Halloween is the New Christmas II

If you came looking for the most critical and objective coverage of Halloween Madison 2006, then you came to the right place. Your ace reporter in the field has gotten the complete scoop in case you missed out on this year’s festivities.

I know some of you must be wondering to yourselves, “Isn’t Ben, like, 25 years old or something? What’s his geriatric ass doing on State Street with all those young college kids? Shouldn’t he have grown out of Halloween by now?”

Well, I have three VERY good reasons why Halloween is still my favorite Holiday:




Okay, let me explain. I had good and honest intentions to just snap pictures of the best and worst costumes on State Street, and maybe some riot coverage if the shit went down. But after a few whiskey and cokes, the camera kind of started doing its own thing. Imagine that!

But here are some of the best costumes I saw this year. They probably vary quite a bit from a normal person’s idea of a great costume, as I tend to judge based on obscurity, randomness, and suffering caused from exposure to the frigid October weather.


I went as Ace Ventura this year. Prior to this picture, I just got done executing a buttonhook fly pattern in super slo-mo.



My hat goes off to you, Teen Wolf. Michael J. Fox would be proud.













I wonder what the Over/Under is on these guys coming out of the closet within the next year. I've got a hundred bucks that says they'll be quitting their jobs and working in beauty salons by the end of the month.





And the Obscurity Award goes to Buster Bluth, complete with hook hand, from Arrested Development. Nice work, buddy.



My brother's rendition of Magnum P.I. even though, personally, I think he looks more like Mike Ditka on vacation playing a round of golf.









This costume reeks of effort.


Award-winning photography right here.


This chick simply can't get over how awesome my costume is.


My biggest beef with Halloween this year is that the stupid $5 cover charge to get on State Street sort of sucked the life out the event. Halloween used to be about debauchery, drunkeness,and getting as rowdy as possible, all in the name of good fun. You certainly wouldn't expose a small child to it. This year there was about half as many people in attendance and half of THOSE people were a bunch of old farts gawking like a bunch of slack-jawed yokels. It's gotten too commercial, mannnnn. I fear the glory days of Halloween Madison may be waning.

Anyhoo, the winner for best Halloween Costume goes to...drum roll please...


Joe Barrie as Robert Goulet. From two years ago. Seriously, Joe, you set a bar that will probably not be beat for quite some time. I thought I made a pretty decent stab at the title last year with my human sudoku puzzle but it still pales in comparison.

Happy Holidays, Everyone!

6 Reasons Why Phoenix Might Be More Rad Than Wisconsin

I was in Phoenix most of last week for work. It’s a pretty sweet town. Below are six reasons why Phoenix might be more rad than Wisconsin.

1. In-N-Out Burgers:
Have you ever been to one of these before? It’s genius. Some brilliant restaurateur back in California woke up one morning and said to himself, “you know what, from here on out, my menu is only going to have two things: cheeseburgers and french fries. And they’re going to rock the pants off the competition.” Well, you did it, guy. You kept it simple and the result is the best fast-food meal on the market. You get TWO Gold Stars for the day.


2. Circle K Convenience Stores:
I made a point to only frequent Circle K Convenience Stores whenever I needed gas or random shit. Why? Because every time I got out of my car, I would say real loudly in my best Keanu Reeves voice, “Something strange is afoot at the Circle K.” Then I would look around with a bemused look on my face, like I couldn’t believe how clever I was being, to see if anybody “got it”. Nobody did. Apparently no one in the greater Phoenix metropolitan area has ever seen Bill and Ted’s Excellent Adventure. That is definately most non-triumphant. That bit would have killed amongst my friends here. Wyld Stalyns Rule!


"Hey, Ted. I don't think anyone in Phoenix has ever seen our 1989 classic."
"Whoaaaa, Bogus."

3. The Blue Angels:

I was checking out a development site near Luke Air Force Base when all of a sudden, the Blue Angels Fighter Squadron came screaming over my windshield where they proceeded to perform some of the craziest aerials I have ever seen. Some locals later informed me that the Blue Angels were practicing for an air show that was going on later that week. It seemed like a logical explanation, but I knew deep down, those amazing acrobatics were meant just for me. It was the United States Air Force’s way of saluting, “tipping their hat,” if you will, to the grand machismo that is Ben Wollin. It was a fine gesture indeed, and one that I’m sure I would get more often from our other branches of the Armed Forces if it wasn’t for Wisconsin’s stubborn weather conditions, which brings me to my next point…


Don't let anybody tell you otherwise, these fighter planes are fueled exclusively with raw testosterone.

4. Bitchin’ Weather:
Sunny and 85 degrees with not a cloud in the sky. Would you like that forecast in late October, sir? Yes, please.

5. Cabela’s Superstore:
If Ted Nugent and Walt Disney’s cryogenically frozen head ever got together to design a new theme park, it would probably come close to the Cabela’s Superstore in Glendale, Arizona. The store is 160,000 SF of guns, knives, boats, bows, guns, camping gear, fishing tackle, outdoor clothing, and guns. Seriously, this place boasts an armory that rivals most industrialized nations. But it also has a lot of stuff for the fam, like an aquarium, animal museum, restaurant and candy store, and a play area which includes a shooting gallery. Firearms and kids, together at last!

6. Drive-Thru Liquor Stores:
If an idea like this is going to work anywhere, you would think it would most definitely work in Wisconsin. Why don’t we have these here!? Woodmans, I want you taking notes on this. I expect a full report and implementation plan by the end of the week.



"Um..could I get a number 2, but with Colt 45 instead of Old English, a side order of bottle of Jack Daniels, and two, wait, do you guys need something back there, yeah, better make that four bottles of Boones Farm. Oooh, I see pack of cigs is now on your value menu. We'll take a couple of those, too."

Motorboating: Passing Fad or America's New Favorite Pastime?

Every once in awhile, a movie comes along and redefines the definition of sexy. When the movie Ghost came out, nobody looked at a pottery wheel the same ever again after that steamy scene with Patrick Swayze and Demi Moore. Likewise, nobody EVER thought of getting into threesomes until the release of Wild Things, where Denise Richards, Neve Cambell, and Matt Dillon taught us that sex with more than one other person can be more than just a pipedream.

I like to think that instances of Motorboating have skyrocketed after being popularized by Vince Vaughn in Wedding Crashers. In case you don’t know what Motorboating is, it is simply the act of sticking one’s face between two breasts and making a hilarious motorboat sound. I know this entertaining act is taking the country by storm, but is there a way to prove it?

Since there is not a lot of reliable data out there on the subject of Motorboating (dammit Census Bureau!), I decided to seek out empirical evidence, but I didn’t know where to start. Then it hit me:

My roommate has ginormous boobs.

I’m not kidding. Her boobs are so big, I have to charge them separate rent. Apiece. One month, I almost had to evict one of them because of a late payment. That was a weird conversation:

“Abbey, I’ve always appreciated your timely rent payments, actually you AND Sally Sweetmilk have always been great tenants, but something HAS to be done about Ms. Daisy Danglehard.

Anyways, I naturally assumed that my best friend Joe, who is dating this girl, was an expert in the art of Motorboating so I thought I’d get the scoop from him. I’ve transcribed the results of my investigative reporting below:

Me: Hey, Joe, How often to you go Motorboating on Abbey?
Joe: Um…don’t you think that’s kind of inappropriate?
Me: Yeah, but so was naming your girlfriend’s left and right boob, and I didn’t stop there, now did it?
Joe: I guess I can’t argue with that logic. I Motorboat two or three times daily, four if she’s had a particular rough day.
Me: Interesting. This conversation fascinates me.

So there you have it, folks. Based on this one fictional conversation with Joe, I think America’s love affair with Motorboating will continue indefinitely.

I can already envision how great my married life is going to be some day because of this exciting turn of events. I see my kids grabbing their Knightrider Lunch Boxes off the counter and hurrying off to catch the bus to school. Myself, I look down at my watch and notice I’m running late, so I throw down my Wall Street Journal on the breakfast table, grab my briefcase, and say good-bye to my loving wife before I dash off to another day at the rat races.

But instead of the clichéd peck on the cheek, I’m going to grab her real close, get my face all up in ‘em, and, well, you know, BBBTTTPPPBBBTTTPPP!

If that doesn’t say “Love ya, hun”, I don’t know what will.



Hey!? This isn’t what I ordered! Talk about false advertising! Oh well, at least I have my subscription to Taint Quarterly to keep me occupied…

Happy Brett Favre Day!

Tis’ the season everyone. I know it sounds like another one of my fantasy blogs but our very wise state legislators thought the constituents of Wisconsin needed another reason to celebrate Brett Favre’s greatness by giving us a state holiday today to honor his birthday. I was already planning on celebrating, I’m just happy congress legitimized it.

If you don’t believe me, check this out:

Doyle Passes Law to Celebrate Brett Favre

Crazy, huh? In order to properly celebrate this monumental occasion, I’ve created some Brett Favre Day E-Greeting Cards to pass on to your family, co-workers, and no-good rotten friends from Minnesota.

This one is classic:



If your dirty Minnesota friends give you shit over this one, politely remind them that the Minnesota State Legislature is free to honor Brad Johnson with a holiday whenever they please.



Speaks for itself:



I like this one because you can send it whenever you want, it works all year round.



There you have it. I would have been happier if the state legislature would have made the holiday four days instead of one (it only makes sense), but I’ll take what I can get. Now if only there was some way to get off work.

To kick off Brett Favre Day, I recommend watching this clip from Monday Night Football. I watch it every day before I go to work and sometimes before I go to bed. It puts me in a good mood. I recommend you do the same.

Shit That Happened to me in 7th Grade: The Hottest Girls of Parkview Middle School 1995

I decided that I would like to add a new regular column to my beloved Brain Litter, a segment called Shit that Happened to Me in 7th Grade. This segment will feature entries and pictures from my journal at that time period, the original Brain Litter, if you will.

Let me give you a little background here before you just go diving in head first into my deepest, most personal thoughts from eleven years ago.

The year is 1995. I just started Parkview Middle School after transferring from Edison Middle School on the east side of Green Bay. I was kind of chubby, my voice cracked after every other syllable that sputtered out of my mouth, and my mother still dressed me with hand-me-down clothes from God knows where. Add to the fact that middle schoolers are generally just evil and ruthless to any kid different in any sort of way and you’ll get a fairly accurate idea of the mentality that I was in.

My journal was a way to vent my frustrations with the world and to sort out any other random idea I had in my head at the time. I suppose I could have talked it out with Zak Mott and Mike Petresek, who were my best friends at the time, but I’m pretty sure they were only using me so they could play with my Sega CD.

The best way I can describe my journal is to paint you a picture of a typical entry. Imagine me sprawled out on my bedroom floor with my notebook, Zak and Mike are playing Sewer Shark, completely indifferent that I’m even in the room, and Weezer, the Blue Album, is playing at full volume in the background.

Okay, I know you’re all dying to see my list (dated April 1, 1994) so here it is. Keep in mind that the page before this list contained a map that I drew of where all the popular kids sat in the cafeteria and the page after this list contained schematics for a water balloon bazooka:



First of all, if you’re a girl from the AHS graduating class of 2000 and you’re reading this blog post right now, I’m sorry you didn’t make the cut. In all honesty here, it was probably because you didn’t have any boobs yet. What can I say? I was really immature at the time.

Secondly, yup, Katie Knott. She was the only girl I knew going in to Parkview because she went to my church. When I first started my journal, I basically transcribed, verbatim, every dialogue exchanged between the two of us during band practice. Then I would write about what song we performed in percussion and how well I played. It was not compelling writing to say the least, but I got progressively better at capturing my thoughts as the drama of 7th grade unfolded before me.

Third, the Word of the Day. I concluded all my entries with a word of the day. Sometimes the word of the day had enormous reverence to the journal entry preceding it, sometimes it was an obscure reference to The State on MTV. I’m guessing in this case, I was leaning towards the latter.

Well, I hope you enjoyed Part I of Shit That Happened to Me in 7th Grade. Even if you never had the privilege of attending Parkview Middle School, I hope you can appreciate the universal themes of surviving that hellish period in life known as puberty.

More to come in the next few months…

Alright, alright, I know you all want to see the map of where the cool kids sat at lunch time. You didn’t actually think I would hint about something THAT funny and not post it, now did you?



Hey, look at this motley assortment of characters!



This photo has gotten pretty dinged up over the years. I'm still not sure why I poked holes in my own eyes. I was probably lashing out at the world because my mom wouldn't buy me the Gibaud jeans and Cool Water cologne that was neccesary for me to fit in with the cool crowd.

Bachelorette Parties are LAME

There is nothing, NOTHING, worse in the world than for a guy to walk into his favorite watering hole after a grueling day of work and see upon him, you guessed it, a goddamn bachelorette party in progress. I happened to run into one of those bastards this weekend, and let me tell you, I was pissed. As I sipped on my beverage with contempt that night, it totally dawned on me that bachelorette parties and pennies are eerily similar in that they are both annoying, pointless, and stupid.

I mostly hate Bachelorette Parties for two reasons:

1.) Bachelorette Parties are uninspired.

Every Bachelorette Party is the exact same thing every single time. About a dozen or so obnoxious chicks will clamour out of a bus or something, where they will proceed to invade some poor hapless bar where all the patrons will be forced to deal with stupid scavenger hunts, solicitations for a “suck for a buck”, and of course, a barrage of phallic paraphernalia waved in front of their faces.

Wow, good job maid-of-honor, no one has EVER thought of doing any of those things before. Your antics have put everyone in hysterics. Bravo. (Now imagine me clapping my hands three times very slowly with a smug look on my face, and you’ll get just the right amount of sarcasm I was going for there.)

As far as the “suck for a buck” thing goes, I’m actually okay with the idea of financially helping out soon-to-be newlyweds. After all, if they’re dumb enough to get married, then they're going to need all the help they can get. I just wish they offered something useful, like a refill on my drink, or for them to leave the bar. Almost anything is better than a stupid blow-pop.

I’m getting all worked up here just thinking about it. Come back tomorrow for reason Number 2, followed by a great remedy to cure your favorite saloon if it comes down with a scorching case of Bachelorette Partyitis.

Continued from Monday...

2.) It is impossible to pick up a chick in a Bachelorette Party

It’s been tried, oh lord has it been tried, but no man in the history of time has ever picked up a chick participating in a female stag party ritual. You would think that it would be easy based on the fact that they’re probably going to be boozing harder than had they been out at the bars normal-style and that there are about a million different ways you could start a conversation with someone because of their crazy theme or their scavenger hunt or whatever. But it’s not easy. It’s impossible, like I mentioned earlier. Here’s why:

A. Stick-to-itiveness. Every guy knows that deploying the divide-and-conquer method is textbook strategy for isolating a girl from a pack of women on any given night. But those girls are going to look awfully foolish holding dildos and inflated dicks in their hands if they’re not in their posse pulling the same kind of shenanigans. The chance of separating a chick from the rest of the flock is negligible at best.

B. The Bitterness Factor. A hottie in the bunch may look like she’s having a good time, but deep show she’s harboring deep resentment for the bride-to-be because she’s not the one that’s about to walk the plank. Since she can’t express these feelings openly, she will probably switch to man-hating mode for the duration of the evening.

C. Logistics. Even if you manage to beat the odds and make some kind of progress with a chick in a Bachelorette Party, you know in a few drinks, that drunk bus is moving on to the next tavern on the itinerary. No girl is worth following a Bachelorette Party around all night, I don’t give a fuck how hot she is.

So there you have it. Fortunately, I have concocted a scheme that is a sure-fire way to eliminate the Bachelorette Party in question. You simply approach any one of the girls as she’s coming from the bathroom or getting another drink and politely strike up a conversation, subversively pumping her for information on the bride and groom and other details about their lives. I realize that feigning interest in this dialogue will be EXTREMELY difficult but it’s very important for the next step.

Later on the evening, when the inevitable suck-for-a-buck girl comes along, casually mention that you heard about the recent affair that the groom had with insert name of girl you just spoke with and how happy you are that the bride was able to work out the drama because it looks like all you girls are having a lot of fun right now. Use as many details from the previous conversation as possible to add authenticity.

If the Bachelorette Party is particular annoying, tell suck-for-a-buck girl that the groom cheated on the bride with another man. For added effect, point to your buddy at the end of the bar and say it was him. This route is bound to end in hilarity.

Which ever way you choose, within a few minutes, the bride should either burst out of the bar in tears followed by all her friends to console her or a full-out Bachelorette brawl will break out. And we all know that fights between women ALWAYS end up in kissing and clothes being torn off, so it’s pretty much a win-win situation for everyone.

Okay, I’ve said far too much on this subject, but to make one final point, while I was typing this rant, my spell-check refused to believe the word Bachelorette even exists. Further research at dictionary.com confirmed that Bachelorette is in fact, not a real word.

It just begs the question, if Microsoft and Internet don’t acknowledge Bachelorette Parties, why should we?




Ever see the movie Bachelor Party with Tom Hanks? Me neither. But I'll bet you about a million dollars that these guys could throw a better party than the cacklefest I witnessed Friday night.

If Picasso Were Alive Today...

If Pablo Picasso were alive today and decided to channel his artistic genius into directing music videos for MTV, he probably would have come up with something very close to the video for DJ Eric Prydz Call on Me.

Let me back up a second. First let’s talk about how awesome the song is. The song is AWESOME. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, you need to do one of the following:

A.) Get your ass on iTunes and download it
B.) Burn it from a friend that’s already in the know
C.) Go back to the year 2004 and walk into any club in L.A. or New York

I first heard the song this summer at a club in Milwaukee where people were rocking out to it like it was brand spankin’ new (we here in the Midwest are a little slow picking up trends from our fashionable neighbors on the coasts). It blew my mind then like its blowing my mind right this second as I’m boppin’ along to it and typing these very words.

The reason Call on Me is so awesome is that it takes the best part of Steve Winwood’s Call on Me, Valerie and gives it to you over and over again. And again and again. And again and again. It’s like eating pizza for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Every day.

If I ever open up a night club, the theme of the club is that I’m going to instruct the DJ to play Call on Me basically every other song, unless of course the kids out on the dance floor are having too much fun, in which case I’ll have the DJ play it a ratio of 3:1 to other songs, in favor of Mr. Prydz’s opus of course.

The only other songs I will allow in my club are songs that have the same format as Call on Me, where the refrain is simply repeated over and over again. That way, uncoordinated white guys like me can string together a few coherent moves on the dance floor, secure in our knowledge that the beat isn’t going to go anywhere.

I might also allow songs with explicit instructions on how to move throughout the entire duration of the song. I’m thinking of that one song where the dude is like, “slide to the left, now slide to the right, three hops this time, now cha cha cha.” You know what song I’m talking about. It’s played at every wedding. Please don’t make me look it up. In any case, I can gyrate to that song as well, so it’s okay.

I wish I could somehow have Call on Me pumped into my cubicle as a permanent soundtrack to my work week. The hours would go by like seconds as I completed all my daily tasks with machine-life efficiency. Then at 5:00, the music would stop and I would slowly awaken from my trance, staring at my hands quizzically and asking myself questions like “where I am?”, “how did all this work get done so quickly and thoroughly?,” and “why am I getting promoted to vice-president?”

Enough said, Call on Me is genius. Picasso would be proud.



I don't think this video needs an explanation. This is high art, people!

Blog Me? Blog You!

Alright Internet, I don’t like you and you don’t like me.

Well that’s not necessarily true…I do kind of like you, Internet. You’ve given me free music and movies, up-to-date news and weather reports to distract me at work, and fantasy football. I won’t even mention that you’ve essentially taught me the birds and bees through your infinite stash of pornographic materials.

I guess I owe you a quite a bit.

Which is why I have decided to bring Brain Litter out of retirement: To feed you a couple extra kilobytes of binary code to help alleviate your insatiable appetite for raw pointless data. I realize my content is far from a hearty meal, but at least it will tide you over until those assholes at Facebook get their shit together.

For those of you who don’t know what I’m talking about, I’m referring to the falling out at Facebook HQ over that new FEED feature that updates you on random wall posts and comments from other users. Talk about a horrible idea going more horribly awry.

I bet you were puking your guts out when that feature was released, huh, Internet? What’s that, you say? Just the dry heaves? Yeah, that happens to me too when I drink too much cheap tequila.

I really don’t know why I stopped writing in the first place. It’s one of the few things I really enjoy doing besides going out with my friends and dominating 5-star sudoku puzzles. There have been so many times over the past few months when I’d be out and I’d witness something cool or be part of some weird event and in the back of my head, I’d be thinking, oh man, I can’t wait to get home and blog the shit out of this interaction, but alas! I can not, for I have forsaken my creativity to be some cog in a wheel.

Cog no more, I’ve got some big ideas (blog and non-blog) that I’d like to make happen between now and next spring. Ideas so big that it necessitated the purchase of a giant 40 dollar dry erase board, because big ideas need a big medium to be written down on. Yeah, I’m THAT guy now; guy that paces around a room, stroking my chin and pondering at a big dry erase board, while drinking a Cabernet and listening to Beethoven’s 5th Symphony in the background. I know, what a douche bag I have become.

At least I don’t have a clipboard, though. I’ve got a long way to go before I become Clipboard Guy.

Stay tuned, ladies and gents, me and Internet have some interesting things lined up for yuhs.



A lot has happened since my last post. For instance, Joe got pubes now.

Brain Litter is Retiring

Hello friends,

After very careful consideration over the past few weeks, I think it is time to end my little experiment here and retire my blog. Yes, I realize that many of you will be absolutely crushed by these turn of events, but I have my reasons, most notably, the real world is starting to crash down upon me and so I think it's time to put an end to my little fantasy world here, where Brett Favre looks up to me, zombie epidemics are eminent, and I have to resort to childish dating rules to screen the hundreds of potential love interests that are hounding me at every corner.

This whole turn of events transpired a few weeks ago when I put my house on the market. I was extremely busy with painting, landscaping, and general cleaning to make my house ready for viewing. I was coming up with good ideas in my head, but I was just too exhausted to type them out at the end of the day. It was frustrating.

Well, things actually started getting worse. Work started really picking me up so I had to stay later just to keep up. Then some asshole that I showed my house to ratted me out to the City of Madison Code Enforcement for illegally renting one of my two non-conforming bedrooms in the basement. Even as I write this, I’m staring down at my gut that magically grew this winter, which makes me realize that my ass should be on a treadmill right now instead of in front of a keyboard.

All of a sudden, blog posts on applying economic game theory to pick up chicks and reasons why the sport of boxing in Hollywood has been at the epicenter of the some of the biggest turning points in history (the thesis there being that Russell Crowe in Cinderella Man, Will Smith in Ali, and Sylvester Stallone in Rocky IV, single handedly defeated the Great Depression, Racism, and Communism respectively) became pointless in light of my current predicament.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not depressed or anything. I have great friends and family, I love my job, and things will eventually be on the up and up again. I guess I just realized that I don’t need to live in a fantasy world any more; reality is working out pretty well for me as is. I just need to concentrate on it harder.

So thank you once again for tuning in, leaving comments, and complimenting me on my work over the last 10 months. Your support has really meant a lot to me. See you all later in this crazy mixed-up world of ours. I hope to milk as much fun out of it as I can and I hope you do as well.

Busted With My Secret Song

Every dude has a secret song that they are ashamed to like.

Fellas, you know what I am talking about. It’s the song you keep on that unlabeled CD that sits underneath the driver’s seat. It’s the second or third to last song, cleverly hidden amidst a collection of Pantera Greatest Hits or some other assemblage of death metal. It’s the song you only listen to after rolling up your windows and checking over your shoulder for stowaways. Sound familiar?

Well I was driving home from work today and I think this warmth has gotten into my head, because I decided to pop in my secret song with my windows haphazardly down. I knew it was foolish to tempt the secret song gods with such insolence, but I didn’t care, the intro was just starting.

A Jitterbug...A Jitterbug…you put the boom boom into my heart…

You can stop laughing now. Any guy that has never sang along with a Wham song is lying to you. Well, maybe not necessarily Wham but they are pretty much interchangeable with any other singing fairy dance squad out there. Yes, I am ashamed that I find that ONE Wham song kind of catchy, but dammit, what a man listens to in the privacy of his own car is his own damn business.

Unfortunately, this business became public when my car suddenly came to a halt in the always reliable 5:00 traffic of the west bound Beltline. Instinctively, I applied my brakes to prevent myself from crashing, but mentally, I was staging up George Michael in front of a packed stadium of delusional teenage girls.

The older woman in the white Sebring next to me was particular amused by my bellowing. At that point, where you’re caught red-handed, you’re only option is to run with it.

Wake Me Up Before You Go-Go. Take me dancin’ tonight! Yeah Yeah Yeah !

Stupid rush hour. It’s the source of all my problems. Well, maybe if people didn’t gawk at the car wrecks IN THE OPPOSITE LANE then my secret song would have remained an enigma to this day.



You know that rule for concerts where you're not supposed to wear a shirt with then band that you're about to see? Apparently that rule doesn't apply if you are the band.