Here’s what I learned today: Old rotted wood soaked in old gasoline burns VERY WELL in the fireplace. But it makes the house stank like gas. Oh, and burnt arm hair smells terrible too.
Even dumber: When I lived in Chicago, I often biked around town. To stave off boredom, I’d stop at the Art Institute, toss them my $.25 donation, and spend 20 minutes flying through the museum. I’d walk REAL FAST, catching a quick glimpse of every picture/piece in the museum. But one long hallway always slowed me down. It was full of armor, swords, and other warish crap. Those swords inspired me. I never could figure out what that junk was doing in a world class art museum. Every day hundreds of people would stop to look at that garage sale junk, probably wondering the same thing. But there it was. When nobody was paying attention, some punk had slipped it through a back door, and into the hallway.
One day, I’m gonna make it into the musical/cultural equivalent of that hallway. And I’ve got just the vehicle to park me there. It’s a song recorded by my old sucky band, written by our 17-year-old drummer. EVERY angst-ridden teenager who has ever heard this 77 second “song”, has thoroughly embraced it. It speaks to the 17-year-old mind. One of these days I’m gonna flip on the TV, and hear it in the background of some commercial. From there it’s a short ride to the hallway.
Here’s the song. After you endure all 77 seconds, go assault a random teenager with it, and see if I’m not talking more of my usual BS.