There’s just something about music in its purest form.  A dude picks up a guitar and sings a tune.  It’s just so… soothing?  Spiritual?  Effortlessly cool?  I’m no Ted Leo, but one of these days I’m going to find the time to become that guy who can walk into your house, see a guitar sitting around, and bang out a passable cover song.

I can only imagine how many revolutions per minute Kurt is doing in his grave right now, knowing that R-Patz is going to play him in a Nirvana biopic.  I hope this doesn’t happen.  (Especially since Courtney is involved in the project in an official capacity, which means they’ll leave out the part of the movie at the end in which Courtney has her husband killed.)  Still, you could throw the whole Twilight cast at this movie, and it still has a fighting chance to be good because A) it’s about Nirvana, B) will have access to the music, and C) might have David Fincher directing.

Dear Mr. Coffee,

I know you’re up there in heaven, looking down on me.  I know that whenever I need you, you’ll be there to perk my brain up with your stimulating black blood.  That’s why you’re the best fictional person ever.   Please fill me with your warmth and artificial energy, because until I can replace my blood with a combination of brake fluid and crystal meth, you’re all I’ve got.

Cheers,

Ron.

Click here to view the embedded video.

Enjoy this delicious bowl of weird pudding.

I could’ve done this last week for Valentine’s Day, but screw it.  Any time is a good time for A) the mighty Rev. and B) a ride on the Big Red Rocket Of Love.  Plus, bonus trip back into the Original Cone Zone!  Can’t go wrong with that.

Let’s go!

Man, these guys can play the hell out of their instruments.  Like their brand of musical weirdness or not, they know what they’re doing on the fretboard.  Plus it’s great to see young(ish), hungry Dave again, if only briefly.  Plus it’s funny to see the band stop, then Les Claypool gesture to the audience to tell them it’s over before they’ll start clapping.

After a long, sleepless night worrying myself stupid about snow that may or may not fall during my commute home, I decided to say, “We don’t give a shit about tomorrow.”  Hey Suburbia.

Midwestern Songs of the Americas is a damn fine punk rock album, kids.