The Blueprint 3 (and other reasons why I want to hang out with Jay-Z)

You know, I’m a white kid.

I know, I know. Shocking. I have been told many times that due to the roughness of my prose and truncated sentence structure that I read more like a child from the inner city. Coupled with my innate lyricism and frequent use of the lexicon of “the streets” it might be easy to confuse suburban Whitey McWhiterson over here with someone with a little more ethnic panache. Like Jay-Z for instance. Are we so different?

I would like to cite The Blueprint 3. Yes, I know, through the first two Blueprints, Jay-Z was Ragged Dick and Struggling Upward, but now, on this album, Jay-Z has revolutionized hip-hop music. He has infused it with the one thing that it never managed to achieve.


In one of the masterpieces on the record “Off That,” Mr. Carter claims to drive a hard-top saab, own a loft in tribeca (where the median sales price currently according to is around 2.5M, sitting a comfortable 1.5M above the median sales price for the rest of manhattan) and own Art. THIS IS OLD WHITE GUY RICH. I love old rich white guys. They have terrible stories generally, but would have been amusing ten years ago, and they have a lot of money to throw around. Old rich white guys buy weird shit too, like after they have a yacht and a mansion, they’ll spend 200 bones on a bottle of scotch, or 1000 bucks on a useless end table that really wasn’t necessary because the coffee table was right there, but it totally “ties the room together.” Old rich white guys are weird and freaking awesome, I hope to be one someday.

Also, they have hot younger wives. A lot of the time, except for the really awesome ones who married young and nailed the hottest thing on the market at the time. Which is awesome. Early investing pays dividends in the long run (read: hot kids. who doesn’t want hot kids?)

Anyway, Jay-Z is like an old rich white guy now, because he’s so stupid rich and has a hot wife. What was I actually talking about? I meant this to be a comment on the progress of hip hop culture toward the mainstream and it’s influence on the constantly shifting amalgam that is american culture, but really I just want to go on Jay-Z’s yacht. I think it’d be fun.


Reasons I love wearing a jumpsuit.

I’m wearing a jumpsuit right now, and it’s awesome. And I’ll tell you why.

1. College kids look at me with pity.”Oh I’m getting a college degree so I’ll never have to put one of those on. I’m never going to be working class” WRONG DBAG. You’re going to be working class, and you know why? SUB LIST

[1. Bachelors degrees dont mean shit. They're a dime a dozen. Honestly, you'll make more money getting your associates in criminal justice or whatever than you will working at brueggers waiting for your writing career to "take off" *sob*

2. You're an asshole, and no one, not one person, except maybe Paul, likes assholes]

2. NO NONSENSE. I mean, no pants, no shirt. Just SUIT. No buttons, no lining, no frilly bullshit, just pockets and canvas.

3. It’s roomy. Like 1995 roomy. Like “dot com stocks are booming and my kids are wearing jncos cause the economy is so strong and we can buy as much fabric as we fucking like” roomy. I read something about that once. Anyway, there’s room in there.

4. I know I touched on this before, but fucking POCKETS. The pockets are awesome.

Reasons I don’t like wearing a jumpsuit.

1. Sometimes, your balls can get caught on the zipper. This list would not exist except that that just happened. To me. And it sucked.

I’m a janitor for halloween, what are you, dear reader?


Did you guys know if you run really hard, like marathon hard, your nipples can start bleeding?  There was a whole gallery posted on reddit or something.  Some sicko went through flickr looking for photos of runners with bloody shirts.  SUPER FUCKING CRAZY.  But I’ll spare you.  Instead look at this


Yes that’s Salvador Dali walking his pet anteater.


drivethruscootermore at

Today’s story begins…

With me sitting in my underwear pwning n00bs in Call Of Duty (the new one comes out in 10 days, I need to brush up, and buy EA stock), when Paul calls and tells me that we’re still going to a driving range. It looks like it’s going to 2012 outside, so forgive me for thinking that the plan may have been off. Also, I just ate a King Kong burger for breakfast and Paul has 60 bucks set aside for steamers. The end of this story will involve probably 1 of 2 things:

1. Me having the violent squirts in Paul’s dad’s Corolla.

2. One of us getting electrocuted on a driving range.

Did I mention that this is all happening in Plum Island MA? Where the women have less teeth and the men like it that way.

Dear Reader, (an open letter to my followship) (and Carter)

I hope this letter finds you well. I am currently sitting on my new Karlstad couch from Ikea, which cost less that my travel to and from New York last week. Ah New York, the city in which I never sleep. Because of the drugs, dear reader, because of the drugs. Now, I was going to use this letter as an excuse for why I haven’t been in contact, I know, I’ve been terribly remiss in our correspondence, but I’m not going to simply excuse myself after all. I was going to tell you about CMJ, embellishing greatly with scenes from Spielberg’s masterpiece Jurassic Park (which I might add is an apt analogue, when taken from the viewpoint of myself as one of the dinosaurs). I was going to tell you about my trip to Target, which resulted in me buying a toaster oven, and then attempting to photoshop myself into stills from The Bourne Identity. I was going to regale you about my sojourn to space, and meeting Jeff Goldblum there. I was going to run on about my trip to Nashville where I ended up in a poker game with Kenny Rogers, Ry Cooder and Death itself. I was going to tell all about about my encounter with Milton Friedman in a Starbucks where the service was just abysmal, so we went across the street and had Earl Grey tea and he told me how he faked his death because the Nobel Committee retains strict control over your life rights after you win. I was going to go on and on about the 3 days I spent at the bottom of a well, searching for answers, only to find myself in a dream state hotel room with a hooker and a baseball bat, no, wait, I’m not going to tell you about that. I was also going to tell you that I spend the last 2 days watching Fringe in bed, and it’s totally awesome.
But no, the time for petty excuses and the cheap dodging of responsibility is over. I will no longer shrink from the tough questions like a politician up to 2 years before an election, I will no longer hide like Tupac, JD Salinger and Steve Jobs when he drops a dress size, I will no longer cower like those 12 year olds I just pwned in Call of Duty. I will stand tall and say to my friends and peers, NO, this is not just a site for reposting funny things on the internet, NO, this is not just an outlet for masturbatory rambling, NO, this is not just a place that posts cool mp3s for free download so that we can try to up our traffic.


Thank you and good day.



I’m not posting another goddamn thing until he responds to this.




Kosuke’s dream baby. Perhaps we could put a bid on it. Or just steal it.

WTF: Another Shitty Instrumental Song Gets A Cool Video

Wtf is up with this trend of people who find that “song that just sounds so touching” and kaboom it goes viral and gets tens of thousands of hits?  Olafur Arnalds has been a bore for years.  This piece is case in point.  Cool video though.  This could very well be the new trend of “Oh what music do i like? Well you know I love Radiohead’s Kid A.