Hipster Valentine's Gift Guide Pt. 1

It's that dreaded time of year.

That time where you have to buy your special lady or gentlemen friend a gift that says, "Hey, I guess I kind of like you." Or, "I'm completely broke right now, but hey thanks for letting me have sex with you, the best I can give you is your special edition record of "Power, Corruption & Lies" back."

If you're not sure what to get your non-prescription bespectacled lover, then look no further. I have just the thing for you!

1.) Nothing says "I love you" to your lady (or that "I'm secretly in love with mustached men and this is how I'm trying to tell you") more than a Tom Selleck pillow.

Make sure to check out their Chuck Norris and Burt Reynolds pillows as well.

Made in Austin! (of course! where else would you find something soooo ironic?)

(thanks @adleyh)

2.) If you don't know how to tell your baby that you want to bone him/her, then let the Michael McDonald Ultimate Collection do the talking. He knows how.

I can't even count how many times I've boned to McD!

(That's because it's never happened.) :(

(Thank you, Marcos, for recently using the word "boning" and inspiring the usage of that word in this post).

3.) Don't forget to thank your gay boyfriend with Patti Smith's autobiography about her relationship with Robert Mapplethorpe, "Just Kids". Who needs a hetereo boyfriend? Who? WHO NEEDS ONE?

4.) Need to tell your honey that you want to write a thinly disguised novel about how crazy she is? Then pick up a copy of F. Scott Fitzgerald's love letters to his wife, Zelda Sayre, "Dear Scott, Dearest Zelda".

5.) You can't forget about the Brandon Bird "Law & Order: SVU" Valentines' Day cards now, can you?

6.) If you're finding yourself all alone this Valentine's Day, then why not treat yourself to the Taschen published "The Big Penis Book"?

And I mean treat yourself.

What a Fool Believes

"I'm concerned", I said to my psychiatrist as I looked down at my thumbs.
God, they're some big ass fucking thumbs.

"I'm concerned because I'm starting to like Michael McDonald and I'm not sure what to do."

I don't have a therapist.
However, I did at one point.
If I still had a therapist this would be the first thing I'd say to her as I sit down for my session.

It does concern me that I no longer have the distinct urge to rip my face off and sling it against a window when I hear Michael McDonald. Even worse, sometimes you'll find me standing on a table, very enthusiastically shouting, "No, seriously guys, even the black folks think Darryl Hall is awesome."

I want to know what this all means. Does it signify that I'm getting old? Does the moment you go from thinking, "Quick! "Saturday in the Park" is making my ears bleed" to "Hey, don't change the station, I kind of dig Chicago" signify the immediate transition from young person into adult? Will Peter Cetera and Bruce Hornsby walk with me as I traverse this new territory into womanhood? The days of lying in bed, pretending to be stoned when I'm really not and listening to, like really listening to Arcade Fire will be replaced with candlelit hearty, but sensible dinners with a bearded man and Time Life Easy Listening CD collection. Pretentious and nonsensical statements like "Spencer Krug's work on Sunset Rubdown appeared more inspired, more whimsical, than any of Wolf Parade's ventures" turns into, "I prefer Steve Winwood's solo works". I'll probably name my kid Rhiannon and she'll grow up to think I have terrible taste in music. Just like how I'd shake my head and slam my door shut the second C, S, N, & Y's Greatest Hits came on the household stereo.

I don't want to become an adult! I'm perfectly happy thinking that liking David Byrne since I was thirteen years old makes me evolutionarily superior to everyone else! I want to keep walking through my life like I'm the subject of an Ipod commercial.

"How do I stop this? How do I stop myself from growing up?" I'd ask my fictional therapist.

"You can't," she'd laugh, "Just take it easy. Don't let the sound of your own wheels drive you crazy."