Neurontin/Effexor XR/Trazadone/Klonopin/Celexa/Zyprexa/Depacote(sp?)/Atavan/Aderol Nation?

A conversation with JD today reminded me of my occasionally forgotten dream to turn my "life that is the work of bad fiction" into a cheesy memoir. My target audience, naturally, would be those between the ages of 14 and 19. It wouldn't be intentionally cheesy, but it seems that my kind of story is a common sort for these things.
The question is, at what age/point in life can you write a memoir? It's not like you can write a part 2 when things get more interesting. Or can you? And how full of myself am I for asking?
Does anyone care about this?

Alright, enough of this self indulgence...
Who's psyched about fucking Lou Reed performing Berlin!!! Holy shit, that album is pure genius. Somehow I have yet to see Lou Reed, and I mean "let's face it, (he)should be dead." But now...now I have my chance...for $65. Hm...

Um...what else, what...else... The truth is I don't have much to say at the moment. I'm just really, really bored at work. I'm sure some of you can relate. In fact I would imagine some of you are very bored...right...now. And you're thinking to yourself, "is this all this bitch has got? Cuz you gotta do better than that if you want to stay on my bored at work favorite blogs." Well I'm sorry to disappoint, but I...don't care.
L8r.

A look of space and total life; ready...or...not.

My faithful readers. The end of summer is slowly drawing near, and I'm starting to get mighty nostalgic. So many great shows, a southern road trip, hiatus in NH, a couple trips, yoga in the park, beautiful days, a new apartment...the list goes on.
But speaking of apartments, I'd like to offer you an official update. My roommate Ms. Gold had finally moved in a startling 6 weeks after our lease began. Although she's, um, not here for another couple days. I've been thrilled to find that my plants are lovin' the light here, and the location (yes, ye olde Bedforde Avenue) is tremendously convenient. There have been a couple unpleasant snags such as the evidence of mice and the prehistoric sized cockroach (see below), but all and all it's been great.



There's a creepy mystery space outside my bathroom window. There is no sky above the airshaft, it's just an empty hole in the building.


(looking down)


(looking up)


Eerie isn't it? Very Silence of the Lambs.

Hey, does anyone know a killer brunch place near Bedford Avenue? It must be relatively cheap (under 15 for bfast coffee and tip), lots of food, and good. Lemme know about that...




Mark your calenders, the end of summer wrap-up is coming soon!

"I'm gonna go onstage, I'm gonna vomit, then light it on fire, and then I'm gonna eat it."

It is very rare that I pay $200ish to see a band at a big festival, and am so blown away by the the ferocity of the performance that I shell out another $35 to see them again a mere two months later. I guess technically there's just one that fits those specific qualifications, and that band is Sonic Youth.
With their help, I experienced a second rock'n'roll fantasy weekend. Yeah yeah Yeahs, Beirut, Deerhoof, Apollo sunshine, Sonic Youth, and a killer jazz band whose named still remains a mystery. I'm gonna skip the play-by-play breakdown (you can get your kicks from Max), but all involved pretty much blew my mind. AND to top that, yesterday we went to the beach!

But moving on, I feel there a few urgent issues I must address:
First I would like to make a statement to a certain group of men who are trapsing around New York wearing these little vintage runing shorts. What makes you think that those things look cool? Unless you're playing high school basketball in the 1970s you have NO BUSINESS wearing them. No one wants to see your white, spindly, hairy legs in their full glory within bright orange "practically hotpants," and more importantly I don't. Plus a lot of these tools aren't sporting what's necessary to insure full coverage of the uh, bathing suit area. "They're out; and there's nothing between them and us but a thin layer of cheap nylon."

Secondly I would like to add a second reason why I h8t the alias "The Man in the Brown Hat." Does anyone remember Reservoir Dogs? (I choose to assume that no one who reads this blog hasn't seen it.) There's this scene where Tarantino expressed discomfort with his code name "Mr. Brown." The reason, of course, is that calling him "Mr Brown" is basically calling him "Mr. Shit." Now then, why would you want to be The Man in the Shit Hat?
Hm?
Score:
MBH- 0
SH8H- 1

PS: I promise I'm going to post more soon. Really this time...