Joshua Hoffine photography might freak your kids out.

Sometimes people aren’t so mindful in the public, like on the Metro this morning. As always the train was packed and the poles are for standing passengers to hold on. There was one girl, kind of cute looking, just hugged the whole pole. So I was standing and trying to balance myself as the train was taking off. I was going to ask her if she could share the pole but I couldn’t bring myself to say, “Excuse me Miss, but this is not a strip bar.”

Jay-Z freestyles over Too Short’s beat dissing DeShawn Stevenson.

His daughter told the police:

She said her father began sexually abusing her at age 11. On August 8, 1984 — weeks before she was reported missing — her father enticed her into the basement, where he drugged her, put her in handcuffs and locked her in a room, she told police. For the next 24 years, she was constantly raped by her father, resulting in the six surviving children, she said, according to the police statement.

At seventy, George Carlin admits—in his latest HBO comedy special, It’s Bad For Ya—that he is an “old fuck.” The advantage of being old is that you are not responsible for anything even when you “shit in your pants.” What I like most about Carlin is that he could blow an issue (religion for instance) out of proportion, yet still manage to make it laugh-out-out logical. He was a catholic until the age of reasoning. His view on child worship is dead-on: “No one cares about your children. That’s why they are your children.” How many times have you met the parents who only talk about their damn kids? My son is in the best college. My son has the highest GPA. My son has too many girls he doesn’t know who to pick. My son is god. At times I just want to say, “honestly, I don’t give a fuck about your fucking son,” but that’s not a nice thing to say. I am glad I am not alone on this topic. Rock on George!

A gorgeously illustrated site for polling application via Twitter.

People have their own ways of dealing with a broken heart. Most folks cry all day and stay up all night; some eat until they’re fed up; and some just go to sleep. Ever since “Tinh Yeu Lung Linh,” Tuan Hung sings like a lovesick puppy that just wants to drift off to bed.

Six albums later, he still sounds super snoring. His new album clocks in at forty minutes, yet he puts you to sleep at fifteen the most. In track one, he lays in bed counting stars and falling asleep; in track two, he gets up asking himself “Tinh La Gi” and then falls back to sleep; and on he goes. He has a strong, raspy voice, but like most of his peers, he is either too lazy to explore new sounds or he is afraid of stepping out of his limited range. On “Tinh La Gi” and “Anh Muon Noi,” the arrangements are so boring that as soon as the traditional instruments, which sound like Chinese TV series, kick off, you just can’t help to yawn.

So if you want to take nap, this album will do the job efficiently. One good thing, though, is that he has not gone down to Dam Vinh Hung’s path—at least not yet.

“What the fucking am I getting myself into?”

Fox News anchors credited Soulja Boy for a political video, in which Jay Smooth rhymed and edited together. These guys are so damn clueless. This is enough clue to let you know that you should never rely on Fox News.

What do I get for the big three oh? A big piece of steak. The ladies took me out to Ray’s the Steak, the place I have wanted to try but haven’t had a chance to, for my birthday. On the weekend, the earliest seat available is at 11pm. Ray’s doesn’t take reservations over the phone so you have to come in and wait. We went in today at 7:15pm and didn’t get the table until 8pm. The joint is small and really noisy, but the steak was not so bad. I ordered the signature: a 28-ounce “cowboy cut” rib eye with bone. The steak was big, raw, juicy, and tender and went well with a glass of pinot noir. Not a bad place for steak if you don’t mind the waiting and the loudness. Thanks to my lady for the treat.