Wolf in the Fold

Are you too lazy to fold a shirt but not too lazy to build a machine to help you fold a shirt? Then hot damn this video is for you!

It doesn't mean they're not out to get you.

Where there's a shill, there's a way.

The Next Big Thing: Axis of Emo

GRAND THEFT AUTUMN (WHERE IS YOUR BOY) (Fall Out Boy)

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Fall Out Boy emerged from the legion of punks playing melodic music with Take This To Your Grave in 2003. Great day in the morning! Has it been that long?

Well, what a difference two years, and the endorsement of Seth Cohen can make. I mean, for a band that was named after an obscure character on The Simpsons, (the sidekick of Bart’s favorite comic book hero, Radioactive Man, to be specific) Fall Out Boy’s first album, 2003’s breezy Take This to Your Grave, sold like hotcakes (mmmmmm…hotcakes), but it took The OC to finally land these guys on the pop culture map. Now, after an upgrade to a major label and a concise but glowing recommendation from Newsweek, I think it's safe to say they're done flying under the radar.

The lesson this four-piece from Chicago carries over from its smart-aleck predecessors, such as Blink 182, is that they avoid taking themselves very seriously for the span of more than one song, which allows their cleverness to shine through. Me? I like that in a band.

If you're a fan of Jimmy Eat World and New Found Glory (i.e. infectious, heart-on-the-sleeve-style rock, and if you're reading this, I'm guessing you are) you'll love Fallout Boy. No lie. Despite the somber deduction that, “the poets are just kids who didn’t make it,” Fallout Boy has arrived, proving that not all incisive lyricists slip through the cracks.

Oh Hell, Just Hate the Playa Already

Riddle me this:

What do you get when you mix a giant douchebag, a recording studio, and the worst single ever released by a human being? The funniest fucking thing you'll see today!

You haven't lived until you've seen Kevin Federline bobbing his head and tripping out to his own pathetic single. Well maybe you have, but everything up until now has just been practice for this.

Rappy Bernard.

How do you say "carthartic?" "Cathartic."

Your 15mb are up.

And it's Not to Score Touchdowns

My dad is not athletic.

I’ve never been particularly athletic myself, but like every little boy, I loved to run. I was pretty sure I was the fastest runner ever… I even won medals at the Cub Scout Olympics. Given a choice between walking to the car, and running to it? I chose running every time, and twice on Sundays.

So for years, on those few and far between occasions my dad and I went anywhere alone together, he’d always offer to race me “there.” To the car… to the front door of Radio Shack… on the best weekends, to the lake to throw balled-up bread at the ducks.

It wasn’t a pretty sight. My dad is a gangly fella, and was older than dirt (my GOD! He had to be 40 by then!), and me? I dressed poorly, and wasn’t terribly coordinated, so there were a lot of short arms and legs and long collars flailing about… yet, by some miracle, I usually won.

Sure, sometimes it was close… but generally? Oh yeah, I won.

And we’d sit there, outside of Moran Oldsmobile, and he’d congratulate me, and note with amazement that this time I’d run even faster than that time in the Safeway parking lot. He’d tell me it wasn’t cool to gloat about winning and remind me that I always had more in me, and next time? Next time would be the fastest yet.

It took me years to realize that the greatest lessons my dad ever taught me were learned in the parking lots of greater Fremont. I learned lessons about not just being a good man, but being a better person in the red zones of most every hobby shop in Alameda County… all from a guy who had twice my stride, and no desire to move faster than a saunter.

Someone on Smallville dies tonight.

Sure, there’s a moment we’ve been waiting five years to see, and coal is crushed and titans clash… but we’re left standing over a fresh wound in the ground… and I’m left thinking about a summer afternoon long ago… sitting on a curb next to my dad, while the rest of the world walks by….

Like tigers on Vaseline.

Experts of panel.

Cowl at the moon.

Life and how to live it.

Jack hasn't even been near a gun, violently interrogated someone or barked "Where's the bomb?" in nearly two years. You think that matters? Come, Mr Tally Mon....

(scroll down... dude's compiling a pdf of the 24 body count this season... kinda' rocks)

Super Bowl Brought to You by the Letter "S"

Holy shit.

I said it before: I don't know about football; I don't care about football... but man I love the Seahawks.

Maybe it's that they're so damned earnest... maybe it's that they're built to be underdogs... maybe it's that they really are a team, and not just a bunch of guys waiting for a better contract... maybe it's that happy as I am here, back in California? I miss Seattle. Maybe it's that they have the teeniest lime green accents you ever did see on their uni's. Maybe it's that I can't not follow a team named after a mythical bird.

Maybe I like it when bald guys finish first.

I dunno... but I do know I've walked into every August for years crowing "This is it! This year the Seahawks go all the way!" This year? At long last? Today? They're NFC champs, baby.

So, yeah... I don't care about football. Still, nothing's stopping me from wearing my Darth Vader football jersey on 2/5, and setting my Emerald Downs pint glass down on my the end coaster while we watch the game in... well... earnest.

Go Hawks.

Hooked? Not appealing.

I'm not even supposed to BE here today!

You wanna' piece of me?

File Under Pressure.

File Under Water

According to In Touch Weekly, Kevin Federline wants to open a Vegas nightclub.

The magazine reports that there’s a bit of a hitch, though: Kevin needs to get the money from his wife, who’s none-too-happy with the idea of her spouse spending his time in a nightclub.
A friend says, “The last place Britney wants Kevin to be spending his nights is in a nightclub, even if he’s the owner.” Still, K-Fed has persuaded Britney to talk to the owners of the Palms Hotel and Casino in Las Vegas, about the possibility of his opening a nightclub there.

Damn it must be nice to be married to Britney. The girl can't say no to anything. And she should, because "Hey Britney can I build a nightclub?" or "Hey Britney, five milkshakes, twenty minutes - think you can?" or "Hey Britney, why don't we give the baby some weed?" are questions with only one right answer. And that answer is to tattoo the words "boy toy" on Kevin's ass and drop him in prison.