Remember when Modest Mouse was so cool? When they were really emo, and no one you would consider “normal” listened to them, and not even your friends knew who they were?
And you had all of their albums and also all of their pins and also all of these homemade pins you bought off eBay, which you dutifully stuck to your messenger bag so everyone would know how emo you were wherever you went?
“Polar Opposites” came on my Pandora station yesterday, and I about died, so I immediately had to go to YouTube and find the best made-by-a-16-year-old music video for the song I could:
The lyrics are “I’m trying, I’m trying to/Drink away the part of the day/That I cannot sleep away,” and I remember being like, “Oh, my god, Modest Mouse, you totally get me.” Even though I had the easiest life and the strongest thing I was drinking back in 1999 in Ohio was Carnation Instant Breakfast.
I do not care about the Super Bowl. Aside from backyard basketball games involving the word horse, I think sports are pretty stupid. Especially professional ones.
I went to a Super Bowl party last night, though, and I went all the way to Jersey for it. And by “all the way”, I mean that I took a bus 15 minutes to my friend Jeff’s apartment, but I couldn’t use my MetroCard to pay the bus fare, so it seemed like a big deal. I did watch the game, unexpectedly, and I casually cheered for the Colts simply because Indianapolis is much closer to my hometown in Ohio than New Orleans is.
And also because I thought all of the pregame crap about how much a win would mean to New Orleans after Hurricane Katrina–which happened five years ago, people–was unnecessarily sentimental and trying to make a story arc where one wasn’t needed. It’s a football game, and its outcome has nothing to rebuilding a city and everything to do with giving the kind of people who stand behind on-air newscasters and scream and show off their replica team jerseys an excuse to get drunk and light things on fire.
Anyway. I found the bidet in Jeff’s roommmate’s bathroom about a hundred times more interesting than most of the Super Bowl commercials, but there was one that really pulled at my heartstrings, and no, it wasn’t the Budweiser one with the Clydesdale and the cow. It was, oddly, a promo for the NFL itself, telling its fans how much better they are than are than NHL and MLS fans:
Funny what a little well-placed Arcade Fire song can do.
This weekend, instead of properly paying attention to me, Kamran combed YouTube for all of the songs listed in New York magazine’s Brooklyn Top 40, the top 40 songs coming out of Brooklyn and defining what it means to be indie right now. He made a playlist of them, which you can enjoy here:
I feel so close to all of these artists somehow. Both physically, because I live down the street from them, but also . . . not spiritually, because that’s lame, but somehow like spiritually, because this sound is so distinctly Brooklyn to me, and I feel so distinctly Brooklyn myself.
While we sat on Kamran’s loveseat, him reading cases for law school and me scanning blogs as we listened to the playlist for the second time, he looked over and said, “We should be doing this!” I said, “Oh, um, I don’t know if we could do this.” He said, “Well, not THIS. This is good.”
This is the song he was talking about:
We decided that when we need to feel better about ourselves and how easy making music is, we’ll listen to this:
I forget sometimes that I’m so freakin’ lucky to live in a city where this stuff is being made and is readily available to me. I saw Crystal Stilts open for Casiotone for the Painfully Alone, saw Amazing Baby open for Cold War Kids, saw MGMT play in an abandoned pool, saw The Dirty Projectors play on the Williamsburg waterfront. Remind me of this when I say I can’t be out at a show until 2 on a weeknight.
If you don’t work with me and don’t receive a daily instant messenger reminder from me to listen to it, you may be surprised to know that my favourite song at the moment is Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the U.S.A.”.
I first heard it months ago in the background of the Max Azria/Miley Cyrus Wal-Mart collection commercial and could only make out the words “the butterflies fly away”. Naturally, I ran to Google and typed that in but kept coming up with a song called “Butterfly Fly Away”, which was decidedly not it. Not having heard a lick of Miley before that, I had no idea that this was apparently some hit from her Hannah Montana movie.
I later found the right song, listened to it on repeat all day every day, and dreamed of the day they would make an official video for it where Miley would be wearing short-shorts and cowboy boots and would be singing into a corded microphone out in the middle of a field where there’s obviously nowhere to plug that thing in. And then they did:
SO HOT! Then, yesterday, I hired a painter to re-do the lobby of my company’s office, and he randomly started telling me that he’s also currently painting the home of the guy who wrote the new Kelly Clarkson song. I was like, “Oh, I don’t really listen to popular music,” but he assured me I would’ve heard this song, and when we pulled it up on YouTube, it turns out he was right. After enjoying that, he said practically as an aside, “This guy also wrote the new Miley Cyrus song, if you know it.” I was like
IF I KNOW IT?! So what I’m saying is–there’s three degrees of separation between Miley Cyrus and me, which practically makes me one of those friends in her video. Probably the Asian one in the red bikini top.
Wednesday morning, I was on the green line on my way to work, and the air conditioning suddenly turned off despite the fact that the subway is UNDERGROUND in an entirely ENCLOSED SPACE that doesn’t get ANY NATURAL AIR. Without the whooshing from the vents, I was able to hear the music coming from the headphones of the guy in front of me. I listened in for a second and dismissed it as some hip-hop crap, but during the bridge, I realized that I not only knew but loved the song!
When I first moved to NYC, I was dating this great guy named Todd who had this terrible friend named Sarah. On my first night in the city, she took us to eat at the Sea in Williamsburg, which would later become the neighborhood I’d move to and live in for three years and counting, even though I’m not even sure I knew we were in Brooklyn at the time. I thought Sarah was a little bit bitchy and a little bit glamourous, which is exactly what I look for in friends, and I assumed we’d be likethis soon enough.
But then Todd came home from hanging out with her one night and told me that Sarah said my taste in music was not indie but singer-songwriter. As I’d prided myself up until then on knowing all the music my friends didn’t, I was super-offended that this Goldfrapp-loving rich girl was calling me “not indie”. When I thought of singer-songwriters, I thought of John Mayer and Jack Johnson, who I just don’t consider my guys.
The other day, though, I realized that actually, yeah, I’m totally not embarrassed to like certain singer-songwriters:
But I hate all the others, and I’m totally indie, so there.
I was falsely under the impression that being in a band means you’re cool.
Back in high school and college, I went to a lot of shows. I’ve seen my favourite band well over 50 times all over the country, and that’s just the beginning. I used to be obsessed with meeting members of the bands after the concerts, so I’ve gushed to an embarrassing number of musicians. And they all seemed cool to me. Honestly, I can’t remember anyone who wasn’t cool. Some of them were assholes (I’m looking at YOU, Ed Roland), but being an asshole only adds to your air of untouchability.
A couple of weekends ago, though, Kamran made me watch the documentary Kill Your Idols, which is about the NYC no wave scene of the 70s and 80s and the current noise scene that grew out of it. The film features a couple of Yeah Yeah Yeahs performances, which was really exciting for me, because I’ve always thought Karen O is a super-sexy performer with unrivaled coolness. See for yourself:
But then they made the horrible, horrible mistake of interviewing her. She says “like” and “you know” a million times, which isn’t really an issue for me, because who do I know who doesn’t talk that way? The problem for me is how . . . Midwestern . . . she seems. I can’t look at her the same way anymore. She has a weak chin! And insecure lips! And awkward hand movements!
Someone made the best YouTube video with clips from the interview called “Karen O tells it, like, it is”. So funny:
Seriously, if this person is cool enough to front a band, who isn’t? I can put on a lot of makeup and look mean (haha 2005), and what you’ve seen of me at karaoke is 1/8th of what I’m capable of. Kamran and I even have our band named.
In case you haven’t already heard, I sort of loved the movie 500 Days of Summer but also sort of hated it for its attempts at making me feel like my boyfriend doesn’t wear enough sweater vests and for my unexplainable secret desire to see the couple in it fail.
Other than the female lead being a coldhearted jerk, I couldn’t pinpoint anything specific that caused me to not feel much attachment to them, but this morning on the train, I realized that what made me roll my eyes about them was the elevator scene, shown here in the opening of the trailer:
The problem is that I’m jealous. This exact scene is the stuff of my emo, music-fanatic, high school dreams, and it’s never happened to me . . .
The other day, Dr. Boyfriend innocently informed me that he’d been listening to Electric Six’s Switzerland album on his iPod, not realizing that I’d go crazy reminiscing about how much it meant to me three short years ago. See, I met my ex-boyfriend Todd during our senior year of college at THE Ohio State University in a German film class, and after we’d dated for six months, he moved here for grad school at NYU. I took an extra year to write an undergraduate thesis and then moved to NYC myself, thinking that we’d both loved karaoke and strawberry shortcake from Whole Foods and riding the subway equally.
It turned out that Todd only liked to sing one song at karaoke, that they built a Whole Foods in Ohio, and that the subway made his claustrophobia act up. So he planned to move back home, and I planned to move with him, because it’s hard here, you know? And it’s even harder when you don’t know anyone but five of your boyfriend’s friends. I started looking at apartments in Columbus, picked out my future dining room table one day while I was shopping on High Street with my best friend, Tracey, and even bought some candles to match the exposed brick wall I imagined my new place would have.
And then I just didn’t go. Todd still went, and my friends must have thought I was the biggest asshole for teasing them with my plans to go with him, but I stayed, and I left our beautiful 350-square-foot studio with its black and white checked bathroom tile in Chelsea and found a sublet in Brooklyn. The sublet was the ground level of a brownstone in Park Slope where the kitchen, living room, bathroom, and one bedroom were on the first floor, and the entire basement was a second bedroom with its own bathroom.
I was rather lonely during that time. I hadn’t really considered NYC my home and hadn’t bothered to accept any invitations to hang out with friendly co-workers, so the only person I had to rely on was a guy from my very first job in the city. He lived in Park Slope and had been the one to convince me to take a sublet there, so I naturally assumed he’d be my tour guide and makeshift boyfriend. We did super-romantic things like meet at midnight for walks in the park (because he didn’t go into work until 11 a.m. and didn’t care that I had to be up at 7), listen to hours and hours of Radiohead (because it’s the only band we had in common) in his one-bedroom apartment (I didn’t know anyone else who was able to afford to live alone in NYC, so it impressed me), and watch the sun set from the roof of the Met (and then go straight to our respective homes instead of continuing an actual date). He’d call me only once a week, and I’d call Tracey eight times a day to complain about it.
The lease was up for the girl I was subletting from at the end of August, and I just assumed that my friend Wen (who I met while working Barnes & Noble, which was my second job for the first year I lived here) and I could just slide right in to a new lease. But on August 29th, the landlord called to tell me he was raising the rent from $2100 to $2800 and that I could get the hell out if I wasn’t happy with it. I begged him for a month to find a new apartment, and Wen helped me move my stuff into the basement bedroom so I could enjoy four glorious weeks of sleeping in a room the size of other people’s entire apartments.
I’d met Kamran (who is, of course, the current Dr. Boyfriend) on September 14th, but I wasn’t spending every waking moment at his apartment in front of a reality TV show yet. Every morning, I’d take a shower in the first-floor bathroom (because the downstairs one had seemed too scary to me after the flooding) and then try to find a corner of my room where I wasn’t visible to Wen on the first floor. The staircase was an open one with wooden bars where a wall should have been, so anyone standing in the kitchen could look down into the bedroom through the bars and see whatever wild thing I might be doing. I tried hanging sheets up with various sticking materials, but nothing ever took, so I resigned myself to hiding in my closet to put my underwear on for a month.
And I’d listen to Switzerland every single morning. I mean every single morning. Wen was always upstairs listening to cool stuff like The Blow from the crappy speakers attached to our TV (since we didn’t have a proper stereo), and I was always trying to drown him out with “I Buy the Drugs”. Which is totally a romantic song, right? “I am your man and I buy the drugs.”
I have no idea why the album hit me in just the right spot at that particular time. Maybe it’s because I was in such a state of oh-my-god-why-did-I-decide-to-stay-here? that I needed the tongue-in-cheek-ness of it to keep me focused on my yay-I-have-the-chance-to-do-whatever-I-want-to-with-my-life-in-NYC! thoughts and to keep my mind off my oh-crap-I-have-no-money-I-need-to-find-a-new-apartment-I’m-not-tough-enough-for-NYC thoughts. It was super-exciting to live in Brooklyn for the first time in this huge apartment and super-exciting to start looking for our next new place in my now-neighborhood of Williamsburg with Wen and super-exciting to be dating this person who felt different than everyone else from the moment I met him, and I really associate the album with those feelings and that time.
And now I have a boyfriend who loves it, too. Kamran and I agree that this is the best song on the album:
And now that I’ve told you my life story, tell me yours. What songs do you associate with certain times in your life? If you’re really motivated (and I hope you are), write your own blog/journal entry about it and let us know in the comments so everyone can enjoy.
Back on April 3rd, Dr. Kamran took me to see Cold War Kids at Terminal 5 over on the waywest side. It was sorta weird to me that I was paying real money to see them, because when I saw them for a $3 donation last summer in Prospect Park, I felt fairly so-so about them. I liked their vocalist, but I didn’t care for their songs.
And then I couldn’t stop listening to them for weeks afterward and kicked myself for all the times I missed them playing $5 shows when I lived in Ohio. I finally understood why everyone was so gung-ho about “Hospital Beds” and “Hang Me Out to Dry“, and then their new album came out, and I couldn’t get enough of “Mexican Dogs” and “Against Privacy“.
So even though Kamran had spring semester law school finals the following week, he took me to the show, and it was amazing:
It just sucks, you know, because I’m to the point that I would say I sort of love this band, and yet their fans suck so hard. The people behind us were chatting through the entire show, and half of that chat was complaining about how they didn’t know any of the songs. When they started playing “Something is Not Right with Me” and everyone cheered for, like, the first time all night, I yelled, “Buy the album!” and the girl beside me who actually knew the songs turned and laughed.
But I’m a crochety old lady who should be ignored.
First, Joe Satriani accused Coldplay of ripping off his 2004 song “If I Could Fly”:
Now Cat Stevens (er, um, Yusuf Islam) is accusing them of stealing from his 1973 song “Foreigner Suite”:
And suddenly Brooklyn band Creaky Boards claims that their 2008 song “The Songs I Didn’t Write” was also copied by Coldplay . . . even though their albums came out at the same time. And seriously, when you straight up tell everyone that you didn’t write the song IN ITS TITLE, I don’t think you have a leg to stand on in the courtroom.
The fact that Cat Stevens evidently didn’t think Satriani himself was worth suing when his song came out four whole years before Coldplay’s interests me, though. If I was Satriani, I’d be super-offended.
I went to Le Royale Saturday night with some trepidation to celebrate my friend Sonya’s birthday. See, we like to go to Le Royale on Friday nights for Robot Rock, where we can be sure to hear 80s new wave and current indie music. However, Sonya had to go and be born on April 11th instead of April 10th, so we had to go to what Le Royale was calling Grand Buffet Saturday. Not appealing, right? Unless you’re into Ponderosa and cheap Chinese food, I guess. (Which you are.)
But it turned out to be the best night ever! The DJ, I later learned, was named Vikas Sapra, and he’s now my favourite DJ ever. I’m the sort of person who has a reeeeeeeeeeally great time when the DJ’s playing a song I like and an inversely more horrible time when he’s playing something I don’t like/know. It’s definitely one of my more intolerable personality traits and something I feel bad for subjecting my poor friends to, but there it is all the same, and not even two fistfuls of vodka can make it any better.
Luckily, this Sapra fellow is a master of mixes. One second he’s playing “Kids” by MGMT and I’m going crazy, the next he’s playing some shitty hip-hop song that makes me want to kill myself, but then he’s playing Bowie’s “Modern Love” and everything’s great again. And he only plays the best 30 seconds of each song, which sucks for the songs I love but is perfect for the times I’ve reached for my razorblade.
My friend Beth and I spent the night right in front of the DJ booth in order to have enough room to flail our arms wildly like white girls dancing do and to look approvingly at Vikas when he played Blur and Nirvana and not-so-approvingly when he played One Republic (who I originally called New Republic until I just had the foresight to Google their name to be sure). Now my weekend schedule will officially consist of karaoke on Fridays, Le Royale on Saturdays, and “Celebrity Apprentice” on Sundays.
I was riding the M15 up from the East Village after a Friday night of karaoke classics at my favorite place to watch my friends make fools of themselves, Sing-Sing, when at a stop near 34th Street, a man stood up from his seat and began yelling at the person behind him, seemingly out of nowhere. This is precisely what I heard:
“You want to step out?! You want to step out?! You’re not so clean! Your butt is dirty! Asshole!”
He was a stubby guy with a backpack and the leftovers of an Asian accent, and his victim was a white-haired, cane-holding black gentleman who didn’t seem to notice that he’d just been given a verbal beat-down. Now to be fair, I was in the back of the bus behind a guy who was inexplicably grunting at ten-second intervals, but I’m positive that’s what the yeller yelled. How he knew anything about his fellow rider’s butt I’m less sure of.
He strutted off the bus with an air of accomplishment, and we were all left to wonder what the old man could’ve possibly said to rile him up.
(Posted on Examiner, which pays me for your visits (hint, hint))
And because I can’t resist:
Steven and Emily singing (or, you know, not singing in this photo) a romantic duet
of Paula Abdul’s “Opposites Attract”
Nik and Charles enjoying Jeff’s rendition of “Stayin’ Alive”
Roxanne showing her Jamaican roots with some Bob Marley, which earned her the eye
of the one other Jamaican dude who sings karaoke in NYC.
Adam unabashedly doing the robot while Steven gets DOWN.
I was actually in a non-salty mood for the first Friday in ages, so I convinced some of my ladyfriends (and Steven) to go out for another round of karaoke to make up for our last sad, sad display. This time we went back to our usual spot, Sing-Sing Karaoke, which was introduced to us by Emily ages ago and which I’m going to argue is the best karaoke in New York City in terms of song offerings and awesomeness of facilities, though their private rooms get snatched up too quickly because of how great they are.
We went straight from work, which meant that we were the first ones there and got to take advantage of their $5 per person/hour private room happy hour rate and half-priced drinks. The drinks being the reason you will not see any photos of me in the following collection.
The drinks also being the reason Steven looks like he’s soooooooo into this beautiful ballad until you notice that the words on the screen are “till you holler for more”:
and the reason Jessica looks like she’s never enjoyed a tortilla chip from Chipotle more than she’s enjoying this one:
and the reason Melvin has five chins:
and the reason Jenny and Jessica actually sang a song without being threatened into it (and why Jenny may be throwing up here):
and the reason Emily is singing “867-5309/Jenny” for the second time that night in honor of Jenny with her hand in her crotch:
Okay, no, I’m kidding; we each had, like, one drink. But there’s really no other explanation for this stuff.
I mean, not to be creepy or anything, but OMG, photos of Anoop as a baby:
I mean, not as cute as my actual boyfriend (as opposed to Anoop, who is merely my future boyfriend)
but still.
And also, while I realize that Anoop looks really awkward in this way-too-cool jacket that he’d obviously never choose for himself, I still think he was totally NOT bad last night:
I, I got you in my pocket
For when I get home
Keep you in my pocket
For when I get home
I keep you in my pocket
For when I get home
When I get home, when I get home
I went to see Tokyo Police Club at a sold out show at Webster Hall on Wednesday night. For the past year, this band has been my go-to when I want to listen to something fun and familiar. And you need a lot of fun and familiar in a mean city like New York, so I’ve listened to their album about 1500 times. I love the lyrics, I love the vocals, and I love how dorky their sound is. This post is entirely an excuse for me for share their music.
I love to be in the balcony of a ballroom when it’s one of those that wraps around both sides of the stage, because not only do you get to be right on top of the band, but you also get prime viewing of anything nasty that goes on below. Like Wednesday night, when a girl puked all over the hardwood floors. I noticed that a group of people below suddenly formed a big circle around a certain girl who was on her hands and knees and couldn’t figure out why no one was helping her up until one of the security guards shone a flashlight on her and her pool of vomit.
I tried to play it cool for a while, but I eventually turned to the guy beside me and said, “Don’t think me gross, but I have to take a picture of that.” He said, “I was thinking the same thing. It’s too good to ignore.” I said, “I especially can’t wait until someone thinks such an awesome spot just happens to be open and goes and stands right in it.” He said, “I’m going to interview the band right after the show, and that’s the first thing I’m going to talk to them about.” I said, “Rock journalist?! BFFs for life!”
The first band was Harlem Shakes, and I was excited about them for about three songs, because their singer sounds like he’s been sucking on helium. Once the novelty wore off, I mostly just watched their bassist, who was wearing white jeans, red socks, and no shoes.
The second band was Born Ruffians, who I had never listened to but was quite sure I would hate. I was under the impression that they were nu-punk in the tradition of AFI and Sum 41, and my suspicions were confirmed when their bassist walked out wearing a red and black plaid hoodie with the hood up over his long, stringy, curly hair. Sure, their singer was wearing a blazer over a sweater and had side-parted hair, but I would not be swayed.
But no!, they’re actually indie pop, and they’re actually great. Especially live. Their vocalist is AMAZING. Like, seriously, I haven’t been so stoked while hearing a band perform for the first time since I saw Crystal Stilts a year ago. I was getting chills and all sorts of shit. The studio recordings don’t even begin to capture what was going on, but you should still listen to
And look how cute!
Although the drummer last night was black. WTF?
Tokyo Police Club came out and started playing some song I didn’t know, and I was like, “Oh, crap, they have a new album that I don’t know about!” But no, it was one of their old songs. And their old songs are not good. I love their album Elephant Shell like nobody’s business, but it sounds like a totally different band playing on their EPs. You have been warned. My favourites are
TPC’s singer lifts one leg when he plays, and their keyboardist pretty much has epileptic fits every ten seconds, and their fans were so into the music it was crazy. Even the stodgy record label types across the balcony from me were drumming their fingers on the railing. Even the 16-year-olds in frilly cocktail dresses were pumping their fists. Ahhhhhhhhh, the uniting power of music.
Speaking of which, for the encore, TPC brought out Born Ruffians for a brand new song that they collaborated on, which sounded much better live than it does here, but still, I’m glad someone got a video of it:
And then all three bands came out for a little Clash (also not my video):
My friend Jack, godlovehim, only listens to classic rock. Take him to karaoke, and he’ll sing AC/DC, KISS, and–if you’re lucky–something as modern as Bon Jovi. So it was pretty funny to me when we went to see The Dark Knight in the theatre last year, we saw this preview,
and he was all up on Billy Corgan the following day, asking me what other songs I’d recommend and stuff. I don’t blame him–the song went so perfectly with the scenes and the editing of the trailer–but the fact that he’d never really listened to the Smashing Pumpkins kind of blew my mind.
Earlier this week, he asked me if I knew Franz Ferdinand. And then the Artic Monkeys. And then yesterday, Hot Hot Heat. Haha!
I had to show you this video because of the way Steve Bays’ hair
starts out all calm and slick in the beginning and then is all frizzy
and whacked out by the end. THIS IS LIFE WITH CURLY HAIR, PEOPLE,
and even beautiful rockstars suffer.
But the whole point of this post is that while I was busy Googling the Smashing Pumpkins just for kicks today, I found this Rolling Stone article about James Iha, former Pumpkins guitarist, and his new band, which includes TAYLOR HANSON of Hanson fame.
You can not underestimate the love I once had for Hanson. After seeing them perform “MMMBop” on an episode of “The Rosie O’Donnell Show”, I plastered everything I owned in Taylor’s pictures . . . and then went and bought their album much later. And this was 1997, friends; I was very much old enough to know better. I even went on to own their Christmas album, as horrifying a thing to admit as that is.
I’m convinced that it’s past transgressions such as these that make me hold on so tightly to my indie rock elitism today.
So, America kicked my future husband, Anoop off of “American Idol” last night because of this song:
It hurt me especially because on that very episode, Ryan Seacrest did an interview with Anoop’s parents, and I really felt like the three of us bonded during those two minutes. I mean, I get that Michael the oil rigger has a lot less going for him–dirty job, unattractive wife, couple of kids–than 22-year-old Anoop with his grad school and his boyish good looks, but
PLEASE DO NOT PICK YOUR IDOL BASED ON PITY, AMERICA.
I’ve never been a person who actively tries to watch “American Idol”, but while my best friend Tracey and I were snowed in at her house last week, we watched her TiVoed episodes to pass the time, and I’ll admit that I sort of got hooked. So much so that when my friend Beth invited me to a movie tonight, I had to weigh whether her friendship or my new favorite show was more important.
This is the reason:
Anoop Desai, Cocoa-Skinned Dreamboat with a Weird Tongue Affliction That I Am So Into
My love for him grew so rapidly from the first time I laid eyes on him that when I first YouTubed his name, there was absolutely nothing there but a bunch of old videos of him soloing in his college singing group, the Clef Hangers:
Get it? CLEF Hangers? And Anoop is obviously so clever that I’m sure he made the name up himself. I’m also sure he dated every last one of those screaming white girls in the audience, but that doesn’t tarnish him at all for me. Just look at his geektastic audition, which I stole from this guy:
I’ve already threatened to leave Kamran for him, and I’m already predicting him as the winner of “American Idol” Season 8. Or at least as the winner OF MY HEART.
