inexplicable and unfortunately not brusque music reviews

the encroaching ravages of age invariably makes me more and more out of touch with the youth of today. thusly, i present my feeble attempts to stay culturally in the know.

the cribs - men's needs:
i attempted to listen to their other songs, and briefly skimmed the pitchfork review. meh. i'm not sure why i like this song, but i think the bass line sort of reminds me of severin's upside down ( i dunno why, as i haven't had a record player in a year and have no idea what the song sounds like any more, even though i probably wore out the groove on that side of the 7"). also, the vocals are sort of okay. the video is dumb and a little gross. the naked girl makes me think of the episode of the two coreys i watched the other day, where feldman's wife had some peta honcho over for dinner and she had red hair and kind of looked like this girl we'd see at fuzz club sometimes? i'm stupid. moving on...

i like trashy dance music that reeks of youthful twenty-somethings coked up and revamping 80's outfits, sweating to the future's oldies with $7 drinks clutched in the air while the cd dj "spins" his tunes. it follows that last year's mstrkrft street justice was a hit on my headphones, and that i am newly enamored of justice. you can wikipedia that shit, or you can suffer through a banal three-part swedish documentary in french with swedish subtitles and english with french subtitles or something, where anyone under the age of twenty-five thinks the paris club style sprang artemis-like from i dunno, the god of techno's head or something. whatever. *eyerolls*
if you get far enough, there's an interview with uffie, who is basically some sort of rich dumb party girl.

i got nothing. critique be damned, i'm going to get drunk and put on my dancing shoes.

no more slime in the ice machine

RIP Marvin Zindler: charismatic tv personality, sort-of neighbor, and republican donor

oh dear

i guess i'll have to buy this for someone before they get back.
yiffys and fashion are, improbably, even creepier when combined.

old

these pictures, i don't know. it is like a headache, one that you get at beauty bar when the dj sucks and the band sucks and you get two drinks at a time so that you won't have to wait thirty-five minutes in line for a while, and you go outside because it's too crowded inside, but the patio is crowded too, and you recognize people who were dressed perfectly normally five years ago, but have taken the greasy douche look to heart and there's nothing that makes me more twitchy and grossed out than necklaces partially obscured by chest hair. oh, and "old" people our age dressing as though they were twenty and lived in new york. like so: what will they wear next? better yet, when will they shower next?

for john

the third-rate emo band.

*cackles*

blech

all you guys' macro shots of bugs are gross. i want to make with the smushing. hence, the aggies' guide to identifying and killing them. although i think you'd all find the aggies' pictorial guide to bugs and some nature guy's separate galleries of texas bugs, lizards, beetles, spiders, moths, and caterpillars more helpful than me with a rolled-up newspaper.

p.s. i think the spider we saw at dylan's work was the silver argiope, the one we said was bigger than my hand.

yar and stuff

tonight is a night of bromance here at my house. the boy has a man-date from work over here, and they are both popping their homebrew cherries. i'm glad i've procrastinated today's post until now, for nothing glazes my eyes and sends me into a catatonic state more than talk of how to brew beer. i just want to drink it. i don't care where it comes from, whether it's free-range or brought up in a veal cage. the dog is being cute though. she keeps going in and out of the bedroom to see what he and his date are doing (and probably to smell his leg some more. how embarrassing (now "em-barr-assing" is going through my head much like ciara/rihanna/whoever's "um-ber-ella". great.)) i may run off to dan's if they start making out on the couch later.

anyway. today must be the day of the month when homeless old men lie around on the ground. i got off the bus this morning and there was a hobo (i like saying hobo, even though i know perfectly well none of them are going anywhere) lying in the middle of the crosswalk at 16th and guadalupe. his younger friend was sitting on the bus bench, holding both their bags. maybe it's cobra for hobo yoga? he kept getting up and falling down, gettin' uu-uu-uu-up. who'd fall in love with a hobo who's all fucked up? (sorry) i tried to walk away, but the old lady smokers at the atty gen's garage were all concerned, so i promised and followed through on telling the first state trooper (if they were dollars on the ground, i'd be rich!) about the magical collapsing hobo. sigh. the snake i saw on that walk a couple months ago was much more interesting, because it was the height of teenage chick season and all the birds (mostly sparrows) were flipping out and attacking and generally being a nuisance. the best part about that was a female grackle that followed it and hopped around, trailing it underneath a parked car and standing below the undercarriage, watching it as it went up into the transmission and (all the other bits i don't know) shit. anyway, two occasions make a day, as we went to walgreens on tEh way home and as we were leaving, a hobo clone kept trying to stand up on the wet sidewalk using his cane, by the entrance, and falling. i still feel the bay area has hardened me to the point where more than ten years later, i say fuck 'em, if i see a homeless person struggling. i agree that i'm a bad person, but you also have to at least concede that, because of reagan, there's no place to put them and many fewer resources with which to help them (and i will never choose to help anyone but the functional blind and deaf at most. i don't have compassion enough to birth myself a child, let alone help someone less abled figure out what the fuck's going on. that's my day-to-day struggle. sheee-it. and yes, my only therapist visit ever included as a humorous postscript a homeless guy asking me if i was born ugly or i made myself that way. thanks for asking. oh wait. you weren't asking me that at all. you're a homeless person who uses a word chart and your pointing finger to communicate and somehow you have an electric wheelchair and you're actually ASKING ME TO SIT ON YOUR LAP. i thought you needed something. fuck you. i can't believe someone who can't even leer verbally is creeping me out.) yeah, i have issues. and yes, differently-abled sex drives is one of them. NEW TOPIC.

oh gee. i'm drunk now. the mandate is married to a massage therapist, and they enjoy les baxter, etc. at home. my social interlude was musically deep...-ish. and i'm supposed to meet her now, eventually. insert socially appropriate grunt.

so anyway, i'm still at the point where i can't properly distill what i would like to use as a response to lord morgan, so you're going to get what i wanted to say days ago. um, tomorrow.

hi, i'm back from going out and drinking more and i don't know how to argue with an episcopalian seminary student (who is kind of drunk too) so i'm not going to. huh. i'll give you my talk later.

wheee!

well, since john is doing a relatively good job of updating frequently, i suppose i'll have to too. two.

i meant to bring you a quote from antoine de saint-exupery's book wind, sand and stars (or terre des hommes, if you espeaky french), but i'll share later. it seemed germane to some conversation i had this week. the book isn't too bad, memoir or no. imagine if roone actually logged a lot of hours in the heady young days of airplanes and wouldn't shut up about the majesty of flight, transcending gravity's chains, the physicality of becoming one with your machine and battling storms, etc. the english translation does a good job of imparting a similar stylistic sparseness to his voice, and off the bat you can immediately tell this is the man who wrote the little prince.

(since i've been browsing through this book, i've noticed there's a little nagging voice in the back of my head, asking me to elucidate why i prefer the desert-island-stranded- jimmy-corrigan to the little prince. i don't know. do you know?)

when he crashes in the sahara, he could have used a playa lake. even if it had been full of haterade, it would have still been something to drink.

also, i got all excited on the bus to work today (the rollercoaster's lowest point was when i initially got on and saw that not only was a passenger having a baseball conversation with the driver, but the crazy old bike-riding MR dude was on there) because i thought i saw a new wheatpaste style. then the intertubes told me, and i went to women and their work to check, that it was for some exhibit there. she's the one who does the latch-hook pornography rug things, if you've seen those at parts and labor. so boo. you will be able to identify these posters easily, as they look like a first-year art student's laborious copies of ugly cutesy posters they stole from a teachers' supply store. i'm sorry. i meant paraplegic first-year student. i'm probably being too harsh now.

my new weather theory is that whenever joolie has the day off, the weather behaves properly and the sun shines and the rain keeps to itself in some little alcove with a few issues of the new yorker for the day. ref. friday through today, for instance. good thing she has wednesday off.
also, i got a stupendous email today. the 84" gigaball is finally available online at target!



this would be so much fun. it's a drunken people hamster ball!