You don’t need to be talented; you just need a reverb pedal. You probably think that you are going to have to practice the guitar a bunch and start taking voice lessons. That’s not the case. Although, I don’t blame you for thinking that you actually need to be talented to be successful in the music industry, because that’s probably how it used to be.
Have you guys ever heard of a band called, Tampon Bicycle Murders? They’re intense. I couldn’t really find a legitimate Myspace page for them or anything but there was just this one kind of shady “zine” from 1998 that briefly mentioned them as “Portland’s next big all-female punk band.”
The third item I found was a necklace with a piece of bone on the end. It looked pretty entry-level. The crafter failed to describe where they got the bone from, which is a little concerning, seeing how they’re from Texas. Isn’t it like completely legal 92% of the time to kill people in Texas?
This thirty-minute show would air either before or after Jeopardy. It would consist of 2-5 contestants running around an urban area with laptops in search of working and unprotected WiFi hotspots. The show’s host will be a Scandinavian bro named Sven.
Formatted similarly to Jon and Kate Plus 8, this show would follow a 25-year-old version of myself and whoever lives with me at that point in my life as we struggle to keep up with our careers and relationships while attempting to raise eighteen cats in a small studio apartment.
This was weird and confusing to me: there was a time and place in a fifth-grader’s world where reading was forbidden. And even more weird and confusing was my uncertainty of “how to play” — at least in a manner that seemed inoffensive and similar enough to the ways that I saw other kids doing it.
Every year my mom pays the ten dollars to buy me a spot in my family’s annual March Madness bracket; every year I begrudgingly fill the thing out because of its potential to win me a couple hundred dollars. Upon deciding to have fun with my picks this year, I came up with this list of methods I may or may not employ. Feel free to use them, but please don’t blame me when you come in last in your office pool.
Sometimes, while recalling an incident from her upbringing, the soft whimpering noises will grow louder. “What’s wrong, Joan?” I ask her. Tilting her head upward, her voice wavering, she’ll reply, “California.” And I will know exactly what she means.
The book ends predictably, comfortably, in a manner undeserving of most adjectives due to its innate ‘nothingness’: with a final illustration that is simply a white page, “Where is Waldo Now?” printed in small black lettering at the bottom.
McSweeney: (v) Unattainably attractive female’s consistently swift, merciful rejection of one’s most fully-formed and thoughtful works of romantic persuasion or advancement.