Two wrongs don't make a right. Three or four, however...
Sleep or coffee? Sleep or coffee?
Nena! Hell yeah. I, err, I, eh ... <whispers> got her album.
Well, I was fourteen, like! <defensive>
neunundneunzig luftballons ...
Did you like any other song from that album, Nimh?! Do you still have it? You have the most unusual things around you, like that old guide to Amsterdam from about 1962; Nihmesque things, I would say.
God, there have been some one-hit wonders over the years, haven't there...
(O, was it true that Ninety-nine red balloons was about AIDS?)
Since we're totally off track here (which is great), how were the Damn Yankees, smog?
Damn Yankes? I don't remember how it was, but it was probably entertaining.
THE Damn Yankees? Well, I was raised a Red Sox fan, so....
Now, someone more skilled than I, get us back to not understanding things!
An a cappella version of "I Get Around."
Jesus Geoff is indeed in the pantry
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(And yes, Nickelback is quite the nasty, repetitive, unimaginative band.)
A half-way ticket to a plastic town where the elephants and DJs are all getting down. Walking on the tree-tops to a wacked-out sound.
One day when my neighbors are having another of their parties, I am going to get up the courage to invite myself over and get in their way entirely, making the situation awkward for everyone involved.
It always surprised me, that I should be a magnet for rejects: a solace in a world resplendent with sneerers and other belittling juveniles. Attracting the unusual I can understand; it's only natural that they should want comrades. But, what do downright throw-outs see in me?
Two lads, who were, to many people, living justification of abortion, consumed most of my youth: three whole years, in fact. They hated each other for one sole reason; each considered the other to be a rival to my 'affection.' That anyone could be adversaries to each other just because of me, I found amusing rather than endearing. I should get down to describing them, should I not? OK then.
One was called Ryan, and he looked like a degenerate sort of rainbow trout. I met him in the illustrious world of Year Seven Technology, where we weren't separated due to talent, in which pasting together sticks and making crooked crucifixes was considered 'sublime.' I could hear his onerous, asthmatic breath circling me, his prey, as he neared me.
He hesitated and said, 'what are you doing?' This was sufficient enough as an introduction for him; we knew each other's names, he supposed. 'I am trying to cut this metal without tearing apart my hand,' I said. I reasoned that, perhaps, he would be one of those who go away when niceties are not exchanged.
Two years' later, and he didn't.
"I ain't no perfect man, I'm trying to do the best that I can with what it is I have."
