Tuesday, February 16, 2010


Ah, 311. The sound of their bubbly guitars and steel drums transports me to the packed backseat of somebody's car taking hits from a pipe. It was perfect for those hot valley summer nights when everyone had just gotten their driver's license. So you'd blast 311, drive to the beach and pray for the day when you could get a fake i.d. and buy some Champagne.

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