Daddy sang bass

One thing that a commute is good for — even a simple little 15-minute commute like mine — is the chance it gives you to blow off steam by gunning the engine, passing every other stupid car on the road (some days they are all stupid, I am sure you have noticed this), and blasting your favorite cd. With appropriate vocal accompaniment, of course.

Juvenile? Sure! Absolutely! And so effective!

I had no really good reason to be hostile this afternoon, it’s just a few things that bugged me. But as soon as I got in my car to begin my weekend I got all madder-than-thou and needed to punch several somethings. Or somebodies. I really should have gone to the gym and worked it off, but I have this shindig I have to go to.

So instead I barreled on home to change into some fancy threads and lipstick, informed my cats about the latest news on Who Is The Leading Asshole In The Outside World Today (they like to keep up with current events), played some more loud music, and now it is almost time to go be fancy and refined amongst me social betters.

It may be a bit of an old song by now, but I still have yet to find a song that gets out the angry quite as well as Gratitude by the Beastie Boys. It helps to have great enormous speakers like we do (you tend to inherit some seriously kickass sound equipment when you run a nightclub) but I suspect a little old iPod would work just as well. It’s the thought, really. And the bass. Don’t forget the bass.

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