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I am a Los Angeles-based twentysomething. I have a profession, and I have a secret life in music, and this blog isn't about any of that. I like Blogger because I can't read what you're thinking.

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Monday, October 5   >>


Fuck, if there's the epitome of Hollywood fakery, I definitely experienced it last night.

The Tony told me some soul singer loved our R&B music from a previous band and wanted to meet us. Aside from playing with this singer as a backing band for his original music, he wants us to take over a Tuesday night jazz residency at some fancy shmancy club.

The singer asks us to meet him at some club by the Chateau Marwhogivesafuck and, it turns out, he bought the club out for the night. We were seated in a private corner, we were mysteriously being greeted by everyone and free drinks were flying. The Pooch, who tagged along and played the part of "Saxophone Player" (he hasn't played in, like, 5 years), said, "Fuck guys, when did you turn into Obamas..."

Then he laughed, as he usually does at his own jokes.

Still, I didn't know what the fuck I was doing there.

Anyway, this is where it starts getting trippy (as if VIP treatment for a bunch of losers with boners wasn't weird enough).

The singer brings some girls over.

"This is Vanessa and Karla ...they're singers. They love your stuff."

And dumbass The Tony says, "Hugo writes most of the stuff," to which I quickly interrupt and say, "It's a group effort."

These girls were all up on our nuts the whole fucking night to the point of being annoying. I mean, they weren't giving off the whole "I wanna suck your love pump" vibe -- they were more, "Oh my god, so can you, like, write a song in the style of, like, um, like, Joss Stone? I love Joss Stone!"

I mean, seriously, if you want to work with our shit, just say so. You don't have to pretend that I am the most interesting person you've ever met (I mean, I know I am, but that's automatically implied; I don't need the reassurance or validation from some girl with huge tits who is likely to barely hold a tune).

"I love Alicia Keys," one said.


Anyway, point being, when you have something to offer, especially something REALLY good to offer, you're often rewarded with a bunch of bullshit with a side of even more bullshit. Reject it.

Unless you're getting paid, of course.

So, in this case, I'll accept. More fake tits and free beer, please.


My "End of Summer" party last Saturday night was beyond a success -- I sprained not one, but TWO ankles!!! And best of all, no one pulled a fucking camera out. GODDAMN WE'RE FUCKING LEGIT.