Best Song Ever?

I'm not using hyperbole nor am I being melodramatic.
I need to keep this short because the whole point of this is the link at the bottom of the page.
It's a "fuck you" song. They didn't write it that way. They just wrote it.
Click the link below and click on "Secret March".
It's the new "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious".
If you're being bullied at school, stand your ground, look the bastard in the eye and say, "You put your left foot forward; your right foot forward; put your left foot forward again."
If your boss touches you the wrong way, stand your ground, look the bastard in the eye and say, "You put your left foot forward; your right foot forward; put your left foot forward again."
I never saw Hendrix burn a guitar, nor did I ever see Pete Townsend destroy anything... But one night at the Biltmore, I saw The Wet Secrets play... Halfway through "Secret March" I leaned over to Grant Lawrence and said, "This might just be the best band I have ever seen." Tonight, walking home, the song popped on my iPod. No fear. No fucking fear.
Click the link below and go to their MySpace page.
Click on "Secret March".
Listen, learn, love. I can promise you, with this song playing in your mind, no one will ever wrong you ever ever again.

CLICK HERE

Turns Out Writing A Book Isn't So Hard But Admitting It's About You Kind Of Sucks

Writing about yourself is actually very easy, unless you plan to be honest about yourself, in which case, it kind of sucks the big one. I don't think it's too difficult to write about the life you're living because it's kind of obvious unless you have a "malignant secret" dwelling in that pesky id of yours. But writing about how you got to this spot can be trying. It's a good thing I have all this extra time to work on it because my only job prospects at the moment are winning the lottery and Charlie Sheen's Tiger Blood Intern position. Both have about the same chance of coming to fruition which is just fine by me. Though to be Charlie Sheen's Social Media Intern AND have $50 million in the bank would be pretty sweet. It will be sometime before I can open the door to my penthouse wearing my boxers and drinking champagne straight from the bottle, so until then I will knuckle down and concentrate on writing out the ridiculous stories that have made up my life so far, then try to find someway to make them all work as a cohesive narrative. For the next little while I be walking the street with my inner self trying to figure out the route that brought us thus far.
If Charlie calls, I'll take it in my office.

Laisse tomber les filles

Let's call it what it is: Girl Crazy.
I like pretty things. I like the "female of the species". The other night, my fave, big-eyed DJ played a song for me. With a smile on her lips and a sparkle in her eye, she dropped the needle on "Dirty Old Man", as performed by Thee Headcoatees. I'd mentioned I'd met Billy Childish and she instantly knew what song she had to play. She said she was joking, and she was, but she knew the target well.
She wouldn't expect me to apologize. And you know what? The likelihood of me apologizing for chasing younger skirt is slim. Slimmer than them.
During my "post what-the-fuck-happened-at-The-Biltmore" interview at VGH with BC's top stroke man (children, please), I actually told him that I'd waited this long to be a Dirty Old Man, I don't want to ruin it now.
As it stands, I'm not a dirty "old" man; I'm a dirty "older" man. I am also a manchild, an aging would-be rock star, and I love beautiful things.
I am also not so shallow to see women as merely sexual objects and I am no predator. But I guess that is for you to decide.
I have been accused of many things, and misogyny is among them, but let me remind you that assuming that what I do and how I feel is based solely on what hangs between my legs is sexism, by strict definition.

Um... wow.

I am obviously not a fashion blogger, especially when the highlight of my commentary is, "Wow". However, I do love good clothes. This gang makes some of the best.

From the Giorgio Armani Spring 2011 (La Femme Bleue)

See the full line HERE
And the Emporio Armani Spring 2011 line HERE

The things I don't do for Zombies...

Bern's just this bunny, y'know.
Anyway, she made this and I want it.

She made this and sent me a copy.

I lost my copy THAT VERY DAY. She doesn't send me things anymore. Even a copy of this (which I BEGGED FOR):

Other people still send me stuff.
Like Jane:

And Jen:

She knitted that scarf just for me!
Someone even left this outside my door one night:

But it wasn't Bern. She'd be afraid I'd lose it a couple hours later.
But I want a slutty sock zombie. So I made this blog. I needed to link back to her Blog and take a picture of bread. You really should check out her blog; it is ten flavours of pure awesome. And now, ladies and gentlemen, bread.

If I had photoshopped in a cool way, I would have got two entries. Maybe it's lazy and FAT!

There you have it.
BSC.

It is NOT a shoe fetish

If it had been me, instead of Dr. Raymond Stantz, choosing the form of Gozer at the end of Ghostbusters, it very well could have been a pair of Vivienne Westwood shoes destroying NYC and not the Stay Puft Marshmallow Man.
It's not a shoe fetish. It really isn't. I like boobs and bums and lips and eyes and don't want to drink our urine out of your size 8's, but when you see something like these (below) how can you not accept shoes as [sometimes] being art for your feet?

Sure they're impractical and you'll probably need back surgery the next day but it would be cool to scare the shit out of every man in any club with one step. AND they really are art for your feet. Something like these (below) are a lot more practical and definitely toned-down from their older sisters above, but they are still nice to look at.

Now, I know that clothes do not make the man and shoes do not make the woman but some people really need to ease up about appearance. Thinking visually is not shallowness. Likewise, and I've been wanting to say this for a LONG time, finding a woman physically attractive is not sexist. However, believing that I only find her attractive because I'm a man and, therefore, don't think about other things IS. 

Okay, enough about that...

So why am I suddenly effusing about shoes? Well, I went people hunting (camera, not spree) downtown today. It was a lousy day for it. There was bad light, it was too cold, and I felt like crap. On cold, crappy days in Vancouver, the downtown core is usually awash in well-cut but drab coats. You need the sun to poke out to get a bit of variety. But not always...

I wimped out and didn't take the pic but crossing the street at Georgia and Granville was a great pair of shoes. I didn't take the pic because she was looking right at me. She knew. Of course she did! She wore the shoes. She wore a very professional and flattering ensemble, but dark, monotone... Except the shoes. They were some kind of rich pink... I don't even know what colour they were (I am a guy after all). Anyway they looked a lot like these:

And, yes, I did pick that picture just to annoy a lot of you. And, no, that isn't her. Well, I'm guessing it isn't.

Vancouver has as many styles as it does people and we often find ourselves disappearing into a cold, grey wash when winter hits our city. So it was refreshing to see someone dropping some insane colour out there. 

Here endeth the rant...

WORKING TITLE

Only narcissistic ponces blog about having nothing to blog about.