Get Fancy Get’s Job

“You work  three jobs? Uniquely American, isn’t it? I mean, that is fantastic that you’re doing that.” -George “f*cking” Bush

Okay, it’s been a while since I’ve had a proper job. The last one I had consisted of getting paid a lot of money for simply listening to music, writing about it, dicking around on the internet, hanging out with my friends, participating in three hour business meetings about the artistic merits of doom metal, and taking naps in the company bathroom. Shortly after, I did the same thing (more or less) from home. This went on for many years until the recession happened and a big round of bummers were delivered to inboxes everywhere.  Since then, I’ve been living on a strict diet of unemployment checks and wedding money to get by. Before you guys start cursing at me and saying how you’ve had things much worse, know that I’ve wasted the best years of my life in shitty job land. The only person that rivals my extensive list of “dumbest jobs ever” is my good pal, Sasha. I only say this because home-girl worked fast food. She also did her time at an ice cream parlor where a loud fire alarm would go off anytime there was a fire in Boston. Sa, am I even remembering that correctly? I swear it seems made up. You worked in a firehouse/ice cream joint, right? Was there ever really a time when that was okay?  Even by Boston’s low standards? The only job I’ve had that comes close to the hell associated with bloody, frozen knuckles and a fire alarm going off all the time would have to be when I worked at a coffeehouse in Omaha, Nebraska.  On my first day, the fat boss man threw an ice cream scooper at my head and called me a “dumb whore” when I politely inquired about our ice cream selection. In my defense, nobody even told me that we served ice cream. They were all too busy warning me about the cranky fat man with the dirty mouth. I’m embarrassed to admit that he did that kind of stuff all the time and I stayed at that job for like 5 months longer than I should have. I even stayed there when his son’s wife took over the kitchen and started serving dishes called “hamloaf.” Whatever. That job gave me zine material for an entire summer.

The future's so bright I gotta wear shades. Me on my porch circa 1994. Just another day of low wages and verbal abuse from the fat man.

My point to all of this is that I have more than done my time when it comes to working hard, getting paid nothing, and being treated like scum of the earth.  For over a decade, I’ve been writing “tool-for-the-man” on my taxes when asked about my occupation. I’ve been a telemarketer, a cigarette girl, a barista, a bartender, a grumpy waitress, a retail slave, and an office monkey. I’ve shucked corn, cleaned toilets, cleaned popcorn machines, worked in warehouses, kitchens, the ghetto, cubicles, elevators, windowless corners, my art school’s  graduation, and weekends on both Haight St. (gasp) and Union Square (double gasp!!). I’ve worn stupid uniforms and wigs – name tags and hair nets – and a big bow on my ass. A video store once fired me for my dark eyeliner and refusal to line dance (not even kidding) in the aisles while a telemarketing place just gave me a polite warning when they discovered that I spent the entire work day making up fake phone interviews while doodling cartoons of my co-workers on the table.

I have also (hangs head in shame) worked at Tower Records (twice in two different countries) and (hangs head even lower) worked for Ken Sarachan of Rasputin Records. If you thought the boss that called me a “dumb whore” was bad, I challenge you to spend two minutes in the company of Ken. He’s practically a villain in a twisted comic book and I’m almost positive that there are entire websites devoted to what a dickhead he is. If there aren’t any, I may just change this blog to “Seriously, Ken?!!! Why are you such a dickhead?!!!” I actually have enough stories to keep that blog going for at least two years. You guys have no idea. Entire friendships have blossomed over what a jerk that guy is. Don’t get me started.

This isn't over, Ken "dickhead" McDickface.

Ahem. Where was I? Work, of course. As some of you know, I finally got a job. I know. Whoopee! The recession is officially over! A college educated female with an impressive resume  finally landed a job in Portland, Oregon after only looking for an entire year. Before you financial analysts get too excited, I actually make half of what I made at my last job and I work twice as many hours. Truth is, I make less than what I made in the nineties.  Do you know how long ago the nineties were? Umm, it was a long dang time ago.  Clinton was president and I’m pretty sure people only used the internet for porn back then.  I refuse to complain, though. Given that most people in Poortland can’t even get a job as a barista, I’m lucky I found a job, especially a “cool” one. Whatever that means.

My job. Sort of.

Even though it’s all guys that work here, I like everyone (including the boss) and it never feels like work. Basically I’m getting paid to listen to rare 45’s. It’s an audiophile’s dream, people.  The only part I don’t like is the staying awake and staying put in one place for longer than 7 hours. That part sucks. Man, why is it so hard to do that? I don’t care how great your job is, it’s hard work to physically be at work. Even more exhausting is the amount of caffeine required to do so. I’m not exaggerating when I compare it to going on a cross country road trip.

Cross country road trip or going to work?

Clearly the piles of energy drinks and coffee cups littering the office are an indication that my co-workers seem to agree with me on that one.  I even hear them talking about where to get the most potent forms of energy drinks.  Seriously, people. You would think that we were a team of computer techs working the night shift or something. Do we all really need extra doses of taurine just to get through an 8 hour day of listening to music? Have I really had two soy cappuccinos before noon? Am I really considering getting a third one?

Uh-huh.

Friends assure me that this too shall pass. They claim numbness will replace my longing for caffeine as I slowly succumb to the dull, treacherous monotony of work. Foodstuff will no longer have flavor while I spend meaningless lunch breaks yawning over Facebook quizzes and Googling ergomatic posture tips.

In the meantime, I will enjoy yet another cup-a-energeeeeeeeeeeeyyyyy and the familiar burning in my stomach from another honest day of work.  You know, I should really get that burning checked out. Too bad I don’t have health insurance.

How uniquely American of I.

35.

The only thing I hated more than that part in the “Breakfast Club” where Allison gets a makeover is that part in “Pretty In Pink” where Iona goes from this…

to this…

A pearl necklace pretending to be a bolo-tie?!!! Are you friggen kidding me?!!

Perhaps I’m being melodramatic but that scene ruined the entire movie for me. I was an impressionable preteen when I watched “Pretty In Pink” and it was important for me to believe that there were “cool” grownups in the world with awesome record collections and funky hair. I needed to know that you don’t get boring with age — that you don’t have to blend in to make it — that you could trust people over the age of 35. Looking back now, Iona’s character was probably closer to 27 but you guys get my point.

Anyway, I’ve been thinking about that scene a lot this week. Turning 35 and getting married in the same month can really make a girl feel old. While you’ll never find me wearing a pearl necklace disguised as a bolo-tie to fit in, I have become mildly obsessed with owning an impossibly chic, “age appropriate” wardrobe. Am I officially becoming a “put-together” lady?

Tina Chow

Siouxsie Sioux

Maya Deren

Renee Perle

Anais Nin

Francoise Hardy

Katherine Hepburn

Linda Evangelista

Tilda Swinton

Nancy Cunrad

PJ Harvey

Holly Golightly

You know, as long as I get to keep my awesome record collection, I think I’m pretty cool with that.

Now With More Fancy

Where does the time go? It seems like only yesterday I was an unemployed 34-year-old just going through the motions. Now look at me. I’m all 35 today, married, and starting a job in a few weeks. I also bought a fancy new printer. Umm, that’s the recipe for a fast track to success, my friends. So what if my income is going to be half of what I made at my last job. So what if my student loan payments start up again.  So what if we spent all of our wedding gift money on crappy food in Goonies Island.

The Goonies 'R NOT' good enough for me.

I’m unstoppable. A hiphop-potamus… my lyrics are bottomless.

Seriously, though. I wish we still had some of that wedding gift money.

Update.

You guys, digital cable with HBO is AWESOME!!!! Why didn’t anybody tell me?

Don’t Judge.

Uh, oh. You guys, we just got digital cable with HBO.

Umm, we’re going to get sooooo, so FAT.

As my wise friend Chris would say.

Fuck it.

Jarvis and Automne Together At Last.

Good grief, you guys. I really need to Get Fancy again.  It’s criminal how little I’ve been posting these days. What can I say? I’ve been planning a wedding, fighting about religion, defending gay rights, and feeling pretty overwhelmed at my other blog, Our Punk Rock Wedding. Today I find comfort in Get Fancy’s stale, familiar, but ample bosom. I think I’m going to hide out here for a while, if that’s okay with you guys.  Umm, how is everyone? Good. Good. Uhh, crazy about Michael Jackson, huh?  Speaking of MJ, do you guys remember when Jarvis Cocker did this?

Those were some wild, sexy times, my friends.  Hey, speaking of Jarvis Cocker, there’s a facsinating feature on him in SOMA magazine this month. You know who else is in SOMA magazine this month? Me. That’s right, dear readers. The very talented Anthony Georgis took a bunch of pictures of Portland musicians. You can find all of us in the Street Pulse section talking about music. You guys should really pick up a copy or just read it online.  I’m the saucy looking one with the wrinkled dress. Of course.

xoxo

Automne

Rock The Vote.

You guys, I entered a contest on Rock ‘n’ Roll Bride for my fiance and I to win a free photoshoot with Tinywater Photography. To my total surprise, we were one of the three finalists picked.  I know, crazy. Anyway, I love all of the couples that they chose (especially the first one) so I won’t be sad if we don’t win or anything. If you do want us to win, click on www.rocknrollbride.com and write your vote in their comments section. As of now, we are getting our asses BEAT by the more nubile couples. It’s slightly embarrassing. Show us a little love, my dears.

Yesterday Was So Weird.

RIP, Pop Culture.

Three Days, Two Shows, One Barbecue, 100 Wedding Invites, 13 Shots Of Whiskey, And No Sleep

Take Me To The Other Side

Can somebody please explain to me why kids stopped dancing at all ages shows? Does it have something to do with the invention of the iphone? Seriously. If I wanted to be around a bunch of socially uptight stiffs, I would have stayed on the other side with the drinks and the grownups. I left my people and MY whiskey behind because I was counting on you kids to dance. That’s the only reason us grown ups have things like all ages shows. We let you in because your enthusiasm is contagious. When did you lose your contagious enthusiasm? Why are you all standing there — creeping me out with your back acne and complicated cell phone devices?  Do you know how annoying that is? Do you know how much it sucks to be in a band and gaze at an audience of camera phones? Is this the future? I know your stupid phones are your eyes but do they have to be your brains as well? Not meaning to sound like the bitter geriatric elephant in the room BUT back in my day, kids danced. We danced and made eyes with each other and got dirty. Do kids even make eyes with each other anymore? Do you just text your eyes to the person across the room? I’m a little confused. Oh, and while I’m at it — don’t think for one second that you’re going to push your way in front of me  so you can take ANOTHER picture. Not going to happen. I’m a professional and I know every move to obstruct you. You see this? I’m a head banging Mick Jagger who just got their “Crunk Dancing For Beginners” DVD in the mail. I’ve been waiting all week to practice my sick moves. Unless your chubby arm is challenging me to a dance off, get it away from my fucking head. You already have enough pictures for your Facebook page. We get it. You went to a show… AND DIDN’T DANCE! And another thing, why are all of you so desperately out of shape? I’m an older person wearing heals. You guys are nubile, wearing flip flops, and acting put out by the effort involved in standing. You know, you wouldn’t have to shift your weight on each leg so much if your legs were in a perpetual state of movement called “DANCE.”

Man, you’re all a bunch of pillows. PILLOWS!

To all those teenagers that still make shows fun, I salute you.  As for the rest of you…

My Inner 13 Year Old

I don’t care that you look like ridiculously underfed mall rats at an Edward Gorey convention or that your hair is porn for  emo kids.

Don't you just want to punch them in their mouth parts?

I also don’t care that “Strange House” sounded like Screaming Lord Sutch trapped in a tin can. Honestly, I kind of like that.

I get that you’re not reinventing the wheel and that the bands you mimic did it better 25 years ago. Umm, got that memo the other day. Totally saw those bands and have the unflattering t-shirts to prove it. Whatever. I also get that the NME’s obsession with you is kind of annoying but that’s not really your fault, is it?  I know there are a million reasons why I should quit you but I can’t. Truth is, I can’t stop playing your new record.  Seriously. “Primary Colours” sounds like The Psychedelic Furs and Clan of Xymox beating the shit out of My Bloody Valentine.  Last time I checked, that was my favorite sound EVER.  By the way, when did you start listening to my Jesus And Mary Chain records? Were you even alive when “Darklands” came out?

All I’m trying to say is, well played. I didn’t know how hungry I was for “Winklepicker shoegazer rock” until this week.

I can’t wait to stare at my shoes during your show on Sunday. I hear The Kills will be there, too.

“I want to go to that.”

Etsy, Etsy, Etsy, ETSY, Etsy! Why must you torture me? You know I’ll never have a comma in my bank account.

How am I ever going to have a good night’s sleep again KNOWING that this is not my bedroom…

… and that is not my bed.

Available from Attila Designs.

I think I’m in love.  Love costs $9,600.

Seriously.

Our plates are already FULL of shitty tasting worry balls.  Do we really need to get served a big ol’ pile of  pig man flu?

Good grief, world.

ENOUGH!

A man wears a decorated protective mask as he talks on his cell phone in downtown Mexico City, Monday, April 27, 2009. A fatal strain of swine flu has been detected in Mexico while the virus has been confirmed or suspected in at least a half-dozen other countries.

That said, decorated flu masks are going to be huge this summer. Etsy sales, here I come.

Luv Roolz, Science Droolz

April 11th, 2009

Aw, Portland. You can be such a lovely place in the spring time. What couple wouldn’t want to spend their anniversary in your flowery bosom?

Us, apparently.                                                         *record scratches*

Me hungry. Me eat rainbow. You no have rainbow anymore! Bwargh!

Even though you have trees and flowers as far as the eye can see, Graham and I always seem to end up in areas like this while celebrating our undying love for each other.

If there's not a fence, graffiti, train track, pile of garbage or urine smell, we want nothing to do with you.

To give you a bit of background on our relationship, Graham and I didn’t hit it off until we ran into each other during a gigantic war protest  in San Francisco.  I can’t remember if we were talking about how I almost got arrested or about how he actually did get arrested.  All I do remember is that I saw him in a different light that day.  Nothing brings bitter strangers closer together than a love for activism and a hatred for the President’s shitty mistakes. Thanks, Bush!

Our kisses made the papers. FACT!

A few nights later, we were at a party and ended up playing spin-the-bottle on a dirty kitchen floor.  The sparks were flying all over the place and we had our first date a few weeks later. Even though we lived in one of the most romantic cities in the world, we chose to spend our date with the hookers and trannies  in the Tenderloin.

That’s a no-brainer, kids.

One of the highlights of that date happened at the Edinburgh. I was drinking whiskey and an actual stink bomb went off as we discussed a fascinating tale involving  a friend crapping their pants.  Oh, the magic of true love. The wonderment. You come with a soundtrack AND a scratch and sniff sticker.

“Umm, You had me at ‘he crapped his pants’ darling.”

After fleeing the stink bomb, we spent the rest of the evening at a dive bar and kissed each other in a dirty alley off of Polk St.

Two-toned hair was big that year. I still have the dress I wore.

That was six years ago. This year, the two of us decided to bring a bit more class to our love-fest.  I decided that we should spend the day at the Science Museum.  The only thing I love more than a good dive bar is SCIENCE.  Unfortunately, I completely forgot that we don’t live in NYC or London or San Francisco or LA or the moon.  We live in Portland. Have any of you ever been to the Science Museum in Portland? Getting there was our first challenge.  We don’t drive.

Lost, confused, and posing on "Suicide Hotline" bridge.

Before you get to Science Land, why not relax and enjoy some of the amenities in Ninja Metal Anarchy Land.

After walking on a gravel road, we came upon the great OMSI. At last!

“Hey, wait a minute!” *record scratches*

You guys, the OMSI SUX!  This is what $22 will get you?

We left after an hour and it rained on us.  It always rains on us whenever we do anything. Ever. Always. Whatever. We still had the evening.

In our grown up clothes.

Graham surprised me with the grown up task of making reservations at an Indian restaurant.  I’m going to try to ignore the part in the evening where our cheese bread tasted like ball sweat or how our old landlord called and I drunkenly called him back but thought I was calling my voice mail  and the poor man kept going “Automne, is that you? Automne. Hello? Hello?” while I went “Omigod! David must be so stoned.  In his message he keeps calling my name.  What does he want? What a weirdo. He’s sooooo stoned.”

If I made a cell phone commercial, that would be it.

No, I’m going to ignore all of that and cut to the part where Graham took me to the Tony Starlight Show.  We had never been and it seemed like something you would do on a date.  Like everything else that night, there was  total confusion when we got there. We weren’t even sure if we’d see the show. The hostess put us on a piano bench next to the door and tried to see what she could do.  We felt like security guards sitting there.

Ids, please.

When we did finally get a seat with the grown ups and the normals, the show went a little like this…

I don’t know. After about a half an hour and four glasses of wine, I started getting a little drunk and surly. I may or may not have  used my out loud voice about the man next to us that ordered three candy beans for $10.  I may or may not have thought that he was Ralph Nader. I may or may not have wondered how Ralph Nader could afford such candy beans. This is the reason Graham and I never do well in nice places.  My out loud voice always ruins stuff. Anyway, a little bit before midnight, Graham and I left.  I wasn’t sure where we were going until…

… he got on his knee and proposed to me on a dirty street.

It was romantic, punk, and totally perfect.

And I said, “yes. “

The Danzig Book Club

Hey, Portland! Somebody Lied To You Part 1

It’s April and the sun is finally out. FINALLY.  When I was walking back from my radio show, it looked like 8 new bars had just sprouted from the ground.  I can only presume perpetual rain makes bars bloom more in the springtime.  Spring also makes people wear dumb shit and do dumb things … which brings me to my latest column, “Hey, Portland! Somebody Lied To You!”

Oh. Meh. Gawd.

1.  Portland, Portland, Portland. It’s Monday and not even noon yet.  Why are you so wasted?  Are bars open at 7am now? Why are you peeing in the street? What are you drinking? You smell terrible.  Are you hiring?

2. For the love of God, can you Burning Man clown people leave the park already?  It’s not fair that my dog can get a $200 ticket for frolicking in the grass  but you idiots get to roam around off leash in your stupid stilts.  Can we get a no clown zone in this city? I can’t look at your stupid bikes anymore. Seriously. Do I have to become mayor and kick you all out? I’ll do it. I’ll totally do it.  Go back to clown island or Black Rock Desert or whatever circle of hell you fire juggled in.

3. Gentlemen, I know your feet must be terribly hot but sandals are vagina repellent.  Trust me on this.

While I’m at it, please stop with the manpris or hepris or whatever the kids are calling ugly these days.

When in doubt, wear pants. It's not summer yet.

4. Ladies, well played. Your sundresses are adorable, your shoes make sense and I can’t see your tramp stamps. Don’t blow it.

5.  Everyone else, I can’t believe you got that tattoo. I already miss jacket season.

You’re welcome!

Market Research

Here are the ten most common search engine terms people use to get to my blog.

1. gwen paltrow naked

2. chuck bass drunk

3. naked gwyneth paltrow

4. john stossel

5. naked paltrow

6. naked grandma

7. fattest roller derby girl

8. smurfette tattoos

9. cynthia mcfadden ugly dress

10. bad moomin

Cheer up, my dears! I just know you’ll find those naked pictures of Gwyneth Paltrow some day!

Your Cake Could Be A Little Gayer.

When I was a little girl, my first fight with a friend was about religion.  We were both playing on the swing set and she told me that her religion was right and that mine was wrong.  Not understanding the differences (her family were Christian and mine were Catholic) I argued that they were the same.  Who was she kidding? We both had to go to church every Sunday. We both had to read the Bible.  We both had mangers in our living rooms during Christmas  and Jesus paraphernalia on the walls.  Both of us knew that you shouldn’t kill or steal or be a jerk.  They just had different names is all. Seriously.  Potato, potawto, tomato,   tomawto...  Ugh.  She wouldn’t hear of it.  I ended up running back home to ask my parents who was right.  After my mother carefully explained the differences, I was left feeling even more bewildered than before.  The differences didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. Why was my friend so sure of herself? From what I understood, as long as you were a decent person,  it didn’t matter what you called yourself. What was my friend’s problem?  Why did she think that she was a better person than I because of her religion? That girl was a spoiled brat that never shared.  I was generous and polite.  Was religion really that important? Were mean people just using it because it was the only way they could get into heaven? This was a lot to mull over.  I had an existential meltdown. There were just too many cooks in Kitchen Jesus.  Just because their cake recipe had a little more vanilla in it didn’t change the taste that much.  It’s still cake.  Put some damn frosting on it and shut up already.  While you’re at it, it wouldn’t hurt to try that yummy raspberry tart the Buddhists are whipping up next door.

Look at how well fed and hapy he is? That tart must taste AMAZING! YUM!

From that point on,  I had my doubts about religion. My mother tried her best to raise my brother and I as Catholics but I didn’t like the flavor of it.  Church was a joyless experience.  Confession was an even bigger deal breaker because I didn’t have a whole lot to confess about.  Umm, I was 8.  I found myself having to lie about sins I thought an 8 year old would commit.  Seriously, people. What kind of trouble do  8 year old’s get in? Why would a child go to hell? What does the rosary have to do with that? Who wrote this stuff? Maybe I want to try a different recipe.  This cakes sucks.  I keep getting grief chunks stuck in my teeth.

What does your cake taste like?

When I was old enough to be given the choice about church, I chose not to go.  That was a no-brainer.  I’ll always love my mother for not forcing the issue on me.  In return, I’ve kept my mouth shut and tried my best to respect her beliefs. Generally we see eye to eye on most things.  She’s a liberal and a good person.  We do have one fight.  A big one. It’s a fight I’m very passionate about because it affects some of the people I love the most.  We fight about gay marriage. Every year. Almost always on Christmas.  Like Baileys and stomach ulcers, it’s a Christmas tradition.

Don’t get me wrong. My mother is not homophobic.  Like most older women, she thinks gay men are faaaaaaaaaabuloussssssssssss. She has no problem with people of the same sex having civil unions.  She just doesn’t want them using the term “marriage.”  She suggested the term “gayriage” as an alternative.  “Just not marriage.  Marriage is sacred. “

Sacred Marriage.

Rully? Are you kidding me? The concept of  marriage predates religion and political institutions. Catholics, Christians, Mormons, Muslims, WHATEVAH did not copyright marriage. Why are so many of them imposing their religious beliefs on everybody else? Atheists get married. Satanists get married. Scientologists get married. Agnostics get married.  Pagans and Wiccans get married. Lots of people with different belief systems do it every day – for various reasons – and they don’t have special names for it. Can we PULLEEEEEEZ leave chromosomes and your religion out of the debate?

Dear Supporters of Prop 8,

What legally makes straight people different from gay people? Was Prop 8  necessary? Are you that insecure? How did my gay friends and their gay friends’ big gay weddings in California harm any of your “sacred” heterosexual marriages? Seriously. What laws were being broken? Were you at those weddings? Did you see the love? The history? The joy? The chemistry?  Were you there when that joy was taken away from them? Are you going to explain to their kids why their love doesn’t count as much as your love? Why you think you’re a better parent? Are you going to explain to them why your definition of God is better?  Good luck with that.

Are you going to stop in California? It’s a big world, people. America didn’t copyright marriage. Does your God know that gays have been getting married in the Netherlands since 2001?  Has that harmed you? Did it make your marriage less valid?  Do you want to take the fight over there, too?  How about Canada? The Canadian Cabinet changed their definition of marriage in 2003.  It currently views marriage as a way to “publicly recognize a committed relationship between two adults. “

Two adults.

Very simple.  Is that definition too wild for you? Is it ruining the family dynamic? Does dinner taste different?  Is your life in danger?  Is your husband/wife going to divorce you?

What about transgender people? What about hermaphrodites? Will your God let them get married?

You know, gay people kiss each other. They kiss each other the exact same way you hetero folks kiss.  I would know.  Is that taking something away from your make-out sessions?  Is kissing less sacred now? Should it be called gay kissing?  You guys wanna whip up some Proposition to take that right away?

How about love? Do you have the copyright for that?

Mayor Newsom marries Lesbian activists Phyllis Lyon and Del Martin,
who have been together over 50 years. June 2008.

These ladies and I didn’t think so.

You can watch all of the California Supreme Court Proposition 8 Oral Arguments here.

And the winner is…

It was difficult figuring out who I should give my Dickhead of the Week award to.  There have been so many talented people in the running. Just when I thought the lady at the collection agency would be a shoe in for this honor, some weirdo interrupted my radio show and got her crazy all over the place.  Do I give it to that girl?  Should I give it to my bank… again?  After much deliberation, I decided to give it to this guy/girl/whatever.  This is what they had to say about my last blog.

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New comment on your post

#685 “Oh Say Can You See My Eyes If You Can Then My Hair’s Too Short”
Author : March 2009 (IP: 24.15.228.32 , c-24-15-228-32.hsd1.il.comcast.net)
E-mail : eventhudson@gmail.com
URL    :
Whois  : http://ws.arin.net/cgi-bin/whois.pl?queryinput=24.15.228.32

Comment:
Nothing like hearing “Ecstasty in slow motion” played by people with no clue. Course, S3 never had a clue either, only Spiritualized got close.
“The nineties were ridiculous?” I’m sure what you’re doing now is no better. Borring.

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Hey Dickhead of the Week, be sure to give me your proper address to receive a complimentary dictionary.  The only thing shittier than your attitude would have to be your spelling errors.

Thanks for playing,

xoxo

Automne

Oh Say Can You See My Eyes If You Can Then My Hair’s Too Short

You guys, I’m super excited! One of my oldest and closest friends is visiting me tomorrow.  To know her is to love her.

Sasha and Automne. Sweet Seventeen.

Okay, she’s probably going to kill me for posting this pictorial montage but I can’t help myself.  I never grow tired of looking at our old hair pictures.  Seriously, people. SERIOUSLY! Only two of these photos were taken on Halloween. The rest of them were probably from a lazy Tuesday afternoon. Take notes.  The nineties were ridiculous.

In no particular order…

Wow.

WOW!

It was actually quite difficult to find any pictures where we didn’t have tiaras, antennas, bows, balls, halos, fake fur, flowers, hair dye, birds or plastic farm animals in our hair. I don’t even know if such photos exist.  (Do they, Sa?) I did find this one.

Ahhhhh, so normal. We practically look like business ladies.

Anyway, my hair can’t wait for Sasha’s hair to get here already.

I’m going to start putting shit in it asap!