California Road Trip: Part 1

A couple weeks ago, Jester and I left Daughter with the grandmas and headed west. We spent two nights in LA and then drove up the Pacific Coast Highway to San Francisco, staying in Cambria (a little more than halfway up) one night, and then in San Francisco for two nights. This is the story of our journey.

I have decided to divide it into a different post for each day, since we packed a lot into our trip, and it would take me forever to write (and you forever to read) a single post about the trip.

I will start off by saying that I highly recommend doing the drive along the coast from LA to San Francisco. It was gorgeous.

We left Chicago on a Sunday morning and arrived in LA around 1pm. After getting our rental car – which was a Jetta (this will have mild relevance later) – we headed to our hotel, which was on the border of West Hollywood and Beverly Hills.
Unbeknownst to us, only a few blocks from our hotel was the epicenter of LA's annual gay pride festival, so it was busy around our hotel. Other than the business, I really liked the location of our hotel. We could walk to bars, restaurants, and stores, and we were about a 10-15 minute walk from the Sunset Strip, which I will discuss in greater detail later.

Upon our arrival, we made a rule: if we were going to eat any fast food, it had to be at a restaurant that we don't have in Chicago. Without hesitation, we immediately went to the In-N-Out Burger in Hollywood on Sunset, which took us about 15 minutes longer than it should have, due to the sheer number of scantily clad men walking and driving around. There, we not only ate some delicious burgers, but we also saw what appeared to be a 17-year-old pull into the drive-thru in a black Lamborghini. You just don't get that kind of braggadocio in Chicago.

From there, we headed to the LaBrea Tar Pits, which Jester was extremely excited about seeing, since she loves ponds with bubbling tar. It was a lot smaller than I thought it was going to be, and, frankly, a bit of a disappointment, aside from the family of mammoths watching their father die.

I carried a crestfallen Jester back to the car, where I placed her in the backseat and gave her a picture book to take her mind off of the Pits.

After a quick trip back to the hotel and a drive around some of the Hollywood Hills, we headed to Pasadena to have dinner with my cousin Matt. We stopped by his house to see him, his wife, and his daughter, who is a couple weeks older than Daughter. As a Midwesterner, I was shocked to find that people in California have in-ground pools.

Matt showed us around old Pasadena, where many Hollywood stars and bigwigs used to live back in the day. It was gorgeous. Then we went to dinner at some place called the Yardhouse, which appeared to be a chain, although that didn't concern me because their beer list was bigger than The Beatles and, by the transitive property, bigger than Jesus.

All three of us had dip sandwiches of one kind or another to complement our beers. After dinner, we dropped Matt off and headed back to the hotel. On our way back, we passed Sobchak Security. Thankfully, I always carry a briefcase full of my undies – the whites – just in case of a situation like this, so I threw the ringer into the parking lot, where Walter no doubt picked it up and rolled out of there with an uzi.

But I digress. I was giddy. The Brothers Weeser* (minus Dan and Tim, oddly) were meeting us at our hotel and then taking Jester and me to The Rainbow – a legendary bar on the Sunset Strip where many a rockers have gotten sloshed over the years after shows.

The Sunset Strip is my Graceland. So many great bands cut their teeth at music clubs on the Sunset Strip. The Whisky A Go Go, the Roxy, Gazzarri's (now the Key Club), as well as other clubs near the Strip, like the Troubadour, Starwood, and Madame Wong's, were the stepping stone into superstardom for The Doors, Van Halen, Guns N' Roses, The Byrds, Motley Crue, Poison, Frank Zappa, Quiet Riot, Ratt, Buffalo Springfield, Alice Cooper, WASP, Chicago, Metallica, Red Hot Chili Peppers, various other hair bands, various punk bands, and countless others. If there was one time period and place I could travel to, it would be about 1982 to 1985 on the Sunset Strip. People were having sex in dumpsters. Of course, I would probably now have a 26-year-old kid, which would be weird.

Here are a couple shots of the Strip taken the next day. The Whisky, me in front of the Whisky, and The Roxy and The Rainbow.

In between The Roxy and The Key Club is The Rainbow. I didn't quite know what to expect, since it was a Sunday night and all. To be honest, The Rainbow reminded me a lot of Nick's English Hut – the greatest college bar in the world. There were dark woods, yellow lights, booths, and benches. It was fairly empty, so we plopped down in one of the many semicircular booths, in which various rockers had undoubtedly been fellated in the mid '80s.

Here's me, looking extremely giddy and fat at The Rainbow, despite the fact that I was not getting a BJ from some dancer at the Body Shop named Jade who also buys me pizza and does my laundry.

My hope was to see a rocker or two, preferably Lemmy Kilmister, who lives in the area and is known to frequent The Rainbow. While I didn't run into Lemmy, I did see a few people who appeared to be aging rockers, although I did not recognize any of them.

And then, in a flash, it all changed. One of the most recognizable faces – and dongs – in the world walked in. The Weez, Jester, and I were having a rather heated conversation about the ability to control our dreams and the dreams of others, when out of nowhere appeared The Hedgehog. That's right, porn legend Ron Jeremy. He was apparently there to hang out with screen veteran Armand Assante, who was sitting at a table about ten feet from us.

The Hedgehog hung out there for a while and slithered around the bar. Sadly, Jester was being a complete pussy and refused to ask The Hedgehog for a picture or a quick shag. The Weez had the pleasure of pissing next to him, which must have been emasculating. "Water's cold. And deep, too."

Eventually, we left, walking through a noticeable waft of weed smoke as we passed what appeared to be a band having a party on the side patio of The Rainbow. Only in California! Needless to say, in the apt words of Angelino Ice Cube, it was a good day.

Coming in Part 2: Rodeo Drive, flying down over Mulholland, and fate.

A Post You Shouldn't Waste Your Time Reading

Too late! Apologies for no Tuesday Top Ten this week. I was busy trying to find a dry cleaner that can get cranberry juice -- uh, cranapple -- stains out of my the sheets I got in Santa Fe. I'm sure you're all mortified that there isn't something worthwhile for you to read at work, and I promise to make it up to you with stories of well-hung mustachioed adult film legends, Marissa Cooper, and harbor seals.

Range Rovers Being Range Rovers

I make no secret of my disdain for people who drive Range Rovers. I find them to generally be self-entitled and obnoxious. Case in point: yesterday, some guys who appeared to be in their mid 20s were moving into an apartment on my block. Rather than block the street, they parked their U-Haul in an alley a few doors down from their new apartment. The U-Haul was not blocking anyone's garage or parking spot. Jester and I were walking the dog and Daughter, and we see a Range Rover drive up to the back of the U-Haul and honk. A short exchange ensued, whereby the fortysomething d-bag driving told two guys carrying a dresser that they were blocking the alley and that he needed to get in. One of the kids said that he wasn't blocking any spots along the alley and said, "We only have a couple more loads." There were only a couple things left in the truck.

Jester and I were making a motion that the driver could go around and enter the alley from the other side, as maybe he didn't know that the U-Haul wasn't a block long. He rolled down his window. I said, "I think you can get in from the other side of the alley." He said, "I need to get in this way because I have to back into my garage." Obviously. So this guy was going to make these kids move the U-Haul so he could enter the alley from what was apparently the only direction from which he could possibly maneuver in reverse into his garage. Douche. I bit my tongue and kept walking, since this jackass is, in theory, one of my neighbors. Granted, he is my only neighbor who often parks his Range Rover in front of a fire hydrant, but still, I decided to be civil (unlike a couple hours later, when I unleashed on some drunk college kid who lives behind me who pushed a bunch of glass candle holders onto my back walkway – it was fun watching him sweep it up while repeatedly saying "I'm so sorry.").

Anyway, I think that story is a great way to kick off a new segment of GMYH that I will call "Range Rovers Being Range Rovers." Range Rovers Being Range Rovers will feature photographs submitted by you, the GMYH readers, of Range Rovers doing exactly what we've come to expect from Range Rovers: parking in front of fire hydrants, blocking driveways, taking up two parking spots, and the like. I kindly ask you to take pictures of Range Rovers doing the assholish things they do, and email them to me at gmyhblog@yahoo.com, and I'll post them for some good old-fashioned public shaming (not that people who drive Range Rovers are capable of feeling shame, or anything else for that matter). And, of course, I will black out any license plates, since people who drive Range Rovers have money to spend and are generally dicknoses, which is the perfect combination for lawsuits.

This concept was partially inspired by the photo below, sent to me by RobD about a month ago, taken at Dearborn and Goethe in Chicago. There is justice.

Listen to Hair Band Friday - 6/25/10

Tuesday Top Ten: Things I Would Do With the Stanley Cup

I would have posted this last week, had I not been in the middle of my once-a-year weeklong slumber in my hyperbaric chamber.

Anyway, one of the coolest championship traditions in pro sports is that every member of the team that wins the Stanley Cup gets to have the Cup for a day. With all of the recent Cup-related activity in Chicago, I thought of what I would do with it.

1. Walk around the entire day extremely confused, since I've never played hockey. (Ice hockey, that is. I was a hell of a floor hockey player in the late '80s and early '90s, and I am positive that my mom still has the trophies to prove it.)
2. Smite my enemies with it.
3. Throw a Cup fucking party.
4. Fly it to the UK and/or Ireland and drink Caffrey's from it.
5. Bathe Daughter in it and take just the most adorable baby bathing in the Stanley Cup picture you've ever seen. Eat it, Messier.
6. Wear is as a giant codpiece (or should I say as a -- wait for it -- cup?).
7. Fly to California, see a doctor, claim that my back hurts, get a prescription for weed, and make the biggest bowl ever. I guess I don't really need the Stanley Cup to do that, but it would be cool to have it around to hold all of the cheeseburgers I would be eating while high.
8. Wear it as a condom and bang that hot, yet disease-ridden, brontosaurus at the Field Museum who's always making eyes with me.
9. Make a short film entitled "Stanley Cup," about a silver, faceless, deaf mute named Stanley Cup who plays pinball really well.
10. All of the above.

How about you? What would you do with the Stanley Cup if you had it for a day?

Ode to Jester

It has been exactly five years and ten days since Jester made the mistake of legally binding herself to me in exchange for a handsome dowry. I don't usually write too much about Jester, unless she happens to get punched by a dumpster or make a baby.

The fifth anniversary is the famed "wooden anniversary," so I built Jester an oak desk, and I'm currently whittling her a life-size statue of Daughter hoisting a life-size Stanley Cup, all out of a giant piece of driftwood I found on a beach in Jamaica on our honeymoon. I also got her one of those little balsa wood planes.

She puts up with a lot, and I appreciate her more than she knows. A shining example of this was the night the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup. A bunch of us went to Rocks to watch the game. Jester and Daughter came for what Jester hoped would be dinner, but then daughter spilled Jester's beer all over Jester's pants. (Note: never put a full pint of beer within a six-month-old's reach.) Daughter then stared getting cranky, probably because she hates Philadelphia, so Jester was nice enough to take Daughter home and leave me to my own devices.

Things got away from me after the Hawks won. I drank beer out of a makeshift Cup, I may have had an old fashioned, and Gregerson and I ended up closing Rocks down. When I got home, I felt the need to sit in the dark and blog. My two-paragraph post from 2:30 that Thursday morning took me at least a half hour to write, as my fingers had apparently doubled in size since the last time I had typed.

Jester came upstairs (our sleeping chambers are in the basement), and was livid, as it was nearly 3 a.m., and I was clearly intoxicated. I did my best to explain that it was a special occasion, and I tried to put it in terms that she would understand. As Jester was an art history major, here's the analogy I came up with: it's like if Monet came to Chicago to visit you.

Even though it's a horrible analogy, I ran with it. I then began to speak like I assume Monet spoke: like a vampire. "Ahh, Jessie, I have come to Chicago to visit you. Please accept this oil on canvas painting as a token of my appreciation for your love of my art." This wasn't really hitting home with Jester, so she went downstairs to bed. I followed, somehow managing not to trip over my own feet.

She crawled back into bed. The demons that reside in my head would not allow me to lie down without spinning me, so I just stood at the foot of the bed for a while. This was extremely creepy, and Jester mildly berated me. I responded the only way I knew how: through Monet. "But dear Jessie, I am one of the greatest painters of all-time. Although neither Picasso nor I are more important in the history of the world than the Beatles, it is still a very big deal for you that I am here." And then I would pretend to be Jessie: "Oh, yeah, thanks Claude. This is kind of like when the Blackhawks won the Stanley Cup and Andrew stayed out until 3." Monet: "Indeed it is, Jester. Your ability to recognize that will not go unnoticed."

This dialogue continued for some time. Jester said that she rolled over so she couldn't hear me, and when she rolled back over ten minutes later, I was still carrying on a conversation between Vampire Monet and Jester. Eventually, I grew bored with it, and realized I needed to wake up in about four hours. The demons put the kibosh on the spins and graciously allowed me to go to sleep.

Despite the fact that I pull shit like this everyone now and then (granted, much less often since Daughter arrived), Jester manages to stick by me. I love you, hon. You truly are the Jester to my Vampire Monet. Here's to at least another five years!

Vacation Time

Just a heads up, so you don't think I've fallen prey to Joran van der Sloot, I'm going on vacation next week, so don't be freaked out when I don't post anything.

Yesterday was my fifth wedding anniversary (love ya, Jester), and I had a fantastic post written, but it is currently sitting on my desktop on my work computer. Thus, you will have to wait until the first day of summer to read what can only be described as a brilliant mess. It has a lot to do with me talking like a vampire.

Also, last night I wrote a song in a dream. It's called "I'm Sorry That I'm Pregnant, But It's True." It should be coming to high school near you sometime in 2011. Who knows, maybe it will be kind of a response to Cervical Implosion's "Should've Used a Hanger, Bitch."

Go USA.

Shit I Hate: Smart Babies

The title is a little deceiving because I don't hate smart babies. In fact, I have no idea if a baby is smart or not, and neither do you. That's the problem: parents who exclaim "my baby is so smart." If your kid can't speak in full sentences, I would venture to say you can't gauge the level his or her intelligence. "But he already grabs onto things, and he recognizes faces." Great. So do monkeys and Dutch people. The simple fact is that we are incapable of measuring how smart our kids are until they start taking tests or playing music by ear when they're two. In fact, one study explicitly revealed that babies are stupid.

I can say that Daughter is, undisputedly, the best baby in the world, but I'll have no idea if she's smart for at least a couple years. Taking a page from Dexter Manley's book (pun intended – not that she would get it), she puts up a front by pretending she knows how to read, but she doesn't. Hell, she's clearly turning the pages from right to left, and the book isn't even written in Arabic.
A couple days ago, I put a laptop in front of her and told her to Google "baby modeling," and she just sat there drooling and then tried to eat her foot. I had even pulled up the Google home page, so all she had to do was type it in. She had no idea how to do it.
And then last week, I went though an extremely detailed and laborious lesson on art movements with her, explaining which artists were a part of which movement. After the lesson, I threw her a softball and asked her which movement Monet was a part of. Her response? "Dada," and then she tinkled in her pants. Dadaism, really? Did I say Marcel fucking Duchamp?!

The bottom line is that babies are babies. Some might develop in different areas more quickly than others. If you claim your baby is smart, all you're doing is setting the kid up for failure. You have absolutely no quantifiable evidence to say that your baby is smart, just like I have no quantifiable evidence to say that your baby is an idiot. Although, let's face it, all babies are idiots. Because they're babies.

Listen to Hair Band Friday - 6/11/10

Midwestern Eavesdropping - 6/10/10

Twentysomething female: "I like my slaw like I like my men. Mayonaisse based."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: The Loose-Lipped Lithuanian

Guy at a bar: "If at any point your work becomes more important than getting laid, you're not a real man."
--Durham, NC
Eavesdropper: Flounder

Early thirties marketing exec: "Well she's not cute but I have news for you, she's also a fire thrower."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: Floppy Burrito

Twentysomething female after making a shot in beer pong: "Have you ever been so awesome you need to have a handshake with yourself?"
--Indianapolis
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Late twenties guy on train: "We are retarded with a sprinkle of douche bag. I mean people like us, so we can't be complete douche bags."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: EC

Twentysomething 4th grade teacher: "Why do I get the shivers every time I swallow?"
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: The Loose-Lipped Lithuanian

Husband, after seeing wide lick spoon after feeding infant: "Did you just take a lick of that?"
Wife: "It's just bananas, pureed. I love baby food."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Twentysomething teacher: "Speaking of raw vaginas, let me tell you about Dave's sister."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: The Loose-Lipped Lithuanian

Guy and girl are shopping at Costco:
Girl: "Oooh, I need baking soda."
Guy: "For the next four years?"
--Chicago, Costco, Clybourn and Damon
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Drunk guy to a woman with two masters degrees: "You wouldn't be able to understand Golden Tee."
--Chicago, Rocks, 1301 W. Schubert
Eavesdropper: The Loose-Lipped Lithuanian

Thirtysomething female to husband: "I can't wait until we have a house with a yard so we can have badminton tournaments."
--Chicago, Sheffield & Lill
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Twentysomething female after two glasses of wine: "Look at that cat. All she cares about is her cat vagina."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: The Loose-Lipped Lithuanian

Same twentysomething female after two glasses of wine: "Wait, you mean mousse? Oh. I thought a Grasshopper Mousse cake was the result of a Grasshopper and a Moose mating. Then I tried to figure out how a Grasshopper and a Moose would mate. Grasshopper refers to the mint in the cake. Now it all makes sense. It's a Grasshopper Mousse cake, not a Grasshopper Moose."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: The Loose-Lipped Lithuanian

Twentysomething female at street festival after returning from bathroom: "I would've eaten out of that port-a-potty."
--Chicago, May Fest, Lincoln & Western
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Twentysomething special ed teacher trying to say "pork chop" in pig Latin: "Ix-nay on the ork-pork-op-chop-ay."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: The Loose-Lipped Lithuanian

Thirtysomething female at The Gap: "The Gap's turned into an ugly lesbian warehouse."
--Chicago, The Gap, North & Sheffield
Eavesdropper: GMYH

Twentysomething 4th grade teacher referring to old school Tootsie Pop commercial with the owl: "I hated those commercials because they weren't in HD."
--Chicago
Eavesdropper: The Loose-Lipped Lithuanian

As we do from time to time, here are a couple photos that are not technically eavesdropping, but worthy of inclusion:

--Dayton, OH, Wal-Mart

Eavesdropper: Holt

--Chicago

Eavesdropper: Tron

Thanks to all who contributed. As always, if you overhear (or take a picture of) something hilarious, email it to gmyhblog@yahoo.com, and it will be included in the next installment of Midwestern Eavesdropping.

It's One for the Dagger and Another One for the One You Believe

"What just happened there?" That's what I said as beer was being sprayed in my eye. As Patrick Kane skated toward Antii Niemi, I thought the puck was being accidentally cleared as a result of a bad shot. But there was that beer in my eye. No one on the ice knew what was going on. And then he dropped his gloves. He's only like 22, so who knows what he's thinking. Then he raised his fists, and everyone in the bar started going fucking crazy. More beer in the eyes. And then everyone in the bar started going crazy.

I had the misfortune of being in Dayton when the Sox won the World Series, and I wasn't 21 yet when the Bulls won their last one, so it was pretty fucking cool when I actually realized that Patrick Kane had just scored a goal that gave the Hawks their first Stanley Cup in 49 years. The place went nuts, as well it should have. Anyway, enough bullshit, here it is (one of the ten greatest songs of the 2000s):

Crashes, Black Sweden, and Polls

There will be no Tuesday Top Ten today because my dog is currently snoring on the couch next to me, so I can't bounce ideas off of her.

Well, my Stones poll revealed little to nothing. Sticky Fingers and Exile on Main St. tied for the title of Best Rolling Stones Album of All-Time, each taking home 36% of the vote. Let It Bleed broke a tie late to edge out Beggars Banquet for 3rd and 4th, respectively, with 18% and 9% of the vote. At least no one was foolish enough to vote for "Other," not that Steel Wheels isn't a masterpiece.

And now for a couple links to some sweet videos, courtesy of the SoCal Connection, as they are now called, even though they don't know each other.

The first is courtesy of Greg Weeser*, who sends this link of a Dallas highway camera that catches a magnificent semi truck crash. I can't explain it better than he did in his email to me, so here you go:

You know the phrase "better to be lucky than good"? This video shows
both...

It's worth freeze-framing the first angle repeatedly right before the accident.... the semi seemingly blazes right alongside the Black SUV at the last moment... the poor driver didn't even have time to react...if he was changing radio stations, he'd have missed the whole event.

The white SUV driver, on the other hand, shows some serious nuts in the way he swerves away from the wreckage avalanche... Porsche should buy the footage for their marketing dept.

As far as whether it's better to be lucky or good.... you'll notice that the Black SUV comes to an immediate stop after surviving the near miss ....most likely in order to remove his soiled Hanes and toss them out the window. Conversely, the White SUV continues on his merry way, probably already on the phone to his wife telling her to put her best blowjob lipstick on....

True.

The next video (or should I say videos?) come courtesy of Tail Pipe, who emailed me today with the subject "is that something you might be interested in?" The "something" is Black Sweden, a Black Sabbath cover band that plays ABBA songs. The answer, TP, is "yes."

Shits and Giggles

Recently Daughter has been constipated. Apparently this happens regularly (pun intended, motherfuckers) when babies start eating real food. Over the last two days, we've been giving her some natural remedies -- black coffee, bean burritos, the jambalaya from Table 52.

Tonight, the three of us were sitting on the couch, watching a How I Met Your Mother episode about the many joys of smoking. Daughter was laughing her ass off, wearing a onesie. Jester picked her up and put her on her lap. The following is a direct quote: "Mabye we'll horse ride this poop out of you." With that, Jester started bouncing Daughter on her knees. They went over one jump, and by the time they landed, this kid who I helped make had filled her diaper, crapped out the side, somehow missed her onesie, and left a healthy smattering of recycled pears and peaches all over her mother's dry-clean-only pants. Now that was some funny shit.

New Book – Too Fat to Fish by Artie Lange

Last week, I finished Open by Andre Agassi, and I thought it was excellent. You might be amazed to learn that Agassi hates tennis (and has seemingly hated tennis his entire life). I was even more amazed at how detailed Agassi's memory was. He recounts matches, points, and opponents throughout his career with surprisingly clarity. If you are at all a fan of tennis, then I think you would like this book a lot. Even if you don't like tennis, the book is pretty interesting.

I have now started reading Too Fat to Fish by Artie Lange, which is a memoir. Frankly, I know very little about Artie Lange, other than the fact that his is fat (apparently too fat to fish) and, as a result (or so I assume), he's tried to commit suicide a few times. So far, it's pretty good.

Books read in 2010:

Eating the Dinosaur by Chuck Klosterman

Devil in the White City by Erik Larson

Happy Hour is for Amateurs by The Philadelphia Lawyer

Dry by Augusten Burroughs

Open by Andre Agassi

Listen to Hair Band Friday - 6/4/10

A Universal Truth

After thirty-two and a half years, I have reached a conclusion: if you are wearing a suit, you should not ride a bicycle.

Stones Albums

Due to my mental instability, I thought it might be a good idea to put the four Stones albums that are the subject of this week's poll up for your listening pleasure. In this primary season, I would hate for you to make more than one uneducated vote.

So, here are all four albums (or as much of them as are on Playlist.com, substituting in live versions where those were all that was available)

Beggars Banquet

Let It Bleed

Sticky Fingers

Exile on Main St.

New Poll: Best Rolling Stones album

I don't have the time or patience to write a Tuesday Top Ten this week.

Last week, the Rolling Stones reissued their 1972 masterpiece Exile on Main St. You can get a remastered version, a deluxe edition, which contains the remastered album and 10 outtakes and previously unreleased tracks, a vinyl remastered version, and a "super deluxe edition," which contains the CD, the bonus tracks, the vinyl version, a DVD documentary, and a 50-page book. Target is also selling a bonus CD, called the "Rarities Edition," containing only the 10 outtakes and previously unreleased tracks (which is on its way to me as we speak).

Exile on Main St. is a good enough album that its reissue was #2 on the Billboard album charts last week. No doubt, it is a fantastic album, but is it the Stones' best? That, I'm not so sure about. Here are what I would consider to be the four candidates for best Stones album (in chronological order):

Beggars Banquet (1968). Highlights include "Sympathy for the Devil," "Street Fighting Man," and "Salt of the Earth"
Let It Bleed (1969). Highlights include "Gimme Shelter," the title track, "Midnight Rambler," and "You Can't Always Get What You Want."
Sticky Fingers (1971). Highlights include "Brown Sugar," "Wild Horses," "Can't You Hear Me Knocking," and "Bitch"
Exile on Main St. (1972). Highlights include "Tumbling Dice," "Happy," "Let It Loose," and "Shine a Light"

It's a tough call. So, what do you think? You have one week to vote on which one of these is the best Stones album of all-time. Or do you think another album is the best? If so, please leave a comment and let me know which other album you think deserves to be on top of the list.