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I don’t know if I’m getting soft in my old age or what, since I always hated these guys and pretty much everything about their forced irony shtick. But I find this cover and explanation pretty funny in it’s complete and utter ridiculousness, and I also thought that “If You’re Wondering If I Want You To (I Want You To)” song was one of the best and most catchiest songs of the past couple of years.
I agree on both points. So much so that I actually let myself get excited about the linked-to single in the article. Then I listened and my hopes were dashed. Sounds like watered down Andrew W.K.
I love it. Hurley’s face, that is.
R.C. is the sort of person that gets a sweaty upper lip the second he’s noticed underage Asian high-school chicks in a coffee shop. Endless practice have left him with an instinct for the precise moment to stop fiddling with his jelly-wristlets and head to the table with the cream and sugar.
He always manages to reach across for more Splenda right when they’re in the act of resting their coffee mugs on the table. He offers a sheepish apology and awkwardly shuffles his stuff out of the way. Oh this? Just a couple CDs. You know, I’m in a band. And then it’s off to the races.
Eventually the girls can tell, with that preternatural teenager sense for the rhythm of vernacular, that his stilted words betray his age. It’s like when Brittany’s step-dad keeps his guitar out in the rec room where everybody can see it. When his eyes are seen from the side without the polarized flare of a glasses lens, they notice the crows feet crossed-hatched by a weary god. They mumble uncomfortably and march out to go visit Jeremy at that place where they pierce your ears. In seconds, it’s all forgotten.
He returns to his table and glumly sketches in his Mole-skein notepad. This endlessly repeating design of blooming ink, like the weave of the carpet on the floor of that ashram in Connecticut, the one he pressed his face against when he felt upset as a child. It left a waffle-pattern on his face, something warm and raw he could carry around for a little while. It was simpler back then, back when he didn’t feel the need to keep trying so hard all the time.
Justin said:R.C. is the sort of person that gets a sweaty upper lip the second he’s noticed underage Asian high-school chicks in a coffee shop. Endless practice have left him with an instinct for the precise moment to stop fiddling with his jelly-wristlets and head to the table with the cream and sugar.
He always manages to reach across for more Splenda right when they’re in the act of resting their coffee mugs on the table. He offers a sheepish apology and awkwardly shuffles his stuff out of the way. Oh this? Just a couple CDs. You know, I’m in a band. And then it’s off to the races.
Eventually the girls can tell, with that preternatural teenager sense for the rhythm of vernacular, that his stilted words betray his age. It’s like when Brittany’s step-dad keeps his guitar out in the rec room where everybody can see it. When his eyes are seen from the side without the polarized flare of a glasses lens, they notice the crows feet crossed-hatched by a weary god. They mumble uncomfortably and march out to go visit Jeremy at that place where they pierce your ears. In seconds, it’s all forgotten.
He returns to his table and glumly sketches in his Mole-skein notepad. This endlessly repeating design of blooming ink, like the weave of the carpet on the floor of that ashram in Connecticut, the one he pressed his face against when he felt upset as a child. It left a waffle-pattern on his face, something warm and raw he could carry around for a little while. It was simpler back then, back when he didn’t feel the need to keep trying so hard all the time.
This is beautiful.
I’ve been trying to think of a response of some form that would come close to saying how amazing Justin’s comment is, but I’m at a loss.