Oh man. What are you doing August 11th? We should go to Pasadena for the Drum Corps Championships. I'm listening to my new favorite record, a thrift score of a lifetime, the highlights album of the 1977 Drums Corps Int'l Championships, signed by the entire winning corps, the Blue Devils. It also features the LaCrosse Blue Stars doing what the liner notes call a "Jewish trilogy" which ends with a version of "Hava Nagila" that is practically drill n' bass.
Meanwhile, the Rockford drum and Bugle corps is called PHANTOM REGIMENT, which sounds like they are a ninth grade death metal band.Here's them in 1974. Horn intensity! PS. Marching Band Fest is the only fall fest that truly matters to me.
End of the month hot trash cruise. Apparently, someone no longer needed their mug collection where they are going. Maybe where they are moving to a camp ground next to a stream and only will need a canteen to dip in the water.
Peace out baby potty and cow rocker.
Found note. I think the smiting of pigeons is a long standing issue, maybe this person just got hip to the idea. In their mind, it's the dawning of the bird hate age. Though I think smiting is something you only read about in the bible.
This trash was a jenga of brokeny chairs.
Half of a home exerciser (the rowing kind), water filter jug, mattress.
Silkscreens for 7"s, janky livingroom dressings.
Chris in his conference room with his employee badge:
Miles in his home office, modeling his new shorts.
I went home to surprise my mama for her birthday. She wasn't home when I arrived. She didn't blv me when I called her and told her I was at the house. I read her the To Do list on the counter and then she blvd me.
Since my sister and I moved out, we've been replaced by a menagerie of small animals.
I also rode out to Coon Rapids to participate in pre-bar-exam ritual. It was just like eleventh grade again: stop at SA for Diet Dr. Pepper and smokes, traffic and maje shit talking, weird conversation with Britt's parents, and a creamy dinner at a strip mall restaurant that has TVs and a smoking section.
Back home too soon and guess whose riding shotgun? It's Morgo! Or as I am now calling her "Chico and Alphonse".
Walked past the old house, which is next door to the old-old house. The yards look just like when we lived there, except the house is missing and there are not busted-ass bikes locked to the fence and mail strewn in the bushes. JR and I looked around for some remnants of what was, but all we found was chips of bathroom tiles and empty Polaroid boxes. Back when we had those yards, we partied. Oh, cold blooded old times--ennui and misery, big plans and vegan BBQs. Al hosted his exes wedding reception there, to the right, and the bride yanked down her white jumpsuit and peed in my garden. Maybe you read about it in the last Burn Collector. Well, however you imagined it, this is what it really was. Trashed jungle.
Yardless and wistful, we are forced out to the park for Matt's going-away picnic. He ran 18 miles this morning and still found time to pick up the drinks. Tomorrow, he heads to St. Louis and when he comes back in a few years, he'll be a lawyer. But let's not talk about that part.
Who has time for sad feelings when my tight bro, Baby Max, is the picnic centerpiece? He can smile now.
The only time I see JR with this beatific look on his face at Chava's Tacos or when we're hanging with Max.
Morgan brought cucumber sammies. I made a white beet and yellow carrot salad that looked like shaved puke.
Doug and Kiki came too.
Al modeling his shirt. We were worried when he rolled up on his bike, it looked like it read "Destroy Babys", but he's not that punk.
I'm really no longer in the business of being upset by what Pitchfork does and doesn't do--but-- there's some emails flyin' fast an furious on back channels discussing the flip self-sexism of Jessica Suarez's Tegan and Sara review. "Tegan and Sara should no longer be mistaken for tampon rock, a comparison only fair because of the company they kept." (The company they keep? Vaginas? Cos their lesbians? is it a joke and ps. who is tampon rocking? Is that post-Lilith fair? Or just music by people who get their periods? ?!?!?!?!?) If anyone has something interesting to say about it, email me, I'll post it, or link to it. OPEN DIALOGUE, kiddos.
News and notes, news and notes, kitten:
Moped story is out. It wound up being more procedural than I wanted, but c'est la guerre. That's why it's called Chicago Reader and not Jessica Hopper's First Drafts n' Funstuff newsletter, right?
Two, Times New Viking is at Ronny's tonight. No-fi Ohio rock comeback.
Ahundredly, Joan As Police Woman is at Schubas on Sunday. That song "Eternal Flame" on her new album is so wonderful, Joan as white-witch Sade, Joseph Arthur doing fake-Tunde basso backups, laying it plain with know-thyself romantic wisdom. Her record is like Return to Cookie Mountain for your mom.
I've written about it a half dozen times now-- how Andrew Semans gave me some punk tapes in 9th grade and ouila. It's a well-worn story, I should probably move on to other ones that reflect on our experience as 9th grade punx. Like the last time I ever did acid, at his mom's house, and some skate-douche held a gun on me and my friend and demanded we shut the fuck up and watch Def Comedy Jam and chill out because our bad trips could potential infect everyone else's trips and turn them bad as well. Oh, to be 15 again! Well, Andrew is now a filmmaker in NY and his 2nd film is on the fest circuit, including a stop in Chi in 2 weeks. The trailer for it is up on Myspace and it looks awesome. We should all go.
Would you like an impossible punk rock weird-dream surprise? If you are in NY this weekend, here's the instructions: Go to Thompkins Park Sq. at about 5 p.m. this Sunday and wait. It's a free show. You can't miss it. You will be bragging about it Monday. Sorry to be cryptic, but all you need to know, I've told you, and to tell more would ruin the surprise, now wouldn't it?
Did you read? Etta James is in the hospital. I hope she gets out soon; I am into her being alive and healthy. Maybe you didn't know she is still singing. She is. If you have 99¢ laying around, go to the iTunes store and download her version of "Purple Rain" from the record she did last year. The music is unadulterated studio twaddle, but Etta, hardly diminished at 69, growls "I never wanted to be your weekend lov-uh" like she means it. Then, go and listen to "I'd Rather Go Blind" (Tell Mama, Chess, 1968) until you cry --though, usually "Most of all I just don't / I just don't wanna be free...naw"--gets me the first time through.
We're a franchise now, boo. Strangely enough, I have found, as every print place I write for regularly has been sold and re-fangled in the last 18 months, that by virtue of being freelance, I have job security. I cost a third of what regular, insured employees cost. None the less, it's a little scary. I laid in my sisters bed last night assessing what other skills I have that are marketable and legal ("I can type fast, babysit, make change bowls and boss people around. Hmmmm."). Wondering if I will have to get a leave the house job, wondering if the only music writing jobs that will exist in a year are Pitchfork and writing band bios for $200 a pop. I'm figuring I'll pack up for Marfa and start either a modernist hay-bale maze that costs $30 to experience, or start the Marfa Art News Weekly, which is bi weekly and a one page silk screened thing with a $14 cover price. It'll be my manifestos, a scene report and Mike Taylor will do comix. Surely, that will be enough to make rent on an adobe yurt. Monkee and Wyatt will hunt food for us all. It will all work out fine.
I'm home visiting my mom and have come into full awareness of something I have been reluctant to admit for some time: O, the Oprah magazine, is the only magazine that doesn't make me feel like Quasimodo when I get done reading it. (When was the last time you read any magazine that didn't make you feel like you had to rush (RUSH!) and get new conditioner, consider botox, feel manic about needing to buy some shoes/have a baby/husband/co-op modernist condo or or or having your whole face lasered clean off. And then theres the questionnaires about how what kind of underwear you buy determines your likely-hood of dying alone, in case you were not already in need of a palm full of Xanax.) I have foregone my naptime for Oprah-mag study these last two days and this I know for sure: It's pure PMA. It's feminist, it's almost entirely first person essays and it's heavy on being real about the same dualities and weirdness re: being a lady in a patriarchy. Which essentially qualifies it as a riot girl fanzine. Also, it doesn't shame you for not being rich or cosmopolitan or being disorganized or having cellulite. It acknowledges people being poor, women getting raped and the radical notion being married with children may not fulfill your every need. By virtue of of not being glossy soul-crush, O is right up there on my list behind New Yorker and Cooks Illustrated as the only magazine that doesn't make me wish a wolverine would sneak up an eat my brain right out of my skull.
I wish that somehow The New Yorker, or a heretofore unconcieved magazine very similar to The New Yorker would merge with O, and then it could be the women's super-magazine, and then when I go to HMS or wherever you buy magazines in the airport, and the "women's interest" section is all pro-bulimia fash mags and stuff about decorating, shopping, and preparing meals for other people and the "men's interest" section is magazines about politics, current events, money, tits, fishing and MUSIC MAGAZINES I SOMETIMES WRITE FOR, I don't feel like I want to kill myself via throwing myself hard at the Cubs commemorative keychain rack.
I know I mention this same exact thing every time I go on the airplane or the chain book store, but it's so depressing. As someone who writes for magazines. Or as someone who reads in English. I know caring about how the magazines are sold to us is some real high class problems with a war on and girl babies being buried alive in fields in India because people think girls are useless.
I'm just saying.
So. Someone make me the music editor at O magazine, you need at least a page of CD reviews. I'm into Anita Baker and D. Boon, and music is a women's interest, I swear with my whole life it is.
First dinner party of the summer. Three courses and everything came out perfect. Nora and Al are great guests to any occasion, they have a lot of opinions on wide ranging issues. Nora told us about the growing incidence of deaths by "ghostriding the whip"-- she says that reportedly, five people in Miami died in 2006 from being run over by their own whips.
Nora speculated that there is a secret hipster gang, a secret fellowship-allegiance across scene lines involving Rainbo Club regulars--"Maniac Satan Latin Rainbow Disciple Anorexics." Everyone else is in it, but we don't want any part of it.
We got our own gang, now, where we are into safety and all kindsa next level nutritious shit: Clean Cob Club.
LA's pride n' joy, Abe Vigoda, rocking the east side basement scene. It was packed to the gills with 22 people and a dog. Once kids started party dancing, the place smelled like eau de jockstrap, but nothing phased us/them. JR and I were trying to figure out their antecedents. I said "dub" and he said "New Zealand. Like a really good Xpressway band." We both said: "WOW." Inspiring, kid energy and talent to boot.
The best news, though: they are doing a second Chicago show, tomorrow, Friday night at People Projects Gallery (2123 N. Milwaukee). I think they are on first. It's a benefit for Ladyfest. Come early, bring your friends, bring money to get a shirt. It's all around winning prop, and plus, do you wanna spend yr Friday night drinking Molson Lite from a sippy cup and watching the copy of Fletch Lives that finally arrived via Netflix? It's summer, get out of the house. Like Kim G. once said: Party with me punker!
Hey, all eleven of you in LA that read this blog! SUP! An art show is happening day after tomorrow, including two FOTB (friends of this blog): Joan Hiller and Derek Erdman. Both are a wiz with nature originals, Joan's birthday deer is on my living room wall, Erdman's painting her gave me--of a squirrel, which he did on a picnic table cloth is not posted up yet, but it's cos I have to get nails. Both make artwork that is totally affordable, for those who are into "collecting" but are on the dole etc. Beth, I do not know her art, but strangely enough, she is a childhood friend of Matts and he's vouched for her talent. GO! When can you not use some art-viewing?
PS. Abe Vigoda plays at Plaines Project in a couple hours. Don't fall asleep and forget. Enliven your raisin of a social life; tonight!
Los Angeles, the highlight reel/real:
Dave and Aaron came and got me from the museum. I told them about how the feminist art exhibit was the most pornography I had ever seen. By like 60 times over. We talked about in what contexts the word "slut" is ok to use, and then they took me to the mall to see a depressing movie about gangs in Haiti.
Ingrid showed me her painting studio. It was cleanest art space I had ever been in. I like Ingrid so much after hanging out with her, I went to go see the movie she was ardent I see, La vie en rose. I really like Ingrid and hope she comes to visit, but there are Three Stooges movies that are less hammy. That lady who plays Edith Piaf--dude, it was like watching Marcel Marceau in drag reenacting a season of Golden Girls. I was hoping that the movie ended with her being attacked by a wolverine. Spoiler: It doesn't happen.
After the museum/zinefair adventure, we went to eat at a resturant which seated us in their TBA construction room that would have been pitch black eating if Cali had not gone to the gift shop for some scented candles.
Guess who was at the zinefair: Becca and Ashland. Chicago is not the same without them. Ashland is the best dressed person I know. Remember three summers ago where all he was wearing was a black karate outfit, that sparkley purse, dollar flip flops and a cornrow mohawk? Impeccable.
Math and his dog! Last time me and Math hung major, I was in his movie, wearing a powersuit and he was wearing a nude leotard with a supersized stuffed labia sewn to the outside of the crotch. Chicago: super not the same without him.
My hosts, the pretend boyfriends. As I took this picture, Arlie was making fun of me "Ooh, is the feminist all upset?!". You guys think yr so funny in yr matching outfits, but yr not.
I walked in and he was just sitting there like this.
Kevin asked me to title this "Two rock critics and unidentified black man." His allegiance is to bikes, rather than any of this biz.
This year, Pitchfork had both a "VIP-ZONE" backstage and Vips were given burritos. Maybe they learned their lesson from last year, when it all they had was beer and a couple dozen bananas. Miles ate 100 burritos. I watched and counted.
Eyes up here, buddy. Agnew was there, of course, via some corpo-purloined shim sham. Last time he was here for a fest, we played the best worst trick on his Philly friends. Called them from his cell asking if they'd heard from him, because the last we heard, the Tortoise dudes had dropped him off, shoeless, at 4 am at Manhole, per his request, and that he was out of his mind on Kalpax, and had never come home. "Can he normally handle beer and Kalpax?" I asked. They didn't know what Kalpax was. Neither did I, but it sounded like it could of been a cow tranc, so we ran with it. Oh, the mean old days.
Master and the mealticket.
Married men. Impressarios.
Arief and Prince Valiants brother, Phillip.
Ryan Schrieber, myth, man, legend. The man who is turning indie rock into a multi-million dollar op with his Pitchfork webmachine.
All I could see of Sonic Youth was Thurston's waggling lid and the PA rigging. I need to grow if I am ever going to see a big concert again. Or BYO Ladder.
Morgo and I went out to try and find funnel cakes. She was shooting for a magazine and the pics of Kim Gordons hair that she snapped were sensual, possibly classic.
JR texted us to meet him over by the portapotties. Family reunion in the dark.
Miles was still eating. JR had been selling ice cream all day. JR, is, to my estimation, one of the top 4 best, most spirited music writers working in the English language. Matt and I talk about how one day we'd like to have enough money that we can just pay JR to sit around and write. Books, fanzines, essays, whatever. Reading would be a better place.
Under the park lights and the jumbotron neon drunk kids careened towards one another, texting, crossing their Bambi-legs in line for the baking hot potties.
This kid was the best thing of the whole night. The picture hardly illustrates, but he was dressed in what could pass for a newsboy costume. He was maybe 17. He came up to me "Excuse me, excuse me, what are you doing here? You a journalist? You a performer? Did ya enjoy the show" as he pulls out a pen and a memo pad, licks the pen tip and starts scribbling. He was wearing a little hat and was dressed up and had what appeared to be credentials folded over his shirt pocket. Upon inspection, I noticed it was his wallet flipped inside out and the credential was actually his library card from the Oswego library. Just then, his friend, with a giant camera, same get up walks up to him and snaps our pic and says "Hey guy, didn't I met you at that, uh, spot?" --trying to bolster each others story. I was in awe and so excited by their stunt or performance or experiment. They had no laminates, no bracelets, no tickets, they straight up snuck in. As I was talking to the reporter kid, he was theatrically scribbling in his note book some fake notes. Repeating after me he said "RZA" and theatrically wrote it in cursive, then turned the page. He was awesome. He asked for some pointers for his burgeoning journo career. I wrote them down. They were "1. get paid 2. sneak in to concerts 3. don't lie". I hope that helps-- though I think he has no clue how on the money he already is.
Screaming Females at Ronnys last night. We arrived and they were lounging outside, the bar owner would not let them into their own show. They are 19.
Watching Marissa shred and defy a cover of N. Young's "Cortez The Killer" you think, in a few years I am going to be bragging I saw her play to 10 people once in a skeezy bar while the sound guy played tetris on his phone. She wore a velour dress with a leopard collar (also velour) and is a ringer for Laura Ballance from Superchunk. There was a hole in the knee of her black tights and she was all of rock history rolled into a lion of a girl. Bobby's friend said after "I have been going to shows for 20 years and I have never seen a girl play like that. She's like a four foot high, teenage-girl Johnny Thunders." I beg to differ, but I agree on sentiment/general principle. Johnny Thunders ain't my saint, Chrissy Hynde and Huggybear are--and she's got aspects of both.
First she gives you goosebumps, then she'll give you blisters. The girl messiah. She's here. Minneapolis kids, they are there tonight. Anything else you were going to go see is gonna feel like Steve Winwood's greatest shit in comparison. Get correct.
Are you in for Screaming Females tonight (TUESDAY) at Ronny's? They are a couple weeks in to a tour that appears to go straight through September, so my guess is they will be honed and invincible. I am rolling straight up to Ronny's from O'Hare, all jetlagged and InTouched out, and I will be in the front row, waiting to high five you. If you are not in the Chi and even if you live in a backwater trench anywhere in the USA, they are coming your way, and you should be pumped cos it might be like this:
Aside from her unabashed shredding, her Chrissy Hynde bangs, her voice and songwriting ability, my favorite other thing is that her outfit. It's half Prince's entourage circa 85, half Eastern Bloc nana going out to the field. Arlie used another Prince analogy to describe her playing: "She's channeling Prince solos, but she sounds like her band should be the middle band on a Meat Puppets / DC3 bill." If you have 10 minutes watch the whole video, if you only have three minutes and you want to feel excited and inspired, try this one:
The other great thing about this video is the girl at the beginning talking about drinking in a dorm room with someone who goes by the name of "Douchie". Drinking a case in the dorm with Douchie sounds like it would provide you with stories for a lifetime. Watching this video makes me think that Screaming Females new record is like the femme answer back/besting of You're Living All Over Me. I'm going to their show with $50 and buying every single merch they have. I really think, between them and the Abe Vigoda show on the 19th, it'll be an explosive week. Punk will stake our hearts with the young idea.
PS> I looked at Screaming Females itin. and they still don't have a show in LA, Oakland, they need some post-Mnpls, post-Denver, a little Pac NW, Carolinas-ish, a Florida show or two and some other major cities. Someone should be helping them out here--where do you live? Do you need a band to play your birthday party? Instore at yr lotion shop? As Aaliyah once asked: Are you that somebody? Scene unity folks, lets help them out.
Hey. I told you so. I told you so yesterday. I can't post my photos til I get home. But when I do, it'll be so epic that you'll need some Preparation H because you will have been sitting so long. Truly.
It's nearly too quiet to sleep. Cali's house is perched out of a hill and feels like a bird house. I keep thinking the rustle is the coyote run out of Griffith Park by fire, but it's only squirrels nesting in the eucalyptus. No 66 bus announcing it's destination, no fireworks in the school yard, no domestic scenes played out over the sub-bass roar of commercial radio hits. When I tried to nap yesterday, I kept anticipating coyote presence and waking up. I was in the house alone, with only my paranoid Natty Gan fantasies for comfort.
Thoughts on Sonic Youth's Pitchfork appearance: VIP is the place to go to get up close views of PA rigging and not have to be with unpaid fans and plebes. You get to be with the scenesters, the hacks and the half famous as they text, as opposed to the screamers taking phone vids and slurping big gulps of draft. We went out to the crowd to stand by the portapotties with JR who had been hawking ice creams all day. Kim and Thurston were on the jumbotron screens, their images casting neon LED over the field; come The Trilogy, I didn't feel anything at all. O, Bookmark of youth, o jumbotron object, o teenage twilight revivified! The sentiment was stripped by the glare. How do you ride if ancient ain't your look? I love it when Kim groans hard from the guts, like in "Kissibility" when it sounds like Fuck You's national anthem, but whats the point of the perfect replication of. It turns Daydream Nation from record into a play. Or a commercial. Maybe concerts and plays are the same thing and I missed that concept/-memo. I'm not mad, I just want more, differently. Who stole the soul and what was their impetus?
Also, in the LA world, everyone rolls together, everyone is friends, everyone knows everyone and is cool with everyone and they don't hang out in bars. Dave Stone smiles when he talks about Abe Vigoda, like they are his new girl, not a band of post-teens from Chino. I felt like an alien, but I think I was just tired and spent from a day that began with me fishing my phone out of the toilet at Bob Hope International. My germaphobic nightmare--fecal matter finding safe haven in my earpeice. FUGH.
Last night, somewhere around the 20 hours awake mark I turned to a shuffling baby. On the route home, our party met cute with another pack of friendlies in the parking structure at the Hammer museum. It became a hang out and I was ablubber, sitting on the ground debating whether to go ni-ni in a handicapped spot. It was a flashback to being on tour in Japan, when I was sleep sick and everyone was eating fishballs and partying and loving Tokyo with enthusiasm and I spent most night passed out in a fetal curl atop the bass cabinet in the back of the mini-wan. Sometimes, I am a weary traveler; I'm a small person with a sensitive constitution, I don't have reserves to run on. Dave Stone came over and kept me company and we talked about what we have been talking about since our first conversation on Pico Blvd 12 years ago: astrology and romance. He said "Isn't it nice we can talk like this?" and I agreed.
Are you pumped for Pitchfork? You got yr special Pitchfork outfit laid out on the bed for tonight? Are you wondering what you might say to Catpower if you get stuck behind her in line at craft services? If you are worried about what to eat, I would suggest sticking with those fried doughy things that are covered in powdered sugar. Low risk of food poisoning when yr just rolling with dough and grease and sugar, plus it will make you FEEL CRAZY, all that sugar, which might be the only way you can get through a full 35 minute Steve Malkamus set. Also, the Mexican sandwich shop across the street has the best agua fresca in the city and lots of non-meat items. Go mow some of that down before crossing through those gates, cos it's a long day of vendor food, and you don't wanna wind up barfing while you are moshing during The Clipse.
Me, I am going for tonight, but I voted my conscious; I am going to LA to see the feminist art show in lieu of racking a shingle at the Chromeo afterparty. As much as I'd love to stand around in the heat and gossip with you about who hooked up with who in what porta-potty, I'm leaving. If you need me, I'll be at Zuma Beach.
What I meant to tell you, this whole dang time I meant to, was about some shows. In case you, like me, prefer to be able to see bands from a few feet away and not with 19,000 other casual cocaine rap enthusiasts et. al.:
1. Screaming Females at Ronny's July 17th. Link via Becky and Andy, my top two penpals of the oughts, to be sure-- Screaming Females might be the best band we see all summer and they also need some shows filled in, including in LA. Someone hook them up!
Good morning everyone! We're almost half way through summer. Perhaps not technically season-calendarly wise, but it's July's middle. Do not be depressed. Just go outside and dig in. Also, Matt told me that there is a baby eisbar at Brookfield zoo. Perhaps not as cute as the famous Knut the baby polar bear at the Berlin zoo, but defs worth a trip out to that janky zoo. I'm going.
Liz and I went down to WBEZ the other day to tape something for the radio. I'll leave it as a surprise, but I will give you a hint -- we weren't guest hosting Sound Opinions. Though that is a really good idea. She could play her sax and I could hold forth on "Last Train To Clarksville" and JR could do sports and weather on the eights.
Morgo came over and drank all my juice. We went on a walk, checked some good dumpsters, looked for wood for our signs and plotted out the video we're going to make for our own version of T-Pain's "Buy You A Drank". It is set over on that empty lot where the practice spaces burned down, and involves a full dress butler and Matt playing a guitar solo on fire escape. I only half know the words to "Buy You A Drank", despite that being alive near an open window in Chicago means you hear it on the hour. My version is more like a Cliff Notes, it goes: "I'm T- Pain / I'm a famous singer / and you're gonna sleep with me / I'm super rich / lets get drunk / put your legs behind your head / now go "ooh ooh oooh". Thats the whole song right there. Morgo will do the Yung Joc part.
Also, Morgan and I have been talking about this idea as a potential sign for the LTLYM assignment of "informational plaque"-- a little sign with suggestions/ideas about how to compliment a woman you don't know on how she looks without being a total douche. We're all brainstorming, please email your ideas.
1. Miles and I are disagreeing. He thinks "I'm a J" is the worstest worst song ever of a suicidal badness, and I think it's phenomal bad goodness, of an awfulness that borders on genius. Download/play it here.
2. Peter Tork of the Monkees is from Washington, DC. I feel like everything makes sense now. Like everything that happened after Dis Plan's Terrified album is the latent influence of Tork.
3. I doubt this band is named after me, but lets pretend they are. They are like the femmier Pretty Girls Make Graves, but Parisian. I'm down.
Before we talk about Nora's cool underwear-outerwear outfit, can we just talk about The Monkees? The sublimnity contained within More Of The Monkees? Have you ever noticed that "Stepping Stone" is so much more palpably bitter and forceful when it's coming out of Mickey Dolenz' mouth than Ian MacKayes? You'd think by virtue of them being a hardcore band, Minor Threat's cover would be more intense than The Monkees' original, but you get the sense from Dolenz' delivery that he really thinks she's vile and he's seething that at some point he fell for her charms because the words just curdle in his mouth. Minor Threat, blessedly, only had one setting on the dial and that's teenboy rage--they sounded like had a fucking problem with everything and this girl is just one of many offenders; emotionally, it's rather undynamic, even in their fierce paws.
So--Nora's raison d'outfit is that dudes are gonna honk and whistle and ask to be her bike seat no matter what she's wearing, so she might as well be comfortable, and she is most comfortable in her underwears and a pair of shredded control top cut offs. Womens lib is poppin'!
Morgo came over last night so we could brainstorm and start work on a project.
One of our ideas was a diagram of exercises you can do with a friend. Or the proper way to do sit ups without hurting yrself. We did those ones where you hold your feets in the air and yr friend has to push them to the floor. Morgan is really good at this. Apparently, her and her roommate would do it all the time when she was living in Morocco, because she couldn't go out at night in the medina, because then otherwise her neighbors would of thought she was prosty. Other things that would cause your neighbors to think you were whorin': wear short sleeves and smoke cigarettes. So you just stay inside and exercise, cook elaborate meals, smoke and wear short sleeves with your girlfriends. Which isn't a bad plan if you think about it.
So, thats what we did. We ate 24 crepes in a matter of minutes. We ate the raspberries even though there was a full size beetle living in them, and part of another or that may have just been the pupa it hatched from. "Eat The Beetles!" I said, but Matt moved them to a new home in the toilet bowl, refusing my perdurable desire to turn every meal into a series of gross dares.
You know how some nights you leave the house wanting to milk summer for what it's worth but all you get is a good glimpse at the rotten soul of the universe as it exists in and outside of yuppie jizz discos?
So out of desperation, you and your friends go the bar you hate trying to make good on yr efforts, and the vibe is like an episode of Cheaters and everyone is acting like the James Spader character in an 80's teen drama and you sit there sucking down yr ice water and thinking "I put on shoes for this?!"
You walk home with your best friend, each carrying an end of yr bent up bike, trying to remember the chronology of the Husker Du discography and it's all the lame-fun you need right there. Aging loners waxing nerdy in the night light.
Logans blog, via Becky. Off to a great start, Logan.
PS. Is it okay that I liked Transformers? Sure, it was 1/3rd recruitment film, 1/3 GMC showroom porno and 1/3rd hokey, patriotic, xenophobic fighting robots film with strange "friends share" implied three-way between a boy, his car and the vagina of the girl with the black hair whom I am not sure had a name. And I could probably fart better dialogue in my sleep, but the robot fights were THE BEST! That lone Decepticon space plane is gonna come back so we can have Transformers II: Built Ford Tough in America Where All Good Men Young And Old Defend the Land with Guns for The Right To Access The Vaginas of Teen Girls And How! and I am gonna go just for the robot fights then too. And the sound effects, also. Also, was it kind of intense that much of the dialogue is the robot man friends talking about their feelings of emotion? Optimus Prime is straight up Robert Bly style nu-macho. I think I need to see it a couple more times. Oh, Transformers!
PPS. On a scale of asian-specific racism in contemporary summer block busters Transformers rates below both the trailer for the Jackie Chan/Chris Tucker movie and Die Mega-Hard pt. 99, a movie whose "ooh, face!" moments mostly had to do with Bruce Willis insulting the high kicking asian lady by using her being asian as a perjorative and calling her a dead bitch.
I wrote about some singles out now . FYI, if you wanna read it.
DIY cat burrito.
Ben is back from London. We planned to meet at the Videohippos show, but doors had been open for three hours and no one had played and it was another three and a half hours 'til their set time=I only got one life to live, so I bailed for a BBQ, and ouila, Ben was there, talking about the 9353 re-union shows.
And a surprise! Joey Jo-Jo Jr. Shabadoo in from the coast for a weekend. He said almost the same thing that Tomas said when Tomas visited on July 4th six years ago and the fireworks were going off pow-pow-pow entire cartons of black cats for an hour, and mega booms where yr first instinct is to duck--"It's like Sadr City after dark." Sadr City, but with surplus not-dogs.
Brenmar showed up wearing a long tinsel ribbon. Young folks really know how to be festive.
Ben's new tittoo bearing a reminder of the ephemeral nature of life:"Running Towards Death". It's grim, but it's the truth, que no?
And guess who was next door? My long lost sister, Telo. Who can peek over a six foot fence flat-footed. She invited me to her birthday party on Sunday and I said "So, the day after tomorrow?" and then Miles gave me a look like I'd just shit the bed and informed me today was Wednesday. Whatever, dude, I'm freelance.
We went to another BBQ where there were a lot of good looking young people I didn't know, and a lot of folks from around the scene and sitting there I decided I only really like being around people when I know their last names, not their band names.
Back home, it was pure pow as far as you could see.
From the roof, you could see the fireworks-smoke haze covering the city.
This is the fireworks-kind I prefer. Silent and sparkley. At 10, the neighbors set off a black cats carton-explosion chain that continued until 11:30, with intermittent sparkle-ones and what may have been dynamite flung into the air.
I made Matt put his hand over his heart and sing the American theme songs with me. The parts of the national anthem and the other one were supplanted with lines about Santa bringing us freedom because I don't know anything beyond fruited plains and the flag was still there, which if my two WWII veteran grandpas weren't already there, would have probably put them into their graves.
I just did it to make him laugh, and he did.
Moped gang. Natural element of a compelling story, or lifestyle.
Curt said "lets ped" and we did.
Half of riding is waiting when yr rolling 25 deep.
Essentially, it's good clean fun that involves taking yr life in yr hands.
Swarming in the putt putt parking lot.