the mixtapes

Why you should have your heart broken into a million little pieces.

You will meet a girl named Simone when you are on a family vacation at the age of 11. She will have blonde hair, she will be from LA and she’ll tell you that she stars in Teddy Graham commercials back home. This will sound amazing, because you love Teddy Graham’s, and for the first time ever you’ll be convinced that you can fall in love just like the people in the movies. You will wonder if she thinks about you the same way you think about her, and this will make you wonder why you’re thinking that at all. You’ll know, though, that this is love and that you are feeling something no one in the history of time has ever felt. That these feelings are entirely unique to you and only you. She will always smell like shampoo and in your mind you’ll probably move to LA when the week is over. You will go home after the vacation and write her letters from time to time that she will not return, and you will cry because Simone and her delicious snack food commercials will never be a part of your life again, and love is hard. You will never speak to Simone again, which will hurt for an unreasonable amount of time. You will meet Chelsea in middle school. Her last name will be exotic and you will steal her from a guy who will become a best friend that you will have for the rest of your life. You will date for around a year and talk a total of five to six times, maybe. She will be your first kiss, and you will never know if you ever actually kissed or if you just flailed into each other and ended on a polite headbutt. You will pace your room wondering what you’ll say to her when she picks up when you call, the nerves leading you to hang up over six times before asking something mundane about her favorite band. You will write her a longwinded letter about your love for her, complete with doodles. She will take said letter from you, say thank you, and promptly dump you. You will wonder if there is a God and will curse women with hispanic last names for years for no apparent reason.

You will meet Mandy a year later. She will be your first french kiss. It will happen on rollerblades, rollerblades that you will race home on as though you were the triumphant misunderstood kid who beat the odds in a John Hughes film. You will wonder if it affected her the way it did you, if she was calling her friends and telling them that she had discovered magic in a curly haired young man. She will tell everyone that you kiss like a goat, and you will question what a goat even kisses like or how she knew. No matter, it will crush you and your teenage tongue. She will dump you and date the guy you stole Chelsea from. The two of you will laugh about this for years to come, the most important times being when you live together and when you then stand next to him as he gets married to the love of his life.

You will meet Sarah in high school. Her friends won’t really like you, your friends won’t really like her, and everything will feel impossibly hard even though you know that the two of you are meant to be. You are not meant to be, even in the slightest. You will break up and get back together at least 17 times until the day that your 4'11"Jewish grandmother will yell at her from the stairwell wearing a nightgown at 3 pm inexplicably, telling her to leave the goddamn house. It will be a lovely moment you and your grandmother share, if only because you realize that people will stand up for you in the most trivial of moments. You hate losing Sarah because everything is terrible and no one could possibly understand what it feels like to love and lose someone in high school but you love what you found in the process.

You will meet your college sweetheart during the first week you’ve ever lived away from your home. She will smile, dance, and hold your hand differently than the others before her because you are 18 now and you are a man and you know what love is (or at least what you want it to be). You’ll ask for her number the day after you meet and she won’t remember who you were, which you will think is the perfect story to tell people when you’re old and married. You will create endless amounts of inside jokes that no one will get at parties when you purposely recreate them in front of others. The world before her will feel indistinguishable, juvenile and unimportant. As time goes on, you will begin to feel like she is an ice cube that has been melting in your hand for five years straight, and for the first time you will understand that love is horrifically fragile and something that you can lose, like your keys, which will terrify you. She will break up with you twice due to your lack of ambition in life and you will cry until she takes you back. In a panic, you will go to live with your brother and cousin in a Nevada desert to find yourself and she will call you to tell you that she’s met a male model and never wants to hear from you again. You will cry harder than you’ve ever cried and feel a hopelessness you didn’t know existed and wonder why he couldn’t just be in sales or something. This will alter everything that happens to you ever again.

You will move to San Francisco and move in with four strangers in an attempt to pretend you are okay and open to frightening amounts of change. You will drink too much every night in a room you’ve locked yourself away in because you don’t recognize yourself or who you’re becoming, and you will sleep with people whose names you don’t remember because it’s all a blur and no one feels worthy of inside jokes anymore. You will aimlessly wander San Francisco and feel like a shell of anything you were because the girls who dance with you now remember you the next day and that’s not how it’s supposed to go.

You will cry at a wedding because Heather doesn’t like you anymore and you will feel horrified that you are a shit show that isn’t just on display, rather one that is playing at the movies fourteen times a day. After the tears dry up you will drink so much that you will fall asleep on a street corner that night in the town you grew up in and a taxi cab driver will call the police and tell them that you are dead. You will then politely ask the police for a ride home at the age of 26 and tell your mother that you’re doing perfectly fine. You are not doing perfectly fine.

You will be so embarrassed that you will write about it without leaving out a single detail, because humor is what you’ve got left and humility seems like the only way out of this mess. People will read it. An alarming amount of people will read it, and the heartbreak will begin to feel like hope. The disaster will begin to feel like the middle of the movie. You’ll begin to feel like maybe, just maybe, the girl who began to date the male model because you had no ambition was right: maybe you should be a bit more ambitious. Maybe you should write like she said you ought to.

For years, you will meet countless girls and make countless mistakes.You won’t necessarily write about them, but you’ll begin to write about you, and they might almost seem like the gasoline that reminds you that you should be a fire, even if it’s in a dumpster from time to time. You will hurt them, they will hurt you, but more importantly, you’ll both probably find ways to wake the other up. They will all be good people, you will regret so much of how it all went down, but you’ll be thankful that at least one of them caused you to put a wet towel on a duraflame log that caused a building fire that you wrote about. Because you wrote. And they had a baby with a guy who presumably made countless mistakes with someone else. And you’ll realize more and more that that’s how it works, just like everyone’s mother said: You get hurt. You hurt people. You put wet towels on Duraflames and eventually you get back up and just open the flue next time.

Then, you will meet her.

She will have a look in her eye like she’s put some towels on some Duraflames before. Like she has fallen in love in ways that you can’t understand and that if you’re willing to listen, she’ll never discuss them with you. You will sit down and have a beer that will turn into five, and you’ll go home that night and think out loud that maybe, just maybe, every last piece of heartbreak was worth it.

Years later you will ask her to marry you and cry before she does, which for the first time won’t be the embarrassing kind. She’ll say yes.

And everything, all of a sudden, will feel like it was very much worth it.

--

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 72: Songs to have your heart broken into a million little pieces to.

rocket shoes mixtape

STREAM IT at the links below:

DISC 1

DISC 2

DISC 3

DOWNLOAD ALL OF THE MP3′s at the links below:

DISC 1

DISC 2

DISC 3

 

How to not get someone to write about your band.

A few years back, I started a different blog-ish thing called tiny little rockets where I post songs that I like from time to time. I'm extremely hyperbolic about everything that I post, I make absolutely no intelligent commentary regarding the composition of said songs...it's honestly the closest thing you can get to a teenager staying up late at night listening to songs on his headphones, imagining that what he's listening to is the ONLY thing that matters in the ENTIRE world and NO one gets it but him. To be clear though: I'm not a music blogger, because I'm not writing a thing that is informative or well thought out. I try to be pretty upfront about that when people write me asking me to post music for their band, their record label, etc. I am a guy who likes to write who fucking loves music and I like to post songs I think, hey, people might like. If you send me something and it sounds nice? Sure! Why not. You seem like a nice person, thanks for writing me, person who wrote.

What I’m not good at telling you about is a song’s syncopation, its derivative qualities, etc. Honestly? I sorta don’t give a shit about that stuff (nor am I smart enough to get it), and if you really do you’re probably the guy at the party who everyone really doesn’t like talking to.

You know what I’m good at? Telling you about a song that might make you happy. Do you know what I’m not good at? Being a shitty music industry blowhard.

So when I received this “post my music” pitch email from a guy named “Swole” the other day, my heart melted. Swole probably doesn’t realize that while I’m shitty at writing about music (kidding, he realizes that!), I’m FANTASTIC at writing like a snarky, sarcastic asshole. So.

In the spirit of getting back to having fun on this thing (sorry, Swole brah!) here is my line-by-line analysis of my email pitch I received from Swole, who is reachable at this email address listed below if you have any Swole azz questions.

Screen Shot 2013-08-19 at 2.14.43 PM

To: andrewhoolhorst@gmail.com From: Swole Ludberg <grubot2044@gmail.com> Subject: Your blog is weak and here’s why

Andy,

(My name is not Andy. Does it say my name is Andy somewhere, Swole? You crazy banana, just runnin’ around making up names n’ shit! Okay, okay, only *you* can call me Andy. It’ll be our thing that we tell people about years from now when we're at dinner parties. This is exciting! It’s early and we’re already starting *things* together!)

You fancy yourself a trendsetter and tastemaker, when the undeniable reality is that much of your content is recycled.

(Caught red handed on this one, Swole cat. It’s definitely undeniable, and I can’t help but say you’re right: the songs that I post are songs that other people have admitted to liking and/or also hearing. I keep looking for a band of people who only play trees with mythical minotaurs in a forest and don’t allow people to record it, but, alas…nothing yet. Nothing yet.)

All the bands you blog about have two things in common: 1) Ineveitably another blog has already written about them and 2) they suck.

(So, wait, you’re saying you do read what I write? That’s FANTASTIC, Swole! The subject line sorta hinted that you listen to enough to tell me that my blog is weak and that you’d surely tell me why, but I didn’t know you had cross-checked many blogs, which would necessitate an incredible amount of time. Sorry, I’m rambling, go on. I thought about stopping after you told me I sucked, but call me a girl in a horrible relationship with an emotionally abusive boyfriend, I JUST CAN’T STOP!)

If you were really on your game, then you would’ve discovered The Muggies already.

(Wait. This is a music pitch? You just said that my blog sucked. It’s confusing but I like it.)   I’m not going to send links or attach mp3’s- if you really are the “journalist” you claim to be, then follow your nose for news and find them.

(Two things here. 1] So, you want me to post your band but don’t want to tell me how to because you hate me? Also, 2] Wait, was that a Toucan Sam reference? I FUCKING LOVE FRUIT LOOPS, SWOLE. I WAS READY TO CLOSE THE EMAIL BUT GO THE FUCK ON.)

If you actually take the time out from cutting and pasting from Pitchfork,

(I get it, because you hate mainstream blogs, and Pitchfork is a recognizable mainstream blog that makes me question if I’m really pushing myself journalistically on a blog hosted on Tumblr.)

you’ll discover that The Muggies are original, exciting, and most importantly they write great songs.

(That’s true. That does seem like the most important quality, and I’m glad you focused on that. Seems like you’ve thought this through AND you know the golden rule of writing: everything in three’s. Seems like your writing knowledge is pretty “swole”, Swole. Eh? EH??)

If you want to stay following trends awash a sea of reverb, then by all means keep up the mediocre work.

(You flirt, you. Telling me I suck earlier, but now upgrading me to mediocre? Thanks, Beyonce! Also, “trends awash a sea of reverb”? Are you a writer, Swole? I feel that sentence. As though my brittle bones are struggling to swim in an ocean of independent music.)   If you want to truly achieve the promise of your blog, then seek out The Muggies and enjoy the aural ecstasy that ensues. Thanks, have a great day!

(No, thank YOU Swole! I didn’t see this finale coming, but it feels pretty good. I feel like we started at hate and here we are at congratulate. You know how to beat em up and give em a hand. Now WHERE can I found those little muggies of yours? I’m too busy combing Pitchfork, brosef.) peace n’ luv, Swole

(One love, Swole cat. One love. Love always, Andy.)

--

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 71: Songs Swole Probably Thinks Are Weak

rocket shoes mixtape

STREAM IT at the links below:

DISC 1

DISC 2

DOWNLOAD ALL OF THE MP3′s at the links below:

DISC 1

DISC 2

 

The Bachelorette, Reviewed by a Guy. Sorta. (Episode 4)

Episode 4: I hate to watch guys compete, so I went on a gameshow where 25 guys compete for me, specifically.

Where We Left Off

We're down to 13 dude-bros. The gentlemen who lost Cotillion last week were:

MC N*SYNC, the guy who probably had a coke problem and looked like a member of the group N*SYNC, if that wasn't clear.

Allesandro, the guy who called himself a gypsy king and was being totally serious/told her that her daughter was a compromise, which she absolutely is.

and Tony, one of the guys who was using his child as bait to get laid.

Emily made the guys hang out with all of her best friends and one Indian woman that she doesn't know so that she could find out who was a good guy. She went on one-on-one dates with Arie (the guy who does the thing that her dead husband did for a living) and Gerard Butler, who is too young because he is 25 and she is 26 and idolizes people who wear costumes for a living. She has begun to make out with at least two of the guys, so if this is like middle school some guy in the next few episodes will probably go for a boob grab, get denied and tell everyone else that he was not, in fact, denied. This week, Emily and the dude-bros are traveling to Bermuda. Our one-on-ones are with Doug, The (now only) father who is using his child as bait to get laid and a two-on-one with Nate the accountant and Wolf, the guy whose nickname was probably self-appointed.

General Recap

The episode opened with a shot of ducks, because we've already seen tons of horses and they want us to know that the south isn't just about horses. It's about ducks, too.

We're back at the house of the bros to hear that we're going to Bermuda. Michael, the guy who looks like The Last Samurai, is wearing a yellow headband, the kind that girls wear while they wash their faces at night.

Everyone bros out and high fives, because they are competing to sleep with the same woman and they want the other one to know that they're pumped about it.

Sidenote: Can you imagine the flight over to Bermuda? What do these guys talk about? Did someone have to get a middle seat, even if the flight was chartered? I imagine last samurai just listened to self help audio books while Allejandro (the guy who is a mushroom farmer, which is sort of like saying unemployed/into recreational drugs) listened to ambient techno the entire flight over. Hulk Charlie probably just kept saying to himself, "HULK HATE AIRPLANE. HULK AFRAID HULK GET ANGRY AND GET TOO BIG AND BREAK AIR FLYING DEVICE BECAUSE HULK'S DOCTOR DIDN'T GIVE HIM ANXIETY CIRCLES TO EAT LIKE HULK ASK FOR."

--

Welcome to Bermuda, I brought my daughter to a remote island because I don't want you to meet her. 

Emily has brought her daughter Ricki to Bermuda. This is logical, because she doesn't want Ricki to meet the guys, so the best place to stash her is probably on a remote island with them.

Emily mentions that it's exciting to be in Bermuda, because maybe she'll come back soon with a baby in a stroller and her husband and oh by the way she wants more babies, has she mentioned that? SHE REALLY wants more babies.

The bros drive around on Vespa's yelling, "BERMUDA!!!" over and over again to let you know that they're stoked they're in Bermuda. It's like being on a Harley, except it's a Vespa.

We've honestly been watching this episode for under five minutes and The Last Samurai has another hairband on. This time it's in blue. He's not even trying anymore, he may as well just start drinking milk straight from the carton during episodes in the background.

We learn that Doug (the guy who is using his child as bait to get laid) is going on the first one-on-one.

To show that the weather is vicious in Bermuda, they show water flying out of the infinity pool due to intense winds. First world problems.

Doug starts to sweat the one-on-one date, and all of the guys make fun of him because he has feelings and you can't have those on The Bachelorette. Doug then starts to show the first signs of being sort of temperamental before Emily walks in to break things up, and it's clear that at some point in this series, Doug is going to hit someone and that's really exciting for all of us.

Arie does a Doug impression comparing him to the Hulk, and even though I think it's Charlie who's the Hulk, I start to worry that this is The Truman Show and I'm actually writing a reality television show and I just don't know it yet.

Doug and Emily go on a one-on-one date where they go shopping for things like perfume oils. People in relationships don't even like doing shit like this, so there's that. Emily says she really likes Doug because he's really good looking, and I'm starting to wonder what Emily got on her SAT's.

They walk up to some thing called the moon gate, which you make a wish and walk under so that all of your dreams will come true. Emily wishes that she won't be single forever, which has been made pretty clear by the fact that she is on a game show where the winner becomes "not single". For the second time.

They have dinner somewhere and Emily basically says Doug is too perfect like Brad, the last guy who she was supposed to marry from television. She says he seems too perfect, which I don't understand because he sort of just seems like a douche. But hey, that's just me and I'm not on the TV. He tells Emily that he's, "just a guy..not a genius, not a dummy." He then speaks about himself in the third person, which you should never, ever do.

Emily gives Doug a rose. He says that this is the best date he's ever had in his life. So, for those keeping score at home: the best date of Doug's life was one where he went to a perfume shop and walked under a tourist location called the moon gate.

ABC cuts to awkward shots of them back and forth as Emily waits for Doug to kiss her even though he won't, because he says he's all about moving slow. It sort of just looks like someone farted.

Doug speaks in the third person some more, stating that, "if Emily wants a kiss from Doug, she'll let Doug know she wants a kiss."

Doug may or may not be impotent (which affects an estimated 18 million men in the U.S. alone).

--

Race boats to decide who gets to go on a date with me with a ton of other dudes. 

Most of the remaining guys back home are split up into two teams, ketchup and mustard, that are going to race each other on fancy boats. Emily says, "too be honest, I hate to watch guys compete."

She is on a nationally televised show where 25 men compete for her.

The boat race is like 4,987 minutes long and is worthless. Key takeaways:

- Ryan the football player is ultra-competitive, which nobody saw coming.

- Jef with one F hurts his finger, so it's probably going to be tough to give bottles of water to African children now.

- I have the same pair of shoes as Travis (the ostrich egg guy) which is sort of depressing.

- Hulk Charlie cries when Team Ketchup loses and says he's embarrassed by that. Which, you know, he should be, because he's crying on national television after losing a yachting challenge.

Mustard wins and gets to all sit around and hit on Emily for the night. Key takeaways:

- Ryan the football player calls Emily a potential trophy wife, tells her again that she better not get fat and says about fourteen things that football coaches say to men when they're speaking to them in their underpants in a locker room. Long story short: Ryan's not doing so well. Emily concludes that she feels like Ryan is judging her and that's not cool, even though she's judging 25 guys and eliminating them daily on a television show. Ryan may or may not have starred in the film Sleeping with the Enemy.

- Arie breathes really heavily and then creepily touches Emily about nine times.

- Jef with one F and Emily walk around and don't talk about much of anything, and then he says he's falling for her, which is how love works.

Before we set off for the 2-on-1 date with Nate the accountant and Wolf, Ryan the football player says about 98 more football coach-isms and then probably punches Julia Roberts off-screen.

--

Let's go cliff diving, I have ginormous fake breasts, This date is terrible, Etc. 

Emily goes for a 2-on-1 date with two of the most uninteresting guys on the show, Nate the accountant and Wolf. They go cliff diving, but not before Wolf says, "this could be a big jumping off point for the both of us." Get it? Because they jumped off of a cliff.

I'm surprised Emily didn't knock herself out with her ginormous breasts when they hit the water. Nate doesn't stare directly at them.

They go spelunking in a cave to have dinner and decide who will get the rose from Emily and who will go home.

Nate has a huge neck. I mean, huge.

Emily asks Nate what she may not know about him that she should. He says: "My parents are married. My brother is the best. I love my friends." Then he cries and says, "I can't talk about this right now." No one has any idea what Nate can't talk about.

Nate may as well just say that he loves Lamp.

Wolf then talks to Emily and is surprisingly smooth. He gets the rose from Emily, sending Nate home. Touché, Wolf. Touché.

-

Wear blue knee-highs, touch me all creepy or get the F*CK out. 

Back at the rose ceremony, Emily walks in to greet the men and says, "ya'll look very handsome!" They all say, "as do you" back to her and it's sort of awkward, like when you're at the movie theater and the person who sells you the ticket says, "enjoy the show" and you say "thanks, you too", even though they will not enjoy the show because they, in fact, work at the movie theater and just sell tickets.

The Last Samurai isn't wearing a headband, which is a huge improvement for him even though we haven't heard him say one word for at least two episodes, which I'm pretty sure is doing it wrong.

Jef with one F, however, is wearing knee-high blue socks and it's almost like a stun gun because I can't make fun of it and I can't applaud it.

Some of the guys joke that maybe Sleeping With The Enemy/Ryan the football player is going to be sent home. Travis, the ostrich egg guy, says that that'd be a curveball. Kalon, who probably did not play sports and/or watch them, says, "well that would be a left ball, not even a curveball." Which doesn't make sense and I have a sneaking suspicion that he would like to have not said that on national television.

Sleeping With The Enemy says more Sleeping With The Enemy shit about how, "just because Emily is the bachelorette, that doesn't make her worthy." After she leaves, he tells The Last Samurai that even if he loses he knows media people and will just become the next Bachelor. If he raised a backhand at Emily and told her to get in the kitchen at this point, I'd probably just think that it was a spin-off show.

Gerard Butler (the 25 year old who's too young) and Doug (the dad who is using his child as bait to get laid) get into an argument. Doug says he's acting immature, to which Gerard Butler says, "No I'm not a butthead YOU'RE a butthead" and then storms off.

Arie makes out with Emily somewhere, touches her a little creepily a few times and makes weird faces.

ELIMINATED:

The Last Samurai, the guy who looked like Tom Cruise in The Last Samurai.

Nate, the accountant who can't talk about it right now.

and Hulk Charlie, who SO ANGRY CHARLIE GET ELIMINATED.

SURPRISINGLY NOT ELIMINATED:

Allejandro. Because he's a mushroom farmer and apparently I'm racist.

Ryan/Sleeping With The Enemy, because he did everything short of locking Emily in a cage.

FRONTRUNNERS:

Arie, because he still does the thing that her dead husband did for a living.

Jef with one F, because if you wear knee-high blue socks to a nationally televised elimination ceremony you have got to be a little confident.

and Sean, because he is sort of just in cruise control.

See you next week, everyone.

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 61: I write over 2,000 words a week about The Bachelorette, which is in no way depressing

Stream the whole thing at the link above.

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here.

Pinterest, Explained by Someone Who Doesn't Get It

I am a bit of a social media whore. For the most part, I think anyone reading this is (how the hell else did you get here?). But I think sometimes, I am to a fault. I check Facebook incessantly for no reason. I tweet when it's unnecessary. I think in "that'd be a great Instagram shot" thoughts.

Hell, man. Just to blow time, I check Path. I'd imagine this is what becoming a drug addict or a rampant gambler feels like.

Then a funny thing happened.

Pinterest showed up. And I didn't get it.

Unless you live in a dark cave, you've heard of it. I don't know, at this point people in dark caves have probably heard of it. If you have a girlfriend, it's probably helped you understand why women hate fantasy football. Whenever I'm not looking, it's like she's just checking the waiver wire, checking to see if any new pins are available for repin. And here's the thing that really sucks...

I'm bad at it.

How can you be bad at a social network, you ask? I'll explain.

Pinterest is really simple: It's a digital pinboard that you post pretty pictures on. Do you like that outfit that one chick wore to that thing? BOOM. Pin it. Do you like that picture of food? BOOM. Pin it. Do you like that "anything that can be photographed"? BOOM. Pin that shit. Honestly: it's a really simple way to tell people what you like, and I get that.

But when I started trying to do it, I realized I was too late. More than that, I just wasn't good at it. It was the same reason people told me they couldn't relate to Twitter the way I could: they just had nothing to say. And that's the thing: I've got PLENTY to say but not that much to show you. So, essentially, I'm fucked. I'm a person who thinks in words. I lose Pictionary every time I play it but I am a certified sniper when it comes to Catch Phrase.

When I go on Pinterest, I feel like people are speaking Chinese while playing Mouse Trap and patting their head, all at once. I simply cannot keep up with the rate that things are shared. It's not only that, though.

I am just not the demographic.

I'm not saying men can't pin. Look, plenty of them are good at it. I'm just not one of them.

I tried to solve this. Could I emulate other people's boards? Could I simply yoink titles that other people had for their boards and use them as my own? It was that exact moment that I realized just how out of my league I was.

However, I did notice some patterns. On that note.

This is my interpretation of how to use Pinterest.

Make a board about DIY crafting. 

It's funny, no one seemed to be into crafting before Pinterest existed. You never heard people saying in passing, "hey, I tell you about that lamp shade I made out of sequins and old rubber tires?" Now? If i'm to believe my friend's Pinterest boards, everyone spends a majority of their life creating random terrariums or hats that make you look like an owl. This brings up a larger theme that Pinterest has essentially made people more interesting even if they're just lazily throwing pictures up on a board as a new way of hitting the "like" button. And, i'll take it. Why not. I'd rather you be into crafting than the Real Housewives of anything.

Talk about the wedding you're going to have before a man (or woman) has asked to marry you.

Seriously, it doesn't matter: Pinterest allows people to be passive aggressive as shit. Angry he hasn't popped the question yet? Drop a hint and just start posting what the floral arrangements are and what the rose petals will look like on the alter of the venue you've already selected (or all 1,894 of them on another board, entirely optional). While it would be creepy for a girl to do this in her bedroom, with or without a boyfriend, it is in no way creepy on Pinterest. Utterly fascinating to me.

While you're at it, pin what your home is going to look like someday. 

For the most part, we all live in some unbelievably boring place. It probably has some chairs, a bed and some other furniture we can presumably afford (re: shitty furniture) and maybe, just maybe, it's got some trinkets and doodads that make it "so us." Go online, find pictures of rich people's houses and post pictures on a board about what your home is going to look like when you grow up. Maybe a room with a nice lamp. Definitely a crazy nice kitchen with the crap you can't afford at Williams Sonoma. Boom. You did it.

Talk about an eating disorder you may or may not have in way that is juuuust masked enough. 

This goes for both sexes. Sure, no one really wants to hear about if you think you're fat or what weight you're gaining or losing through Facebook or Twitter updates. Those are just words and they sound like someone bitching that you don't want to have drinks with. That sucks, because you know what we all love? Attention (points finger at self as he writes this in the hopes that you will read it). But hey, guess what? Pinterest made it work! Instead, post a picture of good looking people or pictures of food you "can't eat" and now it's just a pretty picture that sorta doesn't have anything to do with you in particular. It's just close enough to sounding like self-improvement, too, so most people are into it.

Pin any well designed picture of a quote that is vague. 

HUGE bonus points if it's a variation of "Keep Calm and Carry On." That shit is so gonna get repined, just wait for the followers to get on your Pin-wagon. While your'e at it..

Find any infographic about anything. 

It honestly doesn't matter. It could be about the ratio of pistachios that get left behind because their shell has that awkward opening that's just not open enough so you can't eat it to pistachios that you can definitely eat. Seriously. It doesn't matter. If it's an infographic? Pin that shit. If you're a brand trying to get into Pinterest in a way that fans will relate to? This is your easiest way to offer kids candy in the back of a Pinterest van. Do it.

Pin pictures of babies doing things. 

It's just vague enough that it doesn't say "I WANT A BABY". It's saying, "hey, don't blame me, I'm just looking at adorable babies doing some adorable shit, what's wrong with that?" Babies are the cats of Pinterest. They're pretty much an easy go-to.

Pin pictures of tiny animals.

No matter what. Don't think, just pin that shit. Baby giraffe? Boom. Monkey riding a pig? Boom.

Pin any picture of food. 

Food was the one thing that got a little left behind when Twitter started. Explaining food isn't as cool as seeing food. Guess what? If you joined Pinterest, you just went from making Kraft Macaroni and Cheese to cooking some kind of dumpling you've never heard of with ingredients you can only buy in places that don't exist. And you're putting bacon on everything. Pinterest made everyone a foodie.

Finally, when all else fails…

Just repin anything someone else pins with a lot of followers. It's just like any other social network, guys. We're all just yelling the same thing at each other.

It's not that I don't like Pinterest. I actually really do. I just feel like I'm not good at that, and like a kid throwing things on the playground, i'm bummed out. It's just like Twitter for me for a different breed of person: I've seen people become legitimate friends in real life because they liked someone's boards. It blows my mind.

If statistics are correct, it's gonna outgrow Facebook, Twitter, Twitface, Facer, Facertweet…it's gonna be the next big thing. Hell, it's already been the next big thing for longer than you think. And this is why.

Ever watched girls on a couch while guys watch football? They often look at fashion magazines/anything and just show other girls what they're looking at and say, "that's cute."

That's Pinterest.

Forget the "like" button.

Just make the "that's cute" button already.

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 59: Pin This Sh*t.

Stream the whole thing right here.

Or.

Download the entire thing in adorable little MP3′s right here.

I'm Not Gay. I'm a Girl.

For a lot of my life, people have said that I'm "sorta gay." And, I get it. I'm pretty effeminate for a dude. Which is funny, because I used the word "pretty" to qualify that statement.

But, no, I get it. I just don't think "gay" is the right word.

I'm girly.

There's a huge difference. I feel bad for gay guys who get pigeonholed into the thought process that being "girly" makes them gay. No, being gay makes them gay.  I can imagine this bothers gay dudes. They just aren't that into girls, so I'm sure they don't want to be told that they are one.

What I am is an entirely different thing.

See, in my formative years, I was raised by a single mom. A single mom who had wanted a girl since she was about -22 years old. Imagine the feeling, then, of not getting a girl. The feeling of getting a household full of burping, farting boys instead. Boys that would never appreciate her love of shoes or bags. Boys that would not appreciate the haircut she got, did you notice? Boys that, put simply, would never be her daughter.

And then I happened.

Sure, I have plenty of total "dude" qualities. Left to my own devices, I'd watch Sportscenter on loop all day. I love movies where shit blows up for no reason. I like whiskey and scotch. I don't understand why it takes so long for girls to get ready. Fill in the next man cliche here. That's the thing: I'm just "dude" enough that most guys don't notice that I'm a girl in man's clothing.

Because then there's the "raised by a woman" part of me.

I love shoes.

Let me say that again.

I fucking love shoes. If buying pairs of them were a sport, I'm Tiger Woods pre-ambien meltdown.

I buy product. Not shampoo, or soap. I buy "product." My shower houses two salon pumps of Bumble and Bumble, Kiehl's and Bliss face wash, and something called "minty scrub soap." I own eye creams. Notice the "s" there? That's because I own multiple eye creams.

I just want to talk. All the time. About nothing but feelings. I have feelings bulimia.

I talk about celebrities using only their first names.

I say an uncomfortable amount of the phrases featured in the Shit Girls Say video.

I do like to dance like no one is watching.

I enjoy a good romantic comedy. So much so that I am ordered to take my best friend (a girl, obviously) to movies by her husband who doesn't want to see them.

I own Ani Difranco albums (this one arguably makes me a lesbian, but they are still girls the last time I checked).

I've been the only male invited to not one but two baby showers.

I cry when I get too drunk.

I am the closest thing a male can get to having a period.

And you know what? Screw it, man. It's who I am.

I'm not a gay guy.

I'm a f%*king girl.

The other day, I was sitting in a cubicle at an office of about 100 people I don't know. I was blaring music in headphones when a song came on that I really liked. It was catchy as all hell, the hook was great. And this is what it sounded like.

Around the fifteenth listen, I wrote my friend Julie this exact statment:

"I'm sitting in a corporate office writing serious ideas about a large brand...with this playing in my headphones. No one around me has any idea. Is this what it feels like to be in the closet?"

To answer my own question:

Yes. This is what it feels like to be in the closet. But not the gay closet.

The "girly dude" closet.

You're all invited to join. I've got at least one pair of shoes for everyone.

Rocket Shoes Mixtape 58: Songs I'd Play For You If You Called Me (Maybe)

Stream Disc One right here or download the whole thing in mp3's right here.

Stream Disc Two right here or download the whole thing in mp3's right here.