It’s been so hard for me to process anything — to make sense of it all. I’ve been acting insane because my situation calls for it. But instead of going into a downward spiral of self destruction, I’ve been writing and thinking — doing music, drawing pictures and trying not to shut down completely. Life goes on, I remind myself. In my darker hours, I wonder what the point was. Why feel so much to only be forgotten and written off? I don’t want to come out of this experience hardened. I don’t want to build walls when I’ve spent so many years knocking them down.

And then I get lost in even darker thoughts — heartbreak — loss — regret — remorse.

I really fucked up.

But then my phone will ring and an old friend will make me laugh — or an old love will take me out for a drink and remind me to be true to myself. I’ll check my email and see dozens of messages from all the people I’ve left behind that love me unconditionally –  worried friends in New York, London and California that would do anything to make sure I’m okay. It makes me feel like the luckiest girl in the world. Some people go their entire lives never being able to feel so much with even one person. I have an army of people like that.

Life goes on. Life is beautiful.

And it also reminds me that I never belonged here. I tried. I put myself out there. I opened up. I loved. I shared. I may have put some people on the spot but I was always there for them with drinks, stories, encouragement and advice. I even changed a few lives.

But none of that mattered. Not to Portland. I’ve always felt like an open book around a bunch of people that didn’t bother to learn how to read –  or maybe they were just reading at a 2nd grade level. Who knows. There were a few that could — a select few I will never forget. One is opening her home to me, one left me for California, a few have known me for years and one — well, one got me in this mess.

And in this mess I’ve decided that I have to leave. It’s the one thing I’m certain of.

And so I dream.

I dream of the bay area — no seasons and Desiree and my best friends in the entire world — playing music with kindred spirits and shooting film and taking the bus to the ocean and blue skies that hurt my eyes.

I dream of New York — no sleep and Eugene and stumbling around in impossible shoes — starting my band again and fruit stands and art galleries and stoops and Brooklyn roof tops and heart murmurs and living every dream I ever had as an 8 year old.

I dream of making things right — working things out — no regrets — no lost hope.

And starting the best chapter of my life in a place where people actually know how to fucking read it.

And when I came clean, nothing broke my heart more than breaking his. I will spend the rest of my days trying to make amends for that.

And I just want to make things right because I made things so horribly wrong. And everyone keeps telling me to “follow-your-heart-follow-your-heart-follow-your-heart.”

But how can I trust that stupid heart of mine ever again?

My heart is a fucking asshole.

For me the great truths are laced with hysteria.
How many Einsteins can we tolerate?
I leap into uncertainty principle.
After so many smears you want to wash it off with a laugh.
Ha ha, you say. So what if it’s a meltdown?
Last lines to poems I will write immediately.

- Ruth Stone

But I still believe in happy endings. I have to.

Dear “Other” America,

What did we ever do to you? Where exactly are you getting this notion that certain states are more American than others? How certain people are more American.  How certain places are more “real.” Is this a contest? What do we win? A Wal-Mart gift card, obesity and a Bible? Why do you keep talking about “taking back the country.”  You already have most of it, you greedy jerks.

And do you honestly believe that your America is the real America. Rully? That’s funny because I’ve been to your America before and it beats up my friends, doesn’t pay very well, hates other races, hasn’t gotten off the couch in 52 years and bashes my gay brothers & sisters. Is your America what our founding fathers had in mind? The United States of Ignorant-Doughy-Hypocrites? Or should I say Hipo-crites, you high-fructose corn syrup guzzling weirdos.  If it is, maybe I am anti-American. Guilty as charged, Bill O. I hate YOUR America.
Before I go off on your America some more, I’d like to tell you a little about MY America.

I was born and raised in Des Moines, Iowa. Even as a little girl, I felt a little trapped and underwhelmed by it. I’d like to say that it was because I was a child genius that could see right through the tree laden facade — but now I truly know I must have been brainwashed by the “liberal elite media” masterminds behind Sesame Street and the Electric Company.

I don’t know about Sesame Street these days — but Sesame Street in the seventies was a pretty wild ride. Set to a groovy soundtrack, these furry, radical lefties taught me the value of sharing my toys and embracing other cultures. They also showed me the alphabet and how to ask for water in Spanish. Yeah, that’s right.

Agua!

En Español!

AND these Muppets all rode the subway together!!! It ain’t easy being green.

You know what else? These pro-immigration socialists lived in New York City! That’s right,  small town America. These shows took place in New York City. I know. How dare these “big city, elitist, lefty, Marxist Muppet terrorists” show your children how to master the delicate art of “cooperation.” The nerve.

Needless to say, these shows had a huge influence on me.  Simply put, New York was what I wanted to be when I grew up. I was obsessed with it. Every creative writing assignment I wrote in grade school took place in New York. I remember telling all of my teachers about my New York dream. You know what those narrow minded compulsive liars said to me?
“People get stabbed on the streets there and nobody helps.”
“All New Yorkers are rude.”
“Garbage is all over the streets.”
“Drugs.”
“Poverty.”
“You’re always stepping on dead people.”

Always stepping on dead people? Really?

I wasn’t buying it. These people had never even been outside of Des Moines. What did they know about New York? Besides, I’d seen enough Electric Company episodes to realize that New York was a multi-cultural wonderland with friendly people, groovy music and a million ways to say “hello.” My teachers were all wrong.

In my wide eyes, anything could happen in New York. Like many immigrants before me, New York was MY American dream. It’s where I wanted to flee to avoid the persecution and ridicule from the other America I was living in. You know, the “real” America. Your America. The America that bullies. The America that everybody hates. The America that voted for President Bush. TWICE!

Sadly I didn’t end up in New York. I ended up someplace even more un-American. A little place called San Francisco.

To give you an idea of the horror and confusion “real” Americans feel toward San Francisco, here’s an example:
An idiot male once made a “joke” to my poor mother about how I better be careful “not to catch AIDS from a doorknob there.”
Let me get this straight.  People in New York are stepping on the dead while people in San Francisco are catching AIDS from doorknobs?

???!!

Is this seriously what the sick, delusional freakazoids from other America have to say about my America. I’m sorry, but how dare these people put down any of us! How dare they use their religions to justify hate and ignorance! How dare they call themselves real Americans! How dare these racist and uneducated hicks brag about their values. What values? I don’t see the value in not opening up a book that isn’t the Bible. I don’t see the value of never leaving your small town. I don’t see the value of making crass generalizations about a world you’ve never experienced. I especially don’t see any value in judging others because they don’t share your skin tone or worship your God. By the way, it’s not your God. Just how this isn’t your America. It’s OUR America and I think it’s big enough for the both of us. If you don’t agree, maybe we need better education, a civil war and more Sesame Street episodes until you get it right.

In the meantime, I have hope that we can drum together – even though your drumming sounds like shit.

Love always,

Automne

After incorporating a switch blade comb into my dance routine and dramatically collapsing on the judges’ table a la James Brown, I managed to win their hearts and was chosen unanimously for the finals. All I had to do was beat a quirky friend that had amazingly freaktastic moves, a shaggy-haired boy with loose hips , and a pretty girl in a leotard who was dry humping a wooden column. In all fairness, the pretty girl was limber — but her seduction of an architectural structure device seemed a little too bridge and tunnel for this sophisticated panel. There was no way she was going to win. I was kind of surprised that she even made it to the finals.

We all gathered around for the final dance and to my absolute horror, a slower number was chosen — “because dancing isn’t just about freaking out — it’s about sex appeal.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah *yawn* duly noted and just great. GREAT. Boooooo! Sssssssss! This is exactly what an ex-goth that studied Prince and took hip hop dance classes for an entire  summer needed to hear. Do they really expect us all to dance sexy? Please.  I had BIG plans of doing my jump/split move. Now I can’t. Now I’m shadow dancing like a dimwit. Seriously, you guys. Slow tempos are a big deal breaker for me. Whenever the music slows down, it’s always been my cue to get the hell off the dance floor before some idiot male (they come out of nowhere) thinks he’ll be able to “complete me” by asking me to dance.  I cringe whenever that happens and a gigantic stream of “I-need-some-air-I-need-a-drink-I-need-to-find-my-friends-my-leg-hurts-where’s-the-bathroom-I’m-married-my-shoe-is-untied-I’m-a-lesbian-I-don’t-slow-dance-I-need-to-find-an-atm-machine-my-husband-will-kill-you-my-period-just-started——–lies—-truth—-lies—-truth—lies” come out of my mouth.  Instead of learning how to dance to this stuff, I’ve just learned how to gracefully exit.
Besides, slow songs are for couples and strippers. Everybody knows that.

Uh oh. Did someone say strippers?

Things took a turn from mildly uncomfortable to the “worst night evahhh” when two of the trashiest blondes I’ve ever seen decided to crash the dance contest. In their defense, they thought this slower number was some sort of mating call. Much like idiot males, slow songs attract idiot females trying to show off those fancy gyrating skills they mastered after months of watching “Flirty Girl Fitness” DVDs.  I also believe they were suffering from “hot blonde syndrome” — a terrible condition in which hot blondes go anywhere they please and do anything they want because nobody EVER tells hot blondes that they can’t do stuff. One of these girls had such a terrible case of H.B.S. that it caused a most unfortunate wardrobe malfunction.  For most of the evening, one of her floppy boobs continuously popped out of the cheap poly blend shirt desperately trying to contain it. In her boob’s defense, it was probably trying to escape this terrible girl and her poor fashion choices.  Meanwhile, the other hot blonde — all barefoot and dressed like the poor man’s Stevie Nicks — attempted to grind up on anything and anyone in her path. I guess the “no shoes/no shirt” policy applies to everyone except hot blondes.

Duly noted.

So do I.

Needless to say, it went from Soul Train to train wreck and I suddenly felt ridiculously out-of-place and absolutely embarrassed to be a woman. This was exactly the kind of tomfoolery that happens when you try and “sex-up” a dance contest. For shame, people! Where are my marbles?

Feeling discouraged, I tried my best to get past the fact that dance contests, like EVERYTHING, are never really about who is better. It’s always a beauty pageant — a test of “who wore it best.” In this case, the “girl who wore it best” happened to be wearing the least. Yeah, surprise-surprise, our favorite double-jointed column humper took home the $100 prize. I even saw one of the judges making out with her later that night. Whatever. At least they didn’t give the prize to that one trashy blonde’s floppy boob. I guess I should be grateful for that small feminist victory. That said, I think the boob was a better dancer.

Okay. Perhaps I’m being too judgmental.  The winner seemed like a lovely person and she was certainly flexible and gorgeous. No dispute there. It was just disappointing because as lovely as she seemed, there wasn’t anything particularly lovely about her dancing. She was just another normal hot girl bending over and the crowd wasn’t buying it.  She may have won the judges’ hearts but I was the people’s choice. One after another, total strangers whispered to me, “You  should have won — that contest was bullshit — I love your dress.”

It was a great dress.

Unfortunately I have not worked out a way to pay the bills with compliments and I really needed that $100.  Later a friend informed me that the girl who won needed the $100 more because her purse got stolen that night.  I had little sympathy.  I didn’t even bring a purse because it’s not like I have anything to fill a purse with.  Do you put money in those things? I don’t have that.

Rich girl problems.

Bummed out and feeling like the Al Gore of dance contests, I decided to leave.
As I said my goodbyes, various friends attempted to make me feel better with backhanded compliments — my favorite kind.  One suggested that the only reason the column humper won was because she was attractive and thin.
Wow. So I’m not? Thanks, man.
Another one insinuated that I enabled the column humper to win.
Rully? And how did I do that?
While another mentioned that had I shown a little more skin, I would have won.
Fair enough but I’m a feminist. I may not have been showing an inch of skin but my dress was pretty spectacular. Does taste and style count for anything these days?

Also – not meaning to get all caps and shit – THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A DANCE CONTEST! Why is everyone talking about looks and skin? I bet nobody went up to the guy that competed and said “you would have won had you shown a little more skin” or “if you were better looking….” Please.  I did hear an acquaintance go into an elaborate conspiracy theory about how these dance contests are rigged.
“I don’t mean to be sexist but…”
Oh boy — here we go…
“they HAVE to let girls win — even though guys are better dancers.”

Fascinating.

The night came to its climatic conclusion when one of the hot blondes fell on me before puking on my Italian boots. It was the least she could do.
This was an appropriate metaphor for the entire evening. It also reminded me of something that has been bothering me for quite a while.

Normal people.

Can we talk about normal people for a second? They are everywhere and have control over the government, our cities, our neighborhoods, advertising, the airwaves, the job market, newspapers, Hollywood, music, clothing, television, social networking sites, architecture, the internet, dance contests, our evenings out, beauty standards, puke, column humping… EVERYTHING. They question nothing and ruin it all. There used to be a time when kindred spirits could look a certain way and go to certain places just to get away from this overwhelming state of norm. This didn’t last for long once the norms found out about these safe places. I mean, dress codes have been reasonably successful in scaring off a few norms that don’t own shirts with collars — but most of them just figured out clever ways to appropriate our form of dress while using our own music against us.  You see, norms are greedy grabbers and they want our scene too. They go to our clubs, get drunk at our shows, write for our music weeklies, and wake up in your bedrooms.

Umm, and about that. WHY, people? WHY? You’re better than that. Why are so many of you sleeping with these fools? Why are you encouraging them? They’re not that cute. I’m not just talking to the ladies here, I’m talking to you gentlemen as well. Why do you choose the easy ones over the complicated ones? It’s always sluts over style. What gives? I thought you were supposed to be enlightened. I thought we were all on the same page about this stuff.

Clearly this is all making me cranky and I’m starting to give up on any hope of a good night out with people I can relate to. Even my own subculture has let me down. Where is the style? The wit? the substance? The charisma? The excitement? I’m hungry for fascinating conversations and decent dance partners. I want to have my mind blown for a change. I want to feel something. I want to laugh. Why is everyone so drunk and boring and conservative and humorless? Why is everyone always playing it so safe? American Apparel again? Irony again? Leggings again? Denim again? Glee AGAIN? Are you guys really watching that show? Why is Bitch magazine always blogging about it? Why is everyone watching so much TV? I went out a few months ago and some guy was sincerely trying to talk to my friends and I about “Everybody Loves Raymond.” Are you kidding me??? Is this really what’s on people’s minds?

Ugh.

More importantly, why do column humpers win $100 in dance contests while girls like me walk home alone in the rain — broke — with some idiot’s puke on their shoe?

~Albert Einstein

“I got all the time that I need to kill.”

~The Beastie Boys

My boss man recently decided that we all had to start using a time clock. Before we were on the honor system– going about the work week in a very casual, almost Scandinavian fashion. True, people may or may not have been flubbing their hours. Whatever. Who am I to judge? Everyone got their work done. Why must we be inconvenienced by the technicalities of the when’s and the how long’s it took to complete said work? What does it matter? Why must I have yet another thing to log in and out of each day? Why are Americans so obsessed with details and seconds? What does an extra ten minutes here and there really mean? Can’t we all get paid by the job and not by the hour? Clearly the introduction of the time clock is making me trip out about the heaviness of time and the bullshit of work even more than usual.

Much like capitalism, time is just one of those things I’ve never been able to get a handle on.  I even briefly took a course at my liberal arts school that explored “time and space.” In this class —–inhale——-we mulled over the religious, scientific, and philosophical aspects of time——–exhale—– What is time? A number of repetitions? Counting? Periodic motions? A sequence of events? Linear intervals in space? What’s space? If space is infinite, how can there be linear anything? How can we even measure such a thing? What’s infinity, man? Existential meltdowns would ensue as great scholars and inquisitive stoners would try to come up with some sort of universal definition. Ironically enough, not one person in this class wore a watch but we all managed to show up for a “limited period of intervals in space” each week.

To make things even more troubling, this class was taught in San Francisco – a city where January feels like August feels like May feels like October. I lived there for nearly a decade and never knew what time of the year it was. Nobody did. Birthdays were missed/forgotten.  Shows were never when you thought they were going to be. Holidays were a blur.  I never had any idea when Christmas was coming except for the changes in window displays.  When I look back, it just feels like it was 1996 forever. Nobody aged either — well at least not in the ways our friends on the East Coast aged. Was it because there was no emphasis on seasons passing? Was it our leisurely lifestyle? Was our lifestyle so leisurely because we never knew what time of the year it was? Was it just because everyone was stoned and had nowhere to be? There’s no such thing as time when you’re going nowhere and doing a whole lot of nothing.

That’s another problem I had with time.  I didn’t trust the fact that it lost all meaning while under the influence of various drugs. When I was a bit younger, I remember having a terrible mushroom trip one beautiful Saturday afternoon. My boyfriend nearly went crazy because I kept checking the clock in our kitchen every second to make sure that “time was passing.” In my drug addled state, time had officially stopped and I was stuck at 4:15 forever. This lasted for approximately five hours but “what are five hours” when “4:15 lasts forever, man.”

Umm, one minute, I suppose.

Time means nothing and everything.

Which brings me to the work week. The worst mushroom trip of all time can not compare to the stubbornness of time when you’re stuck at work. Wrist watches might as well be handcuffs, my friends. Time is not on your side when you are an hourly wage slave. I find that Tuesdays can feel like three and a half weeks and 5pm is always a year away. Sure, there are tricks to make the time pass more quickly. There is the Internet and there are funny animal videos on Youtube.  Some may even argue that watches are obsolete and Youtube videos are probably a more accurate time taking device.

“You guys, after I watch these seven wacky cat videos and three freak beat-Italian dance show ones, it will be time for lunch.”

There are also ten-minute breaks. In theory, a “break” is supposed to indicate some sort of relief from the monotony of work but it’s actually just the gift of time — our time. It’s our boss’ way of saying, “Here-you-goooo, have your ten minutes back. Go craaaaazzzzzy.” It’s like a sip of water in the desert.  It’s approximately one cigarette.

That’s another thing. I’ve never been a smoker and have always wondered if everyone decided that ten minutes is the amount of time it takes to finish one cigarette or if it’s a bit more mathematical than that. I do know that Europeans take infinitely longer breaks than Americans. Is it because they smoke way more cigarettes? Or can they just smoke more cigarettes because they have more time? Clearly I’m entering dangerous “chicken or the egg” territory. Also, now that less people are smoking, I’m starting to get mildly concerned that the ten minute break is slowly becoming obsolete.

Another thing that boggles my mind is how we’ve mathematically broken up the 24 hour day into these eight-hour intervals.  It’s suggested that you sleep for 8 hours, work for 8 hours, and then have 8 hours of your “free” time.  3×8 = 24.  DONE and done. You guys, this formula sucks.  People always end up cutting into their sleep time to get stuff done on their “free” time. We need more sleep, all kinds of  free time,  and waaaaaay less work. It’s so obvious. Why fight it? Why do people roll their eyes when I propose that a 10 hour work week makes  more sense than a 40-hour one?  How do people get anything done when they’re working for 40 hours?  And what about the people like me that work and then come home and work on other stuff? I have zero “free” time. Almost everyone I know is walking around completely miserable,  hating their jobs, and making elaborate to-do lists because there’s never any “free” time — especially if you’re involved in the arts.  The arts don’t pay the rent.  Why is rent so expensive? Why is this the norm? Why do we require so much work to make so much income to pay for so much unnecessary bullshit?

Emma has some theories.

When I was in Junior High, I remember learning about various economic systems in my government class. The day we learned about socialism was particularly exciting for me and I couldn’t figure out why it was frowned upon.  I mean, here was this system that transcended commodity production and wage labor — a system based on treating everyone fairly and distributing the wealth evenly.  I raised my hand to ask Mr. Buzzkill what the deal was.  Seriously, I failed to see the harm in any of those things. You know what that grumpy Republican screamed at me? How “it could never work-ism” and how “somebody always deserves to make more money-ism” and “communism” and “hipppies taking advantage of the system-ism” and “fascism” and “dream on-ism” and “OMG! the horrors of RUSSIA-ism” and “blablabla-ism.”  He may have even scribbled my name down. The dude was clearly pissed that I would dare to question our capitalist ways. He found our current model of exploiting the work force to be far superior.  I never raised my hand again in that class. Whatever. I was reading a lot of Thoreau in English that year and discovering punk rock. He just sounded like a bitter old man to my tiny little revolutionary ears.

Ever since that day, I hear nothing but bitter old men yelling in my “revolutionary” ears — bitter old men with time clocks and numbers.  Why are they all so attached to this failure of a system?  I often wonder why it is so “revolutionary” to think my way? It really isn’t. This is basic stuff, people. Why are people like me looked down on for wanting to work less and have less? For simplifying our lives? For making music and creating art just for the sake of doing it? Why are we called lazy? Do you have any idea how time consuming it is to make things? We’re not watching television and getting fat, my friends. We’re producing stuff and thinking about things.  WE are the American dream.  We’re not slackers expecting a handout. We’re dreamers. Movers. Shakers. Why do people frown on us because we’d rather make music than make babies?  Why is one thing better than the other? Why does everything have to revolve around a conservative view of “family” and not a more liberal view of “community”. Why does it always have to be about the old ways? The money? The bottom line?  What’s wrong with sharing? What’s wrong with believing in a better world? What’s wrong with believing in each other? We’re not all assholes. This isn’t utopian/hippie bullshit nor is it impossible.  I just think that there are better ways to live our lives and I could care less about the money, man. Money comes and goes but there is no possession that I value more than my time.

And it’s time for a revolution.

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.