Damn those Bon Iver worshiping freaks for “owning” the revival of listening to records on vinyl. Their epitaph can read whatever they want about “the scratch of the player’s needle”, but kindly leave the rest of us the seven inches of sexy, fine-grooved forty-five glory.
There are nights for fine wines and exquisite spirits. And then there are nights when you want to get totally blitzed on an entire case of booze for under ten bucks. Besides, what else will we drink from the sweat-drenched crowd at a Michael Franti concert?
They own facial hair. Yep. They do. I encourage them to take the pedo-stache with them, like yesterday, but the beards can stay. After all, I believe there needs to be an airtight explanation for the woman who fainted by the kale at Whole Foods.
Second (or third or fourth or twelfth) to travel by foot, bicycles have always been a stellar mode of transportation. BUT…the world could do with less neck-tattooed cyclists with their lap dogs nibbling gluten-free biscuits in the bike’s basket as they pedal to their gig as a barista at the ironic independent coffee shop.
If you thought condiments were safe, you were wrong. So wrong, in fact, that the mere thought of the absence of a bottle of chili sauce in your cabinet (or fridge if you’re not a complete monster) should leave your eternal food life bland and romance-less. There would be no recovering from this loss.