If I could take what I love about the Rolling Stones, and mix it with what I love about the Ramones, I'd probably get a Frankenstein monster that sounded like The Mooney Suzuki. Mixing that stripped-down '60s rock sound with the speed and intensity of what makes punk good, the New York-rooted fantastic foursome just plain fucking rock. 'Nuff said.
So what up with Electric Sweat, their ass-spanking new album on Gammon Records? Lots.

If you suffer from Musical Attention Deficit Disorder (see: the inability to listen to any album straight through) then punk rock is just the genre the doctor ordered. And if the genre is the perfect pill for the problem, then a punk rock compilation like Epitaph’s Punk-O-Rama 7 would be a morphine drip. Only it’s more like speed than morphine.

The wind gently tickled the blinds of my window. Even as a small boy I liked sleeping with a cool breeze comforting my flesh. My mother entered my cluttered room and fiddled with the dusty blinds. As she slowly closed the window, I pretended to be asleep. From the sound of her tears, I knew the day she had feared most had finally come to pass. The finest man I have ever met ceased to suffer.

This was a bad idea. This was a mistake. You shouldn't have done this.
Jill looked down at the rapidly growing pool of red in the sink in front of her. Her knees buckled; she dropped to the floor, her shoulder sliding down the cabinet.
Too late to change your mind, Jill. This is it. This is how you are going to die: curled into the fetal position on your bathroom floor.
Her vision was getting blurry and her head was growing heavier by the second. Gravity won the struggle as she gave up, her upper body slowly slumping forward.

After being single for so long, I had come to believe that I wasn't missing anything. We have all been burned in love; the relationship that was over way before it ended, and continued its stronghold even after it ended. This isn't a new story. Everyone has their crazy relationships; the one that made you both psycho. In retrospect you ask yourself, "What the fuck was I thinking? Am I that weak?

I am a cynical motherfucker. I know this. I accept this. However, I save it for important things like humanity, religion, and corporate politics. My “fuck it” personality isn’t a science, nor is it zen-like, but it works for me. If you don’t like it, well, what can I say? Ah, of course: FUCK YOU! That oft used staple of my vocabulary is exactly the sentiment I’d like to send out to the majority of film critics. I love movies and try to see them for what they are: entertainment.

I’ve woken up as a lot of people in my time. It’s a hard act to handle, you know; being in a strange body, not knowing who “you” are, or how “you” got there, wholly unable to discern whose eyes are staring back at you from a pool of filthy water in some random gutter. Yet, on rare occasions, not fully comprehending your current identity can be a deeply pleasurable experience.

LOS ANGELES
I heard it said once that if you stay in Los Angeles too long, you will inevitably go insane. I'd survived pretty darn long stretches in Clearwater, Florida with my sanity intact, so I didn't think much of it. Maybe it was because I was younger then and could do strange things, like read for three weeks straight in hyper-air-conditioned rooms without once getting bored, horny, or pissed off. Ah, how times change.