Itunes write up

I got this idea from someone else’s post but whenever I tried to reblog it it kept linking back to theirs so I’m just making another post.

How Many Songs: 1180

Sort By Song Title
First Song: About As Helpful As You Can Be Without Being Any Help At All- Dan Mangan

Last Song: 2000 Light Years From Home- The Rolling Stones

Sort By Time

Shortest Song: Stranded- Red Hot Chili Peppers
Longest Song: Joey- Bob Dylan

Sort By Artist
First Artist: AC/DC
Last Artist: The Yardbirds

Sort By Album
First Album: Accelerate- REM

Last Album: Voodoo Child: The Jimi Hendrix Collection- Jimi Hendrix

Death: 6
Life: 31

Love: 53
Hate: 1
You: 123
Sex: 1


KID KOALA: Moon River

Super Moon this weekend, guys.

I spoke with Courtney Barnett and gosh, if I was lukewarm on her before… sigh. On her frank songwriting and deliver:

“I just try to do what comes naturally,” Barnett says. “I let the words roll out of my mouth, and I play whatever matches that on guitar. The minute I start thinking about it, it becomes contrived.”

Peep the whole story o'er at Creative Loafing. Maybe I’ll see you at her show next week at The Loft?

CASSANDRA JENKINS: Wild World feat. Delicate Steve

My day was warm and mellow and unrushed. (Sure, I got to enjoy my first experience on the receiving end of a kill fee, but so it goes. On the flip-side, I developed a super dope sandwich I plan to repeat often in the future [toasted sourdough with garlicky hummus, sprouts, spinach, kosher salt, and a hearty spritz of lemon juice].) Hope yours was, too.

This cover is gorgeous. Good night.

02.20.15 // pore strip people

Earlier this week, I volunteered to help my manfriend clean his rather unfortunate kitchen. While balls-deep in Butthole Surfers, cheap malbec, and on my second steel wool, he innocently asked, “Is this…OK with you?” I think, since cleaning is traditionally not the most party time task we get to experience in life, he thought surely I was cursing him under my breath. But…guys, I’m kind of a pervert.

Caroline accidentally named it about a month ago when we were kicking it with bourbon and Kevin on my couch. I’m not sure how it came up, but I was trying to recall an OxiClean commercial—you know, those ones from the ‘90s when that bearded dude crouches next to a sickly-looking light brown bathtub and is all,“YO WATCH THIS,” and when you do, you see him swipe a perfect white scar, cutting through the scuzz. “HOLY FUCK,” 8-year-old me thought. Caroline nodded knowingly as I detailed all of this. “Oh yeah,” she said. “Biore pore strip people. I’m one of those, too." 


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MINT CHICKS: Life Will Get Better Some Day

Shit has been kinda bonkers lately over here. First, a breakup. Exactly one week later, my main squeeze publication shuffles in such a way I’m left without steady work in about two weeks. Between both of those and since, there’s been other weird bummers and expenses—like, holy cow. Did y’all know how much brake pads average? QUITE A BIT.

I must be approaching my return to Saturn or whatever, too, because a number of people from my past—OK, mostly dudes—have also surfaced. In an effort to be less terrible and/or continue a quest to impersonate actual humans, they all ask about me. How am I doing? I answer honestly: it could be better. Although I know there’s some fucked up expectation or practice in which we really should lie to exes. “Everything is peachy!” “I’m MURDERING life!” “Scientists found oil under my apartment and now I’m buh-buh-baaallin’. Also, Harry Styles and I have a sexual relationship!!” (To be clear, I understand it’s probably not scientists responsible for unearthing new oil reservoirs. That’s for effusive, Texan NRA members, I think.) I certainly don’t aim for sympathy or even continued conversation with these people. I’m just trying to maintain honesty, I guess.

The recent stretch of bad luck is far from my favorite and sure, I have bouts of feeling like a fucking trashcan potato person. But! I feel weirdly optimistic? There was a good amount of my most recent situation(s) that left me feeling unfulfilled. I didn’t get a worthwhile shot. The challenge wasn’t paying off—or wasn’t worth it. There wasn’t the growth potential I want (or need. Not sure yet about that).

So! Life just fucking flipped out. As it is wont to do. Although it doesn’t make much for a flattering story to share with exes—like, I don’t think any set down their phone or Gchat window to immediately stare off into the middle distance and think of me, maybe get a boner—it’s part of the personal narrative. The one in which each following chapter gets more dope.

Because ain’t growth kinda impossible without the scariness? The unknown? The effort and the risk?

A frustrated friend recently said to me: “Man, 2015 was supposed to be my year.” I kinda thought the same for me. But guess what, guys? It’s only July.