Moo number 2

But then my other moob device was interested in talking or elektro comm or whatevs.

Chat later, online Christian soldiers

Sent from my iPod

Moobile

Label workspace and tea drinking. Brought to you by the pointlessness of moobility, mang.

V for Vocoding

It has taken me years to figure it out, but apparently speaking and singing like a normal person is stupid. (Not even stoopid, just dumb.)

And really, I'm on board. If you can say and sing all the things you want, except when it would help you can add a cool 'wah wah' to a word or phrase. Its really, really convenient, kind of like adding emoticons to speech. Which is long, long overdue, obviously.

Seriously, a couple of years ago when I heard some people say that rap/hip-hop were over I thought bullshit, but I didnt really care one way or the other. But now Snoop, Lil Wayne and Kanye have all got in bed (literally) with T-Pain and it is obvious that R&B is cool and I am not.

Its Too Bad You Suck

All british rappers suck. I say this without having hears every british rapper, but Im pretty confident it is true.

I had to work in a retail store the other day and the in-store soundtrack had some dizzbag british rapper talking about bullshit. There were also this new-ish single from Lil Wayne on later, and the kid that was helping me during the day asked me if i thought lil wayne was good. I said he was funny, and blah blah. He said it was good to hear because so many swedes think lil wayne is the best rapper alive (like lil wayne is always telling us), and I said yeah hes a good rapper, just a really funny lyricist. Or whatever; I dont know anything about whats cool.

But now Im watching some ridiculous moose crap on The Real World and these people are horrible assholes, and I wonder if I should be the judge of what they like or hate. Cause this one hoe dressed in ass pants and with gross braided hair kissed a girl in a club, said her mouth was numb and figured out that the girl she kissed was "on coke. Im out."

If those people like british rappers (or RnB folks, cause its the same thing now; assholes) then they should continue liking them and it will be one more way for me to figure out who I do and do not want to know.

Here's Something That is Bad

This is one of a thousand reasons you should not watch late-night TV.



This little clip capped a terrific episode where Dharma played drums for a rag-tag group of teens who worked countless hours learning "Tubthumping". We never really know if they mastered anything more than "I get knocked down, but I get up again...", repeated ad nauseum, but it is implied in a very sad, sad way.

Likely the worst aspect of this is the fact that Bob Dylan was two years in-between albums. Time out of Mind was two years out, and Love and Theft still two years away, so any 'promotional' excuse is out the window. I finally got to sleep when I convinced myself that Bob had somehow ended up sleeping with Jenna Elfman and was guilted into the gig.

Top 10 or so People I Saw at the Mall Yesterday

I was reading a list of tips the other day. It was a bunch of things that are 'must haves' for successful bloggers. I know that I will never be a successful anything, let alone this blogging bull hockey, but I want to try so maybe people will like to read me.


One of the tips was about Top 10 lists. When I was an early teen I got to stay up late enough to watch Letterman's Top 10 and I thought it was great. So yesterday I took my camera to the mall and hip-shot people that looked halfway interesting. Apparently photography is illegal in many shopping centers, so don't tell anyone about this. Especially don't tell the crazy people that were at the mall yesterday.


These aren't in any particular order, but I'd be happy to explain them. But you should know that the lady watching the flautist was really dancing her crazy ass off, and the slightly washed-out redhead was probably onto me. I don't know for sure, but she did make clucking noises at me. Also, I have no idea why this paragraph is underlined, and I can't fix it.

Click to Riches

At first glance, freelance writing seems to be a big crappy mess. Sure, some sites dress up their crappy job opportunities by making them blog-related, or podcast-related, or virealball-related (the next big thing; you know, virtual reality football), but they are all sad for the same reason. Contributors aren't paid for facts, cleverness, or even boobage. Paychecks are instead divvied out according to ad-revenue, which is so completely sad. In fact, I wouldn't want anyone who clicks on embedded ads to be reading my articles. Does anyone still try to 'Shock the Monkey', or beat the guy in a swimming race, or do 10 pull-ups before the ad can? Crazy.

Then again, I apparently missed the boat on this phenomenon. As a matter of fact, my web content has been driving traffic to some completely bullshit websites for years. In college I wrote a faux-advice column for our paper, Chips (I don't know why it was called Chips). It was called the Lively Lagnappe, and I would make up questions, pretend someone sent them in to me, and answer them in funny, unexpected ways. Fairly juvenile, but entertaining and maybe helpful. Who knows?

These were all archived on the Chips website of course. I am fairly certain that my column no longer exists in the Chips archives. I haven't the foggiest idea where they may have gone, but suffice it to say I was disappointed to find them gone during a recent search. But my disappointment was nothing compare to my surprise when I found my columns littering websites hocking female condoms or offering varied information on deja vu.

http://www.rapex.co.za/The-Lively-Lagnappe/

I don't have a clue as to Chips' copyright protections. Should I be claiming past profits from web traffic, or just be happy that my one-off college writing career will now apparently outlast anything else I may do in life. Apparently I should accept my destiny as female condom salesman and deja vu mystic.

The Brothers Bikeamazov.

My first ever dedicated blog effort coincides with my liberation from the pedestrian shackles of perambulation.

Thanks to some deft financial finagling by yours truly (and the steady income of my terrific/employed girlfriend), bikes were bought. This involved a somewhat post-apocalyptic exploration of Solna's nether regions, but a helpful business-park-basement record store employee put us on the right track to Cykel Expo. This just happened to be the place that Jackie pointed out as a likely candidate for a bike shop (seeing as a young girl on a bike was sitting in front of the building); I was nonplussed, Jackie was magnanimous.

While we were certainly hoping for some sort of utopian variety of used cycles, our tastes could not be sated with a reasonably-priced two-year old . No, much like any well-to-do prospective adopters we were preoccupied with the newborns. Two fresh-framed black beauties, no doubt the pick of their respective litters. Built-in locks? Check. On-board generator? Check. Basket for fruit and candies and random street finds? Checkmate. These bikes were ours.

Stockholm is a fun place to bike around. The sun stopped shining the moment we made the purchase, and has not been out in force since. No matter. After my first solo tour this afternoon, I think the ol' 7-speed will be my new mode of transportation. Now I just need somewhere to go.

ps - Would it be a good idea to remove all the marketing from my frame? I think yes, but I'm taking suggestions. I thought about having stamps printed with photos of my friends, and sticking them all over my bike. Maybe not my best idea, but the best so far on this particular topic.