Thursday, November 18, 2010

Anal-og is in!!

Analog format is the new Tibetan snow leopard. Video game cartridges have been replaced by the disc. Books are being replaced by stupid ebooks. Vinyl records are now simply some file on someone's computer. Is shit being made any more?

While the convenience for consuming all of this stuff has improved, the tactile and personal connection to the objects are now missing. There was something cool about using a Walkman cassette player because of the tapes.

Carrying a bunch of cassette tapes around may be a serious faux pas but so is using faux pas. Being a Neo-Luddite may be the next coolest thing in the world. So fuck whoever questions the cassette player you are using. In fact you should just tell them to be aware of the analog comeback.


Similar to how a single piece of DNA evidence is always found by some crime scene investigator, there some things that are just impossible to get rid of. Glitter is one of those things that can linger around forever. Glitter is the arts and crafts version of herpes. Its all fun and games till you are at an interview and the guy asks 'is that glitter on your face?' Pretty embarrassing. Yet, like finding bar stamps all over your body, glitter can be a sign that you are a rad person.

Waking up at a music festival is always different and interesting. Sometimes you're still drunk or sometimes you're still feeling something thats not alcohol. Either way you are definitely not in a socially acceptable state of mind. But thats why you're at a music festival and are therefore permitted to wake up under a SUV.

Day 2 for me is generally the hardest day of partying at a music festival. I don't know why, it just happens. Long story short, I woke up with glitter all over my body the next morning. Crawling towards the rest of the team one of the buddies I just met asks 'dude, did you dance with a pixie last night?' I could only laugh.

A couple of months later I am sitting in the library when I notice there is a speck of glitter on my forearm. Now for a hippie this wouldn't be a problem, because they rarely shower. I, on the other hand, happen to perform that task everyday I remember to. So I texted the pixie to tell her that she gave me 'arts and crafts herpes'. The pixie very calmly told me that it was not the end of the world and she was right. After a while I calmed down and rubbed the glitter off of my arm.

There was one thing that I was obligated to do. It would be difficult so but it was important that i do it. I had to text and tell girls I have been involved with since the incident that they should probably get their shit checked out.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Wintry Drinks pt 1

My philosophy for 'wintry drinks' has always been simple, make them stronger and blame the cold weather. While taste maybe a secondary concern for my wintry drinks there is some thought involved. The plan of attack has always been for me and most people I know to simply 'throw some peppermint schnapps in that shit.' This winter will be different! Maybe.

Simple remedies that already exist, border on alcoholism and are probably why they are so awesome. Fuck it, its the fucking holidays right? Take coffee for example. My sister would tell me to put some Irish Cream in it to make it awesome. I have been doing ever since I was 16. Brilliant! But what is there in the strictly Wintry Drink category. Drinks that only rear their vodka smelling breath once a year? Eggnog.

Let me tell you a story about eggnog. One time my roommate and I in Colorado exclusively pressed our lips with the thick concoction. He mixed in dark rum and I whiskey. Needless to say, after about 7-10 of those in one night, I don't have a taste for eggnog.

I need to fill that void. My creativity or desperation has never ceased to amaze me, so tune in to see what unfolds.

Chicken Jerkin

There just aren't enough ways to tell a complete stranger how awesome they are these days. Social conventions do not existent for this often daily occurrence. What the hell am I talking about?

I'm talking about drinking until last call (2am in philly). Walking around starving because we were dancing our asses off all night in an extremely hot and smelly dive bar. Rudely sobered up outside in the cold night. Only to pleasantly catch a faint yet unmistakable smell billowing from the distance.

'Chicken!'-one of my drunk friends cried.

As we all meandered towards the overwhelming and intoxicating plume of spices and goodness, there was something on everyones' mind. CHICKEN! Sweet sweet Jamaican-jerk rubbed chicken. Best of all, no fucking line! Salvation and salivation!

James is the master of the chicken operation. He buys 1000 pounds of chicken a week. Coats the outsides with a blend of scotch-bonnet extract, cinnamon, brown sugar, salt, pepper and a touch of nutmeg. I could've sworn there was also paprika involved but James told me there are some ingredients that shall remain a mystery.

After I shoveled three quarters of a chicken and a slice of bread to my face, I thought "how can I show this man the gratitude I have for him?" James does this out of some sort of love. Who else would tend to a fiery barbecue trailer in the wee hours? He certainly is not paying the bills with this operation. What is clear is that he isn't selling just chicken, he's selling drunk people some kind of poultry-induced euphoria. Chicken MDMA. How can I possibly thank this under-appreciated gentleman? So many emotions. So little time. But I knew what I had to do.

I drunkenly gave him a pound.

Whatever, its not like this doesn't happen every time I'm in the area.