Because I don’t already have my pants down around my ankles in terms of anonymity, I added a MySpace link to my disturbing little profile in the top navigation menu. Feel free to click through and add me if you’re a fan of the blog – or just watching in sick fascination like a school bus driving past a car accident. While we’re on the subject, here is a list of things I promise you will NOT find on my MySpace profile:

1. A fucking annoying hip hop song that starts five minutes after the page loads and sends your coworkers jumping underneath their desks like Slick Rick just drove past the office.

2. Animated gifs of the Napoleon Dynamite dance (sorry Damaris).

3. Photos of me with my shirt off standing beside a mediocre car. I don’t own a car, and my pale, gym-shy chest currently looks like the midsection of a narwhal.

4. A link to my band that sucks monkey cocks. Although, if I had a band, admittedly it would be called Monkey Cocks. MySpace has become this malestrom of mediocre talent that was never meant to see the light of day. “Dude, I did a search and can see that you like the Magnetic Fields. So I think you might like my band, Indifferent Potato. It’s actually just a squirrel I found in my backyard being recorded as I rode over it with an electic lawnmower, but I think you’ll get the vibe.

5. Pink on black anything.

So click on through and make yourself a new MySpace buddy. Some people wear their MS friends total like a badge on their sleeve. These people also usually spend Friday nights playing Unreal Tournament. Maybe we can join the same clan or something.

Has rap gotten extraordinarily awful, or have I just gotten old? It’s a question which has plagued me for years. I’ve even written about on this very website. There’s nothing about bling, oversized baseball hats, expensive cars or beats that sound like they were made on a rusty Speak N Spell that appeal to me. “I’m a player, a smoker, a deadly loan broker!” If a rap song doesn’t contain a creative sample I wonder, how much of this is dumb luck or crack debts being repayed? And it kills me – because I used to be a huge hippedy hopper, albeit a subtle one. So where’s the real disconnect?

There’s still a slim enough chance that some of you haven’t seen this that I feel comfortable pointing it out. And I read a great quote written about the silly short that makes me feel a little closer to some answers.

“People aren’t forwarding this video because it’s a parody of what’s bad about rap; they’re sending it around because it’s an ode to what can be great about it. Instead of aurguring a new day for SNL, maybe it points up what’s missing in mainstream rap is an awareness that it’s OK to be goofy.”

The greatest moment’s in rap’s golden age were all silly – sometimes intentionally. The first big rap hit of all time featured fairies, keopectate and woody chicken. Phife busted off on your couch and made it Seaman’s furniture. Biz Markie picked boogers like it was his job. Is this what I miss so much? Can I not truly enjoy a rap song anymore unless someone rhymes “birthdays” with “worst days”?

Hip hop the hippie to the hippie the hip hip hop, a you dont stop the rock it to the bang bang the boogie say up jumped the boogie to the rhythm of the boogie the beat, indeed.

PITF is back on the air after the regular Christmas foray to the Great White North. My mother, sister and I made it to the Toronto area in record time Friday – about 8 hours. I slept the entire time due to heavy imbibing the night before at the Bruins game. Needless to say I was not popular in that little Outback, but the only person I really hurt was myself. Trust me.

That disgrace of an evening was followed quickly by Friday spent at the Rude Native with Puppa, Billy, Janet, JJV, and Mark. Pictures and more details will follow when Janet dumps her camera – but to be perfectly honest, I may keep it pretty vague. Between trying to encourage a snowball induced donnybrook with kids young enough to be my offspring after the bars closed, and then conking out on Gary’s couch while a party carried on around me, I’m not too proud of that whole pm. But you guys made my trip coming out to Burlington last minute like that, and Gaz was a great host. Seriously, thank you all and you’re still my boys.

Saturday and Sunday were spent with various groups of family and my always adorable little cousins. Seth schooled me at Monopoly and Thomas massacred me at Madden 2006. I showed up at the Yankee Swap with a Curb Your Enthusiasm DVD box set, and left with some small skinny candles. And what makes all of this even more embarassing is that I can’t continue to blame alcohol – as my crippled self happily accepted to be the driver that night.

Today was a nightmare, but it was far worse for a few others. Probably the worst Toronto to Boston drive in memory. And there has been probably 50 of them over the course of my lifetime so far. A late start. 2 hour wait at the border. Stopped at the border and questioned due to Janet’s recent greencard replacement. Snowstorm. Really crowded highways full of Steve McQueen clones, appartently. One more load of wash and I can finally sleep. Happy belated holidays to us, everyone. And by happy holidays, I mean someone please come over to the North End immediately and euthanize me.