Skunkeye sooo much wanted to watch Courtney Love on Letterman last night. Turned out to be a bigger trainwreck than I could have possibly imagined. Alas, could not stay awake and drifted off watching the L Word.
Speaking of bad music and assault, blood was almost spilled in mi casa last night. Just when I thought the coast was clear and the house was quiet and peaceful and I could enjoy the Sopranos undisturbed, Bumblefuck housemate barges back, homely girl in tow. He lures her up to his hovel room, turns on his amp and guitar and serenades her in his unique excruciating inimitable style. Bumblefuck performed his work in progress, "You Don't Know How It Feels Like To Be Me," which is destined to be a classic. Turns out she is a singer, too, and she belts out the worst white girl rendition of “Don’t Know Why.” (Note to Skunkeye: give your Norah Jones CDs to sister now). Oh, Skunkeye is in pain! The whole old house shaking, reverberating with this awful insipid cacophony … I can deal with the next door crackheads pounding on the door and trying to murder eachother much better … and it goes on forever… “Leaving On a Jet Plane,” Simon & Garfunkel, Jewel, … DAVE MATTHEWS. Yarg! Wish I had a microphone stand to bash their heads in with…
Finally, as they came downstairs (I guess Bumblefuck didn’t get any), the girl says, “That was fun, we should try singing in the streets sometime!”. No, no, NO! People of DC be warned