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.