God help me, it's Rocky Balboa today and I'll be there. I recall very vividly going to see Rocky IV on a Sunday night, which seemed scandalous somehow. That said, I don't have any particular fondness for the series. I'm not sure I've even seen all of the original. In the heat of basic cable delirium, they've all formed a kind of Stallone-consomme. And if that image terrifies you as much as me, let's have drinks.
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Got my wizened little claws on Willie Nelson's new album, Songbird, produced by Ryan Adams. Like everything Adams does, some things work, some don't. There is a great, full sound behind Willie, though, and on the best, most natural takes, the songs shine.
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The picture below this, the you can check into the Hotel VFW but you can never leave, the Santa still on the honeymoon phase with meth, is the man I'd hired to be my personal attendant in Carbondale after a powerfully squat, powerfully hairy little Romanian man, who loved ABBA and The Steve Miller Band, who had worked for me previously, tried to extort money from me. At some point, you will begin the calculus of desperation, reading this.
Oh, the stories. They burn. They burn. Bitter, Matt, bitter.
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1 comment:
Good lord...Stallone consomme? That's the sweatiest food I've ever pondered.
And in revenge for that, I've tagged you for a poetry meme--just go look at my blog.
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