I woke up yesterday and there was a hop in my step. The sunshine in my head more than compensated for the suicide-inducing Ithaca weather as I bopped my way to class in all my carefree, dunce-like glory, headphones blaring. It’s a funny thing how commiseration can turn misery into a fun-filled party of two when the other person’s some little dude from Camden, New Jersey, a punk rocker at heart with a penchant for penning some of the sickest indie-pop rock and a voice that sways like an overzealous choir boy on Prozac.
I remember the other day when Ted was joking around with me, and the other two hundred or so people in the audience. He launched into a mellow ballady guitar riff at someone’s request and after questionably gyrating with his guitar for a few seconds, he stopped and said, “as if