lørdag den 26. november 2011

The art of destroying art

Let me ask you faithful readers of the internet a simple question.

Do you know this guy?

No? What if I told you that he was a rather big name in the music industry - so big, in fact, that it is practically impossible for you not to have heard at least one of his songs, if you, or anyone that you have ever met even for a brief period of time, has owned a radio or television within the last two decades. Still doesn't look familiar?

That guy up there is Martin Sandberg, aka Max Martin, aka Lucifer the Unholy Eater of Souls. He is the songwriter responsible for
a whole slew of immensely successful hits, ranging from the atrociously bad (most of what the Backstreet Boys made, including Quit Playing Games With My Heart, Long As You Love Me, Backstreet's Back), to the... well, equally bad hits from people like Britney Spears, Katy Perry (pretty much every single hit she's ever had) and etc. Basically, if you've ever had any annoying song in your head, chances are good that Max Martin was the son of a bitch behind it.

Max Martin, seen here in his original form.

If there was ever one thing Max Martin was good for, it's that a quick look at his track-record within the world of songwriting actually leads to physical evidence for the claim that "all music sounds alike these days", since most of it was written by the same damn guy! But annoying as he may be, and as much hatred as you may have for him, at least you have to give the man credit where credit is due - he knows how to write hits. Granted, most of them seem to be recycling the same corny subjects, lazy rhyme-pattern and basic melodic structure, but at least he writes songs that try to have some sort of meaning in them. That's more than you can say for certain other people in the industry.

It seems that within the last few years, a trend has started rising in the world of music, and it's actually quite simple. Apparently, some time ago, presumably in the lab of some evil Bond-villain's underground volcanic lair, it was discovered that the best way to gain attention in this world was not to be smart, funny, relatable, or even posses any hint whatsoever of having any sort of talent; no, the best way to get noticed was to make no goddamned sense at all!

A tradition practiced for many years.

Admittedly, it would seem that this has been a trend for countless years by now. A quick look at any music-video from the 80s tends to suggest this, but the important thing is to remember that in the 80s, everyone was crazy, so therefore it kind of made sense in some weird way for everyone to behave like malfunctioning androgynous robots. In modern times, however, while we do still have epic amounts of horrible fashion trends (a few years ago, it was pointy shoes, now it's skintight jeans), at least there's a certain standard for how crazy one can get away with looking before someone calls the cops. Except if you're Lady Gaga, apparently.

See, if Lady Gaga wasn't a world-famous singer, but just some random woman walking down the street, looking like she does, she'd be in the loony hospital before she reached the nearest supermarket. But because she's famous, it's "special", "trendsetting", and not "completely fucking idiotic" which is what I would've preferred to call it. The worst of it is, that I could've lived with it if dressing like the worst Batman-villain ever conceived was just her calling in life. But it's not. This whole unholy-offspring-of-a-fashion-designer-and-an-escaped-mental-patient-look, is nothing more than an act, a persona that she and a handful of other people created for her shortly before her career took off, after years in the music industry without being able to break through. It's not that she was a terrible singer beforehand, she was just remarkably unremarkable. But add a little bit of insanity to the mix, and suddenly she's a superstar.

Notice the difference?

But getting to the point of this article, I'm not even too upset about the fact that personas, even transparently fake ones, are more important to most people than the music behind it. After all, the world is full of suckers, and since we're all suckers for something (like all other guys, I'm gonna' go ahead and say "sex" here), I can let this one slide and vent my frustration whenever I hear some poor schmuck talking about how "original" and "daring" Lady Gaga is for expressing her "true self", rather than talk about how "greedy" and "faker than a two-dollar Gucci bag" she is for expressing her "corporately designed money-grubbing phony self", as I would've preferred to call it. Strangely enough though, no one ever checks with me first in regards to what I prefer to call things...

But here is where the cookie so insidiously crumbles. You see, after a while, Lady Gaga decided that you can't just look crazy, and not play the same part in your music. And that's where things got really bad.

Eschewing any notion of lyricism and common sense, she started naming songs after unknown people she may or may not have banged (poor Alejandro), inserting random non sequitur references to Lebanese people (which, alongside with the Alejandro thing, had me worried for a while that she might be stalking me), and finally, she just gave up using words altogether. This amazing revelation, that songs don't even need real words to become popular, was an astounding breakthrough, that led her to write such captivating lyrics as "Rah, rah, ah, ah, ah / Roma, roma, ma / Gaga, ooh, la, la /".

The world of music instantly stood up and took notice, and not long after, this tradition was taken to new levels when Aura Dione came out with the song Geronimo, which featured this gem of a chorus:

"Ahhhhhh, ahhhhhh
Ge-ge-e jo jo uh lala, hmm, let's go, Geronimo!
Ahhhhhh, ahhhhhh
Ge-ge-e jo jo uh lala, hmm, let's go, Geronimo!"

Aside from killing me a little bit on the inside every time I hear it, this song has also made me realize something. We humans, as a whole, are either plain stupid, or we are all too careless to give a shit about anything, making words like "quality" and "making sense" seem like esoteric beings that drift in and out of existence whenever we need to use them in an argument about how it makes no sense that The Situation's abs are of such high quality when he doesn't work out half as much as Pauly D.

Pictured: The future of art.

At this point, I'm not even here to fight the good fight and try to reclaim the world of art for all of us who can't count our IQ on our fingers and toes, because it's pretty much a hopeless cause. Really, I'm just happy that I'm so closed off to the outside world, that I had to Google Jersey Shore to find the name of a cast-member that wasn't Snooki.

fredag den 11. november 2011

Here's a fun fact that you may or may not know: I am like most people. Sure, my awesome-to-normal ratio is way off the charts, as I happen to be not only a nerd, but an extremely cool one at that - think Dolph Lundgren, but without the whole super-Nazi Aryan bodybuilder look. And the black belt in karate. And the degree in biochemistry. And the money. All that god damn money... Nonetheless, I'm still pretty damn awesome, but even so, I am no superhuman. I come with the same physical limitations and vulnerabilities as everyone else, which means that when a person spends the better part of three hours coughing their lungs up straight into my face, I am very likely to catch the same freaking disease that he or she has.

So, as of today, I am thinking about a career in germophobia.

Because nothing says "cool nerd" like a stylish surgical mask.

Now, when I say "career" in germophobia, I don't mean that I want to study or try to cure people who are afraid of germs. I want to become one of them. I want to be overly cautious about every single little thing that might infect me with any kind of disease whatsoever. I want to get hysterical and shout obscenities at people who cough in my immediate vicinity. And most importantly, I want to never ever ever get sick again in my entire life. Not even a little bit.

You might say that I am exaggerating a bit too much. I say that I'm not exaggerating enough.

At the risk of sounding preposterously devoid of insight or reason, let me ask you a question: How many people do you think really want to get sick? Not counting kids who want to get out of going to school, I've calculated the result to be approximately around the value of a big fat zero. The reason is obvious; being sick sucks. There are no upsides to it whatsoever.

Aside from hot nurses, of course.

I realize that I am just stating the painfully obvious, and at this point your throat and fingers are probably sore from scrolling downwards and screaming "get to the point", but fear not, I'm getting to it.

Often times in childhood, every kid asks either themselves or a grown-up the question: "When will I be a full-grown adult?". We often ignore this as an inconsequential inquiry, a question that has no real or definitive answer, because it's more of a transitional event that happens over time - but the fact of the matter is, that every now and then, one can be so lucky as to find oneself in a situation where you realize that you are now, entirely, unequivocally, and fully grown up. And today I had that happen to me. And why was that?

Because I don't have time to get sick!

Taking sick-days is at this point no longer a luxury or stress reliever for me; in fact, it is quite the opposite. If I'm sick for just a day, then that whole day is wasted. I may lose out on going to work, which means I don't get paid for that day (due to it being a part-time job at a bar); I may have to stay home from school, which is certainly not something I'd ever complain about, if not for the fact that schools keep track of your absence, and if you reach a certain percentage, your ass gets tossed out of there faster than Jazzy Jeff after cracking a joke about Uncle Phil's weight.

Pictured: The educational system at its finest.

I also can't really make music, I can't go to the gym, I can't enjoy spending time with my girlfriend, and I can't even enjoy a good meal. Basically, being sick turns me into that apathetic emo kid that can't do a freaking thing but complain about the eternal suffering of existence. And nobody likes that guy.

Coming back to that whole germophobia thing, my problem is unfortunately tied into the realization that I've reached adulthood. I'd love to be able to freak out about every possible contact I make with germs and bacteria, but I just don't have the energy for it. Being grown-up means paying bills, shopping for groceries, balancing a budget, fighting for whatever little spare-time you can have, and spending that spare-time on things to further your own position in life, so that you don't fall behind on those other dues you have. And unfortunately, after all of this, protection against germs is something I don't have the capacity to give a shit about. I'm all out of shits to give. Nothing would make me happier than turning around at a guy who's coughing, and screaming out "MY GOD, MAN, ARE YOU TRYING TO KILL US ALL?!!!" but it's just not possible to fit that into my schedule, with everything else I have going on.

So there is the paradox: Being an adult means I should worry more about getting sick, but because I'm an adult, I don't have time to worry about stuff like that.

If there is a God, he really does have a weird sense of humor, that's for sure.

"Look at those pitiful humans, worrying about their existential conundrums. That'll teach them for killing my son."

He is a vengeful God indeed.

onsdag den 2. november 2011

To pee, or not to pee

Recently, a certain someone in my life came down with a bladder infection. This affected her urinary tract in a way that makes her feel like she has to pee all the time, while being unable to know when something is actually going to come out. Needless to say, this lead to several (hilarious) incidents, that I won't recount here out of fear of getting my ass whooped.

Anyway, all of this got me thinking about our need to pee, and what it means to us.

We certainly all know what it means to R. Kelly.

The human body is a vastly complex organism, comprised of trillions of tiny little atoms that make up the countless amount of cells that come together to form a living, breathing, thinking human being. But our bodies, in spite of being honed to efficiency and excellence after millions of years of evolution, are far from perfect (not counting Gabrielle Union, of course). We have superfluous organs, frequent discharges of waste products (that's a scientific way to say we poop and pee a lot), and a high susceptibility to infections and diseases. And recently, I've been thinking about just why that is.

Now, mind you, I'm no scientist, and I'm certainly not one who would consider himself a grand philosopher of humanity.

I do rock a pretty mean "thinking man", though.

Without getting into the whole God-debate - that's a whole other topic for another day - everyone can certainly agree that nature is far from perfect. Evolution (which, for the record, is only a "theory" in the same vein that gravity is), is an ongoing process that has lead to some pretty strange, and even grotesque creatures, especially in the ocean. So far, the closest thing we've had to the creation of a perfect organism, is that alien creature from those movies about aliens, where they first have to fight a single alien, then a whole lair of aliens, then a third alien which makes Sigourney Weaver flip out and jump into a pool of lava, only to later get resurrected so that she can birth one last alien. I think it was called "That Weird Creature That Came From Outer Space".

In any case, one must wonder how this can be. How come, after millions, even billions of years of evolution, are we among the closest things nature has come to perfection (I'm counting crows, dolphins, and porcupines ahead of us), when we are still so far from it? Why do men have nipples when we can't breastfeed? Why are we all born with tonsils, whose only purpose seems to be to fuck with us until we decide to cut them out? Why don't all women look like Gabrielle Union?

If there was a god, we'd all be dating this.

Perhaps it's just my own sense of perfectionism talking, but if I was running this whole evolutionary show, we'd all be superhuman creatures with model-like features, super intelligence that would make Einstein look like a confused kindergartner who just sniffed half a tube of glue, and of course, also wings, so that we could take to the skies and look down upon all of nature's inferior creations, and shit on them (much like crows currently do to us). So I guess maybe R. Kelly did have kind of the right idea - assuming he believes himself to be superhuman, which, seeing as he has previously stated that he believes he can fly, is probably a fair assumption... But I digress!

Some say that all of these obstacles we face are just a part of life, a darkness to act as a contrast to the light, thus giving us all the more appreciation for it. And while I do believe that it's true that we wouldn't appreciate the sun so much if it wasn't for the rain (and especially the snow... that goddamn snow!), I've gotta' say that I also believe enough is enough. We have wars, famine, social barriers, diseases (such as the horrifically named Sudden Infant Death Syndrome), political scandals, corruption, and much more to worry about pretty much every single day of our lives, and then on top of that, nature designs a virus that goes into our bodies with the sole purpose of messing with our basic ability to urinate? I mean, goddamn nature, when are you gonna' give us a break here? Add a few natural disasters into the mix every year or so, and it seems like we're fighting a freaking war here. I mean, what did we humans ever do to nature to deserve this kind of fate?

Oh wait, never mind...

onsdag den 5. oktober 2011

A Preview

Seeing as even the very first entry I wrote on this blog at least partially revolved around my passion for music, I figured I'd post a small taste of what exactly it is that I'm working on.

This is a track I did with two friends, that might make its way onto a mixtape sometime in the near future. In the meanwhile, it's not completely finished or thoroughly mixed, but it should give a pretty good idea of what the end result will be.

I'm the guy on the third verse. Enjoy.

Bag'n It (Demo) feat. Alternativet & Tha D by Prophit Da Phunké 1

søndag den 25. september 2011

Work it till it's perfect

Recently, as I was writing on a very remarkable feature that I feel is of great importance to the continued survival and advancement of the human race - my "Ode to Sweat", of course - I realized that I possess a certain trait that is both of great use, and sometimes great annoyance: I am a perfectionist.

Alright, so I already knew that I was a perfectionist regarding certain things, like music - this comes back to that whole passion thing I was talking about earlier. Whenever I care deeply about something, I obviously want to give it my very best, and I just keep working and working on it to the point where it almost becomes an obsession. This is not necessarily a bad thing in itself. In order to become really good at something, one must put in the necessary hours to advance ones knowledge of this subject and improve on the skills required to pull it off. Michael Jordan was a perfectionist when it came to playing basketball, Michael Jackson had it regarding music, and Tiger Woods has it when it comes to banging every woman on the planet who's not his wife.

Because clearly, a handsome man such as himself cannot be held down by an uggo like her.

But here is where I learned something new about myself. I was writing a silly poem to kill time and have fun, but even within that essentially meaningless construct, I found it necessary to adhere to a specific formula, and make it the best I could. As such, what I could've written to be practically the same in about five minutes, took me almost twenty minutes because I was determined to make every single line of the poem be exactly 11 syllables long, because it felt like a good rhythm (the exception being the "my oh my" line, which is 3+5 syllables every time), all the while maintaining a clear narrative that was accessible and not too confusing.

Now, admittedly, I did have fun writing it, and since it is a form of lyricism, I suppose it could be that this perfectionism reared it's head again because it's very related to a huge passion of mine. Certainly, this level of commitment is far beyond what I show when it comes to doing my homework for example, where my favorite strategy is to only do it if expulsion is threatened, and if so, only do it at the absolute last minute possible, as half-assed as I can possibly get away with doing it. Hell, if anything, my commitment to NOT doing homework is almost mastered to perfection at this point.

Pictured: My favorite type of perfection.

Case in point: I am currently writing on this blog while in class. And not only am I blatantly disregarding whatever the hell it is I am actually supposed to be doing, but since we have a special group assignment we're working on, I actively sought out the teacher the day it started, and told him I had to travel a bit this week so I'd rather work alone, then I skipped school last time (though that was actually just a result of oversleeping), and today I loaded up half a dozen pages about the thing I'm supposed to be working on - and when he asked me specific questions, I improvised a whole fact-list worth of BS, about competitors, media management, organisation and so on.

Mind you, I haven't read a single word of homework for the entire semester so far, yet I completely fooled my teacher into thinking I was way ahead of the rest of the class, simply by speaking off the top of my mind. So why is it that when I write songs, in which speaking from the top of my mind is actually a good quality, I can spend hours working on every single 16-line verse? Worse yet, why does the end result not reflect all these extra hours of work? Is perfection even necessary, or is it in fact superfluous?

One last thought: A common problem I have with a lot of my songs, is that they get needlessly complex and convoluted, because I actually work too hard on them. Sure, repeated seven syllable rhyme patterns are nice when they work well, but having an unrelenting sense of perfectionism that just won't quit, tends to turn most lyrics into some quasi-Shakespearean version of rap.

Although you gotta' admit, Funk Master Shakespeare has quite a nice ring to it.

I guess it's both a blessing and a curse sometimes.

torsdag den 22. september 2011

Ode To Sweat

Boredom is the father of all creativity... No, wait, that's inspiration. Well, boredom is my inspiration at the moment then. I have nothing to do for once, and so I have elected to compose a little poem, for the first time in my life. Live and learn, right? Anyway, I'm sure most readers ages 3-8 will find it quite to their liking - everyone else, probably not. But that's what's so great about this whole blog-thing, I simply don't have to care what people think! So here, I proudly present to you:

Ode to Sweat

There's nothing like buying an item that's new
Like opening a box of freshly bought shoes
The smell of the leather, the laces and soles
You can't wait to wear them and go for a stroll
But as the time passes, the smell starts to fade
And a stench so foul spreads out from the hallway
The shoes you brought home as the proudest owner
Is now making all your guests want to throw up
My oh my, a nose full of fright
The sweat of your feet has an awful odor

Whenever you're walking and the weather's warm
And you're stuck outside with too many clothes on
It's not just your face that has sweat pouring down
But sadly, your ball sweat it has no way out
You'd pray for a spray or deodorant stick
Cause out of nowhere comes this fly looking chick
You give her a smile, but her face starts to clench
And she's in a hurry to escape your stench
My oh my, it's such a sad sight
The sweat of your balls has your underwear drenched

By now, there's a lesson I hope you have learned
That sweat from your body can make the nose burn
So shower and spray, just with one exception
When sweat from your body is mixed with sexing
The sweat of your balls and your feet is combined
With beautiful parts of a woman so fine
Creating a mixture that's worth more than gold
That you seek to keep long as your breath can hold
My oh my, what immense delight
The sweat of your sex is like sex to the nose

mandag den 19. september 2011

What's up, and why isn't it down?

Okay, so this is a topic that I can't possibly approach from any angle whatsoever without being labelled as gay, or at the very least a closet-freak. But this has been on my mind for too long, and it's time that someone asks the question that I know a lot of guys before me have wondered throughout the ages, so here goes:

What the hell is up with hard dicks in the gym shower?

"I think I know what it is that's up!"

Alright, I know what you're thinking: "Christ, that was a horrible pun, and more importantly, why the hell are you looking at other guys' junk, man?!". Well, first off, let me preface this whole discussion by saying that I am as straight as they come. The closest thing I ever had to a gay experience, was admitting to my girlfriend that Matthew McConaughey was sort of cool (even though he does have an unhealthy obsession with getting naked regardless of the circumstances), and that was a painfully hard admission that had to be pretty much dragged out of me over the course of several months. Now, that being said, even I have from time to time engaged in that most ancient of games - the often played, but never spoken about, "who has the bigger one". Yes, all guys really play that game, at least once in their life, but often more.

Mind you, this isn't something that we play deliberately. I don't go around the shower sizing everyone up, and wave my own johnson in their face in hope of approval. Rather, this is something that only takes place in the peripheral spot of ones vision, and in the complete deepest recess of the mind. Why do we do this, you might ask? Well, let's face it: Size matters. And ladies, you can talk all that "motion in the ocean" bullshit you want to, but at the end of the day, would you rather have a shrimp or a whale crossing those waves? Anyway, it doesn't even matter if you have a big one or not, you'll still have times where you wonder whether yours is adequately sized. I'd love to take this opportunity to brag about the size of my own member, but this is the internet; everyone has a 12 inch penis here.

In any case, that's why we all play the game, going about our business showering without even thinking about the fact that you have just glimpsed at half a dozen dicks over the course of the last few minutes. But every now and then, something comes along, something so shocking and disturbing that one cannot help but stop and take notice.

I'm talking, of course, about semi-hard penises.

The Dennis Rodman of showering.

Okay, so maybe once in a while, you happen to be sharing the locker room with someone who's into guys and can't help but get aroused by your rocking hot body (or perhaps he just digs the whole "I'm-so-comfortable-in-my-body-I-don't-need-to-take-care-of-it" look - but then why are you at the gym in the first place, Mr. Smartypants?). But it seems that there is some discrepancy between the amount of times that this happens, and how many gay or bisexual guys there actually are. The latest survey I could find, said that 2,7% of the population in Denmark are into guys. Let's just assume for a second that over the last few years the percentage of gay or bi guys has risen, which would certainly explain the whole metro-fad so predominantly featured in every form of media from music videos to magazines and movies (not counting the Twilight saga, unless you say the word "movie" while raising your fingers to indicate metaphorical quote-signs). Let's also assume that most men are lying bastards - this should be easy.

Even then, if the rate was 10%, you'd have to account for the fact that not every gay or bi guy out there is bound to be attracted to your naked body, no matter how bootylicious it may be, and also, it should be accepted as common knowledge that having a hard-on in the shower makes you liable to get your ass kicked - once you've put back on your clothes, obviously. Nobody wants to touch a naked gay guy, out of fear of somehow becoming gay themselves.

Gayness is apparently the grown-up equivalent of cooties.

So how can it be that almost a tenth, sometimes more, of all guys seem to be sporting a half-baked loaf of bread when washing up? Are they just that attracted to their own bodies (if so, are self-centered guys by definition gay?), or is it in fact a deliberate plot on their behalf - to beef up their volumes, to fool others into thinking they have a larger member than they actually do? Are some guys so insecure that they actually seek to present themselves to other guys as being well-endowed, secretly hoping that the guy next to them in the shower is going to think "hey, what a great penis on that guy"?

Perhaps I'll never find the answer I'm seeking here. Ultimately, it comes down to human nature, an obscure entity that will never be fully mapped with all of its intricacies, regardless of scientific advances into the field. But then again, if no one ever asks these types of questions, requiring us to look into the deepest recesses of ourselves, then how would we ever progress as a race? Maybe I am just an early pioneer, boldly going where no man has gone before (without having his sexuality put under increased scrutiny). Or maybe, and far more likely, I'm just kind of nuts.

Deliberately missing from this extensive survey, are all the people who shower with their underwear on, the vast majority of which are Muslim. Now, whether this is a religious thing, or the threat of gay-cooties is just taken far more seriously in the Middle East, I have no idea.

My knowledge of Islam's stance on this is... shaky, at best.

In any case, I've seen plenty of Muslims who didn't bring a pair of boxers into the shower, so even if it is in the Qur'an, I guess it's up for debate/personal interpretation like their whole thing with drinking, or like Christians with whoring around. But that's a question that doesn't even need to exist.

After all, Jesus' lover was described as a whore - what more approval could you possibly need?

tirsdag den 13. september 2011


So, I thought I'd start out with an easy topic, something light for the sake of easing into this, both for me and whoever might be reading this. Therefore I asked myself "what is the most predominant feeling in my life at this very instant?" and the answer was simple:


Now, there are a lot of different forms that passion can take. It can be the passion that one holds for another human being, whether it be family, friends or a life-partner (or even an animal for that matter - I'm looking at you, PETA); it can be the passion one holds for work, hobbies or sports; or it can be passion of the sweaty-baby-making variety. In any case, passion is what makes the world go round. Some say it's money, some say it's people...

This guy says it has something to do with falling apples.

... but the fact of the matter is that if passion didn't exist, the world would be a hell of a lot more boring for all of us. I mean, think about it: If you never had anything to look forward to, never had anything to be excited about, you would most likely be declared clinically depressed (or worse, emo). So it is in fact passion that keeps us going, passion that makes it worth getting out of bed even on a horrible day, because you know that sometime down the road you will be enjoying one of your passions yet again.

So what are my passions? Admittedly, feelings can be a bit of a mess to sort out, but I do know that my primary passions in life are love, learning, food, exercise/sports and music! The order changes somewhat according to my immediate needs and mental state, but overall, those are the things that keep me going. I may not always feel passionate about them, depending on my mood as well, but the passion is always there. And today, what sparked this whole introspective glance into passion itself, was music!

A little backstory here is required: As far back as I can remember, I've always loved music.

Pictured: World's youngest MC.

Of course, most people from around the world tend to love music in some form or another, or at least tolerate it (as long as it's not the Spice Girls), but I've always found myself to be drawn to the creative side of music. In most of the home-video recordings made by my mom, I'm found, like most other videos of small children, either in the bathtub or in the living-room, my tiny baby-penis proudly on display for the whole world to see (parents' creepy obsession with filming their kids naked is a whole other discussion for another day).

But by the time I got a bit older, the videos started featuring a less naked, but intensely more dancing, singing, and piano-playing boy. This was a trend that continued onwards throughout the years, warping itself through various twists and turns. There was my brief experiment with techno around age 10 (which I am still convinced is the approximate maturity-level of all techno-listeners), then around 11/12 to 13 I was in a cover-song garage band, which culminated in my first musical stage-performance in front of a roaring crowd of 18 people. And by age 14, I started rapping.

Like all the cool white kids do.

As luck would have it, I ended up becoming one of the few who didn't completely suck at it, and later on I branched out to start producing as well, plus doing the occasional singing here and there once I rediscovered my love for 50s-70s music.

As you might have guessed by now, if you bothered making it this far, is that music is indeed one of my big passions, and has played a significant part in my life because of this. Sometimes it's been therapeutic, other times it's been thrilling - I've performed for crowds of up to hundreds of people, which is quite a rush - but most of all, it's just there for me. Like a good friend that you might not always be able to reach, but that you know will always stick around to help you out when you're in a tight spot or just need to have a good time. That's what passion means to me. Companionship, even when you're alone. It's a sense that there is something out there other than yourself to care for, and whether your passion is chasing girls, collecting Pokemon cards or watching every single episode of Days of our Lives, at least you have a reason to get up in the morning and keep living your life. And that makes it all worth it.

Just as long as your passion isn't the freaking Spice Girls!