Guess Who Digs Me? June 23, 2008

According to Myspace, Jesus Christ has a crush on me. Would someone please tell him I'm not into guys with beards? (Unless they're named Brian Thomas and went to NYU film school. The one that got away - he made me laugh. A lot.) And that shroud thingy; a little high waisted don't you think? They do make low rise shrouds these days, geeeeeeze Jesus, get with it!

Can you imagine dating Jesus Christ? Holy shit (literally), you'd never win a fight cuz he'd be all martyring and victimy, and he'd get blood on everything with those stigmatas. Who's gonna clean that shit up? Pas Moi! I can tell you right now that I would be talking through clenched teeth all the time about the differences in musical taste. I hates Christian rock (yes "hates", as in Yosemite Sam types of hatin'), and just the very thought of it makes me do the backwards hiss thing one does when one witnesses an epic fingernail break (the kind that involves the bending back first, then the rip to the nail bed, blood, and an endless run of expletives).

You notice that most Christian rock is Metal? I wonder if that's why beards and long hair are so prevalent in that world. I also wonder if Jesus' stig's count as the first body piercing, and is that what awaits us in the near fashionable future? Stig piercing?

Regardless, I think it's tacky of Jesus to be taking out ads on Myspace, claiming his love for me, when we haven't even kissed. Too smothering for my taste.

Myspace is insane. They try to customize the ads from your profile info, as you can see in the "sponsored links" below your inbox message area. Apparently, being single and agnostic has generated the computer to digitally insult my intelligence. I don't need any suggestions when it comes to shopping for beliefs, thanks so much, I can pick em out all by my lonesome.

In my "Who You'd Like to Meet" section, I put a "Giant Panda", so I get bombarded with ads for Panda singles chat groups, Panda anti-virus programs, and "Panda Ringtones". I haven't a clue what a Panda sounds like, but I'm reasonably sure it wouldn't suit my cellular needs.

Were I to have a proclivity for "Barely Legal Rocker Boys" and put that instead of "Panda", I wonder what the computer would surmise of that? Would I be showered with invitations to join NAMBLA? (Or NAWBLA since I'm a chick…is there? Oh wait no I think that's some sort of Teacher's association.)

I've seen worse on other sites, particularly one where I googled advice on my slightly underweight cat. I was deeply concerned for my furry snookiecookie-puss and the site popped up "dying cat ringtones". WTF? Is there a market for such a thing? I don't even want to participate in gaining the insight on that one. Right below it was some sort of feedback you could fill in for the "ad", if you can call it that. Oh yeah, I filled it out. My cat told me what to put, and it's much too controversial to repeat here. Suffice it to say, we got our point across.

I'd be curious to know if the people that are marked as "in a relationship" or "married" get a different barrage of ads. Well, maybe I wouldn't. =)

**************************************************************************************************************

Some of you may think that this post ensures my ticket to Hell.

What makes you think we aren't already there?


Currently listening :
Nine in the Afternoon
Release date: 2008-06-17

Let U Entertain Me June 22, 2008

"I wanna be adored." I Wanna Be Adored - The Stone Roses

I was thinking of this song a few days ago, particularly the lyrics (there are very few in it) as like everyone else with a pulse, I want to be adored. Unfortunately, it's conditional. I would like to adore the person that adores me too (don't ya hate the fine print?).

Yesterday my friend called, and he brought up the same song explaining his current relationship. He's getting adored but it's not 100% mutual, and he couldn't figure out why, but I could.

People get together for a thousand different reasons (alcohol being the main one), but they stay together if they find each other amusing or entertaining. When that stops, you're done. Sometimes it never starts because you only got together out of physical admiration of each other, and then there are some that do amuse each other, but have no physical chemistry.

When you are an entertaining type of person, whether it be a musician, comedian, writer, or just plain fun to be around, you can get lost in the adoration from someone and not realize that that is all you are getting from them - they adore you, but that isn't the same as entertaining you. My friend is a musician, and he totally got what I was saying. He makes her laugh, but it's a one way street.

I practically constructed that street, as I've met so many wonderful and nice guys, but…yeah, no laughs (like this blog). I don't expect Bill Hicks (can't he's dead) or Dave Chappelle, but I do expect some degree of charm and humor. I gave up on it for a long time, but it is out there, I've seen it. I've met it; hell I've dated it. Sadly, the ones I find amusing either don't see me in the same light or else they know they're awesome and feel that many could benefit from their exposure. I date one at a time and I prefer that "one" to adhere to the same type of philosophy.

I've always been the entertainment in my relationships, making the decisions, coming up with things to do, and then I got sick of it. Last year I made a conscious effort to back off. Instead of absorbing people into my "thing", I wanted to see what they would come up with. I wanted things to be different, since what I was doing obviously wasn't working, but this didn't either and by January of this year, I was back to square one.

Drinking can give the false illusion that others are more amusing than is true, so I didn't drink for a very long time. I still don't much, but will be doing so on Thursday (dancey dance).

If nothing else, I'll make myself laugh.


Currently listening :
The Stone Roses
By The Stone Roses
Release date: 1990-10-25

I’m Not Human, I’m Just Stuck in One - Pt. 2 6/17/08

I was just having a chat with my friend Candy about Marlon Brando in that scene in "Last Tango in Paris" where he's shoving butter up that woman's ass.

Who thought that one up? Is/was this a common thing, butter-packing? Do you think it inspired others to squish some "Land O' Lakes" between the cakes?

Imagine the director, Bertolucci, telling Brando "Ok, the butter…you put uppa her ass, no?"

Brando was probably like "But then what do we put up mine, paté ? Frozen, or fresh? I need to know how to project the texture - it's a Stanislovski thing."

I do wonder how one mentally prepares for a day of filming that requires a straight face while implementing a stick of butter into someone else's rectal area. Or for that matter, being on the receiving end of the dairy product. Was there like 20 takes with a big cooler of fresh butter from craft services at hand? Can you tell the difference if they use margarine instead?

Think of the conversations between the stand-ins while the lighting is being tested for this shot, or better yet, imagine the actress, after the scene, deciding the best route of removal. Let it melt or is it latex glove snapping time?

Were there other items that Bertolucci first opted for butt plugging, but found they didn't suit the scene? What was the deciding factor that butter was the clincher?

I used to play with this drummer who let me have a go on his kit whenever we took a break at practice, that is, until he told me his girlfriend would shove his drumsticks up his ass whenever they had sex. I can still hear the clicking sounds of the sticks when they fell from my very sorry hands to the unsuspecting floor below (that floor never did forgive me). I scrubbed like a surgeon about to crack open a lawyer after that tidbit of information (there is a limit to how well informed I want to be). It certainly gave new meaning to the term "rim shot", if nothing else.

I guess I'm boring vanilla, since I'm pretty much an "exit only" person when it comes to the workings of my butt, though I don't begrudge those that get hopped up on the old "reach around", I guess. Your thing is your thing.

How does one broach the subject these days? Especially if butter is the insertion of choice. Do you just stop off at the fridge on the way to the bedroom, point and raise your eyebrows? Or do you discuss it beforehand, over dinner when the bread arrives?


Currently listening :
I Should Coco
By Supergrass
Release date: 1995-07-18

OK Blunstone June 14, 2008

Today I was buzzing through the internet looking up something about the song "This Will Be Our Year" by The Zombies, when I found that the band OK Go did a cover of it (of course it's on my playlist now).

I was late to the party when it came to OK Go, but when I arrived, hot damn it rocked! I think I first saw Damian Kulash on The Daily Show of all places, and believe me, if I have a type, he is so it. He's the lead singer/guitarist for OK Go and even though I found him highly lickable, I wasn't about that song with the treadmills. That was all I had seen at the time and I didn't pursue it further until one of my best buds, Bonnie, schooled me on their finer points.

Sweet chocolate Christ, I can't believe it's been 3 years since "Oh No" was released. It's OK Go's second album and I would marry it if I could (please don't tell Pat Robertson as I'm sure there's something in the Bible that claims this act is cause for one sort of damnation or another and we don't want to open that can of blue suits now do we?). This album is just that - an ALBUM. Most efforts out there nowadays are a collection of songs, but this is a work in totality. The songs that are not portrayed in treadmill videos show the smokier side of Kulash's vocals, and the warmth in some of the recordings…you can almost smell the wood in the studio (not that kind of wood, geeze).

Upon first listening of "A Million Ways", I definitely felt a Franz Ferdinand vibe and thanks to Google, I knew why in a matter of seconds. Tore Johannson of Sweden produced "Oh No" and FF's self titled debut. You're a big fucking deal if your production leaves that much of a mark, so Tore is now in my mental producer rolodex hanging with the likes of John Leckie, Alan Moulder (heavy hitters in the 90's), and of course George Martin, aka the 5th Beatle.

I could definitely tell that OK Go was heavily influenced by The Zombies, who are one of my all time favorite bands. I would even go so far as to say that Colin Blunstone possesses the most beautiful voice that ever slipped across my ears. All of their recordings were done before I was sent down to this planet (or up, I really can't remember), but to me, "Odessey and the Oracle" is one of the best pieces ever made. And, yes, "Odessey" is spelled like that on the jacket. It was a 1967 misprint, but they ran with it.

There isn't enough digital space for all the great things I have to say about The Zombies and that album, but they did reunite for a US tour this July, and if you're lucky enough to be near one of the venues DO NOT miss it. I've seen Blunstone on his own, and my mouth was on the floor during the entire performance, I can't even imagine…well if you get good tickets, let me know. If Southwest flies to that area, I'm there. Same goes if you get good Radiohead tickets too! My neighbor works for Southwest. I watch his cats when he travels, he gives me tickets =)

Ok, so Kulash isn't quite Colin Blunstone, but close enough. On "Lately, It's so Quiet" the swoon meter busts out on top. That silky voice with those slightly dirty chords completely does it for me.

"Maybe, This Time" is probably my favorite. I can hear a Les Paul in there, and the simplicity and spacing of each part is nothing short of captivating. It reminds me of some 80's song that I can't quite recall, but someday when I'm overmedicated and bitching about social security (or the lack thereof), I'm sure it will come to me. Probably won't be able to hear by then, yeesh. (If you know me at that point, please help me load the gun.)

I've never seen OK Go live, but that's definitely on my "to do" list for this lifetime. You should see the list for my next life. =]


Currently listening :
Oh No
By OK Go
Release date: 2005-08-30

Vicious Traditions June 12, 2008

"I'm honest about my lying." Me (in an email I wrote the other day)

Everybody lies, and you'd be lying to yourself if you're thinking that you don't. EVERYBODY LIES!

We all have lied when asked "How ya doin?" We aren't ALWAYS fine, but we know that not everyone needs to hear about our she cramps or jock itch (if you've ever had both of these simultaneously, I so want to hear that story). Harmless lies, but lies nonetheless.

People have always lied to protect others, but usually themselves. Most lies are told for personal gain, and some assholes just lie for no apparent reason. These idiots keep lying even when they're caught, and no they aren't minors, just stunted and damaged grown people. "Adult" physically, but mentally the jury is still out.

I really struggled with this last year when I was unabashedly lied to for reasons unbeknownst to me and really I just couldn't get my brain around it. I've never seen lying as rampant as I do here in Florida, maybe it's the humidity, but my guess is that lying is their favorite past time here. I honestly wouldn't be surprised if they had a museum devoted to it someday. They could have an exhibit showing the evolution of lying and how the advent of certain jobs and means of communication have affected how one lies in today's society.

There could be men's, women's, and unisex parts of the exhibit as certain types of lies from jealous bitches differ than the lies put forth to get them into bed and then out the door ASAP.

I know both sexes lie equally, but as a child, I always found men with facial hair dishonest and creepy, like the hair was hiding something. All the serial killers except Bundy had it. Now I think its guys that wear hats all the time that are the ones to watch. Especially in 90 degree weather at night. I met two mean liars in a row with this particular habit. The second one almost lied his way back into my life a few months back (my hopes are that one day his hat swallows his head and then engulfs the rest of his lying ass), but Scorpios always have a way of getting past my radar (note to self: find out how to recalibrate radar).

Overly friendly super, super, nice women - all huge liars. They lie because they are trying to please everyone and that's impossible. Pissy people like me will shoot straight from the hip most of the time, but once I'm lied to, I give back ten fold. I hate lying but feel it's my karmic duty to give as good as I get, especially when I didn't do anything to deserve such treatment.

I didn't have trouble getting over the people that lied, I had trouble with the fact that it made me teeter on the edge of losing my faith in humanity altogether. When you're lied to, the underlying message is that you don't deserve any respect and it's assumed that you're stupid. Not fun - humiliating, actually, but the liars don't apologize, they don't care - till it happens to them, then the fucking world stops.

One day the big, mean, liars will lie to the person who is one pill away from a loaded weapon - you never know if you're the LAST STRAW for someone do ya? What may seem like a small little lie that gets you out of an uncomfy situation may be the last jerk needed to pull the pin on the right/wrong grenade.

I've met (but am not friends with) some seriously dangerous liars with harmful STD's, that do not clue in the people they get "friendly" with. I've also been acquainted with people that died from AIDS they got from the cheating spouses who outlived them. Everybody lies, but they do have a choice not to.

After a string of blatant liars I met some awesome people that brought me back from the edge. Scott from Ireland was one of my favorites. Held my hand everywhere we went for the short time he was visiting. Even if he lived here (or me there) though, it couldn't work. He was straight up about wanting a minimum of FIVE kids and he was totally into the Catholic thing. I'm so not. It's easy to be honest when you are just visiting, nothing to lose maybe?

I met one guy (also not from FL) who was very up front with me about how he wants and likes to be a total manwhore and is not into the boyfriend thing at all. This guy does not lie about anything (some think he should, but not me) and I respect the hell out of him. Some people aren't that self aware but that poses the question, why will they bother getting to know you if they don't even know themselves?

I want someone to play Scrabble with, to dance with me, to listen to music with, hit a few concerts maybe, someone to discuss with me whether the color orange or the fruit called "orange" came first.

Simple things really, but why does it seem like you have to swim through saturations of complexities to get to them?

Because… (say it with me now) everybody lies.

(Can I get an A-MEN up in here? No? A B-MEN? No, there's already enough C-MEN! oh no I di n't!)

ps. I hope not everyone from FL is a fuckhead, by all means, prove me wrong =]


Currently listening :
The Runaway Found
By The Veils
Release date: 2005-01-25

Tom Boy May 27, 2008

"They call me a tom boy and I love it
Cause only a tom boy could stand above it" Tom Boy - Bettie Seveert

I'm not sure what a typical Tom Boy is. Judging by Wikipedia and the Urban Dictionary, my guess is that everyone is completely full of shit when it comes to compartmentalizing people with these hard, fast gender rules.

What is TYPICAL? I've been called a Tom Boy but I don't play or watch football, I don't dress like a guy, and I don't give a rats ass about cars. Those seem to be the consensus of what a Tom Boy is on the internet. (Incidentally, who the hell is the Tom that "Tom Boy" derived from?)

I don't think I'm a typical girl, but what is a typical girl? I hang with both sexes equally, but prefer men sexually, and aside from the girls I hung with in high school, guys seem to be more into music than the girls I've met, so I tend to prefer their company. Guys are more loyal in friendship too, well at least to other guys' heheheh oh but that's another blog.

I'm girly sometimes, I wear hot pink lingerie, nice perfume, and I love shoes as much as anyone could (boots even more, I LOVE BOOTS). Don't do flowers and jewelry though. Those aren't my thing. I never had a wedding planned out in my head (I'm not married to the idea of marriage, but I'm not dead set against it either), but if I ever do get nuptial fever, I would definitely walk down the aisle to "Thank You" by Led Zeppelin, instead of the traditional "march". How awful is that? A march? Yeesh! You march to your execution, not your future husband (well, one would hope they aren't one in the same).

A few years back I was at an Oasis concert with my friend Danny and this very sexy woman asked me for a light (I used to be a smoker, now I just sneak one with a drink every few months or so). After she walked away I announced "That woman was very sexy. I'm not sexy."

Danny was like "Yeah ya are, c'mon". I wasn't downing myself, nor was I upset or jealous or fishing, it was just sort of a realization that I was having. I'm not typically SEXY.

I explained myself but Danny waved me off saying "Look, you are so sexy that if I had no teeth, I'd say you were 'thexy'!" (The crying laugh made its appearance for that one.)

My mom never acted "sexy", but I can't go anywhere with her that she doesn't get hit on. She was a stay at home mom that would make cookies with us but also took us out in the snow and made giant igloos with us kids too. She never leaves the house without makeup on (I always do), but she'll pick up a poisonous snake and throw it at you for a laugh. (The only way I could find that funny is if I paid someone else to pick up the snake to throw back, or if the snake boomeranged back and bit her- not a big fan of the reptiles I gotta say.)

My mom loves to arrange flowers, but she also coached my little league team and could hustle you at pool anytime, anywhere. She taught me how to fire a shotgun, but then introduced me to sewing so my Barbies could have "originals".

I don't think we can be condensed into a category. As much as label-itis is catchy, it's useless.

"Can I break the spell of the typical?" Typical - Mutemath


Currently listening :
Mute Math
By Mute Math
Release date: 2006-09-26

WTF O’Clock June 12, 2008

If you were driving down McMullen Booth Road Tuesday at about 6AM, you may have seen a petite, dark haired, crazy chick shrieking at a turtle that was crossing the overpass at Tampa Rd.

I had to take my mom to the hospital for a biopsy at insane o'fucking clock in the a.m. (her appt was 5:30AM for realzzzz). I usually put face to pillow between 3-4am and firmly believe that the hours of 4:30am - 12:30pm should be permanently removed from the day as we now know it, or at least just be reserved for sleep. I'm not a morning person in any capacity, and I only bounce out of bed in emergent situations or if someone actually bounces me out =]

Waking me up, even one minute before I want to be up, is definitely taking one's life into their own hands. The only thing you have going for you at that point is my complete lack of coherence, so that gives ya time to duck before whatever object I can reach is throttled in the direction of your head (I aim for the eyebrows, even without contacts in).
Anyways, yesterday I napped for an hour before delivering my mom to the creepy hospital (which is even creepier in the dark). Once assured that this would be an all day thing and that I should go home to wait, I got back in my Celica and locked into that feeling one gets when they find out it's a "snow" day and they get to go back to bed instead of yuckyfucky school.

Others were just beginning their drives to work as I was relishing the thought of the sea of purple pillows that would be catching my drool soon, but then I saw it. A big, big, four times the size of my ass turtle dragging his home across the left lane towards a cement wall. They aren't noted for their intelligence, poor things, hence why I repeatedly stop and give them a hand.

Yes, I am the kook that will stop all of traffic to put certain reptiles, or any other animal, out of danger. I don't care if you hit me, but there is no way in hell some poor, innocent creature is going to get pancaked on my watch. This was on the beginning of an overpass and traffic wasn't too bad when I pulled over and buttoned the "hazards". I grabbed some towels thinking I could pick it's slimy ass up and sit it in the back seat till I got to a park a couple of miles ahead. It could either hang its hat there, or become gator food - once you let them go, it's anybody's guess. I've done this a few times and once I scoop 'em up, I turn into Pee Wee Herman when he rescues those snakes from the pet store like the link below, but not in said plane.

http://peeweesoap.ytmnd.com/

I told the turtle how things were going to go down, and then bent over to pick it up. The second my toweled hands tried to clamp on, this bitch let out some straight from the fires of hell hiss and somehow spun around like a break-dancer exposing me to its claws and snapping jaws. I had on high heeled sandals and went flailing backwards out into where traffic could be any second, and was screaming as if that were the only way to regain my balance. It somehow worked, but the turtle gave me grief every time I went in for another try and mounting traffic was in earshot. I told the turtle to fuck off and that it was on its own, but once I was back in the car, I felt bad.

I drove off thinking maybe I'd see a cop and convince them to go back and do something (they do sometimes, as a gator blocked this bridge once and I got a cop to get it out of my way - peacefully), but there was no donut shops on the way home and even going 10 over didn't attract any uniforms. It was that kind of day.

I turned the Death Cab for Cutie up and drove home to bed. I wasn't asleep 45 minutes when my mom's doc called. I was too tired to kill him or my phone, and I told him that but I swear he was on crack. He sounded like he had just gotten a blow job from a ghost and had to tell SOMEONE.

Way too freakin' chipper for a morning telephone call. He said "Yeah you can pick her up about 9:30 10" and I was like "Tonight? Then why are you calling NOW?" I was so out of it. He laughed and told me to check the clock. I'm fashioning a voodoo doll in his likeness this weekend.

Got some Newman's Own Organic Coffee, Café Almond Biscotti in me and then summoned my broom, eh..er..car. On the way back from getting my mom, I braced myself for the gore I was sure that I would witness once the overpass was in sight, but much to my delight, there was no sign of shell remnants anywhere.

In my fantasy world, some rugged fire and rescue guys on their way back to the firehouse stop and grab the turtle and put it in a swamp behind their basketball court. The turtle then tells all the other reptiles and word gets to all the snakes to stay the fuck away from the house where the crazy, high-heeled, towel chick lives.

And they do =]

Currently listening : Narrow Stairs By Death Cab for Cutie Release date: 2008-05-13

Denis with One "N" June 10, 2008

I taught myself how to read when I was three years old. By four I could read and write at a second grade level but no public school would take me. A brand new Baptist Christian Academy would, and did. They accepted grades K-12 with many seats to fill and promised my mom they would let me excel at my own pace. (They failed to mention that I would be excelling whilst alone locked in a dark kitchen, but that's a story for my future shrink.)

The school had an interesting reward system that suited me perfectly. Each Friday, if your grades were at a certain level, you got to leave school before lunch for a pre-arranged activity. The activity depended on how many kids had the right grades. A lot of kids meant roller or ice skating, season permitting, but once or twice I was the only one with the optimal grades, and I received an afternoon with an ass-breathed vice principal trolling local train and farm museums, followed by an awkward gorge-fest at an "old time" ice cream parlor.

One of the better outings was McDonalds and an afternoon tour of the local firehouse. Our guide was Mr. Nail, and no, this is not the beginning of a porn script, he really was "Mr. Nail". I don't remember his rank or first name; I just knew that my five year old heart was completely taken with him. Not because of his looks, or uniform necessarily, but because he only allowed one person on the fire truck, and that person was moi. Yes, being a Shorty McShrimpy had its perks for once. I stood out for being so little and he just felt sorry for me, I'm sure, but I got to do everything from get behind all the steering wheels to sliding down the infamous "pole".

To a kid this is amazing shit, to a female it's mind blowing. The only pole we get to option is that which accompanies sticky floors and lap dances. It's funny how physicality determines jobs with poles. Braun is the obvious choice for a firefighter, it just has to be. Whereas "bounce" is the likely status of those that slither up and down the poles in dark clubs that change their names every four months or so.

The firehouse pole was enough cylindrical metal for me in this lifetime, as I'm so not, or ever was, stripper material. (I've never even been in a strip club - such a sheltered life).

Mr. Nail was a volunteer firefighter; he was also a police officer. I found that out after writing him some retarded love letter that my father mailed for me. My family was out for pizza one night and of course, Mr. Nail in full uniform with his partner, appeared and was seated at the booth next to us. My father and sister humiliated me till I slid under the table where I stayed for what seemed like hours. I contemplated severing their carotid arteries when they slept that evening, but I thought that would complicate things further with Mr. Nail as he, himself, may have to arrest me, and I imagined he would take a dim view of the whole murdering thing, thus restraining myself.

I downloaded the first season of the show "Rescue Me" with Denis Leary, whom I adore (and always will), to watch on the plane when I went to New Mexico recently. That show is crazy and hilarious and it made me think of my first crush on Mr. Nail, who I never did see again.

I'm not into that sort of "man's man" kind of guy like I was when I was 5, I much prefer the metro-sexuals of today, but you really have to admire the types of people that do these insane jobs (especially when your own house is on fire - I was 9 when we lost EVERYTHING). Leary's show portrays them as repressed, sexist, bigots, and you have to have some thick skin to get it, but I found it highly entertaining and thought provoking.

The theme song for the show is the Von Bondies' "C'Mon C'Mon" (Detroit in the house!), which gives you a peek at what sort of music will be floating in and out of every episode. From John McRae to The Brian Jonestown Massacre, the music is a primary cast member of this quirky, but raw drama.

I don't love a man in a uniform, but I'll watch anything with Leary in it. He looks pretty awesome for an old guy, but I likes 'em all wiry like that. Kind of like Mr. Nail. =)

Currently listening : Rescue Me By Various Artists Release date: 2006-05-30

Raccoon Tours May 15, 2008

I like The White Stripes, but when I first heard The Raconteurs a few years ago, I was astounded.

"Broken Boy Soldiers", the first effort by The Raconteurs (or as they're known in Australia, The Saboteurs), was released in 2006. Even though it often reminds me of some undeserving ears that I once played it for, I still adore a good load of the songs on that disc. "Hands" is just gorgeous, and kickin it down the highway with "Intimate Secretary" bursting out the windows is the only way to travel.

That album almost sounded like Led Zeppelin took a Beatles pill, and then went into modern recording mode. Delicious.

At the end of March of this year, the follow up "Consolers of the Lonely" was released, and I couldn't wait to get my ears on it. I had heard the single, "Salute Your Solution" and was totally psyched. A track like that makes me want to bust out the roller skates and some sled dogs (they can pull my dehydrated corpse to the M.E.'s office when I drop dead from the Florida heat and HUMIDITY - I'm delicate).

A couple of days ago, I finally downloaded the rest of the album, and a marathon of car insurance commercials would be less painful than the disappointment that puked all over me when I listened to it.

I kept looking at my IPOD each time a new song began so I could see the name of my pain, and I swear about the 5th song in, the IPOD read "Who Fucking Cares? This SHIT BLOWS!" I was in a bit of shock, but I saw it through to the bitter end. Actually, having it end was the best part. OY VEY!

Sounds like Jack White and his pals drank some moonshine, and decided that Southern Rock was the direction most fitting for a good portion of their sophomore project. I'm not a huge fan of Southern Rock, at least not of the bearded variety; the more clean shaven ones like Tom Petty are cool by me, though. I don't know why, but something about the hair to skin ratio is relevant in this genre. Just listening to some of these songs made me fear that some unruly sideburns might attempt to grow on my face, if I was exposed much longer. That's certainly not a look I can pull off, and you can forget about me wearing a vest of any kind - I'm much too chesty and dare I say, tasteful, for such garments.

I can dig some Neil Young, but I've never been able to lock in on people that are heavily influenced by his sound. At least, not that I'm aware of.

The Raconteurs definitely have tripped over the Mason Dixon line in some areas of the recording, but in others it sounds like Paul McCartney (Wing's era Paul) joined Styx. Grapefruit covered with creamed corn sounds more palatable.

I think my brain hurt more when I realized that I had to hold two opposing thoughts in my head at once: They are trying WAY too hard, and they aren't trying hard ENOUGH.

The use of horns pretty much canceled me too. I'm not a fan of the horns in music, and believe it or not, I played trumpet as a kid. Here and there in Bowie's drugged years, or in some Reggae, horns may work. But in straight up rock, I would prefer their absence.

There seems to be a hint of a concept album that forked off into a dumping ground of scraps from other songs. Namely The Kinks "Living on a Thin Line", Bowie's "Rock N Roll Suicide", and The Rolling Stone's "Sister Morphine". I don't know. There's something sort of unforgivable when you taint such legendary pieces in that way.

It's sad, I feel like a really great relationship didn't work out - it's like the sex was good, but they could never pronounce my name correctly, and I found out they ate live animals on weekends. I'll never look at them the same.

Now, will my Ipod ever forgive me?

Dumb Tongue 5/14/08

I have a low tolerance for bullshit (an even lower one for dogshit, but horseshit is ok by me - interesting how Microsoft allows "horse" and "bull" to be connected to "shit" with no static, but "dogshit" brings up a red squiggle).

I'm the person that will call someone out on taking CUTS, and I'm definitely THAT snippy snip who tells you to shut the fuck up if you're yapping next to me at the movies (if your cell rings during a flick, I'll destroy it without blinking).
It's gotten my ass kicked a few times, no question, but I can't seem to help myself.

Once, I was driving with a friend to Orlando and between there and Tampa the exits are a bit creepy (a la "Deliverance"). We stopped at some gas station called "Skeeters" or some such name that most assuredly had "Bob's" as the suffix (Jim-Bob's, Joe-Bob's, or Bob-Bob's), and I went in to pay alone.

I got in line behind 3 little girls, who were next to buy candy behind some non-descript woman. Just as said woman was finishing her transaction, this gi-normous trucker came in and blatantly inserted himself right in front of the girls like they were invisible.

Out of reflex, I playfully blurted "Hey, no CUTS Cowboy!"

He turned around, looked at the girls, then me and smugly replied "I don't see nobody." (Let me note for visual and political purposes that the kids were black, I was about half way through my "Goth" phase at the time, and the trucker looked like someone that ceremonially licks confederate flags when whacking off.)

My 5'2 stature doesn't even intimidate a feral cat, let alone a 6'4, redneck racist, but somehow my mouth missed that judgment call, and I completely unleashed on that ass hole. Nothing gets my hackles up like racism, except sexism, but they usually go hand in hand (most racists are sexist and homophobes to boot, it's a package deal…check for details at your local Wal Mart).

I didn't want to make it about race in front of those kids, so instead, I called him a "dickless piece of shit that only feels like a man when demeaning females" hoping to give it a sexist angle. Not that sexism is any better than racism; no one likes to feel "less than" in any capacity, but at least if it was sexist, it didn't paint the girls as the sole targets of his sick rudeness.

"Dickless" seemed unfettered by my barbs, at least I thought so till he made for the door and casually slammed me down into a rack of genetically modified goods along his way. The force knocked me pretty hard, and when tailbone meets cement floor, it's so not a party. It's more akin to that funny bone pain (x 10) one gets that completely stuns you, momentarily seizing your breath. Being on the receiving end of a "back punch" has similar results. Anyone with siblings can attest to that.

I walked away with a bruised tailbone, some cuts, scrapes, heaps of disappointment, and a buttload of shock. I usually got away with shooting my mouth off. Not this time. You'd think being batted around a bit would deter me in future, but the Chihuahua in me that's unaware of size differences, is in full belief that verbally expelling at any injustice is standard protocol, despite the consequences.

Last week at the Radiohead concert (yeah I'm never gonna shut up about them, ever) the seats to my left were no-shows, till these drunken behemoths filled them half way through "15 Step". I was standing, happily glued to my binoculars when the WIDE one slammed into me, imposing himself right into my line of vision. I didn't even pull the binoculars from my eyes as I swiftly shoved him out of the way. A knee jerk reaction, and a mighty pissy one at that, but it was my seat, my band, and NOTHING was gonna knock me around without threats of a possible skull fracture that evening.

Luckily, he wasn't a total tool and he apologized for his clumsiness, of course, not till after I Satanically coughed and sneezed all over him (should be filling his script for Cipro about now, sinus infections apparently are contagious-oops).
I suggested that since he was bigger, he should get situated behind me as the rows were quite wide. Then he could flail around all he wanted. We switched places, and rainbows shot out of both of our asses in tandem. All was right with the world once again, sans bloodshed.

Odd how initially getting physical worked out better than the verbal. I guess next time someone takes CUTS, I'll punch them in the throat.

Wreckoner 5/8/08

(I would recommend reading my previous blog "It Wasn't Pablo's Honey" before this one, if you haven't already. Makes more sense that way.)

I went out last week, and I ran into this guy that asked me out a while ago. I did want to hang out with him, but not yet. Just wanted to be by myself for a bit, but I thought he was pretty cool. When I saw him this time, I told him I nearly didn't make it out because I was hawking eBay for some Radiohead tickets. He responded with a very flamboyant, dismissive "Oh please", as if I had just asked him to down a limburger shake.

(Buzzer sound) Thanks for playing; we do however have some nice parting gifts for you, mainly this middle finger.
You don't get me if you don't even try to GET me, ya got me? I can handle if you don't dig exactly what I dig musically, but you don't have to act like I just peed in your salad when I mention one of my favorite bands EVER. WTF?

The next day I scored on eBay (I think that's the only place I will ever score). Two pavilion tickets, center, "buy it now" $44.00. Discover card, cash back at the end of the year, do-able. I offered up one ticket on myspace, but NO ONE wanted to go. You're all fired! Nahhh, some of you already had tickets, that's fine. I put it up for $40 on Craigslist and sold it in minutes to some rugged looking English dude (I half imagined him showing up in a cricket uniform, but he disguised himself as a surfer instead).

So yeah, I paid a whopping $4, which ironically, is the most I've paid to see Radiohead. The previous 4 times, I merely had to shell out for my own transport, though this was also the furthest away I've ever had to sit too. Not nosebleed, but certainly nose pick. Actually, nose DRIP as the most horrendous head cold jumped me Sunday and as I write this, I'm still breathing out of my mouth like some Napoleon Dynamite Neanderthal.

If you read my last blog, you might be wondering if maybe I have some weird karmic connection with snot and Radiohead because it's becoming thematic. First, I get a goob hacked into my head, now I am drowning in goob. At least it's my goob, and I had tickets this time. Whatever, I didn't care if my skin was melting off into goob with maggots clinging to it, I was going!

It kind of sucked being a walking sneeze-fest in a situation where the guys outnumbered the girls about 15 to 1, and most of the other chicks there were with their boyfriends. It was me in a sea of males who all liked Radiohead enough to forgo a paycheck to get tickets, and there I was with a redwood's worth of Kleenex, looking like someone took a cheese grater to the skin between my upper lip and nose. Charming.

I would venture to guess that I was the only one who was sober in my section, so that in itself was entertaining. I was pretty hopped up on cold medicine and Captain Crunch, but I still felt like a zombie. Maybe I got a contact high from the forest fire ablaze behind me, ah…memories.

I, of course, brought binoculars and some assface was all "what do you need those for? You can see them on the giant screens." Yes assface, you can see them on the giant screens, but you can't tell what kind of amp they're plugged into or if they're playing a Strat, a Telly, or a Rick, ASSFACE! This shit matters, one must see the holy tools that transmute the precious sounds from fingers to ears! Assface! (One too many? Seems like you can never overdo "assface", maybe it's just me.)

Regardless, every word, every note…I'm hard pressed for a description of the performance I witnessed because the words don't carry the strength needed for such a feat. The breeze that rippled across a couple thousand people in love with the same song would be easier to pen.

"You had to be there" isn't an overused expression for nothing. To say it was "INSPIRING" seems diminutive and stale compared to the reality of something that moving. Even though I felt like a physical disaster, I never wanted it to end.
After 24 magnificient pieces, it did end, and I figured I'd wait a while, write a few lines as everyone else floated away (you don't walk away from Radiohead, it's in their rider - you either float or glide, your choice). Plus I was parked in Lot Buttfuck, and I really didn't want to be doing the bumper to bumper whilst driving a stick.

I struck up a chat with another straggler in my section, but we were both so WOWED that words seemed like they were in the way of any real conversation.

We were glowing. =)

It Wasn’t Pablo’s Honey 4/29/08

One week from tomorrow (May 6), Radiohead will be gracing Tampa with a concert, and I don't have a ticket. =( I guess I got an attack of the "schmucks" when they went on sale, thinking like I was back in NYC where the formal buying of such commodities was next to impossible. Even if you camped out and were 3rd in line with your cell phone speed dialing Ticketmaster, in Manhattan, this means nothing.

"Sold Out" only sounds good when it's your gig; otherwise it's a car door slamming on an already cold hand.

When I first moved to New York, Radiohead was touring, but raising John Lennon from the dead for a square dance would have been more feasible than getting tickets to see them. I even went to ask Satan in Newark (if there is a Devil, he for sure lives in Newark, New Jersey) for a possible selling of the soul, but he was all "Sorry bitch, even if you had one of them soul thingy's, ain't NOBODY gettin' no Radiohead tickets up in here". (This evening, the voice of Satan is brought to you by Ru Paul, the only girl I'd kiss with tongue, and even then…)

I went down to the venue the night of the show anyways, in hopes that someone maybe got jilted, stuck with extras, or maybe I'd just kill a scalper and take what he had on him. Alas, there was nothing.

I felt so dejected, I usually am pretty resourceful and I really love Radiohead, but maybe I was never going to get to see them LIVE? My head sunk right down to my belly button and just rested there on my belt buckle as I reluctantly drowned in Lake Give Up. It's in Midtown on the West Side, if you're ever in the neighborhood.

I can't recall who all was with me, but I remember leading the pack when we finally decided to bail. I walk fast, and on this night I was doing that bitchy, impatient, "everyone get the fuck out of my way" stomp one does when disappointment so nonchalantly pisses on them.

On approaching the crosswalk, there was a cluster of people facing away from the street. Traffic was light so I stepped off the curb early to get around them. At the precise moment my boot heel kissed pavement, one guy from the cluster quickly did a 180 counterclockwise, completely unaware that I was directly behind him in the street preceding this act.

I wish I could tell you that our eyes met and that we now breed Andalusian horses together in Spain, or that a bus hit me and from the waist down I am now bionic and can leap over mid-sized SUVs while eating cheese fries. But no, that's not what happened.

Look to the right of this page and you'll see my avatar photo where I'm brushing my hair back with my hand. I was doing that exact thing when this clusterfuck turned around and hacked a goob right into my freshly revealed ear!
I screamed so loud, my future self in 20 years felt it. The chill in the air compounded the feeling of warm, wet, foreign goob (as if "friendly" goob would've been any better) leaking down onto my neck as I fell to my knees like I had been shot. One's hand wants to immediately clutch where the assault has taken place, but my fantastic aversion to snot/phlegm provided a small force field so instead, I probably looked like I was doing "jazz hands" with one hand while the other was pointing at the HE that took me down.

I don't remember his hollow apology or how long I convulsed over it, but the thought of it gives me the skeeves to this day, man. ICK! All my poor ear wanted that evening was to hear "Fake Plastic Trees" live, which it did do eventually (three times), and hopefully will again.

My trip to New Mexico next month totally came together today so maybe fate will keep smiling my way and send me a great seat (not lawn-bugs yuck) next week in front of one of the only bands that can totally generate the WOW for me. =)

Heh, You Said "Rump" 4/27/08

I was in one of those giant Targets this week, the kind that is so big, they actually get congressional representation just for the store.

I kept ending up in the same aisle with this man and his son, who was about 5 or 6 maybe, and they couldn't have been more different. The father was all stoic meets somber with an added look of foreboding (probably brought on by the thought of having to buy tampons for his Love).

His boy, however, was more likely a test subject for High Octane F'Extra Strength Red Bull, as he was doing this sort of babbling mambo around his father and the shopping cart shaped walker that was passively holding him up. The kid repeatedly asked his dad if he wanted to hear him "rap", to which silence was replied, unless you count the resounding "NO" that I was screaming in my head.

He then slid up next to me and belted out the chorus of Flo Rida's "Low", which is the part of the song where they DON'T rap, but it was hilarious. When he got to the bit where it goes "she turned around and gave that big booty a smack", I sensed he was going to swat at the region I refer to as my "ass", so I swiftly jumped away leaving him naively swiping at air (then he got "low, low, low, low, low").

Heh, I guess to a little kid my posterior may resemble a "booty", but to the average adult, I barely have the makings of a hatchback, and I assure you, there is no junk in it. It's an NDN thing, having no ass. I can't remember where I read that, I think it was in one of Sherman Alexie's books (I LOVE his stuff, but mainly "Ten Little Indians", hysterical). Some say it's because we danced or laughed our asses off, but others are convinced that white people pick-pocketed 'em in one treaty or another. I'm obviously white too, but I wouldn't put it past them!

I didn't get the wonderful dark skin that my sister and dad have. Instead, I got the cliff for a behind and all the inherent health issues that NDN's get, but luckily not diabetes, whew! I got the Russian pale faced scowl from my mom, but my sister got her bulbous, Russian butt*. So it all boils down to what mix of blood you have before quality of "booty" can be determined.

Regardless of my sad excuse for a rump, I still like to shake it to Flo Rida. Most music buffs wouldn't think I'd have "Low" on my IPOD, but its right there sandwiched in between The Duke Spirit's "The Step and the Walk" (the rest of their album sadly blows) and Radiohead's "Weird Fishes/Arpeggi" on my AAA playlist.

I'm nothing if not varied.

*Russia's main export is giant bubble-shaped asses. Each is measured on the basis of whether you can set a bottle of thrice distilled vodka on these protrusions or not. If not, they get sent to the Ivan Grozhny (terrible) Booty Camp in Siberia for further "enhancement".

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

I'm not feeling very inspired lately, lots of family drama going on, but also my cousin is getting married in Santa Fe at the end of May, and I'm busy trying to make that trip happen.

Sooooo…I guess you could say I just pulled this out of my ass. =)

Intent 4/26/08

Man, all the blogs I've read this week are like weepy tributaries of tears into beers. Too bad there is no vaccine for heartbreak, just soggy holographic band-aids arriving late to the aftermath, always muttering excuses about the overwhelming traffic under their breath. (Does anyone mutter anything OVER their breath?)

Many of my virtual friends are feeling their way through some no-fault, but very unappealing circumstances, whereas others were INTENTIONALLY sliced by some sick piece of shit that gets off on the pain they can emanate from another being. Interesting how some people think you deserve a special brand of torture if you commit that horrific crime of having once been attracted to them. It amazes me the creativity they put into their abuse as well, very original, some of these. Yeesh.

We are all creators - no exceptions. When someone can't create something cool, they either try to cop someone else's thing or they create chaos and problems for everyone, but mostly for themselves.

Creation never ceases, whether it's recognized or not. Every word out of your mouth creates a feeling in someone else. Every action you take creates a reaction. I don't say this to paralyze you into constant analysis of everything you do or say, but I do find a teensy bit of shock at how many aren't the least bit mindful of INTENTION, and maybe a shout heard here can whisper elsewhere.

I like psych books and am currently reading a book about this man who survived an upbringing that would've made even Hitler wince, and frankly, I don't know if I can finish it. I just don't understand (happily so) people that INTENTIONALLY hurt others and get off on it.

I know that whatever these blowhards have done was probably also done to them, but that makes it worse if you do it KNOWING how awful it feels. I wish I could say that mean people get what they put out there or what is coming to them, but I don't know if I really believe that. If you go with that line of thinking, then the person who was on the receiving end of their abuse is getting what? Is that what they deserved?

I don't have anything clever to say here, I'm just feeling rather reflective and thinking about INTENTIONS and control. You can't control other people, not what they think or do, or how they perceive you. What you can control is your INTENT. If you are doing or saying something with the INTENT to hurt or control someone else, you suck, especially now that you are aware of it. =)

Check yourselves.

No One I Think is in My Tree 4.19/08

Last weekend I was catching up with someone I hadn't seen in years, and he asked me if there was any band/singer that I was into but found too embarrassing to admit. A guilty pleasure, if you will.

I triumphantly replied that there is no such thing for me, musically, anyways. For all my faults (and there are many) and insecurities, if there is one thing I have complete, unblemished, confidence in, it is my taste in music. This area is where no doubts whatsoever reside (they prefer to hang out in the area that relates to other humans, I'm guessing).

With music, I live a philosophy that borrows from Damone's Five Point Plan in the film "Fast Times at Ridgemont High" (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VJnIWLTneKY), where he says "Wherever ya are, THAT'S the place to be." Point 3, I believe it was (the rest of his plan is fantastically retarded and obviously dated, minus the Zepplin stuff heheheh).

In my case, it's WHATEVER I LISTEN TO, THAT IS THE BEST SHIT THERE IS (without exception)! Whether it be The Carpenters, The Raconteurs, or Snoop Dogg, I fervently believe that if I'm digging it, there is nothing groovier. When it comes to the tunes, I love HARD and without restraint.

There are past male companions and some people I share DNA with that I would be red-faced upon revealing our association, but I'll proudly show the contents of my IPOD to anyone. Guilt and embarrassment may piss on other avenues of my existence, but they get no face time when it comes to my ear candy.

I'll never regret my musical choices, but I do, however, regret some things I've done because of music.

One such event involved me cranking the volume in my car and my passenger making the unpardonable mistake of assuming that what he had to say was of equal importance to what I had just boosted. Thus causing him to unthinkingly touch the controls of what was pleasuring my ears, diminishing the decibels in a bold, but very stupid, act of "shushing".

All of time as we know it came to a face slapping halt, and I suddenly lost the capacity to blink. I was shocked and overtaken with the stones this one thought he had. He was, of course, viciously banished once I regained my composure. After all, it was my car and as far as I was concerned, only threats to my health or others' in my immediate surroundings warrant the snippy shutdown of Bowie. Especially the pill-popping Bowie that handed us "Moonage Daydream", the nerve!

Ok, that was some years ago. I've mellowed a tad and would never dump someone over something so trivial these days. Besides, I keep my IPOD in a steel bear trap on my lap when I drive now - good luck trying to grab that!
In regards to the holiness we call "music", I am thoroughly unapologetic and always will be. That IS who I am, though I can't help thinking that maybe I need to spread that feeling out a little more evenly. Like to things that breathe and aren't covered in fur (the two leggeds).

In the end, they do play songs at memorial services, but what if there is no one there to hear them?

Nast-ysics Part Two: Use with Caution 4/18/08

(Please read the post titled "Nast-ysics" before continuing here - just makes more sense that way.)

Nast-ysics can be fun and useful, but you really have to know when to pick your battles.

I went at someone with some purposeful CRAZY in hopes that they would get lost, but I'm off my game this week and it didn't work. There was a death in my family and my mom may be facing lung cancer (no she doesn't smoke), so I should've really tried to ignore instead of confront. It's so not advisable messing with CRAZY when things are bordering on iffy in your own life. Some people you just have to let be whatever it is that they are being, if it's within the bounds of law, of course. I certainly don't have it in me to do otherwise at present, and I just don't give a fuck.
I would also refrain from trying to out-crazy people that are what is considered "clinically" insane. With some folks, official diagnosis is yet to be determined, but this is only because these individuals have not yet sought help, or even think they need to. The internet is rife with such crackpots.

Early on, when I had first gotten a Yahoo account, I had my photo on the profile and thought nothing of it. That is, until a person who was into Cannibalism contacted me and told me I looked "tasty". He also expressed hopes that I wouldn't feel scared of him. Uhhhh…how the fuck else would one feel if someone who EATS people is licking their fingers as they leer in your direction? Most creeps undress you with their eyes, this guy probably fantasizes about what kind of dressing your eyes would best marinate in.

He didn't come right out and say he was a CANNIBAL, but I looked at his profile and there was a photo of a woman being roasted on a spit, and his "interests" showed that he belonged to a Yahoo group of CANNIBALS. Some other weird stuff was on there that my naïve ass Googled, and I wish I hadn't done so now, EW. Some things we're just better off NOT knowing.

Isn't consuming human flesh illegal and wouldn't belonging to a group of Cannibals also put yours in eminent danger? They could just as easily develop a craving for one of your knees as much as anyone else's. YUCK! Who could you really trust at the potluck dinners?

My insomnia is bad enough, imagine dating a Cannibal. You'd have to have one eye surgically altered to be kept open at all times in case your Boo was in the mood for a midnight snack. That takes "love bites" to a whole other level does it not? Ick, I just had a flashback of that movie "American Psycho". You KNOW which scene I'm thinking of, oh shivers!

It's hard enough in this world with all the ways that you can be sexually violated, but now one has to fret at the possibility of being masticated by some chubby accountant in Buttbrains, Oklahoma?

Needless to say, my yahoo profile is now about as beige and un-informing as Price Waterhouse's press secretary. (A little too Dennis Miller of me? It's an NDN thing.)

I definitely did not go head to head with this one; I simply lied and said I had a wonderful boyfriend that worked as a translator for the FBI. I don't like lying, but I like the idea of being eaten alive a lot LESS, so I ran with it.
Not all theories work on all people.

*Please use caution if you attempt to apply Nast-ysics to any of your own life situations. Deductive reasoning and sane responses are never a given, especially in a world that has online discussion groups for Cannibalism. Shame on Yahoo!

Nast-ysics 4/14/08

"I was crazy back when being crazy really meant something." - Charles Manson

I was once asked by someone dealing with a stalking situation on how I'd handle it, as I have, unfortunately, been bothered by a plethora of kooks - male and female.

My reply instructed her to act crazier than the stalker. This, according to my own goofball version of physics that I came up with during the years that I read books like "The Tao of Physics", "Alice in Quantumland", and saw films like "Mindwalk" (which is playing this month on Showtime and Flix if you haven't seen it), was the most satisfying way to go.

"Nast-ysics" * includes, among many, the theory that two crazies cannot occupy the same space. There is always the CRAZY and the person who enables or puts up with CRAZY, but ya rarely see two crazies together (outside of specific facilities that usually have "Haven" in their names, of course).

Even in bands, there is usually only one CRAZY and if they leave, one of the other members then assumes that role, presuming that they stay together, that is (Pink Floyd).

"I don't suffer from insanity, I enjoy every minute of it." - Angelina Jolie

When I lived in NYC, I saw CRAZY on a daily basis. I lived with it too; more than once, yeesh! One such freak show horded junk and insisted on being completely pants-less ALL of the time, and if you brushed your teeth in front of her, she recoiled like a vampire getting a crucifix enema. My teeth were never cleaner.

The streets of Manhattan are rampant with loonies, it wouldn't be the same if they left, I suppose. The religious gloom and doomers are especially entertaining (please don't take offense if you're religious, most of my friends are of some persuasion or another, but they aren't dogmatic ass holes that tell others how they should live, and I vociferously herald the same premise).

Many end-of-the-worlders in NYC have this notion that not everyone has heard of Jesus. It is quite possible that your DVR broke the night someone whispered his obscure name and told his tales, right? Maybe we've never heard of toilet paper either, fucking hell! Even my hardcore, snake handling, Baptist friends think these people have their heads up their proselytizing asses.

I was constantly accosted by this kind of batshit bonkers, but one event sticks out in my mind. I was on 42nd and 6th, when this young woman jumped in front of me all glassy-eyed, just reeking of CULT, and asked "have you heard of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior?" She tilted her head to the left almost violently, and then started to fondle her clipboard like it was made out of velvet, or money, perhaps.

I gently smiled and said (almost Phil Hartman-like), "I am Jesus".

"Well, we all have Jesus in us, but…" she laughingly began.

"No," I interrupted firmly, "I am Jesus! IIIIIII AM JEEEEEEESUS!"

My eyes widened as she slowly backed away and made for the intersection. I chased her about half way across Sixth Avenue screaming "I am the Resurrection and I am the Light", but she hauled ass in that floor length getup outrunning me as my platforms and heavy smoking did me no favors back then.

My theory worked though, I out-crazied her and have since seen mainly positive results using similar tactics. Online I've hit a few backfiring snags with one or two instances only stirring up more CRAZY, but overall it's proved to be, at the very least, amusing.

"I wouldn't recommend sex, drugs, or insanity for everyone, but they've always worked for me." - Hunter S. Thompson

*My first name is "Nastasya"

Fang the DJ 4/11/08

Almost the entire time I called NYC my home, I never went to a dance club. Given the choice, I much prefer to see live bands as I like to bounce my bones around to BASS in real time. The only thing comparable to watching someone pluck the low E and feeling it pulsate into you from the bottom of your hooves is actually being the one holding the pick.

I've played some venues where the stage had loose floor boards and every time I hit that E in close proximity to my rig, I would be catapulted into the air nearly crashing into a raging drum kit. How bizarre that would've been if I had pelted into the Ride cymbal at just the right angle and got decapitated. What a fantastic tale that would be for those who had witnessed such a thing: "Dude, she hit that low E and I caught her face! It was fucking amazing! I was hoping she'd throw me a pick, but hey man, turns out she gives head - for reals!"

This last winter (if you can call it that) I had things to get over (more than one thing, mainly I needed to get over myself), so I had to get out more. Tampa is so not NYC and it wouldn't be fair to even speak of them in the same sentence, I know, but I had to work with what is available to me. Live bands are a limited resource, good ones anyways, plus it was free in NYC and it's not here so one must invest wisely.

I like going out dancing but I bore so easily and I don't always have a drink. That seems to be key in tolerating the incessant sameness that Florida so graciously offers up. It progresses about as fast as a turtle on heroin. The dance options here play songs only if there is a video available to them, and the DJ's are about seven exits behind every city north of the Mason Dixon.

I should be a DJ, the control freak in me is certain of this. Not on the radio, I've been allowed to do so as a guest, but I don't have the nicotine soaked voice required to make a go of that. Whenever my yaps cross the airwaves, I sound like a female version of Butthead sans Beavis.

No, I want my own night at a dance club that will allow me to play tunes that one can dance to, but aren't necessarily DANCE songs. You can dance to Interpol, Vampire Weekend, and current Radiohead. Just not in Tampa, at least not that I'm aware of. Where is the NEW? Why can't you play something that isn't a "single"? Not everything the record company deems suitable for video is the best on the album dammit!

I'm not feeling the dance scene here at all, and I've not been out dancing that much in the last 2 months. I dragged myself out last night as it's nice to see friends but I was so fucking bored of the tunes that I spontaneously combusted at about 1 am - talk about self entertainment.

My charred, skeletal remains are thinking that even though I'm over things, I may need some hermit time. Maybe it's not boredom. Maybe I'm just not ready to be out there right now.

Ok, where's the chocolate?

Cursive 4/9/08

I'm in the most heinous of moods this week, I have a lot on my mind but I don't feel like yapping about it.

In fact, I'm feeling a tad anti-social yet, I wanted to get out last night. Since no one goes to see live bands here, I knew I could go out and catch a show and not have to chat and I was right.

I went to see a couple of bands that I have never heard of, or thought that I hadn't, from NY. I so needed a different venue to be pissy in, and I really wanted so see some musicians from the Northeast. Just CUZ. I'm glad I did too.

I got there as the second band was finishing up and my lack of sleep over the last week prevents me from recalling anything about them, so nothing there. While I waited for the last band, Nightmare of You, to set up, I played Galaga (got the high score AGAIN- I'm such a geek) and then sat by myself staring into space, dreaming up some new curses. Not like gypsy shit, but stuff I think of when I'm smiling with hate at someone after they've worked my last nerve and stabbing isn't an option:

May every beauty that speaks to you have the breath of an Nicaraguan bus driver's rectum after pulling a double in a vehicle with no A/C.

May your next condom be lined with sandpaper.

May you paper cut your penis (with photo quality paper).

May you wake up with an abundance of ingrown pubic (or nose) hairs.

May you be stuck in traffic on a bridge when the onset of the most fierce diarrhea overwhelms you.

Yeah I can't always be sweetness and light. =)

Okay, Nightmare of You, I liked 'em. What I liked was they know what VARIETY means, they can maintain a style without all the songs sounding the same and even though they don't bring something enormously unique to the table, they don't sound like that whole slew of bands out there now that I refer to as "brat" rock. Semi-whiney bratty singers that all sound the same.

I didn't realize that I did know one song by this band until they played it, "My Name is Trouble". Not bad. The bass player was very, very good. I love it when someone knows how to disco up the bass but can still DRIVE it home in the same song. The guitarist clearly is a fan of The Chameleons UK, effects wise, so some props there for taste. The drummer is new for them and you can tell he has a lot to learn about volume and the singer(who was quite charming) wasn't hiding that fact at all. Overall they were a treat live, not BRILLIANT, but I wasn't expecting as much.

They had a better turnout than most of the shows I've seen in the last few months, and the fans were REALLY into it, all 25 of them. That's fucking shameful, Tampa is…oh I had better not start on that. I feel a lot of words like "pretentious" knocking on the door. Let's not answer it.

NOY closed with an instrumental of "I Want You/She's So Heavy" by The BEATLES. F'Excellent.

The singer then announced, "Hey, if you want, my brother is selling our EP back there. OR you can go fuck yourselves."

I couldn't have said it better.

Oh to Be Berenice 4/7/08

Every once in a while you encounter a song that upon first listen, completely wrecks you. It's what I imagine love at first sight to be like, but with the ears.

"The Leavers Dance" by The Veils, a band from New Zealand, is the latest tune to rip me to shreds in this way. I can't turn it off.

I happened upon it because I was watching some new detective show starring this facially blessed guy from Denmark that looks a bit like a young Denis Leary. The pilot episode featured music by Death Cab For Cutie and The Decemberists, and we all know when the music is that good from the get-go, the show is bound to be cancelled. It'll probably be axed before I finish my next three thoughts and replaced with some sort of reality show starring anyone whose teeth color matches their hair.

One of the episodes featured "One Night on Earth", also by The Veils, but I couldn't find it when I went to put it on my myspace play list. Instead I found "The Leavers Dance", which I fell into repeatedly, and will continue to do so as if there is some hope of finding the answers to all my questions hidden away in those notes somehow.

I think I'd like to hear it while driving from Ann Arbor to Detroit, Michigan. I want it to be snowing and at night so it looks like you're driving through the dark bottom of the ocean.

The Veils' sophomore effort "The Runaway Found" contains the more widely known "The Tide that Left and Never Came Back", which I have somewhere, but it's not near as good as LEAVERS.

The vocals at times harken back to an even more gravelly sounding Tom Petty meets the Waterboys, which isn't adorable, but fitting. Especially for a line like "it's not for our desires but our design that we all fall apart". I'm in it for the guitars mostly, but it's all love. It really is.

I wish my name was "Berenice". =)

I Got the Blues 4U 4/5/08

I wouldn't say I'm a straight up fan of Blues, I mean, I like it well enough, I just don't really seek it out. The words, of course, are relatable on many levels, but a good chunk of the vocalists sound like they're singing from the bottom of a glass of scotch that is invariably chained to an ashtray forever. Some of the songs are about as long as the State of the Union Address, so for me it works pretty much as background music to a good conversation only.

I do, however, completely flip my wig over guitarists that know how to incorporate that warm, bluesy sound with a rock wall of fury. I'm all teeth when someone gets that mix down, my cheekbones hurt at the very thought of it (in a good way).

Hendrix, obviously, mastered this. To play that well alone would be exquisite enough, but to be able to sing while playing the F'AMAZING songs he crafted…oy just picture me raving on in Italian here with my arms flailing about. Better yet, picture a young Sophia Loren doing it instead, wearing a 1960's gold lamé cat suit and a black boa. (Ok, hands back where I can see 'em.)

Unfortunately, I can count on only one hand the number of guitarists that I have seen live that wowed me into a drooling glob of appreciation. Recording-wise there are too many to list, but I will say I still want to tear my clothes off every time I hear the guitar on "Standing Here" by The Stone Roses - or at least someone's clothes.

Today my DVR and I got married, and during the reception it played Jimmy Kimmel's show from a couple of nights ago, which featured a band called "Back Door Slam" from the UK. I kept my clothes on, but I was certainly impressed with this young three piece outfit, and the singer/guitarist was phenomenal. I won't lie as I don't care for his vocal style, but that cat could play! All three are very good musicians, but I'm always doubly impressed if someone can sing AND play lead that well.

They sound a bit like if Cream were sometimes Celtic and from New Orleans, but are certainly bluesier than anything I ever purchase. I probably won't buy anything off 'em, but if they hoof it this way, I'm so there.

You can check 'em out at http://www.myspace.com/backdoorslam, they're touring the west coast this week. I don't see any dates for Florida (what's new?), but if they add Tampa, you'll be sure to see me yapping about it here.

"Im gonna tear my hair out just for you. If you dont believe what I'm singing, at three oclock in the morning, babe, well
I'm singing my song for you." I Got the Blues -The Rolling Stones

(Myspace is f'd again so I can't put what I'm listening to, but I'm sure you guessed "Sticky Fingers", and you would be right. SWAY kicks every kind of ass there is.)

Hey Bay B 4/1/08

"Don't you remember you told me you loved me, baby? You said you'd be coming back this way again, baby. Baby, baby, baby, baby, oh baby, I love you. I really do." Superstar - The Carpenters

"Babe, it's time we give something new a try. Oh, alone we may fight so just let us be free, tonight. Through the storms and the light baby you stood by my side and life is wine." No I in Threesome - Interpol

I have never in my life called another human "baby" with a straight face.

If someone seriously referred to me as such, an ambulance would have to be summoned as I would probably be locked into fetal position and stuck in a permanent fit of laughter to the brink of dehydration.

I've been called several versions of "babe" and that doesn't faze me at all, but "baby", I don't know, it feels about as natural as having gargoyle feet might be (imagine the socks for such a thing and sandals would be OVER).

It's not so much that it smacks of pedophilia as it just sounds all gold jewelry and moustaches to me. The whiter you are, the worse it is. I think if you're Goth and say it, you get ex-communicated or something, I've heard.

In the context of song, it totally works, but it's never been a tool that I've opted to use. Some obviously pull it off better than others as it's textbook in most soul type of songs, but a rarity in "Modern Rock". At least by my count.

Despite it's use of "baby", I LOVE "No I in Threesome" by Interpol. It's been in heavy rotation on my IPOD for over 6 months and I never tire of it, EVER! I could give a shit about the lyrics on this one (I'm not a threesome kind of girl and don't aspire to be), but the melody, the music, the arrangement - all FLAWLESS right down to the rasp in his voice that you know is revealing the 57th punch in of the day. He could say "baby" throughout the entire song and I would still be floored by it.

Obviously, it's not always about the words, it can't be. The Brandenburg Concertos would never stand for it and neither would I.

"My first name ain't baby, it's Janet. Miss Jackson if you're nasty." Nasty - Janet Jackson

I'm Not Human, I'm Just Stuck in One 3/30/08

Are perfect strangers only perfect because we don’t know them yet?

Isn’t it great when perfect strangers say perfect things? A rarity, I know. It’s almost sad too.

Am I the only one that thinks the actor Owen Wilson is the blonde doppelganger of Trent Reznor (Nine Inch Nails)?

Does anyone else with lengthy thumb nails have trouble texting? Thumb nails double as guitar picks and under the chin pet scratchers, they are of value.

Why aren’t dental floss containers recyclable? I had an eco fit and tried to use "Tom’s of Maine" floss since it has the proper stamp on it but damn man, it practically leaves behind the makings for a hammock in your mouth(it shreds btwn your teeth). I’m an obsessive flosser, I will even floss after a cup of tea so I feel a smidge guilty about using enviro-pissy floss.

Too bad there is no such thing as "mental floss", oh wait, that’s vodka.

Currently listening : Porcupine By Echo & the Bunnymen

Callously Call Us Callused 3/28/08

Usage Note: Do not confuse the adjective callous, as in Years of dealing with criminals had left her callous, with the noun callus, as in I have a callus on my thumb. Also, do not confuse the verb callous, which means "to make or become callous," with the verb callus "to form or develop hardened tissue." - Dictionary.com

Last evening I had quite a few conversations with several different people. We discussed a variety of things, MUSIC (bien sur), heartache (I heard three tales of woe and told my own), synchronicity (man, I had a ton of coincidences happen later in the night, WEIRD), and RISK, which sort of factors into all of the above mentioned subjects.

RISK is defined as "exposure to the chance of injury or loss; a hazard or dangerous chance", which is pretty damn negative if you ask me. Aren’t you also exposing yourself to the possibility of personal gain, healing, and happiness as well? Is there a different word for that angle of RISK? My fogged up brain can’t think of one at the moment, so pardon me if one is available and I overlooked it.

There is an underlying defeatism that we’re taught from day one and it’s been sold to us under the guise of protection, but in the end it’s our worst enemy. It can be so limiting that we even feel the need to speak of RISK in hesitant terms, mainly to not look the fool or "jinx" things, if you will.

It’s strange how people often grip so hard to what they believe are statistical outcomes.

When you choose music as a career path, you are met with many a furrowed brow and no matter how talented you are, you will always be asked what "plan b" is by some buzz killer. If they don’t know anyone that makes a living that way, it’s just out of their scope of thinking. These people truly suck. They itch when they hear phrases like "reckless abandon" and they scowl from the inside out at the mere hint of passion over reason. They have lifetime subscriptions to complacency and are fixated on tea bagging oppression. Guarantees are absent in any profession, one car accident can affirm that.

There are no guarantees in love either. My one friend is clearly smitten with someone, but it’s a long distance thing and it seems like there is this careful propriety of how you even can speak about it, which I don’t get. So what if it’s risky? 95% of the people I know/knew that got involved in long distance relationships are married and happily so, and I really can’t fathom divorce ever factoring into their futures. 95% of the people I know/knew that got together under what is deemed "normal" circumstances are earnestly awaiting divorce papers or are vigorously anticipating the death of their significant other.

I didn’t bring my version of statistics to the table, but I told him to make a fist. Then I told him to open his hand. You can get scarred on either sides of your hands but the inside of an open hand is fleshier, more prepared for injury, and can even build up calluses for protection.

Anyone who plays a stringed instrument remembers the razor-like pain you experience when new strings first meet soft, virginal fingers. The ears’ demands must be met so the hands must persevere. Eventually, calluses form on your fingertips and there is a sweet numbness that is brokered between you and the strings as long as you remain committed to the pressing.

Calluses won’t form on the outside of your hand, though, so if you are more of the closed fist kind of person, you’re fucked(unless you wear boxing gloves the rest of your life). Fists are really only necessary in two instances: fighting and bizarre sexual acts that I can’t get my mind around. Try picking up something with your fist, it’s not very practical is it?

Open hands invite experience despite the consequences, and maybe those unclenched fingers can tickle RISK a little, whether it’s in dealings of the amorous or in doing what is meaningful to you.

"I Wanna Hold Your Hand" was the first song I ever heard, in my recollection. Nobody writes songs about holding fists.

Currently listening : ABBA - Gold: Greatest Hits By ABBA Release date: 21 September, 1993

Under the Coverz 2/22/08

I’m extremely picky about cover songs, it’s music snobbery protocol that all musicians follow, I imagine. Nothing brings out the arms-folded-across-the-chest stance more than when an original band whips out a cover tune.

Whether it’s a tribute to your influences or a way to show off your "chops", as it were, the choice of cover is very revealing. When playing out, I always made sure the covers were of something unexpected like The Sex Pistols’ "Pretty Vacant", or "Do It Clean" by Echo and the Bunnymen which is older and somewhat obscure to most people. Then, of course, you have to occasionally go with relevance by doing U2’s lesser known classic "Running To Stand Still" after a heroin addict steals a PA system from your practice space (it happens).

One of the best live covers I ever witnessed was Supergrass doing "Just Dropped In (To See What Condition My Condition Was In)". Phenomenal.

Most live cover blunders are forgivable, but when one RECORDS a cover, oh I shiver just thinking of what can only be described as audio STAINS that some bands have offered up under the guise of "modernizing" a song.

Recorded covers of The Beatles’ songs should not be allowed without my approval. You can’t ever do The Beatles better than they did, EVER! It’s sort of sacrilege to let your tiny pea brain consider that you can even attempt such an endeavor. I’ve heard some recordings that don’t entirely piss me off (Candyflip’s dance version of "Strawberry Fields Forever" comes to mind), but I stand by the premise that outside of the former band members themselves, only George Martin can update their work via the studio.

If I ever hear of anyone redoing "Hung Up on a Dream" by The Zombies, or the Stones’ "Child of the Moon", I will most certainly be personally overseeing their sadistic execution - leave PERFECTION alone!

I threw up a little in my mouth when I heard Sia’s version of Radiohead’s "Paranoid Android", not only did it feel "too soon", but it also emanated the desire to slap that Anna Nicole-like vibrato right out of her quivering throat. Who allowed this? If only there was legal recourse one could pursue when their eardrums are violated thus.

Ok, so yeah, a cover can make people really hate ya, but it can also make someone respect you a little too.
This was the case with Pearl Jam, whom I’ve never been a fan of but I stumbled across their live version of "Throw Your Arms Around Me" by the Hunters and Collectors. It’s an old song that I really, really dig, so PJ gets semi-props for that one.

Covers of The Velvet Underground’s stuff have most always been alright with me, especially Nirvana’s rendition of "Here She Comes Now". I completely lose my shit every time he hits that higher octave bit. The build up...I wish I knew some compliments in Italian as I feel that language would properly exude more passion in describing it.

Obviously, Hendrix did Dylan just fine. Radiohead can do whatever they want and I’ll probably lick it up, geeze… there are so many great ones, I couldn’t possibly get to them all here. I’ve put a few on my profile play list, Ben Gibbard’s version of "They Don’t Know" is awesome. He must’ve been spying on me because I play it that same way, fucker! Stephen Malkmus (of Pavement fame) also did an ok version of my favorite Dylan song "Ballad of a Thin Man", it’s on there too.

The cover you do is a layer you put on a work that was considered finished by somebody else at some point, so don’t leech, it’s much more admirable to add something. Take a sad song and make it better. =)

Currently listening : VU By The Velvet Underground Release date: 25 October, 1990

Needle and the Damage Done 3/19/08

Nope, it’s not about the infamous Neil Young song.

I had some blood taken a couple of weeks ago and I went in for the results this afternoon.

I hate needles, I hate blood, and I especially HATE pain of any kind. I know some people get off on pain, but I definitely don’t ride that bus. Tickle? Yes. Slap? Hell no! I’ll take some tenderness with a drop of gentility, thank you very much.

OK, the phlebotomist who had previously removed my life flow was awesome. Mosquitoes are more invasive, so kudos to her! Unfortunately, the results revealed several vitamin deficiencies and I had to get an IV of what is called a "Meyer’s Cocktail". Cocktail? Yes. IV? Oooooh nooooo.

I was a little more than perplexed, as the nurse who was going to stick me had an undecipherable, deep southern accent and she could not stop hacking. One false cough during her quest for a vein could land me the lead story on tonight’s local news - "Distraught IV victim beheads pregnant nurse with her IPOD but SAVED THE BABY! See how she did it at 11!"

I would have a better chance at discovering true love at a KKK rally than this woman did at finding a vein. I didn’t cry but my top lip disappeared as I started to tell her, through my oh so clenched teeth, that I needed the smallest needle they have. SIZE DOES MATTER in this case. She assured me this was the smallest and proceeded to stab at me with the finesse of a three year old making mud pies.

"Weelllll," she drawled, "lets try the hand." OMFG I’m trapped in "Hellraiser Part DUH: The Hick’s Revenge"!!! YOUCH!!! It was in - we thought.

I sat back and got lost in Damian Kulash’s voice until something felt weird.

"Hey, should my hand be all cold and sting-y and making me feel the need to chop it off?" I yelled.

A vehement wall of "No’s" shot back as some other nurses rushed over to stop the beginning of what looked like a very unhappy hand about to give birth. The needle wasn’t in right and was shooting fluids under my skin and they had nowhere to go so they just sat around stinging and swelling until further notice.

New nurse said she couldn’t understand why OLD nurse didn’t use the smaller needle. I then requested a pen so I could begin my suicide note.

She started over on the other arm, THIS time with a children’s needle (insert every expletive known here).

It was in and she ordered me not to move, as if THAT’S what happened. I didn’t move, as hard as that is when one is listening to "Oxford Comma", instead, I mentally plotted to relocate to Austria. It just seemed like the thing to do.
The physical pain was over, finally, and I would take it any day over the mental pain you get with heartache and loss. Luckily, I’m not dealing with anything like that right now and I’ll try to remember that next week when I have to go back for the next one. UGH!

Currently listening : Oh No By OK Go Release date: 30 August, 2005

Paper Plane Evolution 3/13/08

In my last entry I briefly touched on how what a song means to you can evolve depending on the circumstances you hear it in.

For instance, the song "Paper Planes" by M.I.A., which I heard out dancing and my first thought was "Oh great another song about some gold digging whorebag". I didn’t yet realize the lyrics were about hustling in general, not just another deadbeat chick playing some fool for his money, as if that makes a huge difference.

The next time I heard it, I was dancing with Dan the man and yapping about how it clearly ripped off The Clash’s "Straight To Hell" and anyone who knows me knows I’m a little rabid about The Clash. The song was growing on me a little, I’ll admit, and for some reason I pictured Mick Jones and the late Joe Strummer being ok with it’s, shall we say, "usage" of their back catalog.

Being blitzed the next time I heard it made it more fun, plus I was dancing with blonde Robert (I met him thru Mark, who I thought was great but I get the impression he would rather drink a gallon of West Virginian trucker’s pee than be in my company). Blonde Robert is fun and friendly, it’s no shock that whenever I see him, some young chippies are all over him.

I finally downloaded the damn song and was playing it in the car when Candy, her husband Py, and I were on our way out. I’m not all into UFO’s but I swear we saw something ablaze in the sky and it wasn’t a shooting star. I have no clue what it was but it fell to the ground slowly, looking sort of like a detached wing of a plane that was on fire and reluctantly descending to earth only because it had nothing better to do. I checked the news, but nothing.

The last time I danced to the song was with this guy, whom I’ve referred to as "Perfection", and it turns out he has the IQ of a staple gun. =(

I know exposure is more likely the reason most people can even stand half the songs that are out there and this particular song doesn’t warrant any special attention as it’s shelf life is definitely limited. It has no brain licking lyrics or brilliant guitar work, just a good beat and enough character to lay some memories on. It fills in for when the great songs are taking a break as it’s hard work being a classic. They need some occasional time off, I suppose.

The soundtracks of our lives can’t always be meaningful, but it’s interesting to see where a piece has taken you, good or bad.

Currently listening : Clash on Broadway By The Clash Release date: 08 February, 2000

Keep Your Eyes Ahead 3/12/08

I was in the other room last night when I first heard "Keep Your Eyes Ahead" by Helio Sequence, and from that distance I mistakenly thought it was Ian Brown, who is the former lead singer of the much cherished (at least by me), but now defunct, Stone Roses.

I dashed to the source, got informed, and was a bit surprised as I had previously thought HS were sort of a fly by night computerized band. They definitely made a better second "first impression" on me and I really dig that.

I love it when I’m wrong about something in a good way, you know where you think something sucks but it’s better than you thought? As opposed to thinking something is better than it actually was, which usually applies more to people stuff than music. A song is rarely misrepresenting itself now is it?

A song is a song is a song, you get to decide what it is for you, and hopefully the meaning will remain incorrupt or get even better with every occasion you attach it to.

I’ve had songs ruined for me though, as one should never play the good stuff for someone you are into until you are SURE (as much as one can be). I soured a good batch of songs that way, but I’m optimistic that I’ll get them back somehow, someday.

I was out last night and the DJ played "Are You Gonna Be There?" by the Chocolate Watchband (one of the greatest band names EVER) and aside from one other person I used to know, I’ve never met anyone that even heard of ’em let alone played ’em out in public (at my goading of course), so that was cool.

I was listening to a great 60’s tune whilst getting my highest score ever on a great 80’s video game (GALAGA). Puts a nice new spin on the song, I’d say.

Sometimes I’m pretty easy to please =)

Currently listening : Keep Your Eyes Ahead By The Helio Sequence Release date: 29 January, 2008