main title
Briefly shaking
This is the last trick I'll do
Sound can be seen
This is the main title
Briefly shaking
This is the last trick I'll do
Sound can be seen
This is the main title
Briefly shaking
This is the last trick I'll do
Sound can be seen
This is the main title
Briefly shaking
All together now
Everybody
Wednesday, October 31, 2007
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
"So Sorry" - Feist
Hello All,
I just have to call this out. First, I don’t seek out new music on my own, I find people whose taste in music I respect, then I sniff their butts and follow them down melody trails. Sometimes they’re just moldy passageways and they’re filled with poop. Other times they’re faulty rope bridges, only suspended by my taking someone’s word for it. But of course, there are times where their suggestions pave golden brick roads and I just want to carry a basket full of apples and skip to their loo.
Today is an example of it. I think Roy gives me 95% of my music, of which I’m very thankful for. But it’s really the “hey yo Roe....dude, I’ve been really feeling that new Avril Lavigne” or “hey yo Roe, that new Gwen is off the chain! I want to go buy a Le Sportsac purse, throw punches in the air and wear 80s hooker red lipstick.” It’s the recommendations that I really enjoy the most. Don’t just give me a donkey and a tail for me to pin it on; spin me around and push me in a certain direction.
But when you do, be prepared for the onslaught. Eventually the blindfold will come off and we’ll see if I hit it. I love being recommended stuff but I really only like 5-10% of the music that gets sent to me. And though Roy currently has the homerun record, he also probably has the worst batting average, but it shouldn’t deter him or anyone from swinging. Why do I ask people to do write ups for me if I choose their songs? Because it’s their baby, it’s their initial contact with the music. I want to know, and I want everyone else to know, why you like it. See...I can’t take credit for it. Also, I think it’s a good exercise for people to tap into their cerebral and actually try to access their thoughts.
It’s not easy, I know. But, is it really that FUCKING hard? All I’m asking is, “why do you like it?”
“I just do.”
It baffles me to think that people have become that disconnected from their feelings or emotions and stuff. I think there’s a much bigger tragedy that's taking place but what I’m really trying to say is, if you’re going to stand for something, be ready to defend it; whether it be with rationale, logic or that good ol’ feeling in the pit of your stomach. Or maybe that’s what alienates me. My opinions are seldom accurate, but they’re mine, tried and true. And so that’s why I suggest suggestions.
Feist came to my existence after Roy hooked me up. I thought they were a little too soft; like Sia (I sent her before, but now I realize I can’t stand the whore). Then I thought to myself, “I like Dido, why should a hothead like me grant more real estate to another “chill kind of musician?” Feist is not that special. One year later, and she’s invited to my head space BBQs and holding my brain babies and all of that jazz.
What I’m saying is, examine your mind, exercise your heart and tell me why the fuck I should listen to something. Do it with enough conviction, and you’ll have the attention of everyone on this list.
Now, gimme some donkey ass.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/0qyzrk1sp7\
I just have to call this out. First, I don’t seek out new music on my own, I find people whose taste in music I respect, then I sniff their butts and follow them down melody trails. Sometimes they’re just moldy passageways and they’re filled with poop. Other times they’re faulty rope bridges, only suspended by my taking someone’s word for it. But of course, there are times where their suggestions pave golden brick roads and I just want to carry a basket full of apples and skip to their loo.
Today is an example of it. I think Roy gives me 95% of my music, of which I’m very thankful for. But it’s really the “hey yo Roe....dude, I’ve been really feeling that new Avril Lavigne” or “hey yo Roe, that new Gwen is off the chain! I want to go buy a Le Sportsac purse, throw punches in the air and wear 80s hooker red lipstick.” It’s the recommendations that I really enjoy the most. Don’t just give me a donkey and a tail for me to pin it on; spin me around and push me in a certain direction.
But when you do, be prepared for the onslaught. Eventually the blindfold will come off and we’ll see if I hit it. I love being recommended stuff but I really only like 5-10% of the music that gets sent to me. And though Roy currently has the homerun record, he also probably has the worst batting average, but it shouldn’t deter him or anyone from swinging. Why do I ask people to do write ups for me if I choose their songs? Because it’s their baby, it’s their initial contact with the music. I want to know, and I want everyone else to know, why you like it. See...I can’t take credit for it. Also, I think it’s a good exercise for people to tap into their cerebral and actually try to access their thoughts.
It’s not easy, I know. But, is it really that FUCKING hard? All I’m asking is, “why do you like it?”
“I just do.”
It baffles me to think that people have become that disconnected from their feelings or emotions and stuff. I think there’s a much bigger tragedy that's taking place but what I’m really trying to say is, if you’re going to stand for something, be ready to defend it; whether it be with rationale, logic or that good ol’ feeling in the pit of your stomach. Or maybe that’s what alienates me. My opinions are seldom accurate, but they’re mine, tried and true. And so that’s why I suggest suggestions.
Feist came to my existence after Roy hooked me up. I thought they were a little too soft; like Sia (I sent her before, but now I realize I can’t stand the whore). Then I thought to myself, “I like Dido, why should a hothead like me grant more real estate to another “chill kind of musician?” Feist is not that special. One year later, and she’s invited to my head space BBQs and holding my brain babies and all of that jazz.
What I’m saying is, examine your mind, exercise your heart and tell me why the fuck I should listen to something. Do it with enough conviction, and you’ll have the attention of everyone on this list.
Now, gimme some donkey ass.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/0qyzrk1sp7\
"Empty" - 3582
How can I say this without sounding like a gay license plate frame?
“Always late, but worth the wait.”
You know what? Everytime I see that shit on a car it just pisses me the fuck off. For real, you know what I do? I tailgate them and make them go like 10-15 mph faster than they were normally traveling. Be careful what you ask for, bitches. My parents told me that I was an accident and that they were going to get an abortion. Well...my mom’s period came 9 months late. And when I have enough money to buy her a car, I’m also going to get her a license plate frame. It’s going to say, “Fuck the police.” Uh, wha whaaa whaaat?
Well, it took me a while to get to this group and really start to pay attention to them. Roy Van Winkle must have been sleeping because he just recently gave me this album. I was about to text him, “Roy, you’re the homie for hooking me up with this new 3582 shit! It’s smart, soulful, artful hip hop.” For real, today’s song reminds me of how forgiving and somber hip hop can be. Not in that woe is me sense either. It takes me back to a time when you can be vulnerable and still be a man. That’
I was also like, “Who is J. Rawls?” I know “The Essence” album but he never really got much acclaim. I Wikipedia’d this shit and turns out this album is 6 years old! 3582 is a collaboration of J Rawls and Fat Jon. (next time you see me, ask me what the biggest lesson is that rock can learn from hip hop and how hip hop is eons more evolved and refined than rock). Basically, J Rawls and J Sands are a team and they make Caucasian-friendly hip hop without alienating Black folks.
That’s what I love about being Asian. I can listen to Caucasian hip hop, like Sage Francis or Atmosphere or Murs or Pigeon John (though LA Symphony is Mexican Hip Hop) and I’d be seen as artful and abstract. And at the same time, I can listen to Boot Camp Click, Big L or The Beatnuts and be seen as street or urban. You know what I hate about that term, “urban?” It’s a polite way to say “inner city Blacks.” Just say it, fucking marketers.
Mother. Fucking. Marketers.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/hbgd94iseh
Oh yeah, and if you’re like, “Well, Roe, you’re neither White nor Black; and all you got on hip hop is that Gin guy or Key Kool or the Mountain Brothers” all I’ll have to do is point towards the booth and be like, “Who the fuck do you think is spinning this shit?”
TOFU ON THE ONES AND TWOS! Chicky chicky.
“Always late, but worth the wait.”
You know what? Everytime I see that shit on a car it just pisses me the fuck off. For real, you know what I do? I tailgate them and make them go like 10-15 mph faster than they were normally traveling. Be careful what you ask for, bitches. My parents told me that I was an accident and that they were going to get an abortion. Well...my mom’s period came 9 months late. And when I have enough money to buy her a car, I’m also going to get her a license plate frame. It’s going to say, “Fuck the police.” Uh, wha whaaa whaaat?
Well, it took me a while to get to this group and really start to pay attention to them. Roy Van Winkle must have been sleeping because he just recently gave me this album. I was about to text him, “Roy, you’re the homie for hooking me up with this new 3582 shit! It’s smart, soulful, artful hip hop.” For real, today’s song reminds me of how forgiving and somber hip hop can be. Not in that woe is me sense either. It takes me back to a time when you can be vulnerable and still be a man. That’
I was also like, “Who is J. Rawls?” I know “The Essence” album but he never really got much acclaim. I Wikipedia’d this shit and turns out this album is 6 years old! 3582 is a collaboration of J Rawls and Fat Jon. (next time you see me, ask me what the biggest lesson is that rock can learn from hip hop and how hip hop is eons more evolved and refined than rock). Basically, J Rawls and J Sands are a team and they make Caucasian-friendly hip hop without alienating Black folks.
That’s what I love about being Asian. I can listen to Caucasian hip hop, like Sage Francis or Atmosphere or Murs or Pigeon John (though LA Symphony is Mexican Hip Hop) and I’d be seen as artful and abstract. And at the same time, I can listen to Boot Camp Click, Big L or The Beatnuts and be seen as street or urban. You know what I hate about that term, “urban?” It’s a polite way to say “inner city Blacks.” Just say it, fucking marketers.
Mother. Fucking. Marketers.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/hbgd94iseh
Oh yeah, and if you’re like, “Well, Roe, you’re neither White nor Black; and all you got on hip hop is that Gin guy or Key Kool or the Mountain Brothers” all I’ll have to do is point towards the booth and be like, “Who the fuck do you think is spinning this shit?”
TOFU ON THE ONES AND TWOS! Chicky chicky.
Sunday, October 21, 2007
"Tiger In My Tank" - The Eels
“The devil believes in you.” So that’s my AIM status this evening and I think I’m going to leave it up there for a while to see what kind of reactions I’ll get. Ok, just so we’re on the same page:
Ok, get it? Great! Well, I think the status is very stark in comparison to my self-portrait, aim icon. And so, let me look, wow….as edgy as I think I already am, I think maybe, perhaps I’m “taking it to another level” or I’m being “just plain tasteless” or “damn, that motherfucker needs attention” but I really don’t think much of it. I know it will certainly offend people. I know there are a bunch of bible thumpers on my buddy list alone (and I know who the closet ones are…don’t be ashamed….you don’t need to blast P.O.D. in the privacy of your own headphones). But I think I’m going to do it just to make people feel uncomfortable and disrupt their day a little. But, wait, you mean to tell me that "Believe in me or you're going to hell" isn't razor sharp?
You know what I wished? I wished I could call my writing, art. That way I can get away with doing a lot of weird, random shit that I currently have to suppress. Like, it’d be fine if I were to go days without showering...or like when I did it’d always have to be in a bubble bath with a frozen Cornish game hen. Or maybe I could like, walk around the city with an upside down jar of mayonnaise on my head. See, like that’s pretty weird. But you see, if I was an artist, it’d at least be interesting or compelling. You know, I once read an article about an artist who had put out a coffee table book of his photography. Well, in the book was just pictures of him, in bed, with naked women that he met after putting out an ad in the newspaper. I wish I would’ve thought of that sweet deal. That way I wouldn’t have to worry about hurrying up and finding women before my condoms expire.
(Maybe self-deprecating humor will help me, also)
You know what’s kinda weird, but kinda goofy also? (predictable for me to say “besides…me”….however…unpredictable for me to still call it out)…people that collect matchbooks. Like, I think it’s cool, and fuck, I always think to myself, “it’d be cool if I collected matchbooks from cool clubs, luscious hotels, and nice restaurants. Yeah, maybe I should..” and you go through the motions……“but yeah, like it’s also cool because it’s free and you can’t just buy them...” and you further convince yourself that your knowledge of which bars have the coolest matches (wooden, strike on the back, funny quote, interesting packaging) will somehow put a significant dent on the world…you still don’t do it. And so one day, you go over to your friend’s house and then you see that, near the keys, there’s a little glass jar of different matches from exotic restaurants in exotic locales. How cool suddenly becomes how goofy. You think to yourself, “fuck…good thing I didn’t waste my time holding onto those matches…because that shit is CRAAAAZY!”
And somewhere between then and a few paces forward you soon think, “at least he/she had the balls to do it.”
That’s what I’m talking about.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/m90i4xu91v

Ok, get it? Great! Well, I think the status is very stark in comparison to my self-portrait, aim icon. And so, let me look, wow….as edgy as I think I already am, I think maybe, perhaps I’m “taking it to another level” or I’m being “just plain tasteless” or “damn, that motherfucker needs attention” but I really don’t think much of it. I know it will certainly offend people. I know there are a bunch of bible thumpers on my buddy list alone (and I know who the closet ones are…don’t be ashamed….you don’t need to blast P.O.D. in the privacy of your own headphones). But I think I’m going to do it just to make people feel uncomfortable and disrupt their day a little. But, wait, you mean to tell me that "Believe in me or you're going to hell" isn't razor sharp?
You know what I wished? I wished I could call my writing, art. That way I can get away with doing a lot of weird, random shit that I currently have to suppress. Like, it’d be fine if I were to go days without showering...or like when I did it’d always have to be in a bubble bath with a frozen Cornish game hen. Or maybe I could like, walk around the city with an upside down jar of mayonnaise on my head. See, like that’s pretty weird. But you see, if I was an artist, it’d at least be interesting or compelling. You know, I once read an article about an artist who had put out a coffee table book of his photography. Well, in the book was just pictures of him, in bed, with naked women that he met after putting out an ad in the newspaper. I wish I would’ve thought of that sweet deal. That way I wouldn’t have to worry about hurrying up and finding women before my condoms expire.
(Maybe self-deprecating humor will help me, also)
You know what’s kinda weird, but kinda goofy also? (predictable for me to say “besides…me”….however…unpredictable for me to still call it out)…people that collect matchbooks. Like, I think it’s cool, and fuck, I always think to myself, “it’d be cool if I collected matchbooks from cool clubs, luscious hotels, and nice restaurants. Yeah, maybe I should..” and you go through the motions……“but yeah, like it’s also cool because it’s free and you can’t just buy them...” and you further convince yourself that your knowledge of which bars have the coolest matches (wooden, strike on the back, funny quote, interesting packaging) will somehow put a significant dent on the world…you still don’t do it. And so one day, you go over to your friend’s house and then you see that, near the keys, there’s a little glass jar of different matches from exotic restaurants in exotic locales. How cool suddenly becomes how goofy. You think to yourself, “fuck…good thing I didn’t waste my time holding onto those matches…because that shit is CRAAAAZY!”
And somewhere between then and a few paces forward you soon think, “at least he/she had the balls to do it.”
That’s what I’m talking about.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/m90i4xu91v
Wednesday, October 17, 2007
"Magic Beans and Truth Machines" - Say Hi (to Your Mom)
This morning I was awakened by my alarm clock at 6:30 AM. And this morning started with a cold splash of water on my face; just enough to erode the eye boogers and with enough conviction to keep me from going back to my lucid dreams of puppies, lollipops and the Swedish Bikini team. Pumped some gas this morning (damn, I need a hybrid) and took a little drive along the coast shortly after. The slumbering ocean kissed me with all of its slobbery might and after a few frustrated attempts for more, it led me to believe that was all I was going to get. I sat on the couch and watched all the action that everyone was getting, except me. But I wasn’t hating, I was out there and I was glad to at least hold her hand, and once in a while she let me tuck underneath her. An hour in and my hand got slapped away about 4 times, but damn me for being so persistent. The opportunities were passing and my mind summoned all of its defense mechanisms: at least I’m getting exercise, at least I get to see the sun rise, at least I’m out here and learning and pushing and philosophizing again, etc.......
Another friend joined us in the water, and within two minutes, he caught a great ride. I was looking at him as he boomeranged back; like, “are you fucking shitting me? Five minutes and you already got one? I fucking hate you.” Yes I exaggerated; I said five minutes though it was only two. If I have to bring him down to close the gap of happiness between us, I’ll do it. I’ll force him down into the ocean basins where stingrays and treasure chests dwell. Like I said, I’m a hater. I swore I was done for. As I was calling it a day, she came by, slapped my butt and gave me the green light to traverse down her right shoulder (that’s right, her RIGHT shoulder). I kissed her clavicle. And though she went off to go fuck the rest of the guys in the lineup, at least I kissed her. My lips haven’t stopped trembling since.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/cnzxo05b2b
Another friend joined us in the water, and within two minutes, he caught a great ride. I was looking at him as he boomeranged back; like, “are you fucking shitting me? Five minutes and you already got one? I fucking hate you.” Yes I exaggerated; I said five minutes though it was only two. If I have to bring him down to close the gap of happiness between us, I’ll do it. I’ll force him down into the ocean basins where stingrays and treasure chests dwell. Like I said, I’m a hater. I swore I was done for. As I was calling it a day, she came by, slapped my butt and gave me the green light to traverse down her right shoulder (that’s right, her RIGHT shoulder). I kissed her clavicle. And though she went off to go fuck the rest of the guys in the lineup, at least I kissed her. My lips haven’t stopped trembling since.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/cnzxo05b2b
Monday, October 15, 2007
"Resurrection Fern" - Iron and Wine
Hello All,
Great things happened to me over the weekend. On Friday night, I almost bunny hopped a trail of blood while riding my bike on the Venice Boardwalk due to a stabbing. Don’t worry, it wasn’t too bad; the guy got stabbed on the arm and it just further perpetuated Venice into being one of the coolest, most interesting cities in the country. I think that’s what they say about the city, “Where art meets crime.” And if it takes a minor laceration to slow down the gentrification and yuppification of the city for at least a little longer; then so fucking be it.
That wasn’t the great thing about it, though. Towards the end of the night, the rain started coming down hard and persistent; and Go and I were left with no other choice than to ride our bikes back under the guise of night as Mother Nature’s tears went trickling down our temples. And so we rode, through the puddles of black ink on the boardwalk, the humming of slippery tires on Venice Blvd and our safety at stake as the headlights of imported cars offered us nothing more that the moon already did. However, when it rained we weren’t in a hurry to take cover, (after all, our journey back would surely end with heavy denim and wet carpet) so we took our time and conversed....
Me: Never have I thought, that at the age of 28, that I would be riding my bike back home in the pouring rain. To think that all of my life’s struggles and accomplishments...and the millions of events that have taken place and all the forces of the universe interacting for the past 28 years....to bring me here, riding my bicycle back home, in the pouring rain, inebriated, and not giving a shit. How crazy is that? To think that I denied myself this soulful experience my entire life and now I’m in a moment of clarity and it’s here and that’s that. You know, Heidi got two tickets when we met for coffee last week and though it was a careless mistake she wrapped the context of our earlier conversation around the situation and told me, “fuck it, you can’t let stupid stuff like that ruin you.” I always thought to myself, in the best and absolute worst of times, “No matter how bad or good or great life gets, I’m always like, ‘shit, I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.’” True indeed, life is always one wild ride.
And though unbalanced pedals across a midnight canvas would suggest another careless mistake was in progress, I wasn’t fazed. The rainwater left no remnants of the infant night’s tussles and through the distorted spheres of Mother Nature’s cries, I did manage to get my bunny hop.
And what a wild ride it was.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/pdh9j6ajkf
Great things happened to me over the weekend. On Friday night, I almost bunny hopped a trail of blood while riding my bike on the Venice Boardwalk due to a stabbing. Don’t worry, it wasn’t too bad; the guy got stabbed on the arm and it just further perpetuated Venice into being one of the coolest, most interesting cities in the country. I think that’s what they say about the city, “Where art meets crime.” And if it takes a minor laceration to slow down the gentrification and yuppification of the city for at least a little longer; then so fucking be it.
That wasn’t the great thing about it, though. Towards the end of the night, the rain started coming down hard and persistent; and Go and I were left with no other choice than to ride our bikes back under the guise of night as Mother Nature’s tears went trickling down our temples. And so we rode, through the puddles of black ink on the boardwalk, the humming of slippery tires on Venice Blvd and our safety at stake as the headlights of imported cars offered us nothing more that the moon already did. However, when it rained we weren’t in a hurry to take cover, (after all, our journey back would surely end with heavy denim and wet carpet) so we took our time and conversed....
Me: Never have I thought, that at the age of 28, that I would be riding my bike back home in the pouring rain. To think that all of my life’s struggles and accomplishments...and the millions of events that have taken place and all the forces of the universe interacting for the past 28 years....to bring me here, riding my bicycle back home, in the pouring rain, inebriated, and not giving a shit. How crazy is that? To think that I denied myself this soulful experience my entire life and now I’m in a moment of clarity and it’s here and that’s that. You know, Heidi got two tickets when we met for coffee last week and though it was a careless mistake she wrapped the context of our earlier conversation around the situation and told me, “fuck it, you can’t let stupid stuff like that ruin you.” I always thought to myself, in the best and absolute worst of times, “No matter how bad or good or great life gets, I’m always like, ‘shit, I can’t wait to see what tomorrow brings.’” True indeed, life is always one wild ride.
And though unbalanced pedals across a midnight canvas would suggest another careless mistake was in progress, I wasn’t fazed. The rainwater left no remnants of the infant night’s tussles and through the distorted spheres of Mother Nature’s cries, I did manage to get my bunny hop.
And what a wild ride it was.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/pdh9j6ajkf
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
"Don't Beat This Dog" - Alamo Race Track
Hello All,
So this is the band that I’ve been listening to, A LOT, lately. I really don’t know much about them other than my assumption that they’re from Texas. You see, I rarely seek out new music. I depend on people, like (few) of you, to come and shower me with precious melodies. Most of the time they’re golden, but (thankfully) not golden showers. This is one of those songs that will make your car ride automatically that much cooler. And I’ll be honest, I think people with a refined taste for non-commercial music are way more interesting and appealing than the sheeple that depend on mainstream music. God, ok, fuck, I want to be tactful and non-judgmental and all loving and encompassing, but like I’m no Noah. I admit it; I do make assumptions on someone when I hear what they’re playing. I never take “innocent looks” through people’s iPods. I do psychoanalytic anal-listic analyses on their psyche based on their Kelly Clarkson playcounts. Just kidding. I don’t judge people based off of their iPod libraries; I write them off:
“Cool man. No brah, I like Foo Fighters, too. Dave is a talented musician. They rawk!”
“Oh no, I’ve never heard of that band. Are they good? Oh, cool man. They sound like The Killers? Kewl.”
And that’s where I imagine myself cutting off their ears and donating them to science. But I never lie about my feelings (hear that ladies??? never).
“Oh that’s cool. I used to like Foo Fighters but I’m not 17 anymore and my teenage angst has maturated into a big life failure. And as talented a musician as he is, he’s no Kurt Cobain.”
“Oh no, I’ve never heard of that band. Are they good? Oh, cool man. Do they sound like Interpol or The Killers? What do you mean? Of course there’s a difference.”
But what I was getting at is that Alamo Race Track is one of those bands that makes you so much cooler when you drive around with them blaring out your speakers. I’d rather be seen in my old, beat-up truck playing this song than be in a new, never-been-in-a-fight truck playing Fallout Boy. I mean, If I were to see someone in a brand new Lamborghini pull up next to me playing The Killers, I swear I’d laugh so hard I’d oatmeal my pantaloons.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/n8q4k6g29v
Keep these walls from moving
We should get on just fine
Turn off the lights
I’ve got to get myself together
Don’t be my savior
Keep this girl away from me
There’s something changing
I should get out of here
Love me, leave me, stop
Cut off your hoola dance
Don’t beat this dog
I’ve got to get ahead of time
I’ll take you on, this act is wearing me out
I’ll take you on, your spell is fading out
I’ll take you on, this act is wearing me out
I’ll take you on, your spell is fading out
I’m climbing fences
Try to break this blind man’s wall
The sky is trembling
I’ve got to change my ways for now
Got to get myself together
I’ll take you on, this act is wearing me out
I’ll take you on, your spell is fading out
I’ll take you on, this act is wearing me out
I’ll take you on, your spell is fading out

So this is the band that I’ve been listening to, A LOT, lately. I really don’t know much about them other than my assumption that they’re from Texas. You see, I rarely seek out new music. I depend on people, like (few) of you, to come and shower me with precious melodies. Most of the time they’re golden, but (thankfully) not golden showers. This is one of those songs that will make your car ride automatically that much cooler. And I’ll be honest, I think people with a refined taste for non-commercial music are way more interesting and appealing than the sheeple that depend on mainstream music. God, ok, fuck, I want to be tactful and non-judgmental and all loving and encompassing, but like I’m no Noah. I admit it; I do make assumptions on someone when I hear what they’re playing. I never take “innocent looks” through people’s iPods. I do psychoanalytic anal-listic analyses on their psyche based on their Kelly Clarkson playcounts. Just kidding. I don’t judge people based off of their iPod libraries; I write them off:
“Cool man. No brah, I like Foo Fighters, too. Dave is a talented musician. They rawk!”
“Oh no, I’ve never heard of that band. Are they good? Oh, cool man. They sound like The Killers? Kewl.”
And that’s where I imagine myself cutting off their ears and donating them to science. But I never lie about my feelings (hear that ladies??? never).
“Oh that’s cool. I used to like Foo Fighters but I’m not 17 anymore and my teenage angst has maturated into a big life failure. And as talented a musician as he is, he’s no Kurt Cobain.”
“Oh no, I’ve never heard of that band. Are they good? Oh, cool man. Do they sound like Interpol or The Killers? What do you mean? Of course there’s a difference.”
But what I was getting at is that Alamo Race Track is one of those bands that makes you so much cooler when you drive around with them blaring out your speakers. I’d rather be seen in my old, beat-up truck playing this song than be in a new, never-been-in-a-fight truck playing Fallout Boy. I mean, If I were to see someone in a brand new Lamborghini pull up next to me playing The Killers, I swear I’d laugh so hard I’d oatmeal my pantaloons.
-- Sonnyred
http://www.box.net/shared/n8q4k6g29v
Keep these walls from moving
We should get on just fine
Turn off the lights
I’ve got to get myself together
Don’t be my savior
Keep this girl away from me
There’s something changing
I should get out of here
Love me, leave me, stop
Cut off your hoola dance
Don’t beat this dog
I’ve got to get ahead of time
I’ll take you on, this act is wearing me out
I’ll take you on, your spell is fading out
I’ll take you on, this act is wearing me out
I’ll take you on, your spell is fading out
I’m climbing fences
Try to break this blind man’s wall
The sky is trembling
I’ve got to change my ways for now
Got to get myself together
I’ll take you on, this act is wearing me out
I’ll take you on, your spell is fading out
I’ll take you on, this act is wearing me out
I’ll take you on, your spell is fading out

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