I understand if you don't want to be friends anymore, and yes, this post has to do with the band ABBA.

Contrary to the super cool persona this blog resonates (stop rolling your eyes!), I'm not as cool as the cat's pajamas, which should be evident by the fact that I just used the phrase "the cat's pajamas." Well, here's another reason to think I'm not awesome. It's almost 10 p.m. on a Saturday night here in Sydney, and I'm at home waching a documentary on ABBA visiting Australia sometime in the 1970s. And to make things worse, I've just realized that I'm a fan of the song "S.O.S." Don't believe me? Well, I've found a video of the song and have posted it below (and I've already watched it five times). I understand if you can't be friends with me. This might be too much for some of you to handle.

Is this a bad time for me to go on about how much I like IKEA as well? I used to think that IKEA was run by a bunch of communists because let's get serious folks - who sells furniture called Leksvik, Kviby, and/or Malm? I'll tell you who - the Commies. But, after realizing that IKEA has one of the most delicious cafeterias in the entire world (try the carrot cake!), I decided that the Reds couldn't be behind this greatness (I'm referencing the carrot cake).

For me, Heaven is a Saturday afternoon at IKEA with ABBA blaring over their store loud speaker.

Michael Buble is about two steps away from becoming my archnemesis.

Two of my roommates are going to see Michael Buble in concert in a few weeks, and I realized only this evening that I can't say his last name without laughing. Immature? Well, of course. Completely appropriate? Sort of.

This guy is the hottest ticket in town for the over sixty crowd (with the exception of my two roommates). And before I go on any further, I want to say right now that I have seen my roommates' iPods and I know that they have pretty good music taste - except for the Buble. I can't get behind this guys. I'm sorry.

So exactly who is the Buble? In short, the Buble rips off Frank Sinatra. The Buble appears in Starbucks commercials. The Buble is adored by millions of grandmas the world over. The Buble has the worst last name ever imagined. If the Buble was from Florida, he would be my archnemesis. Your Canadian birth saved you my friend. Otherwise, you would have been on the list, right behind General Electric.

And as I wrap up this post, I would like to end with a message to the Buble himself: I'm watching you Buble. You might be buttering up the grandparents of the world, but I've got my eyes on you. When the geriatrics rise up and attempt to take over with their slow walking, canes and prescription medicines, I'll still have my eyes on you. Nobody tries to sell me Starbucks via the television without raising my suspicions. NOBODY!

Truf: The international music section in every record shop smells like farts AND why I love strangers who openly admit to me that they farted

It is a universal truth that every international music section in every music store you have ever visited in the entire world smells like farts. Don't ask me why, but it's true. I visited Barnes & Noble today trying to find a copy of a very old school 1980s movie on DVD and decided to swing through the music section. This truth was very evident, might I say.

Also, this morning on the L train into work, a man openly admitted to me and the crowd around the two of us that he had farted. I'm pretty certain everyone noticed the smell, but honestly - who would say anything? But apparently this man does not live by this rule. Very plainly, he said "That was me. Sorry, my wife made chili last night." Everyone kind of giggled, except for me. I shook the man's hand and introduced myself. I just met my new hero. And his name is Garry Cartledge of Brooklyn, New York.