Quite possibly the laziest in Los Angeles county...
For anyone who doubts that you can sleep until 1:30 pm and still have a jam-packed day full of awesome, I offer exhibit A: Sunday, December 26th, 2004.
Went out last night with Eric Schmalenberger and Claudia Nell, two tall and fabulous friends from high school. Along for the ride were Fernando, Claudia's scrawny, lispy freshman cousin, and Lauren, Eric's flirty, 6-on-a-scale-of-1-to-10-10-being-hottest friend. We hopped around to a Greek bar/coffeehouse, a 24-hour deli, and a few Christmas-light spectacles around town, and ended up home around 4:30 am. After nixing plans to wake up at 6:45 and accompany Sarah to the airport, I passed the fuck out and woke up with half a day's worth of sunlight behind me. Usually, sleeping that late kinda kills the rest of my day, and I sit around in my pajamas watching reruns and wasting bandwidth until bedtime.
Not today!
A successful shoe-shopping mission yielded some brown dressy-casuals and tan-and-green sneakers, and a browse thru Wherehouse Music netted a super-cheap and long-awaited foray into Warren Zevon. For dinner, the folks and I made our pilgrimmage to northwest Houston, to a little wooden cabin in a nest of pine trees called The County Line, where I ate the shit out of a Big Daddy Platter of seven barbecue beef ribs. For those of you who have never known the joy of beef ribs, picture that big rack of meat that tips over Fred's car in the opening segment of the Flintstones. Yeah. That's what I ate tonight. Stuffed, I came home and availed myself to the joys of our new satellite cable and TiVO. Finally, I can watch MTV2, Ali G, Harvey Birdman, and new Aqua Teen Hunger Force.
Speaking of MTV2, The Killers are terribly overrated. Sure, they've got decent hooks and an interesting voice. But their arrangements could be a lot tighter, their songwriting is average at best, and their video for "Somebody Told Me" is a waste of time, money, and film. Meanwhile, music journalists (and the Killers themselves, with their jaded-Vegas glassy-eyed swagger) act like they're the hottest shit this side of a plate full of hot shit. I say they're a one-album wonder, and 2004 is their flash in the pan. Come June 2005, nobody will know who they are (or were).
As for Franz Ferdinand, they'll stick around the indie scene a bit longer. We're seeing their mini-bum-rush at popularity, but they won't float in the corporate market. Meanwhile, I still can't get into their sound. I know, I know, minus ten indie cred points for Uber. But I do dig Secret Machines. And so should you.
Went out last night with Eric Schmalenberger and Claudia Nell, two tall and fabulous friends from high school. Along for the ride were Fernando, Claudia's scrawny, lispy freshman cousin, and Lauren, Eric's flirty, 6-on-a-scale-of-1-to-10-10-being-hottest friend. We hopped around to a Greek bar/coffeehouse, a 24-hour deli, and a few Christmas-light spectacles around town, and ended up home around 4:30 am. After nixing plans to wake up at 6:45 and accompany Sarah to the airport, I passed the fuck out and woke up with half a day's worth of sunlight behind me. Usually, sleeping that late kinda kills the rest of my day, and I sit around in my pajamas watching reruns and wasting bandwidth until bedtime.
Not today!
A successful shoe-shopping mission yielded some brown dressy-casuals and tan-and-green sneakers, and a browse thru Wherehouse Music netted a super-cheap and long-awaited foray into Warren Zevon. For dinner, the folks and I made our pilgrimmage to northwest Houston, to a little wooden cabin in a nest of pine trees called The County Line, where I ate the shit out of a Big Daddy Platter of seven barbecue beef ribs. For those of you who have never known the joy of beef ribs, picture that big rack of meat that tips over Fred's car in the opening segment of the Flintstones. Yeah. That's what I ate tonight. Stuffed, I came home and availed myself to the joys of our new satellite cable and TiVO. Finally, I can watch MTV2, Ali G, Harvey Birdman, and new Aqua Teen Hunger Force.
Speaking of MTV2, The Killers are terribly overrated. Sure, they've got decent hooks and an interesting voice. But their arrangements could be a lot tighter, their songwriting is average at best, and their video for "Somebody Told Me" is a waste of time, money, and film. Meanwhile, music journalists (and the Killers themselves, with their jaded-Vegas glassy-eyed swagger) act like they're the hottest shit this side of a plate full of hot shit. I say they're a one-album wonder, and 2004 is their flash in the pan. Come June 2005, nobody will know who they are (or were).
As for Franz Ferdinand, they'll stick around the indie scene a bit longer. We're seeing their mini-bum-rush at popularity, but they won't float in the corporate market. Meanwhile, I still can't get into their sound. I know, I know, minus ten indie cred points for Uber. But I do dig Secret Machines. And so should you.