soccer? spaghettios? fuck my life.

it’s three in the morning, london time. all of Arsenal asleep, or absolutely shitfaced with a nose full of blow. Someone Tomas Rosiscky is injured, always. Theo Walcott is clutching a stuffed elephant. My jersey is the only thing I have on a hanger in my closet. When I wake up, the game will be already uploaded to the fox soccer channel website, whose yearlong package I purchased for one hundred bucks, like a fucking idiot. They plan to carry four arsenal games. Four. FOUR. so, twenty five bucks a game to watch a shitty webfeed. One of my safer investments. (really though)

I keep turning up Andrew Bird on my shiny semi-new stereo to drown out the T. Pain shaking the foundation of this little duplex from across the street. Does Theodore Pain take a “.” in front of his abbreviated first name? I should call him and ask.

I think I might write a single column for Mike (aka Dad, aka new roommate) who works his ass off for an online magazine. He covers music, he interviewed the lead singer of Everclear on the phone yesterday. Fucking Everclear? Yeah. Anyways, my title, “Who the hell are the Fiery Furnaces?”

I don’t have an answer yet. I know this:

- Polish, in last name atleast. I should recheck this, but fuck it, I’m off and running
- Brother and sister, and not in the White Stripes “we used to fuck, or were married, spooooky” way.
- The White Stripes made it cool to be pale for seven minutes. The seven minutes after my friends first heard “seven-nation army”. That was about it.
- Grandma sings on most of their new album. She sounds like death. (capital D?)
- I don’t fucking understand what they are talking about. It is like fucking my ear with a corkscrew.
- Last year Mike tried (and eventually succeeded) in opening a can of Spaghettios with a corkscrew. He also destroyed his hand.
- Alcohol was not involved.