Beef with NBA players.

All right. It's the NBA playoffs, and I totally have money on a few games. But I love watching the playoffs this year because last year? Total fucking snore. Did I watch the Baby Bulls sweep the Heat this past weekend? Yes. Yes I did. And I LOVED IT. I'm down with Shaq, and yes, I like Dwayne Wade. I even like Gary Peyton! But: I also love Ben Wallace, even though I think he shoulda stuck with the Pistons. And I really love Allen Iverson. But I think all girls do. And if you don't, there is something wrong with you, and we may not be able to be friends.

So I'm watching the Nugs play the Spurs, and I hate the Spurs. I really hate the fact that Robert Horry just scored a three-pointer and the commentators are all up in arms because he's 36 and hit a 3-pointer. OK, the man makes like what? 2 mil a year? HE BETTER FUCKING MAKE A THREE POINT BASKET DURING THE PLAYOFFS. Fuck. If I were getting PAID like him and didn't make that play, I would feel guilty. For all of 2 seconds, and then go out and buy myself a Lambourghini.

Speaking of Spurs, WHAT THA F is up with Manu Ginobili's hair? He looks like one of those kids in third grade whose mum dropped him off at Supercuts telling him to get a sweet lil cut, and he decided to take matters in his own hands and get like 3 inches off too short. So Manu, you fucked your hair up, and for the playoffs too. That's not cool.

Pussy Cat Fever.

Oh Robin Antin. How you are delectably evil in all ways. I can't believe I sat through the entire season of "The Search for the Next Pussy Cat Doll." But it was worth it. Why? Not because of the skanky costumes, or the fact that one of your contestants looks EXACTLY LIKE A CO-WORKER. But it's because America got to see Lil Kim...as a mentor. And that was priceless.

By the way, that Lead Pussycat (Nicole) keeps a tight muzzle on the rest of the Pussykittens. And we're all thankful for that because if the other Pussykittens sing like Asia, it's probably a good idea to keep that quiet.

it's a really tough life

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Gwen Stefani,Alicia Keys- Kiss
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Go see this movie.

The Prisoner: Or How I Planned to Kill Tony Blair

Underneath the brutality, the injustice, and all the things that have been so very wrong about the Iraqi war; this documentary will strike a chord of hope thanks to the strength of Yunis, Khalid, and a young American soldier named Benjamin Thompson.

Visit the film's site

Dude. That is SO not Peter O'Toole.

Forget Grey's Anatomy. October Road takes the Twinkies, the Ho-Hos, and the Little Debbie snack cakes for being the most predictable storylines EVER.

Here's the thing that I've discovered is so awesome about this show: it has no continuity. Take for example, an episode of CSI. The plotline is pretty standard: Someone dies, the mighty CSI-ers (including the super hot and steamy Warrick Brown--swoon!) come and collect evidence and shit, Grissom busts out a few one-liners that David Caruso only wishes he could deliver without sounding like a jackass, the case gets solved in the last ten minutes, and the dead person gets justice, all thanks to Warrick Brown, Grissom, and Catherine Willows' artificially enhanced lips. Anyway. When you watch an episode of CSI, you pretty much know how the shit is going to unfold without really knowing all the technicalities.

Unfortunately, with October Road, the episodes that have aired so far have like 16 storylines going all at once. I'm not sure if it's because the writers are trying to "keep the audience in suspense" or the fact that they might get canned any minute now. But it's really ridiculous. For example: The Fried Chicken Fatty with the Whoremonkey Wife is all being sober and mooing about how he shoveled peanut icing on the kid whose medical history is apparently common knowledge....and then, in the span of 10 seconds, he goes off and attempts to whale on some frat boys because they felt up a pizza girl with bad hair extensions in her pigtails. Now, I'm not saying that he didn't have a motive to whale on some Sigma Chis (feeling up an Avril Lavigne posing pizza girl? Wrong. Just wrong.), but couldn't they just boot that plot to like the next episode or just...leave it on the cutting room floor? I mean, I understand the bigger picture--creepy hermit guy is too big of a pussy to go over there and throwdown blah blah blah, but I think we've already established that he's 1) creepy and not endearing; 2) hermitty and not in that brooding but cute art student loner guy way; and 3) reinforcing that with this pizza girl storyline is just telling us that he has no balls.

Oh October Road. You're a volatile mix of bland acting, bad storylines, and pretty people pretending not to be pretty. And yet? We still watch you. So play on, October Road, with your crazy storylines and weirdly timed arcs. And your shiny haired actresses and be-stubbled actors. And your awesomely bad lines that we love. Play on!

WTH Wednesday: I Don't Wanna Be Your Girlfriend, Avril.

For reals, I don't hate Canadians. But I'm 82% convinced that either a) they ought to pink slip their songwriters or b) hire someone to write those pesky lyrics. Or the very least, edit them.

Having that said, this week's What the Hell Wednesday goes to the esteemed Avril Lavigne. I have a lot of issues with this self-proclaimed punk princess, and it all boils down to the simple fact that she believes that she is the biggest pop star in the WHOLE WORLD, hates her fans enough to try and boot them off a plane, and can't be bothered to participate in an interview. In short? She's a douchebag. BUT IS SHE A WHOREMONKEY?

Let's examine her lyrics from her latest offering, "Girlfriend" from her vomit-inducing "The Best Damn Thing":

Hey hey, you you
I know that you like me
No way, no way
You know it's not a secret
Hey hey, you you
I want to be your girlfriend

In a second you'll be wrapped around my finger
'Cause I can, cause I can do it better
There's no other, so when's it gonna sink in
She's so stupid, what the hell were you thinking?

OK, Mrs. Derek Whibley. You look like you're about 12, and I think you've looked like you're about 12 for the past 5 years or so. If only all of us could be so lucky to hold on to your secret of youth. Maybe it was in those ties that you used to wear. But I digress: You're 12 and who do you think you are? Kelis? If you married Nas, then I would say, "OK, Avril, sing about how you're gonna be Miss Susie Homewrecker and steal a man while dissing his girlfriend. AT THE SAME TIME." But you're not Kelis. And Kelis actually didn't sing about that, she was just bragging about her milkshake, and she didn't really diss anyone's woman. Because she has class (in comparison).

So my little Strawberry Shortcake from Canada: You're still too young to be singing about being the easiest lay on the putt-putt green.

back and forth

the more you know!

11353.7. Except as authorized by law, and except as provided
otherwise in Sections 11353.1, 11353.6, and 11380.1 with respect to
playgrounds situated in a public park, any person 18 years of age or
older who unlawfully prepares for sale in a public park, including
units of the state park system and state vehicular recreation areas,
or sells or gives away a controlled substance to a minor under the
age of 14 years in a public park, including units of the state park
system and state vehicular recreation areas, during hours in which
the public park, including units of the state park system and state
vehicular recreation areas, is open for use, with knowledge that the
person is a minor under the age of 14 years, shall be punished by
imprisonment in the state prison for three, six, or nine years.

Creative of the week

Jim Goldberg.


check out more of his work here
http://www.magnumphotos.com

To My Hokies.

In the fall, when collegiate football time comes around, you'd be hardpressed to find a television station that airs an East Coast game in Los Angeles. Especially when your alma mater kinda really sucks.

I attended the University of Virginia for about 3.5 years. I wasn't too keen on it for many reasons. But that's not the point. The point is: football.

There's a rivalry between UVA and Virginia Tech that has apparently been an existence since the dawn of these fine establishments which comes to a head at football. On the game front, you should know that the Cavaliers kinda really suck. And Tech? Well, they had Michael Vick for enough seasons to establish a reputable football organization. So you know they pretty much all-out spanked us every year when I was in Charlottesville.

As for fans: UVA students DRESSED UP for football games. On game days, you would see scores of boys and girls dressed like they were heading to a church service. Blue button down shirts with navy and orange striped ties tucked neatly into their Dockers. White eyelet dresses paired with straw hats and flip flops with daisies. Tech fans on the other hand, went all out with the painted faces, the lettered beer guts, even the turkey headdress (for those of you who don't know, hokies are technically castrated turkeys). On any given Cavs vs Hokie game, half the stadium was a sea of pastels with a smattering of navy and orange; the other half was simply maroon and orange; and yet the entire stadium would be drunk drunk DRUNK (this is Virginia after all).

I never got the UVA tradition. To me, there is something very perverse about drinking a fifth of liquor on that game day while wearing your Sunday best and screaming "NOT GAY" in the school song (the fifth-drinking part is a tradition for all fourth-years on homecoming, and no I am not lying and yes, some girl died once; and no I am not exaggerating about the anti-gay slur although more and more people have boycotted it). I really preferred the Tech way of doing things: I mean, you're going to a football game. You're going to be tailgating and drinking beer and going balls to the wall. Why try to layer a level of pretentious asshole-ness on it by wearing a fucking tie?

Which brings me to my Hokie friends. Because as much as there was a rivalry between the 2 schools, everyone had friends who went to Tech. And your college experience at UVA was just not complete without at least one trip to Tech where you saw one good band (because no good bands ever came to Charlottesville, they went to Blacksburg and they played at Tech's concert hall and Dave Matthews doesn't count because he's from Cville okay?) and had one raucous weekend where your Tech friends would point out the finer art of tractor racing, the abundance of cows, and the all-mighty Drillfield.

There's been enough coverage today about the incident that happened at Virginia Tech. And it's a tragedy that needs no more words, except: I am truly, deeply sorry.

GO HOKIES.

Me & You. And Every Indie I Haven't Seen.

Crash and I don't watch the same movies. You should know this. If you were to ask him what his top five movies are, one of the following films may make his esteemed list: "Art School Confidential","For Your Consideration","Volver","Thank You For Smoking" and perhaps something by Peter Greenaway or Nick Cassevetes (excluding of course Alpha Dog and that wretched fucking music video for Justin Timberlake which is so over the top that it made Scarlett Johansen look like a no-talent hack. Which is not the case. If you don't believe me, watch Matchpoint. She's fucking rockin SHIT in that movie.)

If you were to ask me what's on my top five movie list, they may be: "Old School", "40 Year Old Virgin","Sneakers" (Robert Redford? River Phoenix? COME ON!), "Soapdish" among others. So you can understand why Crash has taken a firmer hand in educating my movie experience and encouraging me to support the underdogs, the lesser Hollywood class: the indies.

I have nothing against indie films. Except when I watch them, I get bored (Waking Life. I hated it. So what. Judge me. I don't care. I. HATED. IT. I also hate rotoscoping. I think I would have been more inclined to see A Scanner Darkly if it had super cool 3d effects. Hell, I would have seen that movie if it was an animated Disney flick. I also hate those fucking Charles Schwab commercials too! So there). I get depressed because indies are typically showing people who are depressed and/or shooting heroine. Or I just feel hosed for spending $10 to see a movie that is showing me nothing that I wouldn't normally see at midnight on Santa Monica Blvd.

So anyway. The other night, I caught a showing of Miranda July's "Me and You and Everyone We Know." Written, directed, and featured herself in the title role, her film was poignant enough, and had enough humor to carry off some CRAZY ASS SHIT which included some of the following scenarios (don't read if you haven't seen it, and plan on seeing it):
1. Those 2 teenage girls who have a contest to see who gives a better blow job. Their conversation leading up to them doing this was so outrageous--and yet? I totally remember 2 slutty girls in my art class having that same conversation when we were in 8th grade.
2. Lighting your hand on fire to impress your kids after your wife leaves. Wow. And yet? My friend Paul told me that he spent a night in the hospital getting beans pulled out of his nose because he was trying to impress his 3 yr old daughter.
3. Online cybersexing? No need for examples. You know who you are. And for the record, I'm glad that both of you happen to be of legal age.

I think that's enough for now. I could go on, but then this post would be about 8 pages too long and no one would ever read this again. My point is that Miranda July's film was actually pretty fucking awesome, and I'm quite pleased that I've stumbled upon her work thanks to my good buddy Crash. If you haven't seen the movie, you really ought to. And if you haven't seen her website for her new book of short stories, you really ought to go RIGHT NOW.

PS. One movie that makes both Crash and my top five movies of all TIME EVER is "Mean Girls." Not joking. The last time we watched that movie, Crash exclaimed, "OMG! I thought the Toaster Strudel girl was BLACK!"

PPS. Crash, stop trying to pretend that you got that copy of "Under the Tuscan Sun" in a gift basket. It's OK. I totally watched that movie on ABC Family on a Sunday. And it was shitty decent. And what's more embarassing? Owning a copy of that movie, or admitting to watching ABC Family?

The Wrap-Up, So Far.

We blog hard, but damn, it's hard to keep up with all this shit. So here's the round up:

1. Danielynn's dad is a named Birkhead. I dunno if that's a good thing, but it sure beats having that guy Howard K. Stern as a dad because let's face it: he looks fucking creepy, like the kind of guy who is SO obsessed over Anna Nicole and then gets delusional and acts out a V.C. Andrews storyline (ie, where there is at least 3 of the following family traumas: long lost half-siblings, incest, and a swarthy dark handsome hunk of a man who beds the protagonist and then impregnates her and disappears. Not that I ever read that smut. EVER.)

2. Marc Jacobs is freshly out of rehab, and his new BFF is...Naomi Campbell. Obviously, rehab is not only a place to shun your vices, it's also a place to shun your common sense. Nothing like drug and alcohol abuse to go hand in hand with chucking cell phones at employees. MJ sales employees, watch your heads.

3. Britney Spears has a new boyfriend. It's the guy who recorded that very syrupy song "Collide" that is featured in every single Mandy Moore movie. And guess where she collided with him? In the hallway. In rehab!

4. Dean and Tori's show Inn Love? Totally fucking awesome. Shut up, it is. Nothing made me laugh harder than when Tori was getting a sonogram and announced in horror, "Honey! Our baby looks like SATAN!" Yes, Tori. Yes, he does.

5. We are indeed One Nation under Sanjaya. If we aren't careful, this kid will be the next generation's Keanu Reeves.

6. Kelly Wearstler, the judge on Top Design who won the Björk award for Fugliest Weekly Wardrobe Ever Shown on Television, is indeed an amazing interior decorator. But did you know that she was also a Playboy playmate in 1994? So the morale of this post, ladies and gentlemen: If you are thinking about taking your clothes off to pay the rent, do it because in about thirteen years, you too could be owning your own high end interior decorating firm in fancy West Hollywood and then go on cable television to crush the dreams of fledgling decorators with Jonathan Adler (whom I adore. With all my heart. I'd like his entire needlepoint pillow collection. I'd also like his house in the Hamptons, his apt in New York, and his Barneys New York credit card).

WTH Wednesday: I Don't Have an Umbrella Big Enough for Fat Joe.

Oh Fat Joe. I have nothing but love for you. I leaned back with the Terror Squad. I got it poppin'. And I felt that we thugged together pretty righteously. But Joey Crack, we need to sit down, put the champagne away, and have a heart to heart on what the hell it means when you want to make it rain on 'em hoes.

There I was, at my local Ralphs, picking out green beans, when this came blaring over the speakers:

Yeah I'm in this business of terror
Got a handful of stacks, better grab an umbrella
I make it rain, (I make it rain)
I'm in this business of terror
Got a handful of stacks, better grab an umbrella
I make it rain, (I make it rain)
I make it rain on them hoes I make it rain,(I make it rain)
I make it rain on them hoes I make it rain,(I make it rain)
I make it rain on them hoes I make it rain(I make it rain)
I make it rain on them hoes...

First of all, if you are Fat Joe, what exactly constitutes as "business of terror"? I think you're off the streets, and if you're hanging with a guy who goes by the name of Lil Wayne and you totally did a cameo in JLo's music video like 20 bazillion years ago, the only business that you could possibly terrorize is at Hermès where they apparently are still quite prejudiced against the non-French (ask Oprah).

And secondly, if you have a handful of stacks of money and were about to throw it at me, wouldn't it be more considerate to tell me to grab the nearest receptacle instead of an umbrella so I could share in your wealth? Or are you under the impression that I'm as rich as you, Fat Joe? In which case, no, I'm not, and I'll take whatever cash that is making it difficult for you to hoof it up and down a stage.

Finally, if you are giving gobs and gobs of cash to hoes, I don't know if I'd be telling the world about that. You're pretty much letting everyone know that you have to pay women to sleep with you, and if that's really the case--though I doubt it because according to a recent poll, women will happily trade in extra poundage if it comes with an equally fat bank account--but if that really is the case, you best keep that bit of knowledge locked up and the key thrown away.

Fat Joe, I tell you these things out of the deepest respect. You're a somewhat talented guy, you seem quite nice aside from the 50 Cent debacle (hell, you did a collaboration with Ja Rule. Ja fucking Rule. AFTER his stupid Grease-themed music video. I think that qualifies as beyond nice. That's pitiful nice), and you even overcame your fear of flying. So: if the rumors are true about you having ghostwriters who write all your lyrics, then you need to fire them immediately.

PS. I was going to dedicate this week to Nelly Furtado, but someone told me that dissing Canadians twice in a row for poor lyric writing would make it seem like I have a grudge against Canadians. I don't (although if your name is Kristin and you happen to be related to me and live in Canada, then I've hated you since the 3rd grade when you ran off with little Billy Carmichael which only a hoe would do. A hoe, like the kind Fat Joe and his ghostwriters would have made rain on 'em).

creative of the week

“and that's all I have to say about“ - forest gump

don't be afraid to ask

For Eric.

During my formidable collegiate years, I lived in a house with six other girls for about 2 years. Stuffed in those 2 years were sync'd up periods, general (and specific) bitchfests, cleaning schedules taped to the fridge, how-did-your-bra-end-up-in-my-laundry?, 50 different shampoo products in the showers, sly comments in the morning after a misguided drunken hookup, and oh so much more. While we very well could have qualified to be a sorority house; from the exterior of the house, people assumed it was inhabited by raucous Natty-Lite swilling frat boys. (We had a beerpong table. In the front yard. IN THE FRONT YARD.)

One of my more tame roomates was one-half of a nauseating couple--you know, the kind that you can easily picture getting married, buying a lovely townhouse in Washington DC, owning a yellow labrador and hosting vegan dinner parties every Friday night that are scored with softly playing emo music crooning delicately in the background. She and her boyfriend Eric were like walking, breathing Barbie and Ken Go To College dolls, perfectly proportioned and compatible in every possible and enviable way: She was a psych major, he was studying architecture. She loved vintage clothes and read New York Times bestsellers. He went biking every Saturday morning with "the boys." She got up early and jogged every morning for 3 miles. He wore glasses with designer frames who barely drank and never smoked a cigarette. They met and had begun dating in their 10th grade high school geometry class and were still going strong well into college despite a few speed bumps and detours along the way. In short: they were healthy, wholesome people who could have easily starred in a summer campaign for Ralph Lauren.

In our last year of school together, Eric went off to Copehagen for a semester abroad while she stayed at school. They sent each other care packages and spoke on the phone regularly. Then he got sick, was misdiagnosed with pneumonia, and airlifted back to the States when his condition worsened. She drove every weekend back up to DC to be with him for months on end. Eventually, he was diagnosed with T-cell lymphoma and flew to Seattle for a bone marrow transplant from his younger brother.

He died that Easter before graduation.

When it was time for all of us to say our own goodbyes to him, there was a crowd outside the architecture building, and each of us released a red helium balloon. About half of them got caught in a tree which made us laugh, breaking the tension.

There is a moment that always comes back to me around this time every year. Two weeks after the balloon incident and his funeral, when all of us were getting ready to venture off and make something of ourselves, I walked in on my roommate looking like she was sitting in a fog. "Are you OK?" I asked her tentatively. And she turned to me and smiled and said, "I will be. I'm beginning to smile now when I think about him."

I haven't spoken to my old roommate in about five years now--change of addresses, change of careers, change of plans have led to us growing apart. But I'd like to think that she's doing it all: the successful career, a great husband, that townhouse in DC, the yellow labrador greeting her at the door, and soy-based Friday night dinners with Pete Yorn or Jeff Buckley crooning in the background. And smiling whenever she looks back and sees the big picture.

A Conversation with an Old Friend.

S: You have about 600 friends on myspace. That's a shitload.
F: I'm getting rid of all of them.

We're in the ditch next to October Road.

Thursday Night is TV Night at Sip + Fall. After the heavyweights (Ugly Betty, Greys Anatomy, CSI, etc) lumber off the screen, the networks trot out their fledgling shows hoping to catch the leftover TV viewer to build an audience and make more of them dollah dollah bills. There's an 80-20 chance that the show will tank and skulk off the radar (the Nine? What happened? Men in Trees? Was it Anne Heche?), and ABC's latest offering "October Road" doesn't disappoint those numbers. In fact, we liked how fantastically bad it is that we not only watch it...but we watch it TOGETHER. And we want to give it awards (because hell if it's ever going to win a Golden Globe. Or an Emmy. Or meet Ellen DeGeneres. Or have a special on Oprah after nine seasons wherein all of them will burst into tears and talk about how incredibly giving each cast member was when in reality everyone kept to their trailers and bitched about how a certain someone eats garlic before kissing scenes. Oh wait, that was Brenda and Dylan on 90210.)

The Line That Spawned a new vocabulary term to Be Used in Work-Related Conversation
"My last boyfriend predumped me 3 times before our first date." Predumped? It could work!

The Storyline That Spawned an insult to a Certain Grotty Coworker
The weird greasy guy who is boinking his friend's super hot wife. That shit would never happen. Well, maybe in middle America, in a small town, but don't hot people from middle American small towns move to New York or Los Angeles to try and get on America's Next Top Model?

Least Accurate Plot Point of the Episode
OK, the kid has a nut allergy and he shovels cake in his mouth that is loaded with peanut butter (like PEANUT BUTTER PIE!), and then starts losing his breath and having some kind of allergic reaction and he goes off and finds Nick who happens to be sucking face with the Hot But Dumb Student Who Can't Take A Hint...and yet, the kid is BACK to being in perfect health, hops on his little bike and travels to India and back before breaking into life-threatening hives. Way to go, Speed Racer! Don't allergic reactions happen relatively quickly? At least that's what one of my friends told me.

Most Accurate Plot Point of the Episode
The hot lawnmower guy who once had a guest spot with his less-hot brother in 7th Heaven (another show that is so awesomely bad that it's too painful to watch) ditching the Cute but Chubbed Barkeep. Sorry honey, but that man is 1) too hot to be straight and 2) obviously not in landscaping.

Most Well-Played Plot Device of the Episode
The kid being mauled by some drunken soccer mom while eerie emo music wails in the background with a choir. Crash observed shrewdly, "That kid is going to need blood and then we'll find out who the real baby daddy is." This kid is sooo going to be that town's Danielynn. And Nick? Is sooooo going to be Eddie Murphy (you know he fathered that scary Spice baby).

And finally, Best Insult to Paul Newman
We spent a weekend with a Frenchman named Seb who was obsessed with Paul Newman, and more importantly, with the movie Cool Hand Luke. How obsessed you ask? He paid the equivalent of 2,000 baguettes (plus tax) for an original poster to hang on his wall in Paris. Anyway. The point is that when Nick barges in on his dad trying to have a decent meal with his sistah girlfriend, he delivers what is quite possibly the most awesome line in the entire episode (and it's probably the most awesome line because well, the writers for this show didn't write it, the guy who wrote Cool Hand Luke wrote it): "Callin' it your job don't make it right, BOSS!" Oooh! Burn!

Since October Road isn't on next week, we'll take that valuable time to come up with a good drinking game. Like, every time Bryan Greenberg's stubble is perfectly groomed to a 5 o'clock shadow.

A Lloyd Dobbler conversation.

A tip for you ladies out there: You may THINK that the guy that you're friends with (the one that you have been hoping for the past five-odd years or so will develop into a full blown relationship that will include weekly jaunts to the grocery store, Sunday afternoon picnics at Dolores Park, bike rides to the coast and back, watching episodes of Grey's Anatomy without once wondering what would have happened if you had gone to med school instead, and afternoons spent playing new music that he has never heard of and will therefore marvel at your wonderful and discerning musical taste) will one day turn to you and say, "You're amazing. You're wonderful. I want to spend the rest of my life with you because there is no one I'd rather be with."

Well. I'm sorry, but the odds are against you. Because if you haven't closed the deal yet, it's just not going to happen. Give it up and go to the nearest bar and down about 3 vodka tonics and find someone who doesn't know that you were a Girl Scout in middle school or that you blundered during your review with your boss. Don't worry, that dull ache that you will feel when you hear him moan and groan about his latest office crush or botched up blind date will pass, especially when it's aided by a helpful fifth of Jack Daniels.

"Smiling is a sign of a sense of humour being present"

see what happens when you try and have a little fun! have some humor folks!

What The Hell Wednesdays: Hump Day Stumper.

We listen to a lot of music for our job ("They tried to make me go to rehab/But I said Nooo noooo nooooo!"); and we also listen to a lot of music not for our job (like when Crash calls and grumps, "I'm having a bad day. Will you please turn up the speakers to your stereo and sing 'Jenny from the Block' for me? It would make my day.") In short, we are surrounded by all kinds of music from A to Z, from shithouse to stupendous, from the windows to the wall. And that means that we sometimes find ourselves singing the weirdest fucking lyrics ever written, and then when finally someone asks us, "What the hell did you just say?!", we snap back into our normal selves, with our God-given IQs, and try to blame the whole incident on a bottle of qualuudes that just happen to be in the top drawer of our desk at work.

In honor of such incidents, we'll give out an award every Wednesday to the lyrics that have tiptoed slyly into our subconscious. This week, I'd like to spotlight: Robin Thicke "Lost Without U."

There are a few things that I can look over. For example: people who use "U" instead of "you." (Pussycat Dolls, wtf is up with "Stickwitu" as a song title, much less a song?) And I can also look over the fact that Robin's dad was the dad on Growing Pains because he really can't help that fact. I can EVEN look over the fact that prior to his recording career, he penned songs for such fallen heroes like Jordan McKnight's vain attempt at a comeback album. But here's the offense that will continue to puzzle:

"Baby you're the perfect shape
Baby you're the perfect weight
Treat me like my birthday
I want it this way; I want it that way; I want it
Tell me u dont want me 2 stop (Dont stop!)
Tell me it would break your heart
That u love me and all my dirty
U wanna roll with me; u wanna hold with me
U wanna make fires, and get Norwegian wood with me"

WHAT THE HELL IS UP WITH NORWEGIAN WOOD?!
At first I thought to myself, "hmm, maybe Robin's Norwegian! and this is a thinly veiled metaphor to his manhood." But upon further research (thanks wikipedia), HE'S CANADIAN. So that ruled out argument 1. Argument 2 was that Norwegian wood is highly flammable and would make excellent kindling like hairspray, a bottle of brandy, and my 8th grade polyster gym uniform. But apparently Norweigan wood is just as special as the wood you pick up at your local Vons. Argument 3? Robin Thicke was drunk and trolling the streets of Larchmont when he spied through the window of a travel agency a poster of Norway and he thought to himself, "Ah HA! Norwegian wood!"

And then, a truly shit lyric was born.

Next week: Nelly Furtado and her ill-advised Steve Nash shout out in "Promiscuous." Not only was it the most awkard lyric of all in 2006, but it went on to spawn rumors of infidelity! Shame on you Nelly Furtado!

SIP + FALL creative of the week

i thought it would be a great idea to feature a creative person of the week every tuesday.
this week i would like to highlight director Joseph Kahn for his amazing
work on the gwen stefani "the sweet escape" video. the youtube version of the video is a little low in quality
so i would suggest going to his site and watching it! (which is btw one of the coolest sights i have been to in a while.)

www.josephkahn.com

the time changed!

is this a sign of things to come?