Vegas

Good hostels have a shelf with free food.

No exceptions.

If you’re going to Vegas, I recommend Hostel Cat.  Although I haven’t tried the other hostels, this one has a kitchen and a  shelf with free food so what more do you need?

 As well as a communal courtyard.

 Am I in India or Vegas?

Or New York City??

Or VENICE???

Seriously I can’t believe these poor stupid tourists who pay these guys to paddle them around a swimming pool HAHHAHAHAHAHA.

Also, don’t go to Vegas if your friend (or you) is under 21 and has a fake id.  No dancing for you.  They will take it away.

We went to a Penn and Teller show, Cirque du Soleil, AND…..

50 Shades! (the parody musical) which was freaking HILARIOUS and probably the best thing you can do, and cheaper than the other two shows.  WATCH THIS SHOW.

On  an unrelated note, I’m trying to learn this song:

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If Rap Gets Jealous

Excerpt from K’naans piece in the NY Times, find the whole thing here :  NY Times article by K’naan
“So some songs became far more Top 40 friendly, but infinitely cheaper.
On my second album, I had sung about my mother’s having to leave my cousin behind in Somalia’s war — “How bitter when she had to choose who to take with her…” Now I was left, in “Is Anybody Out There?” — a very American song about the evils of drugs — with only “His name was Adam, when his mom had ’im.
The first felt to me like a soul with a paintbrush; the other a body with no soul at all.
SO I had not made my Marley or my Dylan, or even my K’naan; I had made an album in which a few genuine songs are all but drowned out by the loud siren of ambition. Fatima had become Mary, and Mohamed, Adam.
I now suspect that packaging me as an idolized star to the pop market in America cannot work; while one can dumb down his lyrics, what one cannot do without being found out is hide his historical baggage. His sense of self. His walk. I imagine the 15-year-old girls can understand that. If not intellectually, perhaps spiritually. 
I come with all the baggage of Somalia — of my grandfather’s poetry, of pounding rhythms, of the war, of being an immigrant, of being an artist, of needing to explain a few things. Even in the friendliest of melodies, something in my voice stirs up a well of history — of dark history, of loss’s victory.”