Rocket and his lady had a kid…last year? I think it was last year. I have trouble charting temporal relations. Rocket’s pretty frickin’ brilliant despite a multi-decade crusade against last call, sunlight and motor skills (of which I must admit partaking as Lancelot to his Arthur many a night), and his lady’s got a big brain too. Plus, they’re the prototypical San Francisco-rockstars-all-grown-up sort of couple…minus the annoying monologues on the true meaning of freedom while you’re forced to check out polaroids of them swanking matching buttless suits of armor during the early years of Burning Man, or granfalloon’d insistence that they still know where to get good blow.
So you know the kid’s gonna turn out pretty kickass no matter what.
Anyway, Baby Rocket’s latest pick for Next Big Thing is apparently this posse of happy hairy howlers:
Check out here to learn about what I can’t decide is camp, cool, faux or all of the above.
Every once in a while, one of those days comes along. One of those days that just keeps being…well…one of *those* days. A day when no matter what you try to get done seems like the Big Magnet in the Sky has decided to keep pulling bitchslap after bitchslap in the general direction of your cabasa. A day that you think is about a craptastic as any could get. A Sisyphean farce of a day.
But then suddenly…breaking through the barrage of shit stick smack downs and endless kicks to the kidney…a ray of light pierces the gloom like an hirsute angel riding down from the heavens in a video chariot called:
Excerpt from spam I just got from a Mr. Otis Linsurgent regarding a white hot penny stock tip:
A hardly most difficult hole puncher, a mastodon, and the globule inside a minivan are what made America great! Some tuba player of a fairy recognizes a cough syrup defined by a parking lot, but an anomaly from a paycheck competes with the cheese wheel around the abstraction. A rattlesnake ridiculously trades baseball cards with a Eurasian spider. Furthermore, some feline salad dressing meditates, and a steam engine almost plans an escape from the spider a grain of sand. The fire hydrant for a tuba player seldom brainwashes a slow cocker spaniel, because an ocean over a ball bearing steals pencils from a bartender toward the buzzard.
Somebody call Tommy Pynchon, cuz I’m pretty sure he just got SERVED.
Spam as literature.
The Internet is Magic!
UPDATE: Fine, fine. This one’s for McLean. MASTODON ROCKS!
But you know what else’d be pretty dope? If there was a website, kinda like YouTube but, like…better.
Somewhere where I could watch all the television I missed over the last 2 years as I toiled in the shadow of the twin spinning prayer wheels of capitalism and consumerism, unable to dedicate time to the great glass teat, the one-eyed electronic wizard of id that throughout my Rhode Island youth so often served as my “teacher, mother, secret lover“.
A place where I could watch TV on my time, for free. Somewhere I could surf to and just veg out, just get completely lost for a while.
