rock over London. rock on, Chicago.

party time.

http://www.reandev.com/taliban/

excellent.

Jerry Falwell sez,
“If you’re not a born-again Christian, you’re a failure as a human being.”
well, that explains me, then.

I am at the paper.
and I am bored.

you can only have so many inane (nevertheless impassioned) conversations with your coworkers over every dumb topic that comes up in the news. then, you’re moderating a debate between the city state editor and the sports editor over the worthiness of the Darko Milicic pick in the 03 draft, and you step back and wonder what the fuck you’re doing with your time.

so, a few things.
don’t get anchovies on the pizza. I keep learning that the hard way, every time I order it from Rockits.
“but they’re so salty, Matt!”
I know, but is it worth your breath for a day?


also,
it has occured to me, that no real discussion has ever been given to the title of the blog.
“rock over London. rock on, Chicago.”
so here we go.

Wesley Willis grew up in a Chicago project in the 60s. he was one of like seven or eight. didn’t know his father, I believe his mother was an addict. spent a lot of time in foster homes.
I don’t believe he was technically retarded, but he was definitely close.
either way, he was homeless for a while. in 89, he started hearing voices, and was diagnosed with schizophrenia. and so it began.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wesley_Willis
I have to say, I love wikipedia.

either way, I don’t remember how I first heard of him. I think it was Neil’s little brother, Andy, played Rock n’ Roll McDonalds for me.
but, I do remember the first time I heard him and saw him.
actually, that was a great day. Willis was actually performing in Valparaiso, at this short lived little club that was to service the student population of VU called “the Venue.” it’s gone now. he had to have been one of the biggest acts to ever go through there – there wasn’t much competition otherwise, besides Mustard Plug. and they suck.
yeah, so he was performing on a friday night in October, so I went home for it. a lot of friends were there. let’s see. Dave. Ben. Neil. Drew. Sean Whittaker (he counts, I guess). Dave’s brother.
lots of people went to Wesley Willis shows more for the novelty.
the guy was like 350 pounds, babbled, smelled like a bus, had one of the foulest mouths on the face of the planet. he had a huge scar running across half of his face, from where some junkie slashed him when he was riding around on the CTA back in the day. apparently, he did that a lot. he wrote songs… well, they were technically songs. for those of you who aren’t in the know, everything was performed on this big assed Casio. it had those set drum beats, set rhythms, that you could lay down, and change the key as you saw fit. I believe Wesley’s beat of choice was “country rock 8.”
the show, therefore, was always Willis, usually wearing sweatpants and a shirt that couldn’t handle his considerable girth, sitting behind his keyboard, changing the key with one huge finger, and reading the a laminated photocopy of his lyrics into a microphone.
awesome.

the song could be anything. and I mean anything.
here’s some titles:
“rock Saddam Hussein’s ass.” “get on the bus.” “Illinois State Police.” “Birdman kicked my ass.” “fuck you.” (that’s one of my favorites) “they threw me out of church.” “STD conked out my engine.” all those fan favorites, plus about a million titles that read “suck/lick/eat a (insert random animal here)’s dirty/smelly dick/ass.” the man was obviously an artist.

the show I first saw him at actually had Grand Buffet opening for him, which is how I caught wind of that traveling sideshow. so it was a great night. Wesley was always approachable. we got a couple of pictures with him. he signed my CD. we did the headbutt thing. man, I’m never gonna forget the headbutt thing.
this is the headbutt thing. you get in real close. he was tall, like 6 foot something, and he’d stay seated behind the table where he’s hawking his shit, and you’d lean over the table to him. he’d grab you by the back of neck, and butt heads with you. he’s looking you right in the eye as he says “say rah.” you say rock. the he says “say row.” you say roll. then he screams, not like bloodcurdling, but this high pitched “aaaah!” grinning. he had a huge fucking knot right in the middle of his forehead. from the headbutts, he gave a lot of them.

but that’s all by the wayside. people are screaming at me right now, saying, “what the fuck does this have to do with the title of your web log, Matt? god damn, get to the point!”
well, okay.
at the end of every song, Willis would scream “rock over London. rock on, Chicago!” then he tacked on a slogan: “Wheaties, the breakfast of champions.” “Burger King, have it your way.” my favorite was “Mitsubishi – the word is getting around.”

Wesley Willis died in August of 2003, from complications due to lieukemia. they held a public viewing up on the west side, which was accompanied by plenty of his pen and ink sketches (which were actually quite good), photos with friends, and one of his about four dozen records playing at a low hum in the background. in the casket, all made up and shit, he looked a lot less heavy than he used to be, but I think it was due to the fact that he had lost a lot of weight in his last months. who knows?
oh. yeah, I went. I went to the wake. I signed the guest book. I stood by the coffin silently for a few minutes. a lot of people were there. he had quite a fan base in Chicago (not to mention the nation) and a lot of true friends in the city.
then people like me showed up, people who are halfway between gawking and paying their respects. I wasn’t sure why I was there. and I’m not trying to justify myself, but by this time, though I had gotten past the initial novelty of Wesley the freakshow, and started appreciating Wesley the person.

I don’t pretend to have known Wesley Willis. but I was definitely intrigued by him.
yes, his music sucked. yes, he was a novelty for most who saw him. but after a while, I wasn’t laughing at him. I was laughing at the situation, but not at him. his music was therapy to him, he claimed it helped “silence the demons” (the voices in his head). he recorded all of those bizarre rants because it made him feel better, and cause he loved it.
and that’s fair enough. I mean, even though the guy died at 40, was grossly overweight, and was fucking batshit insane, I admire him. he really made something of himself, tried to deal with his problems.
I only hope I can do as much with the shit I’ll go through some day. the guy battled, the guy did what he loved, and he made a lot of friends doing it. you can’t fault him for that. you can only hope you’ll be as lucky or as courageous to live a good life. for an undereducated schizophrenic retard with health problems, Wesley Willis didn’t do too bad.

paper’s winding down. I’m out.

I just heard this track by Rage Against the Machine. had it on my computer. it’s live. begins as one of those jam songs, where the drummer plays some minimum beat, the bass plays the same thing over again, the guitarist dicks around in the background. de la Rocha is up there, talking to the crowd – and it’s a festival crowd, there are a lot of people there, you can tell. and here’s what he said…

“hey, check this out right about now…
I want to introduce a brother who came all the way out here from Long Island, NY. and he’s one of the founders of revolutionary music in our time period, who was a huge influence on us and we want to bring him out right now. so check it out: we’ve got a man by the name of Chuck D of Public Enemy.”

Chuck D comes out, and the two of them rhyme about how they, in a nutshell, don’t trust the government. don’t believe the government. think it lies, it uses people…

“come on, y’all, give it up for Chuck D.”

crowd is cheering whenever they’re addressed. de la Rocha is beatboxing, then he says,

“Zapata’s blood wasn’t spilled in vain… on January 1st, 1994, the indigenous farmers of southern Mexico declared war on an unjust and illegitimate government… out of the depths of the most foul, the most poor, came a just armed struggle for democracy, justice, and liberty, and it won’t stop until that 65 yr old dictatorship, the PRN, is buried in the ground, and the people’s voice is heard once again.”

he’s talking about the Zapatistas.
http://www.chiapaslink.ukgateway.net/ch1.html

“yeah, so check it out. on January 1st of 94, they became known as the Zapatista Movement, and they have a saying, and I want you all to sing along with me real quick…
it goes something like this: it goes, ‘everything for everyone, and nothing for ourselves. everything for everyone, and nothing for ourselves. everything for everyone, and nothing for ourselves’…”

all well and good. it’s just a shame that it was wasted on a bunch of bourgeois assholes at what was probably Woodstock 3, sponsored by Pepsi. who had no fucking idea what he was talking about. who didn’t appreciate the message, or listen to what he was saying, let alone did they give a fuck about the Zapatista Movement or know who Emiliano Zapata was.
they were just reacting to the band, which sounded angry. and angry means it rocks, dude!
alas, such is the duel nature of Rage Against the Machine.
man. I just indicted an entire festival crowd with no supporting evidence. what can’t I do?


AND NOW FOR SOMETHING COMPLETELY DIFFERENT:
Galia’s gonna put an album out.
thanks for fucking telling me, Galia.
and she’s got a promoter. who is gonna take her to Japan to promote it, and she’s gonna do a few concerts over there.
Galia’s going to be big in Japan!

to end:
I need to go to the DMV tomorrow, get a new ID. I snapped the other one, and taped all the pieces back together. but now the pieces are breaking into new pieces, and all the tape in the world won’t save me now… everyone say a little prayer that I’m not in line for three hours.

well, not right now, anyway, but I’m singing along. what a great song. I love the Pixies. “dig for fire,” go check it out, you lowlife.

so a couple of days ago I’m at the paper. just to pass the time, I decided to check my schedule for the fall semester. see what my week is gonna look like.
turns out, I wasn’t registered. I haven’t registered yet.
oh, JESUS CHRIST.
see, the thing is, I thought I registered. I really did. I even recall registering, vaguely.
okay, time out. this is for all you young kids out there: stay on top of your shit, and pay attention to your appointments, your dates. write down phone numbers, confirmation numbers, hold on to receipts, floss daily, check your sack (or your breasts) for lumps. do these things, or end up like me: possibly staying on another semester, and paying the tuition to do so.
I need four classes to complete the Criminal Justice BA. I finished my English degree; that’s done. I need P290, K300 (a stats. course), and two 400 level CJ courses. I was going to bust it out, be done by December. but, since I wasn’t registered, and it’s mid June, there isn’t a great chance of getting into the necessary classes.
K300 has a 40 seat limit. there’s only one class, and it’s full. I’m like #16 on the waiting list.
I think I deserve a round of applause.
so. what I’d have to do, if I can’t convince my counselor to bump me up to the top of the list, or a) take only three classes in the fall, and K300 in the spring or b) take everything in the spring.
which wouldn’t be that bad. did I mention the Grand Buffet/Magnolia Electric Co. tour? I think I did (it’s not the Coke Dares after all; it’s Magnolia). following a couple of bands around the northeast and making an amateur documentary with Ben. if I’m not in school, I’d have time for it.
gawd, imagine explaining that to Dad.
“hey, Dad. I’m in school for another semester, but it’s okay. I get to go on tour with a bunch of, (ahem), musicians.”
it’d get ugly.

what else.
I actually had a staff at the paper on Sunday. one of the copy editors from last semester, Sarah, came in and pulled some hours. which is good, because if we’re being honest, she catches more shit than I do. and she came in during a rush, which really helped. and, there’s supposedly another girl coming in on Weds.
I get paid around 90 bucks each pay period as copy chief. it’s basically all the money management decided to allot to the copy desk. if they start showing up regular, I’ll probably go thirds with them. fuck it. I don’t like being a boss, and I’m not there for the money anyway. that’s what Dagwood’s is for.
oh, and of course, she comes in, and I say hi, but I’m not overly friendly. she’s there for two hours, and I say probably a dozen things to her.
good job, Matt, scare off the help that you could so desparately use. next time anybody comes in to work for copy, I’m gonna be Mr. Personality. that means no cursing and lots of small talk.

also.
Neil, Kyle, and Pat are driving way, way out west in two weeks. want me to go.
they’re driving, and I shit you not, they’re driving first to Vegas to see the Chili Peppers and some DJ I couldn’t identify for a million dollars. that’s two days in Vegas.
then they’re driving to Santa Monica, (which is in some place I hear is called “California”) to stay in a condo being rented by a friend of Pat’s. supposedly near the beach.
gonna stay there for four days or so. one of those days, they’re going down to Tijuana. Pat says “dude, it’s only a day trip!” I don’t have a map in front of me, but… well, maybe it is, I don’t know, but I was under the impression it’s a big damned state, and it’d take longer. but that’s neither here nor there. Pat keeps talking about seeing a “donkey show” and mexican prostitution. good lord.
then, they’re driving back. they’ve got ten days to do it.
all that shit in ten days. took me about nine to get to Vegas and back on my own, and we’d be in Kyle’s tiny little yellow Mitsubishi. they claim that it would only cost like 250, tops.
I claim they’re all retarded. I’m not going, I know. I’ve got two jobs, and shit going on. and I don’t have the strength that ten days of Pat, Kyle and Neil would require. it’d be straight driving and alcohol.
but… well, I hear beautiful things about San Diego and Santa Monica, and, well, southern California. all I’ve seen of that state so far was 29 Palms Marine Corps Base – we visited it a while back on a family vacation. it’s where my parents lived right after they married back in that golden age of music and fashion: the early 70s. my brother was born out there.
all I really recall thinking was that hell probably looks a lot like the desert between Phoenix and LA.
but back to the point. could I be dumb enough to try it? intense driving for over a week with three degenerate assholes I went to high school with? probably not. but you’d better check back in and find out!

whoop. I’m out.

ps- this post sucks. but I got to stay in the habit.

it’s late. and I’m going to sleep. but I bet youse guys didn’t know this about the guy who wrote the “hey!” song that is sung at every sports event in the United States.

In the ’80s, Glitter went through bankruptcy and was arrested for drunk driving, but his downfall came in 1997 when he took his computer in for repair and the technician found kiddie porn on the hard drive. Glitter was arrested and sent to prison, where he served two months starting in November, 1999. After his release, he lived in Cuba and Cambodia. He is a very controversial figure in England, and could face great harm if he ever returned.

ROCK ‘N ROLL: PART 2
by Gary Glitter
hey! hey! hey! hey!
ba na na na… hey! ba na na.
ba na na na… hey! ba na na.
ba na na na… Hey! Ba na na.
hey. hey. hey. hey.
ba na na na… hey! ba na na.
ba na na na… hey! ba na na.
ba na na na… hey! ba na na.
hey. hey. hey. hey.
heyayayaye, heyayayayaye

that’s totally the way I want to be remembered: awesome song, kiddie porn.

what a few days.

went home.
funniest moment of the last two days: mom called the dog a “fucking idiot” under her breath when she caught her eating her own shit. when I acted appalled, she said, “Matt, she’s out there eating her own crap like it’s a chocolate cupcake! what do you want me to say?” awesome.
did the normal yardwork thing. cleaned off the roof, out the gutters, mowed the lawn, convinced mom it was a poor idea to uproot six ancient bushes because a) I didn’t feel like throwing my back out and b) I like those god damned bushes.

saw Uncle Steve. he’s holding it down. we played solitaire.
saw Uncle Bill. he lost a joint somewhere on the driveway, he’s convinced. I helped him look. found nothing.
Aunt Nettie was doing some soul searching, in her own way. she was sitting there, pissed about something, and said to Uncle Bill “I just wish I’d die. all I do is eat and go to church.”
Uncle Bill was in a blunt mood, and said, “well, Nettie, then you should have died 75 years ago.”
I laughed. I was in the other room.
it’s not funny because Aunt Nettie is having to come to terms with extreme old age, a sense of helplessness, and the end of her life; it’s funny because when you break it down, all my family really does is eat and go to church. but hey, I like to eat, so who’s complaining?

Neil and Drew and I took the train up to Wrigleyville. Red Sox are in town, and the blues festival was in Grant Park, so traffic/parking would have been evil. EVIL. so took the train, and we saw the Futureheads.
I had heard of them before, had borrowed their debut from a friend and listened to it a few times. wasn’t that into it. I mean, it was alright, but I wasn’t too impressed. I’m not even sure if I got all the way through it.
either way, they put on a good show. first time in a while I saw a band on stage that honestly looked happy to be up there, appreciated the applause, etc.
it was an all ages show, which means a lot of younger kids – and if you’re a 16 yr old kid who is going to make a big trip into the city to see a relatively obscure band, I’d imagine you’re not the kind of person I hated when I was in high school.
so the crowd was younger. but that’s okay, it was a good crowd.
they’re a good band live. the bassist had this huge, shit eating scottish grin on his face, like he couldn’t believe the crowd was singing along. it was refreshing.
they cover this Kate Bush song, “houds of love.” great to sing along to. go out and download it, nephew. “meantime” too.

one thing I’ve noticed after that bugs me after being to a million club shows: I am not a fan of the encore. the encore has become a staple of the rock show. I mean, fuck, if you know you’re gonna come back out on stage anyway (and I know you are), do us all a favor and don’t spend five minutes dicking around backstage, making the crowd wait. like some big ego trip. like band wants to hear people chanting their name.
if you leave the stage, fine. I’m done standing shoulder to shoulder in a crowd with a 15 yr old girl inches in front of and below me, whipping her ponytail in my face. I’m on the verge of rolling out.
get your asses back out here so I can enjoy your goddamned music. I’m trying to have a good time! fuck!

and something to charleston chew on: Bjork is still awesome, even if you don’t listen to the mix tape of Bjork in your car for months, and then put it in 40 miles north of Indianapolis on a whim, and sing along with window rolled down at 70 mph.

tonite’s feature:
Invasion U.S.A.

from the back of the box:
Action superstar Chuck Norris is Matt Hunter, one-man army and solo defender of America’s precious freedom after being invaded for the first time in history.
A ragtag army of terrorist mercenaries led by Soviet agent Rostov (Richard Lynch) catches America unprepared and makes her a war zone from sea to shining sea. Only one man can stem the rising tide of violence and free the American people from the tyranny of the streets and skies. Chuck Norris blazes on screen, his twin holsters spitting death and destruction upon the enemies of freedom.
The heavy action goes from airboats to armored cars, as bazooka-bearing terrorists meet the savage resistance of Matt Hunter leading the United States Army into a hell of guerilla warfare on suburban streets, shopping malls and even the sanctuaries of our churches. Firepower explodes in megaton fury and death-defying stunts escalate the action to a heart-stopping when Matt Hunter, America’s doomsday weapon, launches his final plan.

I didn’t read the back of the box. what sold me was the cover. it’s got Norris wearing a denim shirt with the sleeves cut off, and blazing away with two submachine guns.
I know. I’m just jealous.

it doesn’t really matter what happens in this movie. basic premise is as the box says. mercenaries infiltrate the states and start randomly killing people to incite the rest of the population into uncontrollable spasms of violence. kind of like when the Bulls won.

but what else do it got, Matt, praytell?
well. it’s also got Chuck Norris’ haircut, Chuck Norris’ pet armadillo (to show his soft side), Chuck Norris wrestling an alligator, Chuck Norris saving a school bus full of kids, Chuck Norris kicking a bad guy in the face from offscreen, Chuck Norris shooting a guy in the chest at point blank range with a rocket launcher and blowing him out of a skyscraper window, a scene where terrorists pull into a neighborhood on Christmas eve and blow up like six random houses with bazookas, and a scene where some bad guys kill a bunch of Cuban refugees. that part’s at the beginning. I have no idea what the point of the scene was – something about cocaine – but seriously, right at the beginning. two minutes into the movie, a terrorist shoots an old man in the face.
I got this at the public library. when I return it, I think I’m going to hide it in the family film section, with hopes it gets picked up there.

but in all seriousness: if you spend the entire film waiting in vain for the hero to get shot to death or mauled by a bear or struck down by the hand of god, then it’s probably a good indication that the movie sucks.

I’m going home tomorrow. need a break. need decent food. going to see a concert in Chicago friday with my boyz Neil and Drew. it’s gonna be intense.

okay, a couple things.

sometimes I hate summer. keyword is sometimes. this is why.
okay, so I woke up this morning – my body is slowly going back to a normal sleeping pattern, which means I’m tired at midnight – and I didn’t open the windows just yet. just sat there with the A/C on for a while.
cause you know it’s gonna be sick hot outside.
but the problem is if I can’t stand sitting in the air conditioning for too long a time. I feel like I’m not participating in the day with the rest of society.
this doesn’t apply to everybody; like Mike. he turns that shit on as soon as it breaks 70 degrees.
for me, though, I don’t know. feels like I’m being entombed. especially when you can look outside, see that it’s hot, see that the world has finally snapped out of the annual coma we call “winter,” and you’re still sitting inside with the windows closed trying to pretend the change never happened.
if I’m home, this feeling makes me turn the air conditioning off and open the windows every hour or two. feel the heat.

and I watched this Frontline documentary by Seymour Hersh on the invasion of Grenada. military called it “Operation Urgent Fury.”
what a fuckin’ circle jerk. I mean, what was the point of that shit? Grenada? they wanted a goddamned airport! the only result of that (besides god knows how much tax money wasted on the operation) was around a hundred people dead so Reagan could have better poll numbers.
and oh, check this out:
remember when Regan died? last year? and the entire country had to go into about a week of predetermined mourning, because it was what he wanted in his Presidential will?
well, you can buy these t-shirts of Reagan, like of his bust. they’re in black and white on red. conservative humor sites sell them. go and look.
I was thinking of buying one, putting big gaping black holes where his eyes are (or just Xing them out) and writing “bed time for Bonzo: 1911-2004” underneath at the bottom.
greatest president of the twentieth century my ass.

lastly.
someone took my bumper sticker off my car.
seriously.
it had this pair of groping hands, and it read “My, those boobs look heavy. May I hold them for you?”
yes, I know, that’s disgusting. I’m a pig. no one thought it was funny, at all, besides me.
true. but therein lied its charm.
I’ve got no idea who took it or how long it had been gone. it’s not like I go out and check on it every other day. but if I had to make a guess, I’d say the blanket term for the thief would be “hippie.” probably something about it being “degrading to women” or something. psshaw.

okay, I’m still at the IDS. and it’s really slowed down, I’m just waiting for the P1 70s to come out so I can go home – but two things:

first, and I don’t know how I got myself on the subject, but the Gary Chicago Airport. website is here: www.garychicagoairport.com. I really, really hope they open that. imagine what an airport would do for the area, all the economic development that would occur. Daley in Chicago is in on it, cause it would partly fall under the Chicago airport authority’s, ahem, authority. that’s fine. Gary could use it like a motherfucker, no doubt. so Gary and Chicago would both get a lot of money out of it.
on the other hand, the state of Illinois wants to build an airport site at Peotone, way south of the city. out in farmland.
fuck you, Peotone. I need a goddamned airport 30 minutes from my mom’s house. so does the rest of northwest Indiana – Chicagoland’s ugly cousin. so they need to step the fuck off and throw the Region a bone, finally. I mean, as of right now, know who flies out of Gary/Chicago? Casino Express and Hooters Air.
Hooters Air! it flies to Allentown, Myrtle Beach, and the Bahamas. and that’s it! and beyond that, it’s fuckin’ Hooters Air!
hah! that’s one helluva an argument for expansion, no?


okay, and on to item number 2!
http://cougarmolly.blogspot.com/
I’m not sure if I really, really hope this is for real or if I really, really hope it’s great satire. either way, you gotta love the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-Day Saints.

Neil and Kyle came down last night. surprise.
that’s cool. hadn’t seen them in a while. I was walking over to return a video at around 8 pm when they called me: “what’s up, dude! we’re in town. we need to go out tonight.”

I was planning on staying in. catching up on my love for Tombstone Mexican frozen pizzas and drinking Snapples. watching me some movies. I got “Assault on Precinct 13″ (the original) and a documentary on a modern day cannibal tribe in Peru called “keep the river on your right.”
– okay, just to note, it may seem odd that I talk a lot about zombies and cannibals and shit on here. I’m neither, just so anyone who doesn’t see me often or at all doesn’t think I have any weird new hobbies. it’s just that Plan 9 has entire sections devoted to zombie and cannibal movies. so fuck, lay off me; those movies aren’t going to watch themselves.

okay. so I was just gonna kick it and watch television. I had gone out friday, and I’m not a non-stop party machine. I need my rest…

flash forward to 1:30 am. I was sitting outside at a table at Kilroy’s. Smith was at my left, noticeably less drunk than I was (this is not as common a scene among my friends as this web log would suggest), and I was right in his grill, telling him exactly how I feel about journalistic bias in the local newspapers.

this is me: “you see, Mike, these fuckin’ hippies over at the Bloomington Progressive actually have the fuckin’ gall to call themselfs ‘independen’.’ I mean, I hate big business too, but you read one fuckin’ article in that paper and they’re all jus’ mouthpieces for some anti-globalization/legalize marijuana/save the whales bullshi…”

(suddenly, the table full of idiots immediately next to us starts protesting loudly to the Backstreet Boys’ “I Want It That Way” being played on the jukebox.
“dude, this song fuckin’ sucks! what the fuck, dude?!”)

it was a reaction. I shot out of my chair and defended the honor of AJ, Brian, Howie, Kevin, and Nick, doing my damnedest to sing along. I only knew the chorus, but it was okay.
I think somebody called me a faggot, but that could just be me generating conflict in my head to make being drunk and stupid seem more grand.
it should also be noted that I know the lyrics to a late 90s pop hit. think about that.

oh well. we all have those moments.
Tom was out with us, too. Tom did a stint in the army, served in Iraq. Tom’s a year younger than I am, and he collects disability cause he ran over a roadside bomb and took shrapnel in his legs. he says his knees get weak if he spends too much time on them.
told me that at the end of the night, when we were walking home. that shit’ll sober you right up.

okay, I’m at the paper, and I’m sure I should be doing something other than killing time and writing about bullshit. so keep your shit together, and long live the Boys:

Tell me why
Ain’t nothin’ but a heartache
Tell me why
Ain’t nothin’ but a mistake
Tell me why
I never wanna hear you say
I want it that way