Girls Just Want To Have Fun

The other day a friend and I were talking about how we’ll never have as much fun as The Black Lips. It’s not that we don’t know how to tear shit up (we do) or that we’re not versed in the art of rock ‘n’ roll shenanigans (we’re masters.) It’s just that shit is different when you’re a girl.  As much as we want to jump off our amp, break a bottle over your head, spit beer out of our mouths, punch you in the face, and have meaningless one-night-stands with faceless hair-dos — it’s just not a reality for most of us.  We have to constantly be on our game and watch out for each other.  When a girl is walking home alone, it’s a requirement for her to text the friends that she was just out with. We don’t do this because “OMG, we just  looooove to text.” No, man. We do it to let each other know that we made it home safely. There is no “casual stroll from the bar” when you’re a girl. There is no “black-out drunk” when you’re a woman on tour. You know how friggen dangerous that is? There is no “do-so-many-drugs-I-can’t-play-my-instrument” when you’re a chick in a band.  I’m not saying that it doesn’t happen – but most of us don’t have the luxury to screw up like that. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously when you have tits.

The Vivian Girls not having nearly as much fun.

And why is it so hard to be taken seriously when you have tits? I’m not even talking about big tits (that’s a whole other blog.) I’m just talking about regular tits.  Can we talk about our tits for one second? I mean, have you seen how ridiculous your penis looks? How can you have something that ridiculous attached to you 24/7 and still be taken seriously? What can myself, my friends, our tits, and our complicated vaginas possibly learn from you?  What is there to relate to?  Where is the substance? What is a straight, white man going to tell me about me?  Are you guys really in control of the whole fucking world – with that thing dangling there like an after-thought?  I don’t get it.  We’re supposed to take YOU seriously with that but you don’t take us seriously with these?

We take Dolly and the girls VERY seriously.

Speaking of big boobs, can I talk about Radiohead for a second? Dude,  everyone looooooves Radiohead. They’re considered “one of the world’s most important bands EVER .” What does that even mean?  “One of the world’s most important bands.”  It’s five white guys that take themselves way too seriously.  Five white penises, man. F-I-V-E. Why is that so important? Why are we throwing the word “important” around like that? Unless Thom Yorke’s dick figured out a strategic plan for achieving peace in the middle east, I fail to see the importance.  I know I’m probably pissing off every single person in the world with ears but I just don’t get the hype.  I’m not a fan. Electrelane were better. Subtle yet complicated. I get them.

Four girls. No dicks.

That’s another thing.  Who decides this shit? Who decides that Radiohead is more important than Electrelane?  Is this what you guys do at Bohemian Grove? Do you sit around figuring out what countries to invade and who “the most important bands EVER” are?  Are you guys just making lists?  You checking them twice?  Is this what dudes do? Are we really STILL talking about The Beatles? STILL?!!!! Fuck you, guys.  Quit inviting the editors of “Rolling Stone” magazine and pitchforkmedia.com to Bohemian Grove.  As for the rest of the world, quit getting on my case because I hate Coldplay, didn’t shed a tear when Michael Jackson died, and have always thought Nirvana sounded like watered down Black Sabbath.  Honestly, the “most important band” is always the one I’m listening to at the moment.  Period.

At the moment, I’m listening to dozens of rare soul 45’s because it’s part of my job description. Don’t hate. I also have to answer obnoxious customer emails from record collectors so it’s a big ol’ mixed bag. Speaking of which, are record collectors invited to Bohemian Grove now? Seriously, who decides the value of this stuff? I was working on a soul auction the other day and had to sound clip some record that sounded like 80’s movie-ski-scene-save-the-rec-center-get-the-girl montage music.  It sounded so much like that shit that when the record ended,  it was actually the next day and the entire rec center had two coats of paint on it. You guys, that record was worth, like, $500 or something. Who buys that? People that need to paint rec centers quickly? Do they have that much money? I thought rec centers had financial problems and that’s why people were always trying to save them. Maybe they wouldn’t have so many financial problems if they didn’t spend $500 on shitty records.

Clearly my friends, myself, our tits, and our complicated vaginas have a lot to mull over. No wonder we’re not having as much fun as The Black Lips. No wonder I’m not a guitar virtuoso…. yet.

You Remind Me Of Me, Man.

It was soul night and Ian Svenonius was behind the decks. I wore a neat little suit and did my sickest white-girl-in-uncomfortable-shoes-channeling-James-Brown dance moves.

As per usual, I was spilling whiskey all over the damn place.  This worked to my advantage for two very important reasons.

1. Most of it ended up on the floor and not in my bloodstream.

2. It left a nice little puddle that I could slide around in -  making my dance moves even sicker. Minds were blown. Doors were opened. Guys wanted to be me. Girls wanted to be with me. I was throwing shapes.  I was Soul Train.

You like? Yeahhzzz, you know you wanna hit this.

I reeked of whiskey and lip gloss. My camera and I casually approached Ian Svenonius. Both my camera and I had met him earlier. We were totally on a first name basis by this point. Totally.

Just play it cool, camera. Play.It.Cooool.

I was all…

"Ian, let's take some pictures!"

But what I really meant to say was…

“Ian, we are both terribly clever and wearing cute little suits. You remind me of me.”

And Ian was all…

"I really like your teeth."

But what he really meant to say was…

“Damn, Giiirl. Your sick dance moves are blowing my mind. You remind me of me”

And I was all…

"Thanks. I really like your writing."

But what I really meant  to say was…

“Ian, I’m that girl with that one myspace blog that Weird War subscribed to many years ago. You probably don’t recognize me. I’m a redhead now. Hi. Nice suit. Hey, would you like to make a slow jams record with me?  Where can I get a suit like that? I really enjoyed reading The Psychic Soviet. Can I be on Soft Focus? You want to talk about the humanitarian crisis in Haiti for a little bit? Have you seen my friends? Thanks for raising the bar. I want your life.” 

And Ian was all…

"I like it alllllllll."

But what he really meant to say was…

“Giiiiiiiiiiiiiirl, I know who you are.  You are a muthafucking genius.”

And I was all…

"Thanks. Uh-oh. These pictures are terrible. We look like goths."

But what I really meant to say was…

“Thanks but SERIOUSLY, Ian. Why are we both posing like that? Who do we think we are? Tegan and Sara? I mean, we look like drunk lesbian sisters with a mediocre camera phone. Graham is going to make fun of me when he sees these.”

And Ian was all…

"Somebody else needs to take these pictures."

But what he really meant to say was…

“You can’t capture all of this awesome at arm’s length. Girrrrrrl, we look like drunk lesbian sisters with a mediocre camera phone.”

Don't blow it. Look natural, man.

“Drunk Lesbian Sisters With A Mediocre Camera Phone” will be our first slow jam.

Soft Focus

And I was all…

"I'm going to get some friends."

But what I really meant to say was…

“My friends are wasted and missing.  I’m afraid that drunk-lesbian-sisters-with-a-mediocre-camera-phone is as good as it’s going to get.”

And later on, Ian was all…

"Do you ladies have any gum?"

But what he really meant to say was…

“I think it’s pronounced mmmmm-nage-a-twahhhh.”

And I was all…

"No, I don't have any gum to give you."

But What I really meant to say was…

“Ahhhh, yeahzzzz. I still gots it.“

…or something like that.

In all seriousness, I have a ton of respect for the guy and it was so nice to finally get a chance to meet him.

Next photo-op, Jarvis Cocker.

The San Francisco Art Asylum

art fag mag cover courtesy of the amazing aix jager.

The film department seduced me. There was something about the math involved in animation that spoke to my inner nerd. I enjoyed the counting. The sleepless nights.  Lighting a scene. Making up characters. Creating a world. Having an outlet for my OCD. Most of all, I enjoyed the magic behind it. Okay, I know magic is a cheesy, overused word – but how else can I describe it? It IS magic. There’s nothing like getting a reel back from the lab, locking yourself in the viewing room, and watching it for the first time on the big screen. You can spend an entire semester on three minutes of film but it’s always worth it in the end.

As magical as animation made me feel, there was a dark side to being a film major.

Film students.

Now, don’t get me wrong. I was inspired and amused by a few creative geniuses in the department. They made the critiquing experience bearable. They were also not the majority. The majority talked too much, took themselves way too seriously, and bored me to death with their silent experimental films. Popular themes involved eggs and the breaking of eggs.  Trees and the breaking of branches. Feet running. Girls swinging. Time-lapse odes to China Town. Girls putting lipstick on.  Shattered glass. Water. Bath tubs. Boyfriends. Pills.

After two years, I got pretty sick of watching seventeen-minute experimental films about eggs. I was also sick of spending valuable class time discussing eggs. During the darker hours (ahem. critique week) I would indulge myself in complex math problems about how each minute was costing me $27.  This was a rough estimate. I had a scholarship — but it’s the principle of the matter.

So I left the film department, loaded my pipe, and decided to start painting again. I found sanctuary in its fetid bosom.  Painters don’t talk about painting. They listen to their headphones and keep to themselves. This is what I like to believe, anyway. I decided to take my favorite professor’s class. He sounded like molasses, wore scarves, played jazz, and gave the students plenty of creative freedom to do their own thing.  This backfired, of course.

Ladies and gentlemen, meet my painting class.

There was Creepy Fetus Girl. I didn’t like her. Not one bit. She would only paint on those crappy little canvases you buy at cheap art stores.  I don’t think she ever made a piece larger than 11×15.  This didn’t bother me so much.  I couldn’t imagine her shitty little paintings taking up a whole wall. They looked like abortions – and by abortions, I MEAN abortions.

Like actual abortions.

Each piece had a poorly drawn fetus in the middle of the canvas.  It would be crudely outlined in black and grotesquely out of proportion.  These fetuses had tremendous hands and Popeye arms.  As if all of this wasn’t unsettling enough, she covered the rest of the canvas with a bubbly text that read, “I am not here. I am not here” over and over again. Under different circumstances, these “paintings” would have been a tremendous asset to the Right-to-Life community.

During critiques, Creepy Fetus Girl was prone to crying fits if somebody gave her helpful suggestions.

“How about using a ruler to make the text more even.”

“Maybe you should cut out some pictures of fetuses and bring them to class to look at. I’m pretty sure fetus hands are smaller than that.”

“Are you a New Genres major?”

“This is the Advanced Painting class, right?”

Not everyone hated her work. She had an ally that would almost always jump to her defense.

“Guys!  Leave her alone! You have no idea what the deeper meaning is!”

Deeper meaning? I’m sorry. I thought her “deeper meaning” was not to abort freakish babies with Popeye arms and enormous hands. Do you mean to tell me that Creepy Fetus Girl is trying to address larger political issues with these poorly executed eyesores? Is Creepy Fetus Girl trying to blow our minds with her own story of love and loss?  Does she need a hug? Should we start the revolution? Pro Life? Pro Choice? I’m confused. Is she telling us to eat more spinach?

The usual debate between the sexes would ensue.

Cunt vs. cock.

Ad nauseam.

If Creepy Fetus Girl was kidding with all of this, if she really could draw, than she was a GENIUS.  A FUCKING GENIUS. Unfortunately, I don’t think this was the case.  She was crying for help.

It was difficult to hear Creepy Fetus Girl’s cries for help over her archenemy’s racket.  We’ll just call him Sir Dickhead McDickencocker. While Creepy Fetus Girl quietly begged for our attention, Sir Dickhead McDickencocker grabbed a megaphone and told us how it was. She cried. He pounded. I found myself torn as to whom I disliked more. In hindsight, I think I have to go with Sir Dickencocker. At least Creepy Fetus Girl was quiet. Dick sounded like he had microphones attached to all of his limbs – giving one the impression that the chains dangling from his pants were in Dolby Stereo.  Don’t guys know that chains are vagina repellent? Lose the fussy chains, my friend. You sound like a fucking Yorkie running in the park. Anyway, Dick did gun collages. Of course. What else could he possibly do?

These collages were done on wood.  He hammered nails in them, too.  Dick just had to penetrate something.

Pound. Pound. Pound. Pound away, Dick.  Pound away.  Go listen to some :Wumpscut:  and think about more phallic imagery you can use in your work. Pound the wood because there is no pussy to pound. Pound away,  you angry.white.male!  Pound. Pound. Pound. Why so angry, Angry.White.Male?

The usual debate between the sexes would ensue.

Cunt vs. cock.

Ad nauseam.

With all this pounding going on, it was hard for me to focus on the lady that would just paint canvasses pea green, the obligatory dumb girl that painted with her menstrual blood, or the New Genres major that didn’t paint at all.  I did occasionally marvel at that one guy that painted exact replicas of Michelangelo’s subjects (if his subjects had Popeye arms).

Again, with the Popeye arms. I can only presume he was making a statement about the Fetus Girl.

The crème de la crop, however, had to be Little Goth Boy.  I liked this kid because he took his crippling social anxieties to the next level. Instead of developing a boring speech impediment or writing bad poetry, he utilized a stuffed monkey to handle the daunting task of communication. The monkey’s name was Oliver and it’s uncertain how many years this monkey-middle-man was used as a communication device. All that is known is that Oliver had seen better days. Little Goth Boy dressed him up in black, gave him a Mohawk, some facial piercings, and decided that Oliver should sound like a pre-pubescent Muppet with a head cold. Everything was done through Oliver, even the most boring of small talk.

“Um, Can you pass me the turpentine?”

Oliver uses its mud-caked monkey arm to slide the turpentine over. “Thereeeeeeeyougo!”

“How was your weekend?”

Oliver thoughtfully discusses poignant events that happened. “I almost fell out of a second story window. Uh-ohhhhh! Spaghetti-O’s!”

As strange as this all might sound, we never questioned this behavior. Oliver became a beloved addition to the art community. It’s even rumored that the monkey may have had a hand in getting Little Goth Boy a girlfriend – a noble act that cost Oliver dearly. Once Little Goth Boy finally got laid, he was no longer in need of Oliver’s services. On one fateful evening, poor little Oliver was accidentally left in a cab and Little Goth Boy discovered his own voice – an incoherent whisper. Everyone was pretty bummed to hear about Oliver’s misfortune, but he had served his purpose well. I can only hope that he’s living the high life in stuffed monkey heaven. If anything, he must be so relieved to be out of the San Francisco Art Aslyum. I know I am.

Perhaps I’m being too judgmental. What about my own artistic endeavors, you ask? Why am I any better than those that I mock? I’m not.  Honestly, I don’t know what I was doing in art school either. I should have been a lawyer. I should have been a journalist. I have many regrets. To furthur prove that I was just as big of a joke as everyone else, here is a list of every piece of shit I tried to get away with “in the name of art”.  I was praised as a genius. I cringe at the memories.

1. Doll porn.  Got an A+.
2. Whipped up a last-minute fluorescent chastity belt sculpture. It was a tacky monstrosity. I even glued an email from a douche bag that owed me money on it. The piece was desperate and I knew it. I might as well have been drawing Popeye armed fetuses. It was so bad that my antagonist (a douche bag that made 200-page books filled with drawings of his penis) had the audacity to call “bullshit” on my bullshit.  It was another war of the sexes. Cunts vs. cocks. Ad nauseam.
3. Orchestrated and filmed a spin-the-bottle game to capture “awkward first kisses”.  Oliver was in it.  Sadly, nobody wanted to kiss a dirty monkey but they had to. The bottle is law.
4. Created a fake teen website. Suggested that Claire Danes had herpes. Gave tips for anorexia.
5. Put bows, flowers, and plastic birds in my hair for a year straight. Had many situations on the Muni.
6. Made a 10-minute fashion video about what the Goth kids were wearing while I was in Tokyo.  Bunny ears and eye patches were RED HOT that year.
7. Filmed and hung out with the fanatics waiting to see the new Star Wars movie.
8. Made a three-foot ice cream cone sculpture from stolen traffic cones.
9. Made a “sexy” music video about all the dirty things my friend and I wanted to do to Jarvis Cocker and Ian Astbury.
10. Troll porn.
11. Followed the Cure for the summer.  Went to Australia. Documented every detail. Nobody in my class cared that Robert Smith’s aunt told Sasha and I “You can sleep when you’re dead.”
12. Turned a tree into a tree. Blew their fucking minds.
13. Grief porn.
14. Tried to start a  “make-out-not-war” demonstration with a 10-foot bottle to spin. Met the love of my life that week and got too distracted ‘making out with him’ to finish it.  Was late for the demonstration but ended up on page 5 in the Chronicle anyway.
15. Moved to London.  Lost the plot.
16. This shit.

What about you guys?

A Girls Needs A Good Soundtrack

My amp is finally being fixed (again), I’m starting to figure out the complicated beats on my new keyboard, I have a dozen new songs in my heart, a brand new pedal, and a fierce dedication to finish my album and play more shows.  Ladies and gentlemen, Cat Fancy! is making a comeback.

In the meantime….

xoxo

Get Fancy Gets 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.