Monday, August 30, 2004
the world of man has reached its ultimate apex
Nothing in the history of existence has exceeded this. Were the world to end today (which it shall, my friends) this would be estimated by God herself to be the greatest achievement by the sorry shitfaced contingent of pathetic humanity to ever achieve achieveful achievement. When once one comes to tears, others learn to love. The universe is full of sadsack mustachioed lotharios, each less pathetic and indicative than the last. If Matt Roth can succeed, then there is hope for us all.
Nothing in the history of existence has exceeded this. Were the world to end today (which it shall, my friends) this would be estimated by God herself to be the greatest achievement by the sorry shitfaced contingent of pathetic humanity to ever achieve achieveful achievement. When once one comes to tears, others learn to love. The universe is full of sadsack mustachioed lotharios, each less pathetic and indicative than the last. If Matt Roth can succeed, then there is hope for us all.
Sunday, August 29, 2004
Great Scott
Parts and Labor are a superior Trans Am noise combo. Opener Tiger Saw are Galaxie 500, Low, and Young People flushed down the same toilet. And headliner Big Bear is slightly boring noise-metal with banshee-screamo-chick vox. Overall an excellent way to spend a pre-orientation Sunday evening.
Parts and Labor are a superior Trans Am noise combo. Opener Tiger Saw are Galaxie 500, Low, and Young People flushed down the same toilet. And headliner Big Bear is slightly boring noise-metal with banshee-screamo-chick vox. Overall an excellent way to spend a pre-orientation Sunday evening.
Friday, August 27, 2004
my animal home
dark told me to post this, or blog this. i am an internet nerd now.
"my brethren,
i saw the animal collective last night and it was pretty awesome. the environment was poor- it was in an art gallery with some stupid shit for art, it was crammed with 500 people and therefore hot, the beer line was too long to even consider, and people were jabbering during the quieter parts. Nevertheless, they prevailed. They had the geologist and another dude (perhaps Deaken) in tow, and started low key and droney and noisey and then built it up to a frenzy for the last few songs. They are fucking crazy. Jumping around and dancing and whooping and hollering. It was a spectacle.
They had two electric guitars (avey tare and the other dude), a couple drums (panda bear) and the geologist was fucking with everything through his mixing board thing. He wore a miner's light on his head so he could see the knobs. They only played one song from sung tongs (kids on holiday- insane style), and the rest were new i assume. I read in an interview that they only play new unrecorded songs for the most part. panda bear didn't sing very much unfortunately, but i did pick up his solo album which is good so far. Sort of like Campfire Songs, nothing like Here Comes the Indian.
will sabiston's band opened the show. they're like Nipples For Days with better equipment and structure.
Comets On Fire was next. Psychedelic soloing nonstop with psychedelic screaming on top at times. Sounds like the France if OJ had his way (ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh).
Black Dice were last and got shut down by the cops. They had already almost emptied the joint anyway.
Anyway, write me with any questions you might have.
SA"
dark told me to post this, or blog this. i am an internet nerd now.
"my brethren,
i saw the animal collective last night and it was pretty awesome. the environment was poor- it was in an art gallery with some stupid shit for art, it was crammed with 500 people and therefore hot, the beer line was too long to even consider, and people were jabbering during the quieter parts. Nevertheless, they prevailed. They had the geologist and another dude (perhaps Deaken) in tow, and started low key and droney and noisey and then built it up to a frenzy for the last few songs. They are fucking crazy. Jumping around and dancing and whooping and hollering. It was a spectacle.
They had two electric guitars (avey tare and the other dude), a couple drums (panda bear) and the geologist was fucking with everything through his mixing board thing. He wore a miner's light on his head so he could see the knobs. They only played one song from sung tongs (kids on holiday- insane style), and the rest were new i assume. I read in an interview that they only play new unrecorded songs for the most part. panda bear didn't sing very much unfortunately, but i did pick up his solo album which is good so far. Sort of like Campfire Songs, nothing like Here Comes the Indian.
will sabiston's band opened the show. they're like Nipples For Days with better equipment and structure.
Comets On Fire was next. Psychedelic soloing nonstop with psychedelic screaming on top at times. Sounds like the France if OJ had his way (ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooh).
Black Dice were last and got shut down by the cops. They had already almost emptied the joint anyway.
Anyway, write me with any questions you might have.
SA"
content-free movie reviews
50 First Dates: horrible.
All the Real Girls: pretty good.
Barbershop 2: good.
Along Came Polly: sorta bad.
Fog of War: haven't watched it yet.
The Olympics: not a movie, dumbass.
50 First Dates: horrible.
All the Real Girls: pretty good.
Barbershop 2: good.
Along Came Polly: sorta bad.
Fog of War: haven't watched it yet.
The Olympics: not a movie, dumbass.
Tuesday, August 24, 2004
programming note
There's a fairly awesome looking documentary on the old television tonight, courtesy of PBS's P.O.V. program. Speedo: A Demolition Derby Love Story should be great not just on account of the subject matter, but also because Oneida recorded some music for it. They're credited for "additional music", so no idea how much of their stuff made the final cut, but the film looks interesting regardless. It's airing on channel 44 in Boston tonight at ten (which, I believe, is the national debut), and on GPTV in Atlanta on August 28 at midnight. It's currently not on the schedule for Atlanta's other PBS station.
There's a fairly awesome looking documentary on the old television tonight, courtesy of PBS's P.O.V. program. Speedo: A Demolition Derby Love Story should be great not just on account of the subject matter, but also because Oneida recorded some music for it. They're credited for "additional music", so no idea how much of their stuff made the final cut, but the film looks interesting regardless. It's airing on channel 44 in Boston tonight at ten (which, I believe, is the national debut), and on GPTV in Atlanta on August 28 at midnight. It's currently not on the schedule for Atlanta's other PBS station.
Friday, August 20, 2004
pineapple shnigot
Domenic’s a good guy. Today he brought in six volumes of the Jerky Boys for a friend to hear. We were talking about something else when suddenly he asked me if I liked the Jerky Boys. I would like the Jerky Boys, if the word “like” actually meant “abhor with every fiber of my being”. Of course I didn’t tell Dom that; I said that I had never really listened to them much before. So he got all excited and told me he would burn all six cds for me. I told him that he didn’t have to do that, but he’s very insistent. He handed me a few of them to listen to at work today. I haven’t put them on yet, and even though I am drastically dumber than I was in high school I’m still pretty sure I won’t like this stuff. But so, I’m debating whether or not to tell Dom that I don’t want him to burn me any copies. It could be rude, but it’d also save him from wasting six cd-r’s on me. So who knows.
Also, I’ve heard three songs from the new, final GBV album. They were okay. Nothing excellent. Nothing even all that great. Anyone heard this thing yet?
Domenic’s a good guy. Today he brought in six volumes of the Jerky Boys for a friend to hear. We were talking about something else when suddenly he asked me if I liked the Jerky Boys. I would like the Jerky Boys, if the word “like” actually meant “abhor with every fiber of my being”. Of course I didn’t tell Dom that; I said that I had never really listened to them much before. So he got all excited and told me he would burn all six cds for me. I told him that he didn’t have to do that, but he’s very insistent. He handed me a few of them to listen to at work today. I haven’t put them on yet, and even though I am drastically dumber than I was in high school I’m still pretty sure I won’t like this stuff. But so, I’m debating whether or not to tell Dom that I don’t want him to burn me any copies. It could be rude, but it’d also save him from wasting six cd-r’s on me. So who knows.
Also, I’ve heard three songs from the new, final GBV album. They were okay. Nothing excellent. Nothing even all that great. Anyone heard this thing yet?
Thursday, August 19, 2004
Wednesday, August 18, 2004
The Boston Death Wave
That Death Wave is everywhere. I saw it down on Washington, smiling at me. You try to run but it’s still right there, soaking in the atmosphere. I’m in this park with this chick I know and we’re standing with a goose and then, fuck, Death Wave! I had to drop my churro. I tried to strangle it, but you can’t strangle it. You can’t strangle the Boston Death Wave. It put a dent in my foot the size of my shoe. I grabbed it by the collarbone and started smacking, but it threw me in the water and made off with my mutton. The Death Wave is wily.
In Italy they have a name for it. The Boston Death Wave took over most of Allston and bummed everyone out. It ate everybody’s security deposits and oozed football. It smelled like a patriot and could never pronounce even the most slightly ethnic sounding name. The Death Wave tried to join an anarchist’s society but they all thought it was a cop. It quit it’s job at Domino’s after they instituted a delivery fee and cut the drivers’ pay. The Death Wave thought about the country a lot, and the celebrities, and it’s parents back home. It wasn’t happy, and it didn’t know why.
On a vacation to Australia the Boston Death Wave bought pornography for the very first time.
Eventually the Boston Death Wave graduated, and moved out of Allston. It got a job in New York and rented a place in Brooklyn. People stopped calling it the Boston Death Wave. It met somebody special, settled down in Jersey, had some kids. It’s new friends called him Earl, Earl Death Wave. It was still afraid of sex and still hated dogs but it no longer had to deal with all those snakes. The Boston Death Wave had been domesticated, and no longer tussled with all makes of humanity in the darkness of the early morning hours of the harvest season. It was still kind of a dick, though.
That Death Wave is everywhere. I saw it down on Washington, smiling at me. You try to run but it’s still right there, soaking in the atmosphere. I’m in this park with this chick I know and we’re standing with a goose and then, fuck, Death Wave! I had to drop my churro. I tried to strangle it, but you can’t strangle it. You can’t strangle the Boston Death Wave. It put a dent in my foot the size of my shoe. I grabbed it by the collarbone and started smacking, but it threw me in the water and made off with my mutton. The Death Wave is wily.
In Italy they have a name for it. The Boston Death Wave took over most of Allston and bummed everyone out. It ate everybody’s security deposits and oozed football. It smelled like a patriot and could never pronounce even the most slightly ethnic sounding name. The Death Wave tried to join an anarchist’s society but they all thought it was a cop. It quit it’s job at Domino’s after they instituted a delivery fee and cut the drivers’ pay. The Death Wave thought about the country a lot, and the celebrities, and it’s parents back home. It wasn’t happy, and it didn’t know why.
On a vacation to Australia the Boston Death Wave bought pornography for the very first time.
Eventually the Boston Death Wave graduated, and moved out of Allston. It got a job in New York and rented a place in Brooklyn. People stopped calling it the Boston Death Wave. It met somebody special, settled down in Jersey, had some kids. It’s new friends called him Earl, Earl Death Wave. It was still afraid of sex and still hated dogs but it no longer had to deal with all those snakes. The Boston Death Wave had been domesticated, and no longer tussled with all makes of humanity in the darkness of the early morning hours of the harvest season. It was still kind of a dick, though.
Tuesday, August 17, 2004
Friends with Thor
We high-fived with our hands and leapt through plate glass. The streams of blood crosshatched my oversized biceps like spiderwebs. He didn’t have that problem; he doesn’t bleed. Sometimes ichor will come out of him, but that happens mostly when he’s fighting planet-sized snakes, or when he’s trying to impress ladies over on Lansdowne. We stuck our landings upon the craggy outcropping straight out, and after a moment’s dramatic pause we alighted from the promontory and struck dead for the heart of the outburst.
We busted up some giants with these fists and some dumb hammer. Maybe I shouldn’t call it dumb, but it definitely isn’t as cool as a scimitar, or a studded mace shaped like a football. After battle and over beer we talked about that hammer, and he started to have second thoughts. A hammer might have been intimidating a thousand years ago, but in this modern day of power-tools and lasers a hammer doesn’t seem like much of a deterrent. We talked it over at Jillian’s and eventually both agreed that maybe a good electric drill was the way to go, or perhaps a big metal ladder.
We made it an early night and headed for the taxi stand. He had to help his girlfriend’s cousin move the next morning, and didn’t want to stay out too late. We split a cab even though he was headed to South Boston and I was going to Somerville. It was late, and we were both a bit drunk, and the conversation started to get confessional. He told me he didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up. The owner of the fish market was talking about making him manager, and what with another kid on the way he was seriously considering taking it. Of course that increased responsibility would make fighting crime at night even more of a hassle for him, but sometimes you’ve got to face hard decisions. We’re getting old, he said, too old to keep on doing this panty-hose crap. I didn’t say anything, just nodded my head.
We pulled up to his building right around then. We left the talk unresolved and said goodbye. As he was entering the code to get in I realized that Apollo probably doesn’t have to put up with this sort of shit.
We high-fived with our hands and leapt through plate glass. The streams of blood crosshatched my oversized biceps like spiderwebs. He didn’t have that problem; he doesn’t bleed. Sometimes ichor will come out of him, but that happens mostly when he’s fighting planet-sized snakes, or when he’s trying to impress ladies over on Lansdowne. We stuck our landings upon the craggy outcropping straight out, and after a moment’s dramatic pause we alighted from the promontory and struck dead for the heart of the outburst.
We busted up some giants with these fists and some dumb hammer. Maybe I shouldn’t call it dumb, but it definitely isn’t as cool as a scimitar, or a studded mace shaped like a football. After battle and over beer we talked about that hammer, and he started to have second thoughts. A hammer might have been intimidating a thousand years ago, but in this modern day of power-tools and lasers a hammer doesn’t seem like much of a deterrent. We talked it over at Jillian’s and eventually both agreed that maybe a good electric drill was the way to go, or perhaps a big metal ladder.
We made it an early night and headed for the taxi stand. He had to help his girlfriend’s cousin move the next morning, and didn’t want to stay out too late. We split a cab even though he was headed to South Boston and I was going to Somerville. It was late, and we were both a bit drunk, and the conversation started to get confessional. He told me he didn’t know how much longer he could keep it up. The owner of the fish market was talking about making him manager, and what with another kid on the way he was seriously considering taking it. Of course that increased responsibility would make fighting crime at night even more of a hassle for him, but sometimes you’ve got to face hard decisions. We’re getting old, he said, too old to keep on doing this panty-hose crap. I didn’t say anything, just nodded my head.
We pulled up to his building right around then. We left the talk unresolved and said goodbye. As he was entering the code to get in I realized that Apollo probably doesn’t have to put up with this sort of shit.
Monday, August 16, 2004
I've never flown hungover before
Oh man, what a weekend this most recent of weekends was. Illimitable thanks to all friends who came out and lovingly caressed me, or who at least said hello. The shows were fun - Xiu Xiu were good and friendly, Oneida were excellent as always, and Brass Castle are the best rock band to ever come from Atlanta – and the afterparties were awesome. It’s a good feeling, sitting in a kiddie pool with your friends and your favorite band while the gayest bachelor’s party ever erupts around you. Unfortunately we couldn’t find a lady willing to take off her top and cook us steaks. So dudes abounded. Despite the lack of any boobs other than my own, it was still the greatest bachelor’s party I’ve ever had.
So I get home after that monumentally ridiculous weekend and find an overstuffed envelope full of new promo cd’s. Jeff at DOA sent some great stuff my way, like the latest Acid Mothers Temple record, Mantra of Love, and the new Fall record, The Real New Fall LP. That right there saves me $30. (And fellas - if you want to get some "action" from some "ladies", that AMT record is friggin' magic) Also got the master for the next Garlic Yarg record Great Magnetic Wolves, from Smolken. It’s a fucking keeper, and the best GY stuff I’ve heard yet. It was recorded outdoors, in a forest (hopefully). It’s a real beaut. I’ll try to get an mp3 up here or over at Nokahoma soon enough.
But so, thanks again to everybody. I hope to make it back down soon enough. And thanks to dehumidifier and the Captain for taking some good pictures.
Oh, and finally, if anybody comes across any livejournal entries from whiney, disaffected young art punks, complaining about our show on Friday, please let us know about it. We love reading that sort of stuff.
Friday, August 13, 2004
this week's mp3 recommendation...
... courtesy of Fonal Records and Kemialliset Ystavat. Here's some fine rustic psych-folk from Finland. This particular song sounds like Animal Collective playing in a forest, or like Acid Mothers Temple if they were tree-dwelling gnomes and took less speed and even more acid.
Oh yeah - this is nowhere near as abrasive as last week's mp3. Sorry about that, but I believe I gave everybody fair warning.
... courtesy of Fonal Records and Kemialliset Ystavat. Here's some fine rustic psych-folk from Finland. This particular song sounds like Animal Collective playing in a forest, or like Acid Mothers Temple if they were tree-dwelling gnomes and took less speed and even more acid.
Oh yeah - this is nowhere near as abrasive as last week's mp3. Sorry about that, but I believe I gave everybody fair warning.
Wednesday, August 11, 2004
The Ansari X Prize
I’m gonna win that contest. I built me a spaceship that’s going to take me into outerspace! It’s made of plutonium and s’mores, and it travels at speeds in excess of 8,000 ticks per cycle. The rocket boosters sure can make some noise, and are quite good at propulsing things. The ship seats two comfortably, or uncomfortably, if one is a horse. I don’t think I’m going to bring a horse with me, though. I’ve sent out invitations to a few folks, like Cheryl Tiegs, and Gandhi, and hopefully I’ll be hearing back from them shortly. If not, maybe the horse will have to come. That wouldn’t be too bad; outerspace is, after all, his natural habitat.
When we get to Jupiter I’ll stick the only flag I’ll ever salute* deep into that soft Jovian soil, and then take a leisurely dip in that big orange dot. Winged Memory (the horse) will collect the finest samples of the indigenous flora, with which we shall construct a palace whose splendor shall exceed even that of the Monster Plantation. Our natatorium will make the Pacific look like a puddle of piss on the bathroom floor of a casual dining establishment.
At nightfall Winged Memory will give me a massage beneath the amber glow of Jupiter’s twin setting suns. His muzzle will graze tenderly against the back of my neck. His hooves will linger gingerly in areas I normally try hard to conceal. Perhaps my towel will "accidentally" slide off my unclothed body, and fall to the ground below, exposing my manhood to Jupiter’s harsh elements, and Winged Memory’s harsher love. Away from the prying eyes and prattling gossip of Earth, Winged Memory and I will be able to end our foolish charade, and finally indulge our most fervent desires. Our love shall flow like the Thunder River; at first it shall be leisurely and serene, only to gradually become rougher and more rapid, and ultimately ending on a conveyor belt, with neither of us as wet as we thought we would be. As we fall to sleep on our mattress of spacedust and dreamstuff, Winged Memory will caress me deep within his bosom, neighing contentedly in his sleep. Jupiter will be our own personal kingdom, a private refuge from the petty minds and provincial attitudes of Earth.
Winged Memory and I can not wait to slip in through the legal loopholes that will be opened by homosexual marriage. Our love can no longer be postponed; it must be shared now. We must love openly and freely, and so we must leave this Earth behind, and travel to Jupiter. We shall accomplish that with my homemade spaceship, and in the process we shall pocket a cool $10 million dollars. If anyone else would like to go with us, I could maybe fit another row of mini-van seats in the back of the spaceship. You'd have to pay for it, though.
* the Confederate Flag
I’m gonna win that contest. I built me a spaceship that’s going to take me into outerspace! It’s made of plutonium and s’mores, and it travels at speeds in excess of 8,000 ticks per cycle. The rocket boosters sure can make some noise, and are quite good at propulsing things. The ship seats two comfortably, or uncomfortably, if one is a horse. I don’t think I’m going to bring a horse with me, though. I’ve sent out invitations to a few folks, like Cheryl Tiegs, and Gandhi, and hopefully I’ll be hearing back from them shortly. If not, maybe the horse will have to come. That wouldn’t be too bad; outerspace is, after all, his natural habitat.
When we get to Jupiter I’ll stick the only flag I’ll ever salute* deep into that soft Jovian soil, and then take a leisurely dip in that big orange dot. Winged Memory (the horse) will collect the finest samples of the indigenous flora, with which we shall construct a palace whose splendor shall exceed even that of the Monster Plantation. Our natatorium will make the Pacific look like a puddle of piss on the bathroom floor of a casual dining establishment.
At nightfall Winged Memory will give me a massage beneath the amber glow of Jupiter’s twin setting suns. His muzzle will graze tenderly against the back of my neck. His hooves will linger gingerly in areas I normally try hard to conceal. Perhaps my towel will "accidentally" slide off my unclothed body, and fall to the ground below, exposing my manhood to Jupiter’s harsh elements, and Winged Memory’s harsher love. Away from the prying eyes and prattling gossip of Earth, Winged Memory and I will be able to end our foolish charade, and finally indulge our most fervent desires. Our love shall flow like the Thunder River; at first it shall be leisurely and serene, only to gradually become rougher and more rapid, and ultimately ending on a conveyor belt, with neither of us as wet as we thought we would be. As we fall to sleep on our mattress of spacedust and dreamstuff, Winged Memory will caress me deep within his bosom, neighing contentedly in his sleep. Jupiter will be our own personal kingdom, a private refuge from the petty minds and provincial attitudes of Earth.
Winged Memory and I can not wait to slip in through the legal loopholes that will be opened by homosexual marriage. Our love can no longer be postponed; it must be shared now. We must love openly and freely, and so we must leave this Earth behind, and travel to Jupiter. We shall accomplish that with my homemade spaceship, and in the process we shall pocket a cool $10 million dollars. If anyone else would like to go with us, I could maybe fit another row of mini-van seats in the back of the spaceship. You'd have to pay for it, though.
* the Confederate Flag
Friday, August 06, 2004
this week's mp3 suggestion
Dead Raven Choir, a "band" made up of a Texas-based Polish dude who calls himself Smolken the Digger, is one of the more interesting parties involved in that whole Wire-endorsed "freefolk" deal. Like many of those bands, it's hard to tell just how serious D. Smolken is; his highly dramatic voice and Vincent Price horror movie lyrics can veer pretty close to parody sometimes, and his obsession with wolves and goats is obviously wielded in the name of hilarity. He's occasionally invovled with the Jewelled Antler folks, though, and they're not quite as overtly comedic as the Sunburned Hand of the Man guys and other such people. So who knows.
But here's an mp3 from his site, a noisy, almost unlistenable cover of Leonard Cohen's "First We Take Manhattan". It sounds somewhat like the Dead C, and somewhat like sticking your head in a jet engine.
Dead Raven Choir, a "band" made up of a Texas-based Polish dude who calls himself Smolken the Digger, is one of the more interesting parties involved in that whole Wire-endorsed "freefolk" deal. Like many of those bands, it's hard to tell just how serious D. Smolken is; his highly dramatic voice and Vincent Price horror movie lyrics can veer pretty close to parody sometimes, and his obsession with wolves and goats is obviously wielded in the name of hilarity. He's occasionally invovled with the Jewelled Antler folks, though, and they're not quite as overtly comedic as the Sunburned Hand of the Man guys and other such people. So who knows.
But here's an mp3 from his site, a noisy, almost unlistenable cover of Leonard Cohen's "First We Take Manhattan". It sounds somewhat like the Dead C, and somewhat like sticking your head in a jet engine.
Thursday, August 05, 2004
I watched the Wilco movie last night.
And besides looking like Philip Seymour Hoffman with bad dreads, Jay Bennett sounds exactly like Dave "Gruber" Allen.
Maybe the band needs him, though; A Ghost is Born is a pretty big disappointment, in my opinion.
And besides looking like Philip Seymour Hoffman with bad dreads, Jay Bennett sounds exactly like Dave "Gruber" Allen.
Maybe the band needs him, though; A Ghost is Born is a pretty big disappointment, in my opinion.
Tuesday, August 03, 2004
Viva Knievel
TNT’s Evel Knievel biopic this past weekend was damn sure close to amazement. In addition to sporting some fantastic ‘70’s hair and clothes, George Eads was completely believable as a dumb-ass asshole who jumped shit. Evel Knievel lived a most awesome live, occasionally taking time off from his busy schedule of drinking, cheating on his wife, and jumping shit in order to shoot pool and accidentally kill Beau Bridges (America’s least favorite Bridges). Evel’s greatest accomplishment, however, was when he jumped over Karl Wallenda as the old sky-walker did a headstand on a tight-rope 700 feet above Tallulah Falls Gorge. That is the finest moment in Georgia history, according to James Cobb, the B. Phinizy Spalding Distinguished Professor of History at the University of Georgia. I’d recommend this movie to anyone who likes Evel Knievel, Georgia history, and/or star-spangled jumpsuits.
TNT’s Evel Knievel biopic this past weekend was damn sure close to amazement. In addition to sporting some fantastic ‘70’s hair and clothes, George Eads was completely believable as a dumb-ass asshole who jumped shit. Evel Knievel lived a most awesome live, occasionally taking time off from his busy schedule of drinking, cheating on his wife, and jumping shit in order to shoot pool and accidentally kill Beau Bridges (America’s least favorite Bridges). Evel’s greatest accomplishment, however, was when he jumped over Karl Wallenda as the old sky-walker did a headstand on a tight-rope 700 feet above Tallulah Falls Gorge. That is the finest moment in Georgia history, according to James Cobb, the B. Phinizy Spalding Distinguished Professor of History at the University of Georgia. I’d recommend this movie to anyone who likes Evel Knievel, Georgia history, and/or star-spangled jumpsuits.
I actually don't hate these assholes
At least not all of them. Martha is always very sweet, as is Frankenstein. Domenic’s pretty awesome, and Maxine and Julie are fine too, but the robotic routine of saying hello to people you don't know at all but see every day is one of the things I hate most about this and every job. And I guess it's always hard to start back up after a vacation, especially when your tonsil is swollen up to the size of a testicle.
At least not all of them. Martha is always very sweet, as is Frankenstein. Domenic’s pretty awesome, and Maxine and Julie are fine too, but the robotic routine of saying hello to people you don't know at all but see every day is one of the things I hate most about this and every job. And I guess it's always hard to start back up after a vacation, especially when your tonsil is swollen up to the size of a testicle.
I was in Atlanta
and somebody fucked with my chair. Either they replaced it with a new one, or else they reduced the tension on the back. It now leans back at a 135 degree angle with hardly any pressure applied whatsoever. It’s annoying. I thought I was going to fall backwards and die the first time it happened. I hate these assholes.
and somebody fucked with my chair. Either they replaced it with a new one, or else they reduced the tension on the back. It now leans back at a 135 degree angle with hardly any pressure applied whatsoever. It’s annoying. I thought I was going to fall backwards and die the first time it happened. I hate these assholes.
