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In This Issue

• Rock Band and Blow: A Love Affair
• Past Parties in My Pants
• The Fed Presents: My Very First Acid Trip
• CAVA, Will You Be My Valentine?
• W. and Dick Wal your Mart
• ‘Roids, Trout, and Other New Laws of 2009
• got meth?
• COLUMBIA UNIVERSITY DANCE MARATHON
• How to Lose a Fuckbuddy
• Famous Valentine's Day Figures
• The February Napoleon Complex
• Quick Cards
• The Year of the Screwed: Chinese New Year Horrorscope
• The Fed Presents: This is Why We're Hot
• The True Change In Which America Believes!
• THE FED has this to say
• Ten Signs Your Valentine's Day Date is Gay
• From the Archives
• They Watch
• The Staff

There were only two times I ever saw someone do coke off a plastic guitar: the first was back in '02 when American Idol sensation/plus-size role-model Frenchie Davis sang an amusing rendition of "Let it Snow" at a motel in Fresno, and the other was when I discovered perhaps the most innovative invention since the hanging chad: that invention was Rock Band.

I had no idea what this craze was at first. I was far too preoccupied in the mesmerizing musical nirvana that I've now come to know as "ALL DA SINGLE LADIES." So, when my friends approached me to be lead vocalist for their mysterious new "Rock Band", I thought I was being Punk'd. I mean, I have the musical taste of a pre-pubescent girl and am, sadly, tone deaf. But apparently Ashton Kutcher wasn't involved and, like the 99 cent Wendy's value menu, this was the real deal. I weighed my options, and the facts were these: One, I had just bought a flannel shirt from American Apparel. Two, my mom had over-nighted me some thick black-rimmed glasses from Wal-Mart. All I had to do was lose my sense of rhythm and dance awkwardly. I was ready to be the next Indie-underground sensation, and Rock Band would help me do it. I was gonna be the next Sea Wolf. Or Wolf Parade. Or Sea Parade.
The moment I began belting "In The Middle" by the critically acclaimed Jimmy Eat World, I was hooked. Fans, groupies, and four talented cast members from the Oxygen Network's BAD GIRLS CLUB lined the jism-encrusted hallways of Carmen to catch a glimpse of our "Rock Band." Our group, complete with Euro-Trash phenomenon Andrea on the drums, Jersey Boy and self-proclaimed Evolutionary Biologist Derek on bass, jock/Croatian Wonderboy Ryan on guitar, and my nasty ass fake-baked self pumping out lead vocals, was aptly named the ECLECTIC PENISIS.

After one month of ceaseless screeching, I had improved at an unfathomable rate; I was playing the classic "Chop-Suey" on Expert level. But as my skills and our fame grew, I became well acquainted with a certain white/powdery friend- no, not the ever-so-smoothing Johnson and Johnson's Baby Powder. Cocaine. With a song in my heart and some snow up my nose, I soon started outshining my band mates in events like autograph signings and photo shoots. "It's not my fault I listen to the great Tyra Banks and ‘smile with my eyes,'" I thought to myself.

Before long, I was alone in my 103 square foot single, "California Dreaming" of some crunk-ass "bitches" and blow. After three days of withdrawl-sweats and Dunk-A-Roos, I took off the blood-stained Metallica t-shirt, lumberjack outerwear, and skinny jeans and donned my old and well-worn "I <3 Taylor Swift" t-shirt. The shirt felt natural. It brought me back to a place I'd like to call home.

Sometimes I still cringe when I hear the familiar stylings of Kansas or Blink-182, but I find a way to persevere. Like Frenchie Davis, I too will surpass the hurt of the music biz by penetrating into a completely new industry: porn. Get ready Jenna Jameson and watch out Ron Jeremy: there's a new kid in town, and I can "rock" your "band" faster than you can say, "suck my X-Box."