Now THAT, my friend, is a shared moment.

Last night, Paul, Jerry and I are all watching TV when a Victoria's Secret commercial comes on. Thirty seconds of pure silence as all three of us stare at Alessandra Ambrosio in complete awe.
Now, this is a completely understandable reaction coming from the boys, but when they noticed I was just as mesmerized as they were, their little faces lit up with devilish grins and Paul decreed that I shall now be known as 'Clam Eater.' Yeah, that's classy.
In my defense, though -- look at her! Can you blame me? I mean, this is one gorgeous woman.
I've decided that my goal in life is to become a tawny, leggy Brazilian. So far, I'm failing miserably, but hey -- keep dreaming the impossible dream, right?

I'm currently in the process of making my buddy Dan a few mix CDs. Now, I'm with Nick Hornby on this one. Making a good mix is a very precise science...unlike physics or biology [just ask any supporter of intelligent design].
There are a whole litany of rules -- you can't put two songs by the same artist side by side and you can't make shocking switches. You can't be listening to Hank Williams one minute and then, have your eardrums assaulted by Ashlee Simpson. It's too traumatic and in mixes, much as in life -- there's gotta be a flow. However, if you can justify the aural assault and there's a legitimate reason for it, then, it's accetable. See, if I spent as much time on school as I did theorizing about music, I'd probably have cured cancer by now. Alright, maybe not cancer, but definitely mono. OK, maybe not mono....but hangnails? Split ends?

So, one of Dan's CDs features the best blues-inflected rock I could find. The kind of songs that make you wanna kick ass, jam gears and drink beer. A little Stevie Ray, some Black Crowes and of course, you've gotta get the Led out.
I'm so that guy. You know who I'm talking about -- the dude ['cause it's always a dude and never a woman. Hmmm...more sexual identity confusion. I might wanna book some couch-time with a shrink. Or, I could take that money and buy beer! Beer wins!] who gets hammered at the end of the bar and starts grousing about how all the music now 'sucks' and how we need some 'Foghat up in heah!' Or worse yet -- the guy who screams for Freebird, regardless of which artist is onstage [For the record, I've totally done that before at a bunch of shows. It makes the classic rock loving crowd laugh and emo kids scared and confused. Frightening emo kids = Hi-larity!]

In other news -- I smell like Hugo by Hugo Boss and consequently, am swooning every few minutes, I lost an epic battle between myself and a silverfish this morning [they're easier to kill when they don't move], have come to the conclusion that Coke Zero > Diet Pepsi and decided that if I ever become a DJ, my DJ name will be DJ Thumbelina.