So this past evening, right out of the window that I type beside, my neighbors were singing Pearl Jam covers in their birthday suits.  I couldn’t see their faces because I live above them and the window frame cuts them out, but I could see everything else.  In fact, I’ve no idea what these neighbors look like above their torsos.  In the past I have had the pleasure of hearing their vicious arguments, that range the gamut from “you fucked some twenty-year old whore” to “you fucked some filthy stank whore!”  Yet, if you showed me their pictures in a line-up (ed. note: fully clothed), I’d have no idea who they were.  Show them to me nekked on the other hand, and I might be able to pick out the chicks set (ed. note: she had a nice set)(ed. note: judging by what fell below the set I’d say 0, maybe .75 round up). 

Anyways, they gave me a horrible rendition of “Alive” and an even worse half of “Jeremy.”  The rest of the set list was muddled in my disgust at the fact that I peeped for waaay longer than I should have, and that most of it consisted of staring at dude-ass, with flecks of muff and rack mixed between.  They spanked one another on the ass for a little bit, and they did their usual yell at eachother bit, and all the while I was quietly trying to rationalize how I’m gonna get over couple of problems that are standing in the Van’s foreseeable path to success.  Some of them I’ve discussed here.  Actually, most I’ve discussed, some have been less cryptic than others.  That’s for the, mo-thers (ed. note: see’m’what I dids there)?  All of these issues turning out in my favor are quite contingent on this science project turning out in our favor.

A sizeable portion of this rationalizing was spent procrastinating by rolling around a toy car with the words “Jam Van” written on it (ed. note: by your’s truly)(ed. note: in gold) on the desk, while as mentioned, skeevily watching my nekked-ass-neighbors sing shitty Pearl Jam covers/druggie fight eachother (ed. note: still nekked).  There’s a fuckin’ metaphor in there somewhere, I’m just not really sure how to phrase it. 

I know it’s linked up with the fact that I spent the better part of the early evening in what was most certainly my first ever business seminar, albeit a very informal and friendly one.  It was a Jam Van centric meeting, and it was two hours that barely touched on all of the issues that we’ve got to hammer down to get this boat truly, TRULY, afloat.  I know it’s linked up with the fact that staring out of the window at the palm-printed ass-cheeks of my faceless neighbors somehow made all of the information discussed in that seminar seem a lot less intimidating and a bit more reassuring.

What I mean to say is, I could have been looking at neighbors with their clothes on singing Bono songs, but I wasn’t.  I got nekked whack-jobs singing Vedder instead.  If you don’t get what I’m getting at (ed. note: and I might not even get what I’m getting at), well then I suggest you try singing both versions of karaoke mentioned (clothed Bono vs. nekked Vedder), then assess what I’m talking about.  I myself have to go think about how I’m gonna get to drive our big-ass matchbox car around the country and blast “Nothingman” through some little ass towns that I think would love to stare out the windows at us. 


Track for the Day: “Forest Whitiker,” off of Brother Ali’s Shadows on the Sun.  Shout out to the Goose Man, remember when we used to roll around in them hills with this shit on repeat?  (ed. note: he won’t read this unless I email it to him, cause it ain’t attached to a porn star)(ed. note: tag).


Quote for the day: Chach – “No I’m not singin’ the chihuahua song bro!” and then moments later, Chach, again – “Don’t put the chihuahua up my asshole bro!” 

Links for the Day:

R.I.P. (via Muzzle of Bees)
Do a/the clam (via American Drunkard)
“Funky” (via Pitchfork)
I’m not sure this is allowed (via Stereogum)