I’m wearing my indie rock today because all you cheap monkeys wouldn’t spare me a dollar (except a few of you-you know who you are. And I love you. The rest of you are heartless bastards). Earlier, I listened to At the Drive-In (because they’re angry). After that, I listened to Shellac (because, well, he sings about killing people who [excuse my language] fuck his wife-not that any of you fucked my wife, but I’d let you for a dollar). After Shellac, I turned on Jets to Brazil. They’re not so angry, they’re more sad about stuff about things about everything. Poor guys—always whining. But I’m in that stage of feeling sorry for myself because you monkeys wouldn’t spare me a dollar or a retainer nor did you fuck my wife for a dollar. Anger came and went. Now, I just feel sad. Hence, Jets To Brazil.
So you can have my wife (if I had one, but I don’t because I’m a wife) and my music for free. And I will be buckless, buck-toothed and mean.
But none of the above is my point here. Now, begins my point: There are two lyrics on “Orange Rhyming Dictionary” that I have often wondered about. One, is this:
And it’s so nice sleeping here all alone-
with my ashtray-white, courtesy telephone.
Does he mean he got a white phone for free? Or is he in a hotel room and the white phone is free to call out from. (And here’s some white, courtesy music for all you cheap bastards).
Next up: same album, different song.
In my three feet from bed to wall sleeps(’s?) a genius.
Now, on this one I realize could open the liner notes and find out of there’s an apostrophe, but screw that. iPod lost them long ago. Does he mean “He’s a genius and he sleeps”? or “Sleep IS a genius”. Because I love sleep. And I sort of wish I were doing just that right now so I could dream about taking the dollars from online monkeys. (And I have typed for miles—and you’d think because of that a sista’d get a buck? But noooooo).
Oh yeah, one more thing. Red House Painters. Now, do they paint red houses? Or paint houses red? Which reminds me, speaking of red houses, mihow.com is officially on strike. And you’re all Communists.
Mihow 
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