Heatwave Mini-Mix



I threw together a little Heatwave Mini-Mix. Enjoy!

1. We Are Young (Jersey Club) — Kyle Edwards & DJ Smallz
2. Off the Ground — Anderson .Paak
3. Give Life Back to Music — Daft Punk
4. Lean On (feat. MØ & DJ Snake) — Major Lazer
5. Hide (Tropkillaz Remix feat. Childish Gambino) — N.A.S.A.
6. Forgiveness — MADE IN HEIGHTS
7. Lucky I Got What I Want — Jungle


Lover’s Cave


This video smells like herpes and bong resin.

Is it wrong that I wanna blame Lena Dunham for this greasy hipster aesthetic? Probably. I blame Lena Dunham for a lot of things that aren’t really her fault, like cronuts and internalized misogyny.

Plus, I really can’t stand this rancid flavor of stringy haired indie-bro.

These scraggly douche mops are always lounging by the hotel pools in skinny jeans and leather jewelry. They’re the ones in town from some crusty fuck corner of London or New York who talk endless shit about LA while picking their toenails right in front of you. Then they wanna hit on you by aggressively trying to trade sunglasses. No thanks, dude. I don’t wanna catch head lice from your neon wayfarers, and if you don’t like it here, you can fuck off back to the gloomy pale underbelly of whatever urban jungle you find most authentic.

Whatever. If you ignore the band, I guess this is a decent little tune. I don’t suppose anyone minds a bunch of gap-toothed dirt squirrels flopping around with their tits out. If rug burned knees and cheap lingerie are your thing, then hey, who am I to hate on a good time?


Les Baricades Misterieuses

The Tree Of Life


Les Baricades Mistérieuses
François Couperin

My last month at work has been a fresh hell. A key person exited the company, leaving behind an ever-so-predictable power vacuum. I had no choice but to strap in and let it suck. Unfortunately, I’ve found myself engaged in a battle of wills with a woman who is superior in rank, but inferior in character.

She is well positioned because of her relationship with the owner, but the only thing she lacks more than integrity is competence. I never gave her the time of day until this past week when the cunt started fucking with my livelihood. She flat out stole from me. Took money out of my pocket. It was both flagrant and malicious. It’s open war now, and she has no idea what she’s gotten herself into. I’ll cut a bitch.

Anyway, this is the music I listen to at my desk while I’m sharpening my knives.

It calms me.


Who’s Ordie?

Tonight I caught the wife of a guy from my distant past drunkenly squinting at the back of a coin that turned out to be a New Hampshire quarter.

“Live free, Ordie?” she asked. “Who’s Ordie?”

I took a deep breath and said, “It’s live free or die.”

Everyone laughed, but for some reason, it made me incredibly sad. Later I drove home with all the windows down while blasting this song.

Coke Talk of the Day

Remember when you were a kid, no impulse control whatsoever, unable to resist even the slightest temptation to fuck shit up?

Remember the first time in your life you got your grubby little hands on the volume knob of a gut-thumping stereo as it blasted your favorite dance song?

Remember how you thought that by jerking that volume knob along with the beat you were somehow imparting your own whomping thrust into the rhythm of the music?

Yeah. That’s dubstep.



So I’ve been loving this song for a few days now, and I thought I’d share it. I heard Mellencamp sing it the other weekend, and it got me. I’m kind of a sucker for ballads that manage to turn a rear view mirror on life without being drippingly sentimental.

Besides, this shit was so good live. Seriously, it was gorgeous. That’s no surprise, really. A man doesn’t make twenty-five albums without having something worth saying about the human condition, and Radio City Music Hall was the perfect room to hear a legend like John Mellencamp hurl out every last ounce of his soul.

In all my trips to New York, I’d never been to Radio City. Lemme tell ya, that joint was a candy store for an architecture whore like me. Art Deco was dripping out of every nook and cranny. My friends think I’m crazy, but I still haven’t stopped talking about the original foot pedal hand dryers in the woman’s lounge.

It was a New York crowd, a lot of industry types and hipsters pretending to be there ironically. There were only a few hardcore fans scattered throughout the hall, and to their credit, they were the ones doing their level best to swill beer like it was a fairground in Bloomington.

There wasn’t an opening act. Instead, they screened “It’s About You,” a documentary about John shot entirely on Super 8 film that set the gritty, foot-tapping tone for the music we were about to hear.

The band was a well-greased machine. Bacon grease, with a side of hot damn. You could tell they’ve been jamming together for decades, and it was hard not to be impressed by the general badassery of Miriam Sturm, the fiddle playing Tinkerbell who zigged and zagged around the stage rocking the fuck out.

Naturally, Mellencamp owned the room. Dude sang with perfect pitch, and even though his voice sounded like he gargles with charcoal briquettes, it all still came out sounding like honey.

Some things are just timeless, ya know?


Page 5 of 6« First...23456