Bad Choice Brigade

by The Fig Mints (of Your Imagination)

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You got a place to go I know you're not alone, but don't stay away long. Nearly immune to gloom Your smile lights up the darkest room, so stick around. So eloquently stated Poetry's overrated, anyway. Your passion's understated Conscious thought's outdated And these heavy days were made to weigh you down. You want what you got. You have just what you hold. Your lips move soft and cautious. The words come out like autumn: Cool comfort after summer's hazy days. So gracefully inconsistent. You'll never be unwanted With all your friends around you. The more you live, the more you learn These heavy loads are easily cast away.
It's warm in December, it's cold in July, I've got mud in my eye Cos you weren't there to warn me Of the oncoming onslaught of awkward exchanges I'm deranged, and I'm changing my perspective to try and see What's beyond me A chance to be free You've got nothing on me And I'm pickled in whiskey and truth serum. And I'll stomp on the brakes, cos they're the only thing that works And I feel like a jerk for being so understanding And I don't understand much 'til the fourth time around That's the real charm, I've found Does it belong on your bracelet? And I'm sitting here drinking and thinking so fast that my brain is like a strobe light moving backwards I was getting my hopes up Then I woke up and figured out just what I already knew And I'm thinking of you almost every damn second And all I can say is when I'm lost, I just keep going straight.
Long live garage sale season, salad days, and evil ways Hats off to unborn concept record breaking lows We keep an awkward conversation just a word away It's taking shape, it's hard to see God bless pretentious contradictory mess and the self-obsessed I hear they make a lot of friends Make way for the underpaid and overworked bad choice brigade Most times the sky looks dark and ominous.
The sun's gonna set tonight Behind the brewery, alright. Living it up, and writing it down Taking my glasses off; baby don't frown Just act your age, but don't get too serious Walking that tightrope can make you delirious Remain sane, and maybe the trip will be worth it. Vampire bats and satanic preteens Are hanging out next to the soda machines Last summer, a bummer, but seasons do change Like all other nouns except minimum wage In the train station with pain medication Alright, alright, we'll stay in tonight But I should say that tomorrow's the day I'll remain sane no longer
You could find a new home away from the endless drone But it's too easy to say that it's too hard to do that. So try to make the best of a bad decision, pick up the pieces Of your broken heart, and think fast. You're right, I'm wrong I'm too far gone It don't take much to lose a lot. It's hard to get much of that wasted time back and keep your self- respect intact. Keep it simple; keep it straight. It's too hard to play it safe.
The friction is all fiction Walk like you talk, but don't trip on your walking shoes You might find your brittle little mind cracking up before its time's up, and you without the glue... Getting over your hormonal hangover Cos you can't stimulate yourself intellectually. Take a number, getting dumber by the second, and your good looks alone won't get you on T.V. And when you get here, try to think clear Do what you want, but don't say what you're gonna do And if you need help, get it somewhere else Look at yourself, but don't let on what you see
It came as quite a surprise To see the girls and guys we used to know Take off their disguises so we'd see Their eyes weren't blue at all. But different color eyes aside, They're still the same old friends we knew And all the things they do Still familiar, it's true But that's not even half of it. They peeled back their brains to show All the things we didn't know But who are we to say They told the truth, anyway? And after all the seasons changed A brand new year, and they're out of range Our voices don't reach that far up And there's no explanation for How they disappeared before our eyes They made it look so easy We move up and down but never out They peeled back their brains to show All the things we didn't know But who are we to say They told the truth, anyway? We're dragging heavy feet down the road With our heavy hearts in tow The world don't get any bigger And don't that just figure?
They say to have your way takes time And lots of trying Get up Get out, stay out, don't pout Our will is stout for now The raised up fur flies fast for some But it won't last for long The way she smiles turns heads for miles And I'll come clean, there are times I wish for more than smiles With pride so easily cast aside The things we take in stride Never end up outside Get outside
Cheer up! Jeez... With wingspan so tiny, you could take your sweet time He won't take your sweet mind off the door. It comes and it goes, but your fingers and toes Cannot find their way across the floor. And they made a likeness of you To show to their offspring, and keep up with offering up services In exchange for a fresh point of view. So if you're upset, you could make a sure bet that it's all due to something I said. But if I'm proven wrong, maybe you'll come along, and we could be good friends once again...
Someone shouted, "Summer's getting old!" They scream from rooftops Like they're in control Morning sunshine I feel like waking up Have a good time Send a postcard home For good cheer I'll always be here Paranoia Slapping hands away Don't mean to bore ya There's gonna be a day For good cheer Like we had last year


Originally released in 2005. More concise and streamlined, but lacking the experimentation of the first two records. Smally’s favorite. The first album that actually got noticed by more than a few.


released July 8, 2005

Bobby wrote and played everything except for when Lucas Humann played a guitar solo and sang on track 3; Jenny Penny played drums on track 6; and The Real Burnouts played percussion on track 7.


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The Fig Mints (of Your Imagination) Utica, New York

The Fig Mints (of Your Imagination) is some guy named Bobby Rogan. When not playing songs written by someone else, he prefers to write his own for what it’s worth, and has recorded nine albums and one EP of (mostly) original material inspired by youthful indiscretion; severe anxiety attacks; heavy drinking; and of course, girls. Sprinkle a little self-loathing in there, and you get what you hear. ... more

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