I'm leeeavin' onna jet plane etc. etc.
Tomorrow I hump my ass off to Vancouver for what should be a weekend of sheer, unparralelled awesomeness. I'm so excited, I could just plotz.
Stay tuned for the full chronicle of my Wet Coast adventure, coming soon.
In the meantime, go and read Something Awful or some shit like that.
Thursday, August 28, 2003
A bank vault full of idiocy
Okee-dokie. First: saw stoner rockers Nebula and rock and soul outfit the Bell Rays last night at New City. Nebula's "music" is comparable to having one's head encased in concrete and then jackhammered free. Rather unplesant. The Bell Rays, despite much local pre-show hype, were a bit of a letdown. Granted, the sound quality was awful (Memo to Nebula: your fucking Marshall stack may make you think you're in Sabbath and enable you to knock beer glasses off tables from across the room and liquify the grey matter of the hippie morons crowding the front, but when you actually blow speakers in the club's PA system, you've got it turned up Too Fucking Loud), but they came off as something of a one-trick pony. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.
Woke up this morning (after 6 or so pints last night) with a lovely combo of hangover and head cold. My eyes felt like two Japanese bullet trains trying to speed out of their sockets.
I don't quite understand it, but caffeine seems to fight colds. The past three days, I've generally felt like shit, but can function at near normal capacity ("normal" in my case being no great shakes anyway) after knocking back enough java. Yet another reason to worship the humble coffee bean.
Okee-dokie. First: saw stoner rockers Nebula and rock and soul outfit the Bell Rays last night at New City. Nebula's "music" is comparable to having one's head encased in concrete and then jackhammered free. Rather unplesant. The Bell Rays, despite much local pre-show hype, were a bit of a letdown. Granted, the sound quality was awful (Memo to Nebula: your fucking Marshall stack may make you think you're in Sabbath and enable you to knock beer glasses off tables from across the room and liquify the grey matter of the hippie morons crowding the front, but when you actually blow speakers in the club's PA system, you've got it turned up Too Fucking Loud), but they came off as something of a one-trick pony. Oh well. You win some, you lose some.
Woke up this morning (after 6 or so pints last night) with a lovely combo of hangover and head cold. My eyes felt like two Japanese bullet trains trying to speed out of their sockets.
I don't quite understand it, but caffeine seems to fight colds. The past three days, I've generally felt like shit, but can function at near normal capacity ("normal" in my case being no great shakes anyway) after knocking back enough java. Yet another reason to worship the humble coffee bean.
Tuesday, August 26, 2003
The Jayhawks; New City Suburbs August 24, 2003
My little city on the prairie is known for few things; Wayne Gretzky, bitterly cold winters and being home to the world's biggest shopping mall would pretty much top the casual observer's list of Fun Factoids about Edmonton. Your humble correspondent would now like to add "alt-country hotbed" to the list. Okay, maybe "hotbed" is an overstatement, but if one was to go by the mass love-in that was The Jayhawks' visit to our town, it's a forgivable one. Most twang shows in Edmonton draw respectable turnouts, but this was the biggest since last year's Wilco gig. Like Wilco, The 'hawks came to town riding waves of praise for their new record Rainy Day Music and thus had hype on their side. Now me, I haven't really soaked in the new record, but my inital take was taht it is far too precious, a trait that seems to have dogged the Jayhawks records from the git go. Consequently, I was anticipating a laid back, acoustic effort from the Minnesota quartet. I was wrong. After sharing a pitcher upstairs, me and my concert buddy for the evening caught the last half of a set by Calgary's Agnostic Mountain Gospel Choir. Their line up consisted of a guitarist, banjo player, stand-up bass and a drummer whose kit included pots, pans, milk jugs and hubcaps. They played a warped breed of country-blues, including a dynamite Son House cover and will certainly get some more of my money next time they're up Highway 2.
But on to the main evernt. The Jayhawks took the stage early to some mad love and launched into a heavy "Life Floats By" from their "pop" record, Smile, knocking any thoughts of mellowness out of my head for a while. Live, the band has teeth, something that never seems to come across on record, with Gary Louris's work on a gorgeous vintage Gibson SG putting some welcome grit into the band's sunshiny sound. The night consisted of a good balance between some ballsy pop-rock numbers (including a pumped-up "Save It For A Rainy Day" off the new record) and Neil Young-ish acoustic work (including a cover of the grubby icon's "Expecting To Fly."). No matter which way the band went, the Edmonton crowd zigged with 'em. The band noticed it too, and Louris' declarations of "you're a great crowd" were well beyond typical "Thank you, Cleveland!" rock-isms. The man was genuinely impressed (and rightfully so: we Edmontonians are friendly folk). The show did have it's low spots: drummer Tim O'Regan's meandering folksy compositions generally left me cold and the fat, bearded goof who kept belting out the choruses of nearly every fucking song at the top of his lungs got on my nerves about 5 seconds in, but those are small complaints. There's nothing better (in my book) than leaving a show on a warm late summer evening knowing full well that the 25 buck ticket was money well-spent. So thank you, Jayhawks and come back real soon. Edmonton loves you.
My little city on the prairie is known for few things; Wayne Gretzky, bitterly cold winters and being home to the world's biggest shopping mall would pretty much top the casual observer's list of Fun Factoids about Edmonton. Your humble correspondent would now like to add "alt-country hotbed" to the list. Okay, maybe "hotbed" is an overstatement, but if one was to go by the mass love-in that was The Jayhawks' visit to our town, it's a forgivable one. Most twang shows in Edmonton draw respectable turnouts, but this was the biggest since last year's Wilco gig. Like Wilco, The 'hawks came to town riding waves of praise for their new record Rainy Day Music and thus had hype on their side. Now me, I haven't really soaked in the new record, but my inital take was taht it is far too precious, a trait that seems to have dogged the Jayhawks records from the git go. Consequently, I was anticipating a laid back, acoustic effort from the Minnesota quartet. I was wrong. After sharing a pitcher upstairs, me and my concert buddy for the evening caught the last half of a set by Calgary's Agnostic Mountain Gospel Choir. Their line up consisted of a guitarist, banjo player, stand-up bass and a drummer whose kit included pots, pans, milk jugs and hubcaps. They played a warped breed of country-blues, including a dynamite Son House cover and will certainly get some more of my money next time they're up Highway 2.
But on to the main evernt. The Jayhawks took the stage early to some mad love and launched into a heavy "Life Floats By" from their "pop" record, Smile, knocking any thoughts of mellowness out of my head for a while. Live, the band has teeth, something that never seems to come across on record, with Gary Louris's work on a gorgeous vintage Gibson SG putting some welcome grit into the band's sunshiny sound. The night consisted of a good balance between some ballsy pop-rock numbers (including a pumped-up "Save It For A Rainy Day" off the new record) and Neil Young-ish acoustic work (including a cover of the grubby icon's "Expecting To Fly."). No matter which way the band went, the Edmonton crowd zigged with 'em. The band noticed it too, and Louris' declarations of "you're a great crowd" were well beyond typical "Thank you, Cleveland!" rock-isms. The man was genuinely impressed (and rightfully so: we Edmontonians are friendly folk). The show did have it's low spots: drummer Tim O'Regan's meandering folksy compositions generally left me cold and the fat, bearded goof who kept belting out the choruses of nearly every fucking song at the top of his lungs got on my nerves about 5 seconds in, but those are small complaints. There's nothing better (in my book) than leaving a show on a warm late summer evening knowing full well that the 25 buck ticket was money well-spent. So thank you, Jayhawks and come back real soon. Edmonton loves you.
Think you got worry?
I just got an e-mail from my brother down in Calgary. His company (they monitor the structural integrity of various pieces of infrastructure) is sending him down to Maine next week to look at some sensors they have on a bridge out there. They're also sending a fellow with him of the ...er... Arabic persuasion. So to recap: my brother (a fairly swarthy fellow in his own right) and a man of Middle Eastern descent crawling around on a large piece of infrastructure in the States around the 11th of September.
I told him to have a good time in Cuba.
I just got an e-mail from my brother down in Calgary. His company (they monitor the structural integrity of various pieces of infrastructure) is sending him down to Maine next week to look at some sensors they have on a bridge out there. They're also sending a fellow with him of the ...er... Arabic persuasion. So to recap: my brother (a fairly swarthy fellow in his own right) and a man of Middle Eastern descent crawling around on a large piece of infrastructure in the States around the 11th of September.
I told him to have a good time in Cuba.
Monday, August 25, 2003
Movin' on up
Just a quick word about the Big Move this weekend. First: any way you slice it, moving sucks. Packing boxes, lifting boxes, loading boxes into the truck, unloading boxes, unpacking boxes, etc. etc.: there's not a single part of that than can be construed as remotely enjoyable. That said, this one went relatively smoothly and was over in three quick trips. Only problems now are contending with the lack of space (I've been forced to relegate several boxes of books and whathaveyou to the closet until further notice), and the fact that I'm in desperate need of a bona fide grown-up bed. You know, the kind that's not a battered mattress/box spring combo tossed onto the floor. While I'm at it, I might as well wish to be turned into a Real Boy so I can put said bed to proper use.
Just a quick word about the Big Move this weekend. First: any way you slice it, moving sucks. Packing boxes, lifting boxes, loading boxes into the truck, unloading boxes, unpacking boxes, etc. etc.: there's not a single part of that than can be construed as remotely enjoyable. That said, this one went relatively smoothly and was over in three quick trips. Only problems now are contending with the lack of space (I've been forced to relegate several boxes of books and whathaveyou to the closet until further notice), and the fact that I'm in desperate need of a bona fide grown-up bed. You know, the kind that's not a battered mattress/box spring combo tossed onto the floor. While I'm at it, I might as well wish to be turned into a Real Boy so I can put said bed to proper use.
Friday, August 22, 2003
Sure, they've got good moustaches. But can they play?
Kings of Leon
Youth and Young Manhood
It's totally understandable, completely natural even, to greet these newcomers and their debut LP with a healthy amount of skepticism. After all, Kings of Leon have already been anointed as the Next Big Thing by the British music press (certainly no guarantee of success, longevity or, indeed, quality), while deploying an impressive level of devotion to a rock'n'roll vernacular that was last in style back when the Rolling Stones didn't suck. (See also: The Strokes, though the Kings' musical roadmap is more gravel road than Avenue B). With ages ranging from 16 to 23 and a perfect pre-packaged mythology (three brothers and their first cousin, scions of a family of itinerant Southern Baptist preachers, blah blah blah), this is a band that would be really easy to hate, were it not for the fact that Youth and Young Manhood is pretty much the most unabashedly kick-ass rock debut since the afore-mentioned Strokes' Is This It (and if you don't like that, you've got more problems than I can help you with, hombre).
Like 2003's other mucho-hyped freshman rock entry, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Fever To Tell, Youth and Young Manhood faces an uphill battle against listener expectations and the burden of hype. Unlike Karen O's crew, the Kings of Leon emerge at the top more or less unscathed. A lot of that has to do with the simplicity of the King's formula: part neo-Skynyrd Southern boogie-rock, part Iggy-esque proto punk with a smidgen of Uncle Tupelo's front porch swing. Where Fever to Tell bogs down in art-fag meanderings, Youth and Young Manhood puts the pedal down and keeps it down. Most of the sides on Y.&.Y.M are straight up, windows down road rockers anchored by a steady-as-she-goes rhythm section and guitars that nip at and climb over each other like a pair of feisty Rottweiller pups. No doubt much of the credit for keeping these newbies on track goes to producer Ethan Johns (Ryan Adams, Jayhawks) whose invisible hand seems to keep the whole works from veering sharply into the ditch of bald-faced imitation. In fact, it's vocalist Caleb Followill who comes closest to sinking this ship. The frontman runs tha gamut from mush-mouthed slurs through barstool braggadocio and onward into high-pitched spaz outs that plainly aim to fill the former James Osterberg's "No Fun" era boots (by the time Followill's histrionics on "Trani" fade into a raspy squeal, you can imagine it as a show-closer, with him twitching on stage with a mic cord wrapped around his throat amid screaming wails of gi-tah feedback). It's a good voice, mind you, and suited to the K o L esthetic like PB to jelly, but it's also a reminder that these are a handful of young Southern bucks trying their damndest to make good and sometimes, young fellers, there's such a thing as trying too hard, y'know?
All the same, these days you can't swing a White Stripe without bashing some garage rawk revivalist band. The term itself is now being applied with the same reckless abandon that turned "grunge" into an epithet (George Satayana said that those who ignore history are condemned to repeat it. He did not mention that these same folks all seem to work in the music industry. Or are U.S. presidents. But I digress.). Now, no rational human being could, after listening to Youth and Young Manhood, consign Kings of Leon to the same pit, but rationality is not a hallmark of our discourse today, and that's fine, because this is really a blood and guts record anyway, all ass, gas and grass. It's derivative, sure, but I challenge anyone to name a truly original musical act from the past 20 (fuck, let's make it 50) years. I sure don't know if it will hold up down the road, but I do know this: in uncertain times, a little certainty goes a long way. You can't really go wrong with a meaty slice of rock'n'roll with a side of grits and that's exactly what Kings of Leon serve up here. Now: what's for dessert?
Kings of Leon
Youth and Young Manhood
It's totally understandable, completely natural even, to greet these newcomers and their debut LP with a healthy amount of skepticism. After all, Kings of Leon have already been anointed as the Next Big Thing by the British music press (certainly no guarantee of success, longevity or, indeed, quality), while deploying an impressive level of devotion to a rock'n'roll vernacular that was last in style back when the Rolling Stones didn't suck. (See also: The Strokes, though the Kings' musical roadmap is more gravel road than Avenue B). With ages ranging from 16 to 23 and a perfect pre-packaged mythology (three brothers and their first cousin, scions of a family of itinerant Southern Baptist preachers, blah blah blah), this is a band that would be really easy to hate, were it not for the fact that Youth and Young Manhood is pretty much the most unabashedly kick-ass rock debut since the afore-mentioned Strokes' Is This It (and if you don't like that, you've got more problems than I can help you with, hombre).
Like 2003's other mucho-hyped freshman rock entry, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs' Fever To Tell, Youth and Young Manhood faces an uphill battle against listener expectations and the burden of hype. Unlike Karen O's crew, the Kings of Leon emerge at the top more or less unscathed. A lot of that has to do with the simplicity of the King's formula: part neo-Skynyrd Southern boogie-rock, part Iggy-esque proto punk with a smidgen of Uncle Tupelo's front porch swing. Where Fever to Tell bogs down in art-fag meanderings, Youth and Young Manhood puts the pedal down and keeps it down. Most of the sides on Y.&.Y.M are straight up, windows down road rockers anchored by a steady-as-she-goes rhythm section and guitars that nip at and climb over each other like a pair of feisty Rottweiller pups. No doubt much of the credit for keeping these newbies on track goes to producer Ethan Johns (Ryan Adams, Jayhawks) whose invisible hand seems to keep the whole works from veering sharply into the ditch of bald-faced imitation. In fact, it's vocalist Caleb Followill who comes closest to sinking this ship. The frontman runs tha gamut from mush-mouthed slurs through barstool braggadocio and onward into high-pitched spaz outs that plainly aim to fill the former James Osterberg's "No Fun" era boots (by the time Followill's histrionics on "Trani" fade into a raspy squeal, you can imagine it as a show-closer, with him twitching on stage with a mic cord wrapped around his throat amid screaming wails of gi-tah feedback). It's a good voice, mind you, and suited to the K o L esthetic like PB to jelly, but it's also a reminder that these are a handful of young Southern bucks trying their damndest to make good and sometimes, young fellers, there's such a thing as trying too hard, y'know?
All the same, these days you can't swing a White Stripe without bashing some garage rawk revivalist band. The term itself is now being applied with the same reckless abandon that turned "grunge" into an epithet (George Satayana said that those who ignore history are condemned to repeat it. He did not mention that these same folks all seem to work in the music industry. Or are U.S. presidents. But I digress.). Now, no rational human being could, after listening to Youth and Young Manhood, consign Kings of Leon to the same pit, but rationality is not a hallmark of our discourse today, and that's fine, because this is really a blood and guts record anyway, all ass, gas and grass. It's derivative, sure, but I challenge anyone to name a truly original musical act from the past 20 (fuck, let's make it 50) years. I sure don't know if it will hold up down the road, but I do know this: in uncertain times, a little certainty goes a long way. You can't really go wrong with a meaty slice of rock'n'roll with a side of grits and that's exactly what Kings of Leon serve up here. Now: what's for dessert?
Left and Leaving...
It's been a week of transition. The Big Move is scant hours away and much of the week has been spent bidding adieu to various belongings and to the old pad itself. It was cold in winter, too hot in summer and kinda gross, but I lived there for three years and I'm gonna miss the place.
In the meantime, I picked up my ticket to the upcoming Jayhawks show at New City, which kicks off what should be a pretty hectic few weeks of gig-attending, beer drinkin' and dancin'. The Weakerthans are here on September 6, followed closely by Modest Mouse on the 9th. Good times, good times...
It's been a week of transition. The Big Move is scant hours away and much of the week has been spent bidding adieu to various belongings and to the old pad itself. It was cold in winter, too hot in summer and kinda gross, but I lived there for three years and I'm gonna miss the place.
In the meantime, I picked up my ticket to the upcoming Jayhawks show at New City, which kicks off what should be a pretty hectic few weeks of gig-attending, beer drinkin' and dancin'. The Weakerthans are here on September 6, followed closely by Modest Mouse on the 9th. Good times, good times...
Friday, August 15, 2003
I'm bound to pack it up.
T-minus 8 days to the Big Move and I started packing yesterday. I then realized, after filling about six or seven boxes, that I have virtually nothing. I'm pretty much halfway done and it should only take me a couple of hours to finish up. This is not a bad thing, as it will make the actual moving/unpacking process a damn breeze.
T-minus 8 days to the Big Move and I started packing yesterday. I then realized, after filling about six or seven boxes, that I have virtually nothing. I'm pretty much halfway done and it should only take me a couple of hours to finish up. This is not a bad thing, as it will make the actual moving/unpacking process a damn breeze.
Tuesday, August 12, 2003
In the summer's when you really know.
I am sick of summer. This is nothing new for me. In fact, this usually kicks around this time of the year (right around the Fringe Festival). Dunno if it's the inescapable heat, the smoky haze that's held sway over the skies of the city for the past few weeks (giving the whole place a real big-city smog vibe),the work-drink-sleep rut that I find myself in these days, or the lack of hockey on the telly, but the dog days suck ass. Maybe it's just that, for jaded twenty-somethings slowly sinking into the quagmire of adulthood, summer really doesn't have the significance it once did. The carefree days of sleeping through the morning and spending sunny afternoons running through the sprinklers on the front lawn are long gone. More's the pity, too, because let's face it: none of young adulthood's usual pursuits (drinking, smoking, rocking out, fucking) are ever half as fun as a good long dash at a Slip'n'Slide.
'Course, this is all just revisionist nostalgic bullshit. I spent most of my youthful summers cooped up inside with a book or staring at the TV which, now that I think about it, means things really haven't changed all that much. Er, right. Carry on, then.
Now that I've got the pointless self-examination out of the way, I picked up the Nuggets 2 box set from my local lie-berry this afternoon.
Which brings me to today’s Public Service Announcement: Hug your library today.
11 days to the Big Move and I'm off to get a cup of coffee.
I am sick of summer. This is nothing new for me. In fact, this usually kicks around this time of the year (right around the Fringe Festival). Dunno if it's the inescapable heat, the smoky haze that's held sway over the skies of the city for the past few weeks (giving the whole place a real big-city smog vibe),the work-drink-sleep rut that I find myself in these days, or the lack of hockey on the telly, but the dog days suck ass. Maybe it's just that, for jaded twenty-somethings slowly sinking into the quagmire of adulthood, summer really doesn't have the significance it once did. The carefree days of sleeping through the morning and spending sunny afternoons running through the sprinklers on the front lawn are long gone. More's the pity, too, because let's face it: none of young adulthood's usual pursuits (drinking, smoking, rocking out, fucking) are ever half as fun as a good long dash at a Slip'n'Slide.
'Course, this is all just revisionist nostalgic bullshit. I spent most of my youthful summers cooped up inside with a book or staring at the TV which, now that I think about it, means things really haven't changed all that much. Er, right. Carry on, then.
Now that I've got the pointless self-examination out of the way, I picked up the Nuggets 2 box set from my local lie-berry this afternoon.
Which brings me to today’s Public Service Announcement: Hug your library today.
11 days to the Big Move and I'm off to get a cup of coffee.
Monday, August 11, 2003
things i hate today vol. 1
1. Summer. The most overrated of the seasons between winters.
2. Bars that are closed on Sunday. I'm sorry. I didn't know I was living under the fucking Taliban!
3. Office coffee. Tates like the AIDS in a mug.
4. Bad Gigli reviews. Haters probably dissed Ishtar too.
5. "Straight Pride" T-Shirts. Joining rednecks in closets across Alberta.
1. Summer. The most overrated of the seasons between winters.
2. Bars that are closed on Sunday. I'm sorry. I didn't know I was living under the fucking Taliban!
3. Office coffee. Tates like the AIDS in a mug.
4. Bad Gigli reviews. Haters probably dissed Ishtar too.
5. "Straight Pride" T-Shirts. Joining rednecks in closets across Alberta.
This Will Make You Crap Your Pants
Or maybe it's just me. George W. Bush: Elite Force Aviator! (Crotch bulge sold seperately.)
Or maybe it's just me. George W. Bush: Elite Force Aviator! (Crotch bulge sold seperately.)
So nothing pisses on an otherwise decent weekend quite like a trans-Atlantic phone call from four of your closest pals, drunkenly crowing about what an awesome, superfun time they're having in Manchester when you're stuck in your apartment and facing another wretched week of humping your ass for the Man. Call me self-absorbed, call me an asshole, but the notion that I'm obliged to toast someone else's good fortune is for the birds.
Now that I've got that out of the way, I'm totally stoked about seeing Radiohead and Wilco in Vancouver at the end of the month. It's going to be awesome superfun time. And you should be totally happy for me.
Friday, August 08, 2003
Don't feed me planned obsolescence.
Why is it that we can send monkeys into space, but we can't or won't make home electronics equipment that doesn't break down for absolutely no reason whatsoever? Take my DVD player. Please (ha ha ha). I watched "The Anniversary Party" last night (which proved so damn boring that I opted to stop it part way through) when my DVD player decided to give me the big "fuck you, organic boy" and shut down. Nothing worked. Not the remote. Not the buttons on the machine. Nada. So I decide to unplug it and see if I could get that bad boy moving again. Uh uh. No power. No nothing. Dead as the dodo.
That my DVD player is now a $250 paperweight doesn't bother me (I can get it fixed). But what does piss me off is that there's a rental DVD trapped in the bowels of that piece of crap that will soon start costing me late fees. And to add insult to injury, it wasn't even a good movie, unless you happen to be the kind of person who can get into the lives of quirky Hollywood millionaires and feel sorry for the poor, rich Xanax'd up bastards. Me, I wanted to hit them all with a fire axe. Maybe that's a tactic I could try on my DVD player.
The most aggravating thing of all is that I know damn well that the corporate fucks who build these pieces of crap have the technology to make them last forever, but choose to install some kind of self-destruct mechanism to keep people coming back for more shoddy home electronics. Or maybe it's the fact these things are assembled by 8 year-old Malaysian kids working for $0.06 an hour. Compared to that, having a busted DVD player isn't such a big problem, I suppose. But still: late charges blow.
Why is it that we can send monkeys into space, but we can't or won't make home electronics equipment that doesn't break down for absolutely no reason whatsoever? Take my DVD player. Please (ha ha ha). I watched "The Anniversary Party" last night (which proved so damn boring that I opted to stop it part way through) when my DVD player decided to give me the big "fuck you, organic boy" and shut down. Nothing worked. Not the remote. Not the buttons on the machine. Nada. So I decide to unplug it and see if I could get that bad boy moving again. Uh uh. No power. No nothing. Dead as the dodo.
That my DVD player is now a $250 paperweight doesn't bother me (I can get it fixed). But what does piss me off is that there's a rental DVD trapped in the bowels of that piece of crap that will soon start costing me late fees. And to add insult to injury, it wasn't even a good movie, unless you happen to be the kind of person who can get into the lives of quirky Hollywood millionaires and feel sorry for the poor, rich Xanax'd up bastards. Me, I wanted to hit them all with a fire axe. Maybe that's a tactic I could try on my DVD player.
The most aggravating thing of all is that I know damn well that the corporate fucks who build these pieces of crap have the technology to make them last forever, but choose to install some kind of self-destruct mechanism to keep people coming back for more shoddy home electronics. Or maybe it's the fact these things are assembled by 8 year-old Malaysian kids working for $0.06 an hour. Compared to that, having a busted DVD player isn't such a big problem, I suppose. But still: late charges blow.
Wednesday, August 06, 2003
Ever feel like you've been cheated?
Johhny Rotten said that at the very last Sex Pistols show. I get that feeling all the time, but most especially during work when it occurs to me (and this happens on an almost daily basis) that what I'm doing doesn't really make an iota of difference.
On the bright side, tonight is beer time as two of my friends are off to the UK for three weeks, during which time they'll be taking in the Reading music festival.
The bastards.
Oh well, I've been promised a T-Shirt and other swag, so I've got that going for me at least. Plus, every day is one day closer to the end of the month when I'll be winging my way to Vancouver, BC to catch a pair of top-notch gigs (R.E.M. with Wilco and Radiohead with Stephen Malkmus), as well as big fun on the old, damp town.
Johhny Rotten said that at the very last Sex Pistols show. I get that feeling all the time, but most especially during work when it occurs to me (and this happens on an almost daily basis) that what I'm doing doesn't really make an iota of difference.
On the bright side, tonight is beer time as two of my friends are off to the UK for three weeks, during which time they'll be taking in the Reading music festival.
The bastards.
Oh well, I've been promised a T-Shirt and other swag, so I've got that going for me at least. Plus, every day is one day closer to the end of the month when I'll be winging my way to Vancouver, BC to catch a pair of top-notch gigs (R.E.M. with Wilco and Radiohead with Stephen Malkmus), as well as big fun on the old, damp town.
Tuesday, August 05, 2003
Let it blurt.
Just wrapped up Jim DeRogatis' "Let it blurt: the life and times of Lester Bangs, America's greatest rock critic". Inspired by Bangs' legendary excesses (ie. writing while totally jimmied-up on Romilar cough syrup), I chugged a bottle of NyQuil and sat down to pen my magnum opus, only to end up passing out face down on my coffee table. I woke up some time later in a puddle of cherry-scented drool, my inspiration lost but my sinuses remarkably clear. Okay, not really, but Bangs' "Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung" is a fantastic piece of work, despite (or perhaps because of?) being written during a series of speed benders. Fortunately, you don't have to be on speed to enjoy it. Though if you are, that's entirely up to you, man.
Just wrapped up Jim DeRogatis' "Let it blurt: the life and times of Lester Bangs, America's greatest rock critic". Inspired by Bangs' legendary excesses (ie. writing while totally jimmied-up on Romilar cough syrup), I chugged a bottle of NyQuil and sat down to pen my magnum opus, only to end up passing out face down on my coffee table. I woke up some time later in a puddle of cherry-scented drool, my inspiration lost but my sinuses remarkably clear. Okay, not really, but Bangs' "Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung" is a fantastic piece of work, despite (or perhaps because of?) being written during a series of speed benders. Fortunately, you don't have to be on speed to enjoy it. Though if you are, that's entirely up to you, man.
Of course the rumours of war were completely unfounded...
Economy in the tank? Unemployment soaring? Tax cuts for the wealthy ain't doing the trick? Why, it's all that crazy media's fault!
"The stock market started to decline in March of 2000. Then the first quarter of 2001 was a recession. And then we got attacked 9/11. And then corporate scandals started to bubble up to the surface, which created a lack of confidence in the system. And then we had the drumbeat to war. Remember on our TV screens, I'm not suggesting which network did this, but it said march to war every day from last summer till the spring. March to war, march to war, that's not a very conducive environment for people to take risks when they hear march to war all the time."
-"President" George W. Bush, July 30, 2003
And, uh, where do you suppose they get that idea, Mr. President?
(Quote culled from the New York Times)
Economy in the tank? Unemployment soaring? Tax cuts for the wealthy ain't doing the trick? Why, it's all that crazy media's fault!
"The stock market started to decline in March of 2000. Then the first quarter of 2001 was a recession. And then we got attacked 9/11. And then corporate scandals started to bubble up to the surface, which created a lack of confidence in the system. And then we had the drumbeat to war. Remember on our TV screens, I'm not suggesting which network did this, but it said march to war every day from last summer till the spring. March to war, march to war, that's not a very conducive environment for people to take risks when they hear march to war all the time."
-"President" George W. Bush, July 30, 2003
And, uh, where do you suppose they get that idea, Mr. President?
(Quote culled from the New York Times)
All this sounds gas
Hey, kids: do you like the rock'n'roll? Kings of Leon's long-awaited (by me) full-length debut
"Youth and Young Manhood" drops in these parts on August 19. Good band. Better moustaches.
An expert on such things tells me Belle and Sebastian's latest offering is due out in the UK October 6.
And Rolling Stone online sez the Strokes, bless their shaggy, Drew Barrymore-dating heads, are set for an October 21 release for their follow up to "Is This It?" Hipsters everywhere prepare to snort derisively.
(Cheers to themodernage.org for the link. Jeers to this rusty tailgate.)
Hey, kids: do you like the rock'n'roll? Kings of Leon's long-awaited (by me) full-length debut
"Youth and Young Manhood" drops in these parts on August 19. Good band. Better moustaches.
An expert on such things tells me Belle and Sebastian's latest offering is due out in the UK October 6.
And Rolling Stone online sez the Strokes, bless their shaggy, Drew Barrymore-dating heads, are set for an October 21 release for their follow up to "Is This It?" Hipsters everywhere prepare to snort derisively.
(Cheers to themodernage.org for the link. Jeers to this rusty tailgate.)
This is where it all begins.
I've been watching the remarkable growth of this phenomenon known as "blogging" for a while now when it hit me: if blogging is a way for every self-absorbed, pretentious halfwit with web access and literary aspirations to voice their utterly meaningless ramblings in the big, wide, web world, then it's high time I, as a self-absorbed, pretentious halfwit with web access and literary aspirations, got in on the action.
So here it is.
I've been watching the remarkable growth of this phenomenon known as "blogging" for a while now when it hit me: if blogging is a way for every self-absorbed, pretentious halfwit with web access and literary aspirations to voice their utterly meaningless ramblings in the big, wide, web world, then it's high time I, as a self-absorbed, pretentious halfwit with web access and literary aspirations, got in on the action.
So here it is.
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