Silly Rabbit

Wedged between my Harry Potter books, His Dark Materials series, and other young independent reader novel is a copy of "Paradise Lost" by Milton. And at the bottom of the stack of children novels is "Sex, Drugs and Cocoa Puffs" by Chuck Klosterman.

This is my life: trapped between wondrous curiosity and bleak realization.

Damnit.

Skeleton Girl

I spread myself way too thin that I'm slipping through the cracks. I should really pick a hobby and stick with it, but once I latch onto something, it's hard to let go: photography, guitar, music, writing. All hobbies that I wish I could expand and explore. Instead of this dabbling shit. It's annoying actually, to feel like such a novice. But that's what I am. Oh well, cheers to hard work and time-consuming wants. How they drain my wallet.

At last, it's been decided. Assuming my vacation request goes through, I'm going to Japan in November. I'm not sure how the initial plan earlier this spring has brought my feet from Cairo to Tokyo. So I wouldn't be surprised if I announce next week that I'm going to Sweden. Oh November, come soon. A week in a city where the language eludes me, where my meals will be based on me pointing to the pictures in menus, and where (hopefully) I will tower as a giant among their women. And they sell beer in vending machines. God, what a wondrous culture. Any and all travel recommendations will be greatly appreciated.

I'll be flying back to the US on the 21st of November and am thinking about catching the Friendly Fires and the xx later that night.
My shoulder angel says: Don't go. Your jetlag will bog down the show.
My shoulder devil says: Do it. You're in love with the guitarist.
I say: I'm going to mother-effing Japan!!!!!!! Wahooooooooo!

Twice as low

I'm pretty sure I would be a lot happier if I weren't so chicken shit all the time. That and if I didn't have such an addiction to Starbucks double shots. And quite possibly if I could focus all my obsessive energy from bands/guitarists into something more productive and concrete. Like life.

Ha.

But really. I'm tired of my idle hands, so useless and a waste of flesh and bones.

Rough Landing

I was about five different ways of being f'ed up this weekend that I'm still trying to wake up, even though it's Monday night. So was it a bad weekend or a good one? The jury's still out on the verdict, though I will say it was uneventful despite my current state. Let's put the blame on Starbuck Doubleshots as they're becoming a breakfast replacement. So good and so terrible for you.

I saw a bunch of my favorite/current infatuated bands play this past weekend. It reinforced my love for live music as there's nothing like your heart crumpling onto itself at the sound of the vocalist's first note and then to have your heart swell and explode when the song is reaching its climax. There's pure adoration when I see a band play live.

Sunset Junction, till we meet again next year and hopefully, I'll have more time to spin on death wheels and traverse down fifty foot slides.

I'm a music whore

Stars and Songs. Okay, here's my attempt at just posting songs I like and ranting about terrible albums that I question how many ears heard it without anyone questioning the musical merits of it. I will try very hard not to pull a Pitchfork review in my entries because I hate their inclusive style of writing, as if one has to have a wide musical knowledge to understand the name dropping and references. If only I had started that blog years ago so I could shit talk Rilo Kiley's last album and the last two Interpol albums. (Don't lie, your ears gave you a WTF moment after hearing those albums, too.) I stick to my earlier review of Our Love to Admire.

The new Interpol album, Our Love to Admire, reminded me of what disappointment felt like. After sampling the first five seconds of each song, I was convinced my friend sent me Antics instead. There was absolute conviction that I heard the intro "The Heinrich Maneuver" on a past cd and this copy was a false leak. Confusion lead to research lead to hope lead to dismay lead to disgust. This album is far from "expressive" as the band members want me to believe. Okay, I give into the addition of a few wind instruments but Paul Banks is still singing in the same note on every song. I let that pass on Antics, but now, forgiveness will not be granted.

I'm so disappointed in you, Interpol, you were supposed to offer me something new, not this sloppy third helping of cheap dark and dank sex in an alley shit. Your debut was gorgeous and reminded me of Joy Division so much that I thought Ian Curtis was alive again. Find yourself another (music) whore because I'm not putting out for you.

So for more tirades in such fashion, I'll be hobbling on that other space of the interwebs.

In other news, I find myself quoting Robert Frost these days. I feel cultured yet am perplexed in my doing so. At least I'm not quoting Shakespeare. That's loony bin time. Or awesome time. Obviously, it's still up for debate.

Rock, meet hard place

I want to start a music blog but then I get lazy and don't feel like writing the first post or trying to personalize a webpage. Even though I've written about a hundred posts in my head to justify how fun it would be to expose other people to random awesome songs. But then I don't know how many times I'll be able to preface each song with "awesome" before people question my ability to write and to use synonyms. It would be easier to compile a list of quality songs but that would be the complete lazy gal's way out. So tempting. I've got no expectations to reach Brooklyn Vegan status or have the desire to write off putting reviews like Pitchfork, but music is so incredibly fascinating.

I tried to explain it once to someone that music is amazing as it's never repeated. You have these same sets of notes and chords but rearranged to create something unique. And then I also wonder, why bother when I know only Carol would read. Hmph.

FML, but not really

I am eating a pizza sandwich, which is really just two huge slices of pizza squished together. For this very reason, I'm glad I'm skinny/have a fast metabolism/consider this my only meal of the day.

Huzzah!

PS I imagine this is how the makers of Hotpockets, the pepperoni version, came up with that product.

PPS I really have regret shoving all that food into my mouth.