Monday, February 21
The family and I went to IKEA today. All day. All day fucking long. It was cool and would've been amazingly shitfuckingly awesome if I hadn't gotten my monthly French Revolution last night. Out of boredom I stepped on one of the scales that were on sale. I weigh one hundred and thirty pounds, man. Five pounds in five months? Or so I think. This isn't good.
My mother got a swivel chair, four vases, a lamp, coasters, and maybe something else I couldn't give a fuck about, and I got a two dollar CD holder and a seventy-nine cent polka-dotted mouse pad. The mouse pad is fucking awesome. I was too cheap to get the boarded leather one though. What makes this even more sad is that I didn't pay for anything of mine, which is all under four dollars.
I had the uncontrollable urge to go into the kiddie zone with all the foam trees and ballpits and higher quality McDonald's shit. I figured that since I can fit in a kiddie desk in the showroom, I'd be able to fit into the ballpit without doing oversized multiple-cell mitosis, sending all the multi-colored plastic testicles onto the floor of the IKEA Magic Forest. Fortunately for the reputation of IKEA and its workers, my folks were moving around too fast and I didn't have the chance to take a single plunge.
Swedish people are my fucking heroes. They sell cheap and good looking furniture. Not to mention that the singer of The Hives is quite sexy.
I go out with my folks too much. It's about time I got friends. Well it's not necessarily my fault, since I'm not allowed to have a life.
Yesterday the mother and I went shopping to various places, including Barnes & Noble [because of me]. I think I spent an hour in there looking for the Izzy Stradlin biography that was supposedly released last Thursday, which I just found out today was delayed for some fucktard reason. So after I gave up after that hour of bending up and down, looking up and down the "rock n' roll" section of the store, I went to find some bargain books. I was thinking of getting some kind of huge ass book called "The Rolling Stones: Never-Before-Seen Archives" that was only five fucking dollars despite it's massive size and some Dilbert books, but sadly the only Dilbert book they had left was the only one that I had read. Stupid fucks, taking my Dilbert books. Why won't they take Get Fuzzy books or some shit like that? Dilbert's my territory, dipshit.
Was also considering getting The Encyclopedia of Heavy Metal just so I can go home and have a good long laugh. But for some reason I decided against killing my diaphragm.
And I went home empty-handed. Tom Robbins books are expensive. And I am cheap. Do the math. Because I can't do math.
I saw the new Velvet Revolver video today on FUSE. They fucking fucked up the label again, and messed it up with some other shitty band's name instead. They always do that. They even spelled Randy Rhoads, "Randy Rhodes." He's not a fucking state, get your geography straight. Although, I'd really like to have travelled Randy's geography.
There's a Jack Daniels t-shirt on Ebay that I want. And in order to try to win it, I'm going to have to wake up at 7:30 tomorrow and bid my ass off right before the auction ends. Not my real ass, because it isn't worth anything.
So, about the "Across the Universe" performance at the Grammys. Good song, I think it was written by Rufus Wainwright? Or did he do a cover too? I don't know. But anyway, Norah Jones was fucking weak. She fucking ruined the cause. You could see in her face and in the lack of enthusiasm in her voice that she wasn't giving it her all, and on such an occasion. Thanks a lot, bitch. Now you've put the entire west coast in risk of its own tsunami. Which totally fucks up us east coasters because now we have to put up with more bullshit than there already is in the news. But the good part is, we can watch all you stupid fucks suffer. Or at least me, because I like to watch people squirm and lose their three thousand dollar bean bags filled with koala lint and chihuhua dogs with Kate Spade booties.
Norah isn't the only one who ruined the integrity of the performance. The entire Grammy people did, whoever the fuck they are. There was no big opening, no big ending with fireworks or anything of that sort. It just ended. Nice and quiet. I was waiting for a big BOOM! ALL YOUR MONEY IS GOING IN OUR POCKETS! Nothing. Nada. Then Usher was on. He got special lighting and a rising platform or something, I forgot. The second he came on, I turned the television off. Fuck Album of the Year. I don't give a shit. When Usher comes on TV, there is no more entertainment value.
I was very impressed with Scott Weiland's ability to sing like that. The only other example of such skill was at the House of Blues. He can be Frank Sinatra for all I care. Just un-dye that hair and stick it down, not up, and keep on wearing those suits. The dude all the way on the right, I have no idea who he was, was pretty awesome too. Steven Tyler was kicking ass as usual, but I felt like I wanted some more. Hubba hubba. No, not really in that way though, he's too crusty by now. Couldn't hear Slash sing when he did. Duff was fucking oozing unborn children. Dave looked the same, so did Matt. Scott looks like Ziggy but a Ziggy that actually got roughed up by a meat grinder.
I'm fucking kidding, alright? He looks pretty good, but he needs to fucking gain some weight before I start putting him in the same category as Lara Flynn Boyle and John Frusciante under the bridge. Jeez, and everyone took that "SLASH IS UGLY" thing a little too seriously. God, I'm a shithead, but not a Gwar fan.
