This morning as we prepared to record Episode 24 of the iTunes Weekly Rewind (feat. the music of The Watchmen, Neko Case, Simon & Garfunkel, and the 20th anniversary of Do The Right Thing), Bobs & Rockbarry were chatting during his call-in about PPP, and I slammed my pointer finger ("index finger," my ass) down on the Talk button:
"Dude, PPP is amazing. We rep them for licensing. They. Are. Awesome."
Then I picked up my laptop, opened my iTunes, and started playing PPP's "On A Cloud," which is just a massively dope, catchy shoop-a-doop hip-hop ride to funkytown. And then I held up my laptop and pushed the Talk button again, and danced around in the control room, swangin' my hips with my laptop in the air. Bobs bobbed his head; Rockbarry couldn't hear or see me because he was calling in to the studio. Everyone else laughed.
Then Bobs requested a copy of the album and Tanya looked it up on her iPhone.
Because "On A Cloud" is the jam.
You have to check these guys out. I'd toss an mp3 up here, but that wouldn't be kosher since I rep them for licensing via my job at Sugaroo!, so you'll have to do the legwork yourself - I can assure you an iTunes download or (egad!) buying the physical product (their brand-new album Abundance) is totally worth it. These guys are the new wave of old school master craftsmen of hip-hop and they're gearing up for a well-earned breakthrough, I hope -
PPP MySpace: Go to "On A Cloud" feat Karma first. You'll thank me.
(Yeah, that one guy totally looks like a baby Tupac.)
It made me think about the redonkulous amount of music that passes through my ears on a daily basis. Some of it is meh, for sure, and some is good, but there are some really, really stellar artists that I have the utter privilege to pimp out on a daily basis. I should probably be turning you on to these every now and then.
Here be a few nuggets for now...
Drumroll...
NEKO CASE
Duh.
Beginning her ascent from the alt-country ghetto into the greater consciousness with her last release Fox Confessor Brings The Flood, Neko Case is finally allowed to own the stage (in the case of Los Angeles in June - the Greek Theatre!) that is so rightfully hers on Middle Cyclone, her 6th solo album after leaving the New Pornographers. Her voice is a singular powerhouse, a bellow both wild and willfully wrangled that simultaneously hits below the belt and forces you to fall in love with her. If you're not a fan of "alt-country" or "country," give Neko a chance. Her music is a complete and utter knockout, and her voice a weapon of mass destruction.
Listen to "People Got A Lotta Nerve" from Middle Cyclone. Then go buy it. If you haven't already.
(And despite all of you naysayers that don't like it for whatever tightassed reason, I think the cover art for this album is badassedy delicious. That woman is not just a firecracker, she's one of those giant wads of dynamite tucked under Wile E. Coyote's armpit).
MIKEY & THE GYPSYS
The Swedish pop train will not be stopped.
You don't know them, and you probably won't hear about them for a while, because a) they're in Sweden, and b) they haven't yet released an album stateside...or in Sweden. But they're about to...and it will be a pitch-perfect piece of expertly crafted power pop, heavy on the infectious choruses and sunbright guitars.
Mikey & the Gypsys MySpace: Go straight to "Echoes" and "Monday." It's like snorting pixie stix while doing a keg stand.
(Since the upcoming album - Enormous Shows Combined is not yet available in full, head over and download the Caravan EP from iTunes to get your sweet Swede on.)
SHAWN LEE
Multi-instrumentalist genius-man
This man works harder than Manny Ramirez or any of those other pro sports crybabies, that I can assure you. He is a wizard of the recording studio, the jammiest of jammers, funkmaster fresh, soul brotha #1, commandeer of a mental musical army. In Shawn Lee Hits The Hits, he Shawnicized everything from Eve to Outkast to Gorillaz to Amy Winehouse. And on his newest, Soul In The Hole, he Shawnicizes the shit outta...wait for it...soul. Guest vocalists galore, spot-on production, total jams.
Preview & buy Soul In The Hole on the Ubiquity Records site - same label as PPP, these guys are clearly purveyors of taste. Start w/ "Jigsaw," feat Nicole Willis, and march on from there.
(When you're done foaming over Soul In The Hole, venture over to iTunes and download Shawn Lee feat. Nino Moschella - "Kiss The Sky" - you can thank me later. Or in a comment or something.)
Now I need to go feed my Eddie Cat Halen so he stops chewing on my leg.
Showing posts with label job. Show all posts
Showing posts with label job. Show all posts
Friday, March 6, 2009
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Forever? Forever-ever?
Scene: Standing in long line at Post Office, attempting to ignore Long-Haired Hippie Lady scold Short-Haired Neurotic Lady about not returning her Bible in time. Line moves slowly, but finally, Medium-Haired Average Lady steps up to the counter...
Disgruntled Postal Worker: (Clearly looking at clock, which reads 4:45pm; possibly wishing for sweet release from the shackles of government servitude--then realizing that will only mean joining the long, slagging line of cars crawling down the interstate. Considers how much he hates life. Wishes he could punch out every customer that walks up between now and 5pm.) M’am, how can I help you today?
M-HAL: Well, I need some stamps! I have to mail some letters now, and some letters later!
DPW: (Thinking to self: "No shit, lady. This isn’t Home Depot. You’re not here to buy a shovel. But if we did sell them, I would hit you over the head with one.") Sure thing! What kind would you like?
M-HAL: I’d like some of those "Forever" stamps! Um, how much are they worth?
DPW: (Itchy government-issue button-down, collared shirt barely containing the rage that boils within. Wishes he could snap the neck of every godforsaken customer, just like he snaps the rubberbands off of the piles and piles and piles of filthy parcels he must deal with every day.) Well, right now they’re 41 cents.
M-HAL: Oh, perfect! I’ll take a book of them. Well, maybe two. I’ll need to mail some letters later. How long can I use these for? For...
DPW: (Blood shoots to surface, threatening to pump furiously through every pore and splatter the entire decrepit concrete box he’s forced to work in, day in and day out, with gore.) ...EVER. M’am, the Forever stamp lasts FOREVER.
End scene.
Disgruntled Postal Worker: (Clearly looking at clock, which reads 4:45pm; possibly wishing for sweet release from the shackles of government servitude--then realizing that will only mean joining the long, slagging line of cars crawling down the interstate. Considers how much he hates life. Wishes he could punch out every customer that walks up between now and 5pm.) M’am, how can I help you today?
M-HAL: Well, I need some stamps! I have to mail some letters now, and some letters later!
DPW: (Thinking to self: "No shit, lady. This isn’t Home Depot. You’re not here to buy a shovel. But if we did sell them, I would hit you over the head with one.") Sure thing! What kind would you like?
M-HAL: I’d like some of those "Forever" stamps! Um, how much are they worth?
DPW: (Itchy government-issue button-down, collared shirt barely containing the rage that boils within. Wishes he could snap the neck of every godforsaken customer, just like he snaps the rubberbands off of the piles and piles and piles of filthy parcels he must deal with every day.) Well, right now they’re 41 cents.
M-HAL: Oh, perfect! I’ll take a book of them. Well, maybe two. I’ll need to mail some letters later. How long can I use these for? For...
DPW: (Blood shoots to surface, threatening to pump furiously through every pore and splatter the entire decrepit concrete box he’s forced to work in, day in and day out, with gore.) ...EVER. M’am, the Forever stamp lasts FOREVER.
End scene.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
The Office: A Reality Series
Just a short hot while ago, I emerged from the bathroom to find a youngish man clutching a clipboard and speaking to my coworker Kathy in that faux-official voice that marks the telemarketer and his brethren.
Kathy appeared confused and slightly reluctant to be talking to this youngish clipboard-carrying man, so she referred him to another coworker, Aleeta, who courteously rose from her chair and said, "Yes? How can I help you?"
This is where it gets special.
The youngish man looked straight at Aleeta and, using his clipboard, gestured toward her and said, "May I approach?"
Yes, folks, the dweeby polo-shirt clad 22 year-old solicitor man-child asked if he could "approach."
Somehow I managed to sit back down at my desk without belching laughter and I whipped off a quick IM to Kathy to the effect of: "Did he just say ’May I approach?’"
"Yes. Hee hee," was Kathy’s reply. There might have been an emoticon in there somewhere, but definitely no LOL or ROTFL. We’re adults, people.
Using her superpowers, Aleeta eventually turned him away and we all went back to work. Approximately seven minutes later, when I felt the timing was ripe, I gingerly strode to Aleeta’s desk-area and said, "May I approach?"
Wild laughter ensued.
Wild, wild laughter.
Each of us took turns, howling, asking, "May I approach?"
Bellyaching laughter. Gregarious laughter.
Then we looked to the doorway, only to see Señor Salesman looking in at us before walking outside.
Uh. Apparently he was next door all along.
Like teenage girls, we all ran to the back of the office, behind the cover of a concrete wall, where I proceeded to lay down on the floor and laugh my ass off. Aleeta and Kathy followed in suit, alternately leaning on the wall and a bookcase for support.
"Oh man, that was bad," Aleeta said. "Now we’re gonna get shot."
Kathy and I looked at Aleeta: "Um, I think he’ll be okay. He doesn’t seem very dangerous...I mean, he’s a bottled water salesman."
Aleeta: "Oh, right!"
Dissolve into 60 more seconds of laughter.
Epilogue: Later, a drunk guy came in off of the street and looked at our O’Jays Survival poster, resplendent with afros and naked people, said "Damn that Eddie Murphy!" and kicked the wall.
I’m so happy to have blog fodder again. You have no idea.
Kathy appeared confused and slightly reluctant to be talking to this youngish clipboard-carrying man, so she referred him to another coworker, Aleeta, who courteously rose from her chair and said, "Yes? How can I help you?"
This is where it gets special.
The youngish man looked straight at Aleeta and, using his clipboard, gestured toward her and said, "May I approach?"
Yes, folks, the dweeby polo-shirt clad 22 year-old solicitor man-child asked if he could "approach."
Somehow I managed to sit back down at my desk without belching laughter and I whipped off a quick IM to Kathy to the effect of: "Did he just say ’May I approach?’"
"Yes. Hee hee," was Kathy’s reply. There might have been an emoticon in there somewhere, but definitely no LOL or ROTFL. We’re adults, people.
Using her superpowers, Aleeta eventually turned him away and we all went back to work. Approximately seven minutes later, when I felt the timing was ripe, I gingerly strode to Aleeta’s desk-area and said, "May I approach?"
Wild laughter ensued.
Wild, wild laughter.
Each of us took turns, howling, asking, "May I approach?"
Bellyaching laughter. Gregarious laughter.
Then we looked to the doorway, only to see Señor Salesman looking in at us before walking outside.
Uh. Apparently he was next door all along.
Like teenage girls, we all ran to the back of the office, behind the cover of a concrete wall, where I proceeded to lay down on the floor and laugh my ass off. Aleeta and Kathy followed in suit, alternately leaning on the wall and a bookcase for support.
"Oh man, that was bad," Aleeta said. "Now we’re gonna get shot."
Kathy and I looked at Aleeta: "Um, I think he’ll be okay. He doesn’t seem very dangerous...I mean, he’s a bottled water salesman."
Aleeta: "Oh, right!"
Dissolve into 60 more seconds of laughter.
Epilogue: Later, a drunk guy came in off of the street and looked at our O’Jays Survival poster, resplendent with afros and naked people, said "Damn that Eddie Murphy!" and kicked the wall.
I’m so happy to have blog fodder again. You have no idea.
Monday, September 10, 2007
Thome pretty good pathta
Today began with yesterday.
And an ill-fated piece of chicken.
I sat in a borrowed chair at my own dining room table, supping with a fine selection of Katy's ex-roommates and such, when I speared a ricotta-smeared cut of chicken. I registered the fresh basil, the tomato, something herb-y, and then pain.
Oh, the pain.
A sharp, horrid pain that shot right down the right side of my tongue, where I'd mashed it between my ravenous molars. I shot a panicked look at Jonathan, to my right. I said, "I think I may pass out." I saw quick flashes of bright light. Jonathan looked confused.
Then I just looked straight ahead, focusing hard on my tongue, trying to will the pain away. Meditating on that hunk of pink flesh and muscle, half-panicked that I gnawed a chunk of it off, effectively cannibalizing myself.
Then I ate some decadent, silky chocolate mousse pie, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do when you chaw half your tongue off? Chocolate is the food pyramid's equivalent of Vicodin, I am sure of it.
I woke up this morning instantly aware of my tongue, of my saliva sort of pooling around it. I am a serial teeth-gnasher at night and I did myself no favors during my slumber. The entire right side was sort of...well...scalloped. I stared at myself in the mirror. My tongue was deformed.
And it hurt like hell.
I went to work, conscious of my mangled tongue every long minute of the drive. When David arrived at the office, I felt compelled to explain what happened:
Me: "If I thound funny, it'th becauthe I bit my tongue latht night."
David: "Wow, what were you eating?"
Me: "Thome pretty good pathta."
David: "Well, that's all that matters, then."
Yeah, I gave myself a temporary speech impediment.
After slurring myself through our Monday staff meeting, I went to Costco for an eye exam. While I filled out the paperwork, I noticed a vaguely elderly gentleman with a sort of neo-jheri curl staring at me. Once caught, he blurted out:
"I am so sorry, but you are really beautiful."
Me: (Checking "No" next to Glaucoma) "Um, thank you."
Neo-Jheri Man: And you have really nice skin. Just great skin."
Me: (Checking "No" next to Cataracts) "Thath's really nithe of you. Um, thankths."
N-J Man: "I don't mean to be rude, but are you a model? You look like you could be a European model. You just have grrreat skin!"
Me: (Checking "No" next to Old Guy Hitting On Me) "Uh, no."
I made it through the appointment unscathed and presented my Amex to pay, but alas, it was not allowed.
"You take Vitha?"
Yeah, they took Vitha.
Except for my card was declined...twice. I called the company and they explained that I reported my card lost or stolen....in early August. Which I never did. Because it was right there in my wallet, accounted for. My Vitha, nestled in its little pocket.
After twenty minutes of my spitting out of the right side of my mouth and hassling the call center lady, I convinced her to at least accept the transaction for the sake of my continued sight, especially since one sense was already impaired. Then I was home free.
My last errand of the workday was a trip to mail out approximately 11 large boxes. I stood in line next to a bouncy girl dressed in the color wheel equivalent of Pepto Bismol and a decidedly hairy dude in a festive mix of tie-dye and paisley. And sandals. With socks.
While I stood behind my tower o'boxes, the two of them forged an inexplicable bond and the girl began yammering about Burning Man:
Pinky: "Oh my god! So you've been to Burning Man, too! So you get it! It's all about love and peace and we're out there in the desert just building our own utopia, and when we're in that dome, with the rainbow ribbons flying around, spinning and holding fire, that is what society is supposed to be like. You know? Yeah, exactly. And I just think that people have the wrong view of us, like we're some sort of cult, like a gang or something just out there in the desert. They don't understand our true spirit. It's not like we're all camped out there in these little groups, like, planning bad things to do to people."
Clashing Patterns Man: "So, well, uh, I'll see you there next year..."
Pinky: "Oh, yeah, well, look for our group. We all dress the same--all pink!--and kind of have our own secluded area that we camp in; we're called the Pink Ladies."
CPM: "Oh."
And an ill-fated piece of chicken.
I sat in a borrowed chair at my own dining room table, supping with a fine selection of Katy's ex-roommates and such, when I speared a ricotta-smeared cut of chicken. I registered the fresh basil, the tomato, something herb-y, and then pain.
Oh, the pain.
A sharp, horrid pain that shot right down the right side of my tongue, where I'd mashed it between my ravenous molars. I shot a panicked look at Jonathan, to my right. I said, "I think I may pass out." I saw quick flashes of bright light. Jonathan looked confused.
Then I just looked straight ahead, focusing hard on my tongue, trying to will the pain away. Meditating on that hunk of pink flesh and muscle, half-panicked that I gnawed a chunk of it off, effectively cannibalizing myself.
Then I ate some decadent, silky chocolate mousse pie, because what the fuck else are you supposed to do when you chaw half your tongue off? Chocolate is the food pyramid's equivalent of Vicodin, I am sure of it.
I woke up this morning instantly aware of my tongue, of my saliva sort of pooling around it. I am a serial teeth-gnasher at night and I did myself no favors during my slumber. The entire right side was sort of...well...scalloped. I stared at myself in the mirror. My tongue was deformed.
And it hurt like hell.
I went to work, conscious of my mangled tongue every long minute of the drive. When David arrived at the office, I felt compelled to explain what happened:
Me: "If I thound funny, it'th becauthe I bit my tongue latht night."
David: "Wow, what were you eating?"
Me: "Thome pretty good pathta."
David: "Well, that's all that matters, then."
Yeah, I gave myself a temporary speech impediment.
After slurring myself through our Monday staff meeting, I went to Costco for an eye exam. While I filled out the paperwork, I noticed a vaguely elderly gentleman with a sort of neo-jheri curl staring at me. Once caught, he blurted out:
"I am so sorry, but you are really beautiful."
Me: (Checking "No" next to Glaucoma) "Um, thank you."
Neo-Jheri Man: And you have really nice skin. Just great skin."
Me: (Checking "No" next to Cataracts) "Thath's really nithe of you. Um, thankths."
N-J Man: "I don't mean to be rude, but are you a model? You look like you could be a European model. You just have grrreat skin!"
Me: (Checking "No" next to Old Guy Hitting On Me) "Uh, no."
I made it through the appointment unscathed and presented my Amex to pay, but alas, it was not allowed.
"You take Vitha?"
Yeah, they took Vitha.
Except for my card was declined...twice. I called the company and they explained that I reported my card lost or stolen....in early August. Which I never did. Because it was right there in my wallet, accounted for. My Vitha, nestled in its little pocket.
After twenty minutes of my spitting out of the right side of my mouth and hassling the call center lady, I convinced her to at least accept the transaction for the sake of my continued sight, especially since one sense was already impaired. Then I was home free.
My last errand of the workday was a trip to mail out approximately 11 large boxes. I stood in line next to a bouncy girl dressed in the color wheel equivalent of Pepto Bismol and a decidedly hairy dude in a festive mix of tie-dye and paisley. And sandals. With socks.
While I stood behind my tower o'boxes, the two of them forged an inexplicable bond and the girl began yammering about Burning Man:
Pinky: "Oh my god! So you've been to Burning Man, too! So you get it! It's all about love and peace and we're out there in the desert just building our own utopia, and when we're in that dome, with the rainbow ribbons flying around, spinning and holding fire, that is what society is supposed to be like. You know? Yeah, exactly. And I just think that people have the wrong view of us, like we're some sort of cult, like a gang or something just out there in the desert. They don't understand our true spirit. It's not like we're all camped out there in these little groups, like, planning bad things to do to people."
Clashing Patterns Man: "So, well, uh, I'll see you there next year..."
Pinky: "Oh, yeah, well, look for our group. We all dress the same--all pink!--and kind of have our own secluded area that we camp in; we're called the Pink Ladies."
CPM: "Oh."
Friday, June 8, 2007
je t'adore l'eau!
This week was the week that my cat picked to start rubbing his wet little cat-nose all over my face at approximately 5am - each morning. Without fail.
This week was also the week where I accidentally deleted all of my work mailboxes from my mail program.
This week was also the week wherein a dirt-caked dude motioned and attempted to whisper sweet nothings to me whilst peeing on the sidewalk in front of the post office; incidentally, the post office where I was nearly escorted out after engaging in a verbal disagreement with the very stupid postal worker lady behind Window No. 1 who insisted that I needed a pin number to use the work-issued, specifically-for-the-post-office-so-I-can-mail-packages-to-dudes-like-Ben-Fong-Torres-which-I-did-this-week gift card that said "Gift Card" on it.
However, this week was also the week that, at 8:30am, a man sauntered into the office and said that he had free water for me...
Oh yessss... FREE water. For me.
The upside had arrived.
Aqua Delivery Man: Hi, I'm (insert generic, one-syllable name here). I have your free water sample from Contrex.
Still Half-Asleep Me: (Dude, CONTREX? Sounds like an incontinence drug). Uh, I don't think I ordered free water.
ADM: Well, I spoke to Allejandra...Allejandro...Allegria...
SH-AM: We don't have an Alle-whatever here... (Reconsidering, after brain finally computes word "free")...but, say...what kind of water is that?
ADM: Contrex! It is natural French mineral water designed for women! It will [insert catch-phrasy crap here that sounds totally bogus]! How many cases do you want - there are 12 bottles to a case.
SH-AM: (Considering how we already get overwatered bi-weekly by a different, overly-zealous ADM) Um, one is fine.
Time elapses. Consider the bad choice I made in "brewing" the instant-decaf coffee that was hidden behind the shiny foil party hats (yes, really) and plastic plates. Stomach starts to turn. Eat a chunk of dark chocolate sitting next to the Maker's Mark (yes, really). Wonder when I'll wake up.
Suddenly - a noise from the doorway -
Contrex Man: (Wheeling in a giant palette of boxes) How about 4 cases! So thats...12 liter bottles in each case. Where should I put them?
SH-AM: (Holy Jeezus, that is a lot of freakin' Contrex Water.) Uh, in the store room.
Contrex Man cheerfully dropped all 20 tons of Contrex Water and, no joke, 30 pamphlets (for our large office of 4 staff) and bid me adieu. I stared at the space that used to be the storage room, now occupied by a mountain of Contrex. I took a bottle. I sipped. It was weird. I kept sipping. It was free.
As luck would have it, none of my co-workers enjoyed the mineral-y tastes of fresh French Contrex. I am now the proud owner of 48 liters of weird-tasting water. FREE water. My week has been redeemed.
This week was also the week where I accidentally deleted all of my work mailboxes from my mail program.
This week was also the week wherein a dirt-caked dude motioned and attempted to whisper sweet nothings to me whilst peeing on the sidewalk in front of the post office; incidentally, the post office where I was nearly escorted out after engaging in a verbal disagreement with the very stupid postal worker lady behind Window No. 1 who insisted that I needed a pin number to use the work-issued, specifically-for-the-post-office-so-I-can-mail-packages-to-dudes-like-Ben-Fong-Torres-which-I-did-this-week gift card that said "Gift Card" on it.
However, this week was also the week that, at 8:30am, a man sauntered into the office and said that he had free water for me...
Oh yessss... FREE water. For me.
The upside had arrived.
Aqua Delivery Man: Hi, I'm (insert generic, one-syllable name here). I have your free water sample from Contrex.
Still Half-Asleep Me: (Dude, CONTREX? Sounds like an incontinence drug). Uh, I don't think I ordered free water.
ADM: Well, I spoke to Allejandra...Allejandro...Allegria...
SH-AM: We don't have an Alle-whatever here... (Reconsidering, after brain finally computes word "free")...but, say...what kind of water is that?
ADM: Contrex! It is natural French mineral water designed for women! It will [insert catch-phrasy crap here that sounds totally bogus]! How many cases do you want - there are 12 bottles to a case.
SH-AM: (Considering how we already get overwatered bi-weekly by a different, overly-zealous ADM) Um, one is fine.
Time elapses. Consider the bad choice I made in "brewing" the instant-decaf coffee that was hidden behind the shiny foil party hats (yes, really) and plastic plates. Stomach starts to turn. Eat a chunk of dark chocolate sitting next to the Maker's Mark (yes, really). Wonder when I'll wake up.
Suddenly - a noise from the doorway -
Contrex Man: (Wheeling in a giant palette of boxes) How about 4 cases! So thats...12 liter bottles in each case. Where should I put them?
SH-AM: (Holy Jeezus, that is a lot of freakin' Contrex Water.) Uh, in the store room.
Contrex Man cheerfully dropped all 20 tons of Contrex Water and, no joke, 30 pamphlets (for our large office of 4 staff) and bid me adieu. I stared at the space that used to be the storage room, now occupied by a mountain of Contrex. I took a bottle. I sipped. It was weird. I kept sipping. It was free.
As luck would have it, none of my co-workers enjoyed the mineral-y tastes of fresh French Contrex. I am now the proud owner of 48 liters of weird-tasting water. FREE water. My week has been redeemed.
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Turning a new leaf - haiku
"Unemployment Check"
Like the lottery
Except with little money
And more depression
"Rain Boots"
Ricky's rubber boots
Look! They shine in the window!
Wish I had some dough
"Freelancer Style"
Hey, got some Ramen?
I'll edit your resume
For only ten bucks
"Hey, People with Jobs!"
It sucks to be you!
Until it's time to pay rent
Then you're one leg up
"Upside"
No more MetroCard!
I'll be staying in my bed
Til Jan 1, '07
Like the lottery
Except with little money
And more depression
"Rain Boots"
Ricky's rubber boots
Look! They shine in the window!
Wish I had some dough
"Freelancer Style"
Hey, got some Ramen?
I'll edit your resume
For only ten bucks
"Hey, People with Jobs!"
It sucks to be you!
Until it's time to pay rent
Then you're one leg up
"Upside"
No more MetroCard!
I'll be staying in my bed
Til Jan 1, '07
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