May 28, 06 11:56 AM
Chris Holmes Shitfaced in a Swimming Pool.
Metal days revisited.
Soul Coughing had a couple of metal guys as roadies, and I used to sit around and, nostalgic for my junior high love of metal, talk about whether Paul Di'Anno or Bruce Dickinson was the better vocalist for Iron Maiden. Being in this quasi - avant - beat - oriented band, I think they thought I was mocking them, but I wasn't. Maybe it was the extent of my unhappiness in Soul Coughing that made me long for simpler times and less pretentious music.
Over the past few years, I've slowly added classic metal tunes to my iTunes; first AC/DC and Black Sabbath (pretty much undeniable, whether you went through a metal phase or not); now Motley Crüe's "Knock 'Em Dead Kid," Judas Priest's "Electric Eye," Iron Maiden's "Number of the Beast." Scrap and Chuck introduced me to Slayer's "Reign in Blood," which I'm embarrassed to say I missed the first time around. I rock these songs daily on the train without irony.
But I'm suspicious of my own motivations (naturally, as I always am); at first, I thought I should avoid VH1's metal documentary, "Heavy"; I figured it was mostly 30-ish-ers like myself wallowing in nostalgia, disguised as irony (I Love the 80s, anyone?) But sitting down at the TV last night, there was just no way I couldn't watch it.
And it was great--smart, and unapologetic. With some haunting moments, like Jani Lane from Warrant talking about how he wrote "Cherry Pie" in one night, because his record company demanded a single; he hates it, spoke bitterly of promotional pie-eating contests and how the wretched tune would be his legacy, and actually wept on camera.
The years from '82 to '87 seemed like eons. Today, five years doesn't seem like much time at all to me. In that period I went from Judas Priest to the Sex Pistols to the Cocteau Twins; in 1984 I was all about Motley Crüe, and in 1986 I was so embarrassed that I gave away my collection of vinyl metal records to a goth girl named Pamela who didn't particularly like metal, but was just aghast at the prospect of tossing a record collection away.
What happened? I sought more emotional music as my own emotions became more complex; as I shedded identity after identity, each one I discarded wholly. But as the documentary moved from the Priest/Maiden/Halen years to the hair-metal, Poison/Cinderella power ballad years, I realized that a change in the attitude (and the popularity) of the music alienated me.
Rob Halford, Vince Neil, and Bruce Dickinson were like outcast heroes, standing against a world of Reaganite conformity (and believe me, growing up among the military at West Point, I knew something about conformity, not to mention deeply buried anguish, and post-traumatic stress disorder). They were the superhero versions of what Paul Westerberg came to mean to me; figures of anger and angst.
Sebastian Bach, Jani Lane, and Bret Michaels were not; they portrayed themselves as guys at a party I could not hope to join. I jumped ship for Johnny Rotten and Joey Ramone, guys who were as ugly as I felt myself to be.
It was interesting to me when they talked about the blatant the - second - single - is - a - power - ballad ploy; it was obvious to me even as a guy clueless about the music indstry that this was a tried-and-true promotions tactic. They showed a montage of 1988 era second single power ballads; really funny. Dee Snider spoke sourly about how the tactic de-balled his career and sank it; Sebastian Bach talked about how it worked for him, and he laughed, cheerfully, acknowledging the corniness.
I am shocked that I have grown to like Sebastian Bach. I saw him in a production of The Rocky Horror Show along with my friend the former MTV VJ Dave Holmes. "I like him," Dave said. "We get each other."
When I was 21, in 1992, I was living with (and living off of) a rich girl who later discovered herself to be a lesbian. One night, desperately lonely, I called a 900 number from the back of the NYPress, and found myself talking to a girl who claimed to be a model. I told her I was a musician. She said she liked Skid Row. I went off about lame music and the underground this-or-that. "But don't you want to make it?" she said. The question stunned me.
Posted by Mike at 11:56 AM
May 26, 06 10:24 AM
You Must Be Logged In to Do That!
You Can't Do That on Television!
I have more thoughts on Idol. I will doubtless continue to have thoughts on Idol as the weeks go by, but I will try to not blog about them, and focus instead on highbrow concerns.
Meatloaf: really shockingly out of key. My girlf wondered if he were trying to sabotage the McPhee. But Meatloaf made the McPhee sound great by comparison. I mean, he was puzzlingly, balls-out atonal, as in, did they pitch shift everything in his in-ear monitors up a quarter tone?
On the positive side: I love that he's always got the handkerchief in his hand for facial-dabbing. Rather like Oum Kalthoum.
Aiken: Achin'. I do not understand. When he appeared with his screwed-on hair and that one weird eye a-flutter, trying to look all like, It is I, the great Flamenco Hunk Action Star Clay Aiken, I just thought: this person doesn't exist. How can he?
The convulsive reaction of the Clay imitator with the distressingly yellow teeth, when he discovered the Lando Calrissian of the Closeted striding mannishly beside him; what is he, to make the crazy? For this? I have the shock.
The first singles: there is a sub-industry now of pro songwriting committees (not as hip as the Itty Bitty Titty Committee, but I digress) that come up with these songs, like "Do I Make You Proud," and "Some people wait a lifetime for a moment like this," that are love songs disguised as triumphant-moment songs disguised as love songs disguised as, etc, that make no sense outside of Idol finales or high school graduations. Or cruise ship ads.
I want in on this racket. Or, at least, to pitch the Hicks on a cover of "American Car." He's a Ray LaMontagne fan, so why not?
Idol: I feel they should drop the "American," and be just IDOL. More appropriate, and monolithic.
Posted by Mike at 10:24 AM
May 25, 06 12:28 PM
Today: A Better America. Taylor Hicks' America.
(sob) You do make me proud! You do! (sob)
In triumph, our Taylor emotes, with that trout-like, Nixonian grimace.
A moment of bliss: after Taylor is declared the winner, they cut to a weeping David Hasselhoff.
A moment of anguish: at the end of the broadcast, for a couple of seconds, in tiny type, the disclaimer flashed that the cursing Rhonetta was in fact an actor. It was worded in hearbreaking, side-effects-may-include lawyerese, but I can't give you the exact wording, as my TiVo cut it off.
Perhaps you'll let it slide, if I include as a bonus these mugshots of Rhonetta, courtesy of the Mecklenburg County sheriff's office.
Posted by Mike at 12:28 PM
May 23, 06 09:23 PM
And On Thursday Morning, What Do They Expect Me to Do? Pay Attention to the World Around Me? No Thank You.
I like the McPhee and the Hicks because they are both friends with singing black people that wear robes.
Because they took the opportunity to début both the McPhee's and the Hicks' singles, they showed me the terrible truth; no matter who wins, the music will sound like mush to me. Air-conditioning music.
The omnipresence of Daniel Powter, throughout the season, should have been taken for the dark warning it was.
I was stoked to hear the judges ho-hum the singles, too; surprised (perhaps naively) that Simon's not really a part of the A&Ring process.
Also surprising: Paula, not drunk.
I tip my hat, as a professional, to the McPhee for suffering through her busted in-ear monitors and still staying in key--make that starting the tune a-capella and in key. That shit is hard. No wonder she was giddy afterwards.
But: I still think she's boring. I will enjoy hearing the Hicks emote, even on a wack, committee-written song. And here's hoping that somewhere down the line, he will stun the world with some quality Yacht Rock.
I would like to thank Cingular for being an Idol sponsor, thus allowing me to text 35 votes for the Taylor Hicks in under 1.5 minutes.
I would also like to thank the inept cameraperson, who, when the caption said Katherine's Family and Friends, was actually focussed on a confused Tori Spelling.
Posted by Mike at 9:23 PM
May 20, 06 11:13 PM
Some Are Missing.
Gone, unusable on Mike's machine: b/w S and U, and b/w X and Z. So, blog how?
So due o some weird mishap, I don' know exacl wha, wo of he kes on m compuer aren' working. I'd love o ell ou exacl wha he are, bu even o spell hese leers phoneicall I need he leers. I'm reall no ring o be co. Sigh.
I hink ha I should blog like his more ofen; wha difference could wo lile leers make? Har dee har har.
I feel ha I should make his enr longer, jus because i looks weird. So: I wached he 198 movie Hoosiers wih Gene Hackman (eah, I suppose I should menion ha I'm missing a number, oo, he one beween 5 and 7), and i was good, I like spors movies so much more han spors hemselves. Ruined b Jerr Goldsmih's score, wha's up wih ha? He's such a genius. Bu he score sounds as if he sudio execuives were fixaed on "Charios of Fire," ha snh sound, b wha's his face? Vivaldi? Vivace? Anwa.
Nominaed for an Oscar ha ear, along wih Ennio Morricone, for hm I don' recall exacl wha. I wonder if he did somehing uncharacerisicall mediocre as well.
I wish I had seen a movie wih Rae Dawn Chong in i, because I can spell her name wihou he missing kes. Oh, I suppose I can pe "Gene Hackman" and "Ennio Morricone" jus as well. And "Rosie Perez," oo, hough she wasn' in Hoosiers. So nevermind.
his weirdness will no be a charming quirk for long. I reall fucking hope ha his echnical difficul is emporar.
Posted by Mike at 11:13 PM
Lang Grads: Awesome.
"I believe the benefits of success will justify the costs and risks," he said. The protests grew louder and more frequent as he spoke. Some graduates walked out. Others laughed. When Mr. McCain returned to policy after briefly quoting Yeats, someone shouted, "More poetry!"
The first student speaker, Jean Sara Rohe, 21, said she had discarded her original remarks to talk about Mr. McCain. (link).
Posted by Mike at 11:27 AM
May 19, 06 12:37 PM
I Kind of Miss Sisqo.
Where did he go?
Such a feisty little man, with his head painted silver. I imagine him being sullen and driving an expensive car through the Wendy's drive-thru.
And Lou Bega--wasn't Lou Bega German? Perhaps I just don't see the inner man--perhaps he's angsty, too--but I envision him at a café in Düsseldorf, entertaining beauties with tales of his salad days.
Posted by Mike at 12:37 PM
Everybody loves them some Japanese game show. Clicky linky to this, ganked from WFMU's Beware of the Blog; perhaps the most devilish and weird Japanese game show of all time: here.Posted by Mike at 8:48 AM
May 18, 06 10:00 AM
Is It Soup Yet?
I have this gigantic music room in my new domicile, far out in Brooklyn where hipsters fear to tread.
I think I'm done writing the record. I go to the music room (I'd like to call it The Parlor but I have absolutely no justification for that), where all the keyboards and the amps and the drum machines have been set up and are ready to go at a moment's notice, just switch the amps on--my old Lower East Side place was so small you couldn't have all the gear set up at once, you practically had to set up the Moog on the kitchen counter--and yet I go in there, and sit, and pluck around on a guitar, and: nothing's coming.
It's not a block--that's an entirely different feeling, you're panicking, you're writing busloads of stuff, it's all just halfassed--it's this innate knowledge that everybody's already shown up to the party.
I have the list of songs which are awesome, and then I have a bunch of tunes that are essentially life support systems for killer lines. I extract the lines and plug them into a new tune, but that tune ends up sounding kind of flat. Sometimes I come up with a tune that's utterly stuffed, like a Stars on 45 cavalcade of homeless killer lines, and it just sounds bizarre. A drag queen lipsynching the 11 o'clock number of a Broadway standard.
"Is it soup yet?" is something Sekou Sundiata used to say in the poetry classes I took with him at the New School. We'd cut, revise, cut--he was pretty merciless, especially to a bunch of artsy college kids to whom every word was precious. Is it soup yet?
Maybe it's soup. Let's go.
Posted by Mike at 10:00 AM
Somebody Give Me $5.
Yeah, that's right, I called it. What's up now?
Once I was in a truck stop and saw a cap for the Chicago Blackhawks. I asked our sound guy Lars if such a team really did exist. Lars looked at me. "It's amazing," he said. "You're immune to it."
Yeah, sports meant nothing to me as a kid. As an adult, I watch those Bob Costas HBO shows, about the adversity and the pugnacity and the etc etc of this or that basketball dude, and then I resolve to watch a game and get excited about it. But it doesn't stick. I can't get that interested.
Hence, Jesus has shown me the way to American Idol. A televised competition I can get involved in.
There was an interesting piece in the NYPost comparing the Idol process to the Presidential primaries; mediocrity wins out because the fans of one eliminated contestant don't flip over to the more daring acts, but rather to the most inoffensive--hence, goodbye odds-on fave Chris. So the guy said Elliott would win. Well, har dee har har, NYPost guy.
Taylor by a hair. I no longer hate McPhee--mostly due to her answer, on the Fox Idol site, to a question whether the audition process was fair: "No, they let go of some really good people and kept people who were pretty."
Although she does that thing where she slides up to a note from a breath, which sounds like a style move but is in fact compensation. Drives me apeshitcrazy. And yeah, I recognize that I'm the dude who ends every lyric in the syllable "uh."
For which Beavis and Butthead likened me to Jimmy Swaggart. I add, proudly.
Posted by Mike at 9:49 AM
These Fotos Were All Taken When I Went to Eritrea (in East Africa) Earlier This Year.
I feel obliged to mention that every once in a while, for the benefit of newcomers.Posted by Mike at 9:35 AM
May 16, 06 10:00 AM
Elliott Will Go Home.
I am supercrazysure.
He could bring it tonight, I guess. I doubt it.
Maybe people love the McPhee more than I think they do. (I believe Chris got the boot because people figured he was safe, and they were voting for whom they wanted to be the also-ran) I think she'll make a good record (at least, a good record to me), which Chris would not have done, and will not do, as the frontperson in Fuel, or whatever bland air-conditioning-rock band he joins or forms.
Anyway. The McPhee may make an improved Carrie Underwood. Maybe I'm rationalizing.
Though the clip shows played and replayed Chris' astonished reaction to his getting dropped last week, what was fascinating to me was the McPhee; the moment she realized it was her and Chris in the bottom, she had a look of despondant resignation; between her and Chris, it seemed doubtless that she was outta there. And then when Chris went home, it was like her face blew wide open.
Also: the Name Authorities need to figure out a standard number of L's in T's in Elliott. Eliot? Eliott? Elliot? Ellliottt?
Posted by Mike at 10:00 AM
Mexican Radio Binge.
I spent $40 on iTunes before 9:30 am; I wasn't even halfway through my coffee.
When I'm in California, I listen to nothing but Mexican radio; those boozy horns! That oompah oompah beat! The singers practically in tears! It drives my bandmates crazy. Chuck "The Legend" actually stared at me, jaw hanging open, when he realized that I'd switched to a Norteño station, and wasn't joking about it. "You're fucking kidding me."
I'm really happy that I've figured how to type "ñ".
I know nothing about Norteño, no artists' names, nothing. So when I read a piece in the Times about the music that the pro-immigration protesters were listening to, I typed the name "Ramon Ayala" into iTunes, and suddenly I had links galore; other artists, via iMixes, to compilations, to more iMixes...
One thing I love about Latino music is that one does songs in particular beats: this is a corrido, this is a cumbia, etc. (clearly I know nothing about what these beats are actually called; I know 'em as, like, this one's the woozy oompah, this one's the mournful slow waltz, this one is the heavy, swaying waltz, etc) You can pick and choose which beats you dig. (at least on iTunes; I guess in the CD age, if you dug the oompah, you were stuck with six waltzes to boot)
I half-wish I could make albums this way: Hmmm, I'm putting together a new album; I'll need three gangadanks, a choogler, a brap-a-tat-tat...
Posted by Mike at 9:47 AM
May 11, 06 10:01 AM
In the Kitchen.
Bestest place in the universe.
I'm typing this at a kitchen table. At a kitchen table. New Yorkers will understand; this is the prize of all prizes, to have a table in the kitchen. It makes me feel like writing. That novel that I've been stopping/starting for years may actually start-and-or-stop again at this very table.
Scrap and I got Wendy's at a drive-through last night ("It's a good Wendy's," said Scrap about the one in my new neighborhood) after hauling a big TV over from P.C. Richard's in his car (a New Yorker with a car being the one thing rarer than a New Yorker with an eat-in kitchen). We ate it at this very table. I was astonished to be doing this in my own house.
(My new TV, though large, is the throwback, tube-style. What do I need of the flat-screen? In P.C. Richard's, I pulled out a tape-measure to see if the TV would fit on my TV table, and the salesman whipped out his own tape-measure and held it up against a flat-panel, grinning. Sigh. My display-quality is not great, but TV just isn't that huge a part of my life to spend more on it than a laptop. Although I do harbor fantasies of at last watching Lawrence of Arabia)
I now live in an unfashionable part of Brooklyn. There's lots of greenery, and a relative proximity to DiFara's pizza. Quick into Manhattan on an express train, although I don't know if that'll mean shit to me; half the reason I decided to get a big apartment was that I was staying home all day, writing songs and then websurfing and then writing songs again.
Posted by Mike at 10:01 AM
Like Gothic Hotcakes.
(Title is a nonsequitur; I just liked it)
Gigs last weekend in Madison, Iowa City, and River Falls (Wisconsin).
(all these live pix, from River Falls, ganked from listener Josh Kohanek)
Allergies struck the night of the Madison gig, but I dosed up with some Dayquil (my usual cure). I ended up blowing my voice out. The next day I sounded like Brenda Vaccaro. It was not so much the gig, as all the talking afterwards; believe it or not, an hour or so talking with audience people takes a heavier toll than full-blown singing.
So I was freaked out the next day, even more so by the unexpected possibility that we were going to fly to Los Angeles on Monday to do a TV show (they ended up booking a different artist, which is a bummer, but probably lucky for me and my scratchy throat). I abstained (mostly) from talking all day, and did a shitload of goofy warmup excercises.
Iowa City was so great. The Scrig and I were supermeshed and tight. With the exercises (and a little more Dayquil, oh the magic of pseudoephedrine) I had gotten my voice to a place where the Brenda-Vaccaro-ness was actually kind of pleasing; whiskey notes.
There's a high note on "Madeline," and one on "Bells," that are my bete noires on a bad-throat night. But perhaps the audience is reminded of Biz Markie and find the weird notes to be fun.
After the Iowa City gig, I hid in the wood-paneled dressing room; fans kept knocking on the door, pestering Chuck to coax me out to sign stuff. Still thinking I had to preserve my voice for the L.A. TV thing, I stayed sequestered. I felt bad about hiding from the audience. I kind of felt like Prince.
River Falls: a full-on rock star experience. An amphitheatre, and sexy drunk girls jumping onstage to dance. Bliss.Posted by Mike at 9:59 AM
What's going on with the new, in-the-works album. Creatively, at least.
Please: don't ask me when it's coming out. I don't know. If you press me, I'll cave and then blurt out an answer, and then instantly it'll be coming out many months later than the date I name.
The process has begun; we've gone through the tunes, we're setting dates to track. It's an interesting dynamic this time around, what with Knapsack Pete (drummer) being much more integral to my scene than a bandmate's been to me in years. Haughty was just me and Dan Wilson, and we'd invite sidemen in as we needed them.
I'm gonna keep most of the songs to my chest and not play them live. Barring one or two. It was hard for me, the last go-round, to dig the comments of audience members who'd been hearing "Sunkeneyed" and "Grey Ghost" at my shows for years. Because invariably they'd prefer the version that they were first exposed to. It's a natural hoodoo that occurs in rock and roll, and can be really frustrating as an artist; for me, the songs are alive from night to night, and a couple years down the line, the recorded versions feel bizarre and foreign when I listen back, they've evolved so much.
Key to the intial idea is Dude Theory. That you should be able to listen and, about each instrument, see in your mind a dude standing there. On Haughty it was anything but Dude Theory; horns entering one chorus, pedal steel entering the next; a wall of sound, each guitar backed by a duplicate. I want this one to be rawer, sparer, one-take-ier, more swagger-y.
Of course, now that I've said that, it will be an utter 180; expect a lush heavily overdubbed and nonswagger-y album. Yeah.
I'm gonna title it after another anagram. I think. Maybe that'll be my new trademark: anagram boy.Posted by Mike at 9:50 AM
May 10, 06 09:40 PM
It's Kind of Fucked Up How Upset I Am.
I can't believe Chris is going home. I mean, it's like 10 minutes later and my heart is beating fast. I feel an existential melancholy. I'm blaming myself. This is totally ridiculous. You're really not supposed to feel this way about a television program.
I was so freaked out that I neglected to mention this pic was ganked from listener Josh Kohanek!Posted by Mike at 9:40 PM
Dust dust dust.
I'm covered in dust moving my shit to Brooklyn. It's rough going, the dust and the boxes and the near-subluxations. But I'm overjoyed to be a Brooklynite again.Posted by Mike at 9:54 AM
May 5, 06 05:32 PM
It's Scrap's Birthday.
Andrew Howard Livingston, known to some as Scrap, or The Scriggity, born Cinco de Mayo, 1976.
(Foto ganked from listener Keeley Madison, who lives in Madison.)
He's a beautiful cat, and I'm glad he was born. He has enriched my life tremendously.
I hope you will send him warm wishes via his MySpace page.
Note the pink-sunglasses pin on his jacket in the photo below; he found it on the floor of the elevator at the Holiday Inn.
Posted by Mike at 5:32 PM
May 4, 06 11:28 AM
Paris Might Go On to Make a Great Record.
I mean, come on, she's seventeen.
I doubt Elliott will, and I'll bet you any sum you care to name he's gone next week. Nor McPhee (week after that). And thought I love him to pieces, Chris will win and make ersatz Creed records that I will not buy.
They must've felt bad when they picked her to move into the top 24. Because clearly her immaturity would handicap her--she overblows when singing into a mic, unlike in her initial audition, when her dynamics just singing in a room were really sophisticated--they must've known that she would eventually get cut out.
Taylor, if you general taste is more along the lines of the Ray LaMontagne song you chose a few weeks ago, you'll make a good one, too. (But did you have to do "Play that Funky Music, White Boy"--? Next season, I encourage a black contestant of any gender to sing it; in fact, McPhee, please consider a version of "Young, Gifted, and Black" for your post-elimination farewell song)
Posted by Mike at 11:28 AM
Defense of Ganking.
Opal Mehta is a patsy.
I'm lucky to be in music, where we're allowed our link to an oral tradition, and can gank other artists' riffs with license. I do it all the time, and it's been done to me. (I still get emails about how I should get money from Ricky Martin, and believe me, I fantasized about big fat Sony checks, but I think that it's just part of the back and forth of my art form) The worst that can happen in music is that you get sued and you have to give up a portion of your songwriting money.
Not so in writing; it's shocking and repugnant to the literary types. At least ostensibly. But really, why bother with the moral stance? Why not just allow the art form to be enriched by artful ganking? Maybe the authors whose work got bitten are owed money. But to remove "Opal" from shelves is unnecessary drama.
The post James Frey world of books is pretty funny considering how aware the public seems to be that reality shows are thoroughly scripted.
In sixth grade, I used to write sci-fi short stories ripping off movies that for some reason I thought no one else saw: 2001, and Planet of the Apes, and others. None of my teachers busted me, and I think they did me a solid; it helped me learn to write.
I'm reminded of the kid in The Squid and the Whale, who played a Pink Floyd song at a talent show and pretended he wrote it. Heartbreaking; I identified with that kid.
Posted by Mike at 10:59 AM
May 3, 06 08:41 AM
Benno, Ektorp, Bjorkudden, Ingo, and Other Swedish Delights.
The Ikea has arrived.
I am unapologetic in my love for Ikea. They've got the good shit. My friend Amity, an interior decorator, calls it The Happiest Place on Earth. Plus: Swedish meatballs. Do you know the joy of Ikea's Swedish meatballs? Know the joy. Yum.
But: I have become that guy who actually pays some dude to set up his Ikea. Because I always fuck something up. He's coming over this morning to hook my shit up.
Posted by Mike at 8:41 AM
Re-Entry of Hicks.
I came this close to not voting at all.
Halfway through, as I scarfed down my Popeye's, I thought; this has gotten dull. Chris is going to win; I'm resigning as a voter.
(incidentally, I also have altered my opinion of the McPhee; she's not so bad. She's not so good, either)
But the Hicks' version of "Something" (which I recently read was Sinatra's favorite love song of all time, no seriously) was a great performance; great phrasing! Tasteful melisma! Fingers crossed that, whatever happens, the guy will cut a great record. He's got it in him, for sure.
Posted by Mike at 8:34 AM
Close Encounters at the Duane Reade.
I got booby-touched.
There was this cute woman in line at the Duane Reade on Flatbush Avenue in my new neighborhood. Now, I have a girlfriend, and in any case, I'm unlikely to chat up a girl buying cigarettes. (and how exactly does one approach a woman in a pharmacy line? "Hi, I see you're a Colgate person"--?) But I admit I stole a glance or two, and she seemed to notice.
She paid and split, and as I came to the counter I felt her brush against me. A titty-touch; sometimes, in my experience, a way for a woman to provoke an approach. She was scooting through the line, so maybe it was an accident. But could it be? I have this impression that women have ninja-like control over their breasts. Can a woman accidentally titty-touch a man?
She was walking in the opposite direction down the avenue as I headed towards Popeye's.
Posted by Mike at 8:24 AM