Superinky Fixations

I slept in this morning since I’m taking the day off. My last moment dreaming was of bretty & I at Coachella Music Festival with no way of getting home. Except I was confused, thinking my favorite band, (whose name I shall not name, but who, even if you know me a little bit, already know who I’m referring to…) might play at any moment. But actually, we were at the wrong music festival.

M83. How it is my mind jumps immediately to Godspeed You! Black Emperor comparisons so quickly? Or does it perhaps have something to do the Ulrich Schnausszzzzzzz set putting me into a coma before their set? Believe me, it’s not my bag to bash live music. And I assure you, haters, people were into Ulrich Schnausszzzz (now I can’t help but use this cheeky reference ‘cuz I think it’s so clever…) and feeling him big time. The first song of his set was beautiful, orchestral, practically transformational.

Remember back in the day when Moby’s stuff was new and gorgeous and made the world feel so right? It sort of smacked of that vibe, really. Not unlistenable. Pleasant, happy-dreamy stuff, like "Million Miles Away"; but mostly, after the 1st 10 minute song, bretty & I were snoozing.

So M83 was a hard sell after napping fitfully for 45 minutes. And they’re so… French. Hey, I like French people for the most part. I’m French for heaven’s sake. I’ve spend many, many weeks and months in France, and, well, I like Air, too. Why am I defending myself here? They didn’t say much, not even "hello" or "thanks" or "this song is called ___" It was very much a visceral approach to music; no words to muck it up, save for an occasion weird loop or two of what sounded like an astronaut communicating with ground control, or maybe it was a man talking about nuclear war, or perhaps a father talking to his son. I’m not sure. Though I’m certain it wasn’t the focus of their stuff anyway.

I’m such a superficial perv; I immediately noticed the bass player and his gorgeously chiseled features and tall lanky physique. I watched him a lot. Yum. Uh, but aside from that, know that they are an instrumental band, if you didn’t already know that about them. And I do so love to see shows at Holocene. The sound is fantastic and there is no bad place to stand. So we soaked up M83’s wall of sound and the crowd was so there with them all the way.

Was it worth $14 per ticket? I don’t know. I’m a bit more partial to vocals I suppose, and appreciate a more two-way experience with a band, and not in a sexual way, perverts. I think I’ll just be French about the whole thing and remain ambivalent.

Check it out: The Out Crowd. They kind of rule. Oh yeah. Be good. It be good. Really, really good. I’m shamelessly addicted to that stoney/droney lo-fi psychedelic, distinctly Portland sound. And hello, Matt Hollywood? He totally rocks. After all, he used to be a guitar player in, just guess… only my most favorite-est of favorite bands… Brian Jonestown Massacre. Furthermore, I can pretty much verify that Courtney Taylor Taylor has his sexy fingers in The Out Crowd somehow. Maybe he just likes them a lot, perhaps he’s done some mixing for them, I don’t know for sure, but it’s obvious.

You know what other band I just can’t get out of my head? Telephone! Check out "Ahead". I found it pretty groovy. Though not entirely representative of their synth heavy, new wavey sound, I’m dazzled by the dirge-like droning beat. Why, oh why does there have to be some cheesy French band with the same name, making it difficult for me to locate not only the cool Telephones’ website, but any cds or mp3s that they may have available? Did they do that on purpose? Alas, one can delight in 3 songs in their entirety on their site.

It’s absolutely time to get off my ass and out of a stale and stagnant phase of my life. It’s gnawing away at my insides, this sick sad feeling of grotesque nastiness. Haters! Please, feel my pain. I’m cracking and I don’t know where to turn!

So. If only I could get over the fear of leaving the dismally familiar. It’s crazy, all the times I’ve hit this wall. I’m just SICK of it! I bore myself, really, with my predictable inertia. I loved that scene in Deadwood last week where Swearingen slapped around that fat crusty journalist when he was bitching about his shop being ransacked. "You’re still alive, aren’t you?" F<ck, maybe I need to be slapped and reminded that the world doesn’t end when a couple bad things happen to me. Be gentle, though, I’m particularly sensitive right now. The moon is in Scorpio after all.

I’m feeling M83 and Talkdemonic at Holocene Wednesday night. Mainly because I’m practically a grandma when it comes to late night events during the week and this show is EARLY!! 7pm. I’ve never heard of such a thing in this town. Ok, I exaggerate a little, but not much. Anyone who goes to a fraction of the # of shows Bretty & I hit in an average 4 week period knows how tough it is to get up at 6:30am, ears still ringing and maybe even still a little drunk (depending on the show and ones mood) and try to be fresh faced and chipper at work… It’s not easy, I assure you. So I’m all over this 7pm gig. I could conceivably still get my 8 hours of sleep AND brag to my friends with children that I went out and saw some kick ass music the night before. Ahh, this thought makes me happy.

If only I could make money going out to shows every night. Do what you love, and the $$ will follow, right? hmmm.

So we saw Telephone the other night at the Doug Fir. It was a free show, so how could we really go wrong? I liked them, perhaps more than I like most bands I’ve never seen/heard before. Don’t ask me where I’ve been the last several years they’ve been playing around town. Under a rock. Maybe because Eric Hedford leads them and his voice is cool and he’s got this sort of dorky funky way about him that  finally caught my attention. Though, may I say in my defense, having never really known his name when he was the drummer for the Dandy Warhols for all those years, Telephone was never on my radar. And frankly, Bretty agreed, the guy’s lost a LOT of weight and is pretty much unrecognizable from the cute chubby little dandies drummer from all those years ago.

His band is really cute and fun, almost as if Eric had hand-picked his band mates from a huge pool of applicants and picked the most gorgeous and talented of the bunch. Really, I can’t decide who’s cuter, the drummer or the guitar player. Anyway, I liked them a lot, and would probably even buy their cds if they appeared in front of me. YET, there was something about them that I just can’t quite pinpoint. Something incongruous. Something just slightly off. I’m embarrassed that I come off as being so superficial… Like I said, I really can’t pin it down. Their sound was upbeat and fun, they were tight and the songs were actually pretty catchy. Somehow, though, the crowd, including myself, was not totally there with them. Then again, Portland is a tough town, full of hipster zombies that don’t like anyone to know they actually are experiencing some kind of emotion while watching live music.

What really cracked me up about the night were the crowd shenanigans going on while Loch Lamond performed. Not that I found them particularly interesting. I don’t want to knock any local bands, so let me say that they are a group of accomplished musicians. yawn zzzzzz…. But what cracked me up was when they were about ready to play and the crowd was yammering, as crowds do before shows begin for fuck’s sake. And someone actually shushed the crowd in this ridiculously rude way. And so began this running joke throughout their show where someone in the audience would loudly "SHHHHHH" right after the end of each of their songs, before anyone had a chance to applaud. I thought it was classic, though I did start feeling kind of sorry for the guys on stage. Give me a break, though, we’re not at the fucking opera. It’s a rock show people.

Free Will Astrology

Week beginning April 21
Copyright 2005 by Rob Brezsny
http://www.freewillastrology.com
Grammar key: Asterisks equal *italics*

SCORPIO (Oct. 23-Nov. 21): While mountain biking, I spied a white horse
engaged in odd behavior in a meadow. Over and over again, it took two
steps forward and two steps back. Was it neurotic or distraught? I
decided to sit and watch. Five minutes went by. Ten. Still it continued its
routine. Finally I got inspired to pray for it. "Dear Goddess," I said, "please
at least let that poor horse go *three* steps forward and two steps
back." Moments later, the creature started doing exactly what I’d prayed
for. Slowly, it made progress across the field. Now I’m saying a similar
prayer for you: "Dear Goddess, please help Scorpios escape their
treadmill-like pace, and go at least three steps forward for every two
backward."

I am ashamed even to contemplate very deeply the act I am about to commit. It’s embarrassing.

So let’s change the subject. If you really, really, really are burning to know what I’m planning on doing, well then, email me privately because I just can’t even bring myself to write it out and actually see it in print. It’s that crazy.

My sister is getting married on the 7th of May. Gosh, two weeks. How did that creep up so quickly? It’s not a traditional ceremony by any stretch of the imagination. Because I’d like to think that if it were, I’d be, you know, more involved in the whole process. We got the wedding dress together and I am doing the music for the reception. Perhaps its because she lives in Shelton and I live in Portland and there’s this geographic barrier. If only I could manipulate the time/space continuum I could pitch in a little more. As it stands right now, besides the aforementioned, I’m in charge of the salad at the post wedding pot luck.

Telephone tomorrow night at the Doug Fir. And even better, I don’t have to work on Friday. I can’t think of a time in my life when I’ve been more overwhelmed with work. Thankfully my recent melt down on the job helped secure me some long-overdue assistance. I’m happy for the help of course, yet strangely troubled that it took a flip out to get some action. Anyway, I look forward to the break and am dying for some good loud live music. Plus, the getting to sleep in the next day is quite appealing.

I want to get something really nice for my sister. Oh yeah, she and Joel don’t want gifts for the wedding. Still, I feel compelled to give her something. I don’t know what yet. Visions of multi-thousand dollar bracelets and extravagant and useless expensive trinkets flit through my head, then quickly dissolve as I recognize the root of my desire is not to give her something material, but to show her in a tangible way how much I love her. So now I just need to find something that resonates with me and expresses that indescribable sisterly love thing. Any ideas? Hurry, the shower is this weekend…

I’m angry and so what if the hormones are raging? I’m a god damned woman for fuck’s sake, and we live with our emotions on our sleeves.

Overworked, underpaid B O R I N G. Ridiculous.  Breaking down in tears. Time to find a new job. What’s new?

So what if I read something today on someone else’s boring ass blog (cuz mine is so the bomb and so much more interesting… uh… yeah) that meeting a writer who’s work you admire is like meeting a goose because you like foie gras. Is it really the artist I want to know, or is it primarily my relationship to the artist’s work that moves me so and somehow I displace my own personal shit on some random artist/stranger? Is it not, in fact, the seemingly uncontrollable compulsion of the artist to spurt forth human truth and knowing, almost as if one had nothing to do with it in the first place, but just sort of as this conduit of universal knowlege? Profound questions which fill me with introspection and self consciousness. And perhaps something better blogged about when I am not quite so tipsy from that large martini I just polished off.Yet still, I contemplate my place in the world and my obsession with Anton Newcombe. Alas. For fuck’s sake!!! How dull.

Though I’ll tell you, I’m bored with people criticizing him and calling him crazy and what not. Today I read this supposed review of a Brian Jonestown Massacre cd where the reviewer actually had not ever heard any BJM songs whatsoever, save the clips and bleeps from the "Dig" documentary. And so the reviewer decided in haste that he would not bother to listen to them because Anton was so "insane". And frankly I ask you, does mental illness really have anything to do with art?

Probably something, but I don’t know what exactly and I hate haters.

This only looks like a restaurant review

Late breakfast at Holman’s, upon recommendation; a nice sized spinach omelet with Parmesan. I admit I indulged in some perfectly grilled hash browns and some rye toast. It looks divey. Really divey. But our bartender/server was friendly & attentive. And the food hit the spot and was pleasantly affordable.

Happy Hour at Tin Shed. Yummy yummy spicy talapia taco with corn salsa. $2.50 pint Mirror Pond. I found the wait staff, particularly the skinny indie boy rocker with the wispy hair and tiny squeezable ass, attractive and friendly. Don’t tell Bretty though. And perhaps it’s my own perversions which compel me to say that I found the multi-generational family dining incongruous with the hipster image the interior projects and the staff so obviously flaunts…

I told you. This only looks like a restaurant review.

Yummy Monsoon Thai last night with friends, followed by a Pinot Noir paired with some most excellent conversation. Regretfully, I forgot to bring a load of laundry with me, further postponing the laundering of my colors until the next time the urge for Thai food overtakes me.

Yet inevitably, Sunday night is here and the blues are upon me with the crushing weight of Monday’s promise.

We finally got our asses to a frame shop and shelled out the cash dollars to get those Lauren McCubbin prints once and for all matted and framed.

Then I ate half the flesh of a coconut and all it’s juice. mmmm. coconut.

Oh forgive me while I rant, k? Just for a short, short paragraph or two. Stick with me…

Road rage out on 82nd & Holgate. Are you watching the news tonight? Jesus. The things I’ve seen on that street during the freaking work week would put a lame road rage news blurb to SHAME. I work on 82nd and Division at a prominent Portland institution that I probably should not mention since, well, it’s my job and I’ve heard these rumors that it’s not a good idea to actually mention the place one works whilst blogging.

But I can tell without hesitation that 82nd is the shit bag of humanity. Is it surprising that road rage takes place on 82nd? Haters, I’m telling you, I see it ALL on 82nd, 5 days a week, Monday through Friday, 8am until 5pm MINIMUM 5 days a week, every week. To the point where, really, truly, I want to cry. Disturbing and bizarre, well, that’s just half the story.

Why is it even relevant NEWS that some fucker got shot in the stomach in some road rage incident tonight? I HAVE SEEN IT ALL AND MORE on the fucking street and I can tell you with all honesty that road rage shootings are really not that interesting. Day after day after day after day of hookers and tweekers and freaks and space aliens, that’s what 82nd it REALLY about. The only thing I can think of that would put the road rage incident on the 10 o’clock news is that the "victim" was a white, middle aged man who has never been convicted of solicitation. Or is it possible the masses are really that stupid? Um, please don’t answer. I don’t really want to know. It disturbs me too much.

So tired. I think I may fall asleep while writing. There’s a distinct possibility I may just drift off at any moment. Oh, I had such dreams of going out tonight. Now, at 10pm I can barely write a coherent sentence. God knows, if i didn’t have spellcheck I would make no sense at all.

What happened?

If I could have sex with anyone tonight, for sure I’d have sex with Anton A. Newcombe of Brian Jonestown Massacre. I mean, except my sexy hubbin’, who truly is so super super cute and desirable, of course I never never ever even think about ever having sex with anyone else EVER. Because that is wrong and against God’s will and stuff. Right? But really. He is cute. Believe me. Yeah. so sexy. He’s snoring his head off 8 feet away from me on the Lay-Z-Boy as I blog this very second. Woo hoo. sexy sex. Yeah. Like I’m really getting some tonight.

Hormones raging, I write unabashed, yearning for sex, or at the very least affection, though I’d take a mysterious and ambivalent glance and go with it if the opportunity presented itself. You know, and improvise.

Dashed are my hopes of Deerhoof tonight at Nocturnal, but I’m pushing for Electric 6 at Dante’s for tomorrow. Must. have. live. music. now. Am jonesing and writing in a strange and messed up way that really doesn’t make sense. Stupidly tipsy I suppose. And those freaking hormones. Damn them.

Am more convicted than ever of my love for BJM. Drink profusely from the fountain of Brian Jonestown Massacre. Their cup overfloweth with LOVE. Don’t be ashamed. Give in, give it up, give it back. Anton will be waiting with a smile.

Perhaps I should just go to sleep.