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| BandwagonI moved my web journal.
Here: http://eastcoastfuckyou.blogspot.com/
Of course, just because I moved it doesn't mean I post any more frequently. But there is something new there now.
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| The Thermals, The Horrors, and Me, or, how i like my version better.Dear Web Journal,
I like music. Yes, oh yes, I do. And not really being skilled in playing anything myself, I have to listen to other people instead (am I sad about this? maybe a wee bit). This week, being CMJ and all, I was bound to see some shows. Monday I saw The Presets again, with the Rapture. Good fucking show-Webster Hall was full of actual, dancing people, instead of the kind that don't stand too near the stage, and then refuse to look like they are enjoying themselves. You know what kind of people I am talking about. So I hope the Presets impressed some people, and the Rapture are, in fact, a great live band. Better than they are on CD. But that's not the show I want to talk about.
The show I want to talk about is one I went to on Friday night at Studio B in Greenpoint/Williamsburg/i dunno. Studio B is, I gather, one of these Polish night clubs popping up as music venues. I was really only there to see two bands (please reference the title), but not being one of these people who don't show up for opening acts, I got to the show fairly early.
The first two acts were all from the West Coast. I don't really have more than that to say-Ferraby Lionheart (Los Angeles) was too mellow for me, and Birdmonster (San Francisco-my first love) were good but forgettable.
Henry had shown up by this point (not too impressed either, I'm sure). So we went outside to smoke a cigarette. AND THAT'S WHEN IT HAPPENED! The lead singer of The Thermals came out through the door we were standing next to.
Me: "Pssst, Henry. That's the lead singer from the Thermals".
Henry: "Huh?"
Then Mr. Thermals lit his own cigarrette, and said "Hey, mind if I smoke with you guys? (to me) I like your shoes".
Me: "Thanks man, your band is pretty cool. Yeah, really looking forward to the show."
Mr. Thermals: "Oh I'm so glad you think so. Especially since your shoes are so cool! Would you like me to dedicate a song to you?"
Me: "Haha that won't be necessary. Well, we're gonna head back inside now. Good luck".
(Ok, so here's what really happened. Mr. Thermals comes out two feet away from us, I discreetly point him out to Henry-yes, i can be discreet- he lights his cigarette, makes eye contact-maybe I'm not so discreet-and then moves past us. But I like my version better. And you know how you know the conversation is fake? I don't actually address anyone as "man".)
In all seriousness though, the fucking Thermals were fucking great. Henry and I had been standing comfortably during the set just prior, but as soon as Sam Champion finished their last song, the floor got very crowded very quickly. The Thermals played a great set of good, clean-sounding pop punk. I had a fantastic time dancing around. I mean, I'm no shrinking violet when it comes to dancing. I danced so much I knocked an earring out of my own ear. The crowd were definitely there to see The Thermals, and the energy reverberated between the band and the fans to the point that I forgot about my stressful job for the entirety of their set. Amen.
RaRaRiot played in between the Thermals and the Horrors. They were decent sounding, but they covered Kate Bush's "Hounds of Love" as their last song. Great song, but The Futureheads kind of cornered the market on that one for this generation.
By now, it was late in the evening, I had switched to whiskey and coke long ago and my poor feet were tired (cool shoes or not). And The Horrors took forever to get their set going. Many people left. But luckily, I have an infinite amount of patience. And thank god, too, because though the Thermals definitely were best band on the night, the Horrors were not far behind.
Say what you will about the band being more about their clothing, hair and make up then anything else. I say, that's the whole fucking point. The swagger, the theatricality, the keyboardist coming out and banging on his keys like a demented young thing! Was he playing actual notes? I don't know, but it didn't matter. And it's not like those boys don't know a thing about music, either. In their somewhat unfinished cool garage-y sound, you can hear the surf rock and punk influences. Sure, the single "Sheena was a Parasite" could have sounded a lot cleaner, but with a few more songs under their belt they should be an entertaining band with an entertaining look AND sound for a little while yet.
Faris, the lead singer, jumped into the audience three times, each time landing right next to me. Talk about audience participation. Maybe it was a good thing that not too many people stuck around. On the third time he jumped over my left shoulder, clipping it with his boot. We danced on the floor together, round and round a bit before he climbed back onto the stage. Ok, maybe I was dancing with him, maybe he chose me because he thought to himself (in a Southend London accent) "Bloody hell, that facking bird knows wot she's doing". Or maybe, it just looked like I got tangled in his mic cord. But whatever, I like my version better.
Love,
Rachael | | |
| DO NOT LET ME IN YOUR KITCHEN, or, how a craving for pudding went awry.Dear Web Journal,
First, let me just begin by stating that I am well aware that my eating habits are atrocious. Not in a "All I eat are Doritos, Cheez Whiz, soda, and candy" kind of way, but in a "I really like pickles so I am pretty much only going to eat pickles for an entire week before I find my next food obsession". Last week it was Pork Egg Foo Young. And of course, there's always my fall back food: peanut butter and jelly. I keep a jar of both at work and bring in the bread. It's amazing how it cuts down my getting-ready time each morning. Sometimes I am surprised at my own genius.
It's not that I am unimaginative when it comes to food. And I am not picky. I will eat ANYTHING. I'm just not very good at preparing it. I have had more bad turnouts then good. Like the pancakes I tried to make once for a boyfriend to try to impress him early in the relationship. He was quick to tell me he "wasn't really that hungry". And let's not be too hasty too forget my brother's birthday cake debacle, which, even though it tasted absolutley divine, looked like crap. And everyone knows good presentation makes up a decent percent of whether or not you enjoy your food experience. So imagine my horror when earlier this week I fucked up even the simplest of food tasks. That's right, friends and enemies, pudding.
There I was Tuesday evening, half way through the first disc of Lost, Season 2, when a small hunger came upon me. I opened my cupboard and spied a package of chocolate pudding. In that moment, it called out to me and nothing else, not even pickles, would satisfy. Running to the fridge (or taking one large step, our kitchen's not that big), I opened it to find I still had milk left. And that milk was not due to expire for another 5 days. I dropped the powdered mix into the milk, brought it to a boil, shoved some of my roommates food around to make room in the fridge and returned to the harrowing tales of Jack, Mr. Eko, Charlie, Hurley, et al. Just a sweet 30 minutes later and the pudding was set. I brought the bowl up to my nose in anticipation of the actual taste. I was judging the "bouquet", if you will. The deep brown color was perfect, the wobbliness of pudding inticing, but the "bouquet"? The "bouquet" was putrid. The "bouquet" was very much like rotten milk. ROTTEN. FUCKING. MILK!
How did I not notice, while making it, that the milk had gone off?! I am not an unobservant person. In fact, most of what I do consists of me observing my environment. This was just about enough to make me throw in the towel altogether. Not to mention throw up my Egg Foo Young. I threw out the milk, I threw out the pudding. Defeated, I hung my head, I hung my head. And I returned to the TV and lost myself in, er, Lost.
But fear not! I am resilient! I just returned from the grocery store, fresh milk and pudding mix in tow. This time instant pudding. In fact, it has set already and upon finishing this I will go and enjoy a bowl on a Saturday night. No, not that kind of bowl. A bowl of pudding.
But I'm going to offer it to my roommates first.
Love, Rachael | | |
| Why I'll Never Have A 'Most Popular Blog', or, how its time to buy a digital cameraDear Web Journal,
Today sucked. I lost four hours of work on a proposal. A proposal that was thrown at me (not literally) only a few days ago. A proposal that I know little to nothing about. A proposal that I had to work on over the weekend. A proposal that is due tomorrow. gaaaaaaaaaah. again: gaaaaaaaaaaaah.
in other news, there is one reason why i am a failed web journalist (okay, okay, i'll say it: 'blogger'). i am lazy. for example, friday i won a ticket from brooklynvegan to see a private acoustic performance of Editors somewhere in Midtown. it's true. i was really nervous about going by myself for some reason (I even made sure to bring deodorant), probably becuse everyone was bound to be uber-cool and unbelievably hot (because those are the kind of people that get to go to these things, right?) and know each other and stand around talking about uber-cool things, like, um, well i wouldn't know really, would I? but i had a good time anyway, especially since they had free Guinness and Harp, and everyone knows that alcohol makes you less nervous. er, right. so i drank my free beer, stayed away from the questionable looking free pizza, and awaited the show. but then! instead of running home to post the setlist and photos (sheesh, i don't even have a digital camera) i went out to meet a friend. And now here i am, monday night, in a relatively bad mood, and no one cares anymore. well here's the setlist anyway:
1. Sparks
2. Bullets
3. Bones (new track. woot.)
Uh, that's right. three songs. is that what usually happens at these things? in any case, i appreciated the gift bag. and the free beer. and the performance. AND i saw a guy i swear i've seen on Blue States Lose before. that's almost like a celebrity. well, ok, even i don't really think that, but it's still funny. and it means i'm infiltrating. first the dodgeball, then the private acoustic performance. what, dear friends, can possibly be next?
Love, Rachael | | |
| Dodgeball + Hipsters + Rachael=True Love, or, how 15 minutes of fame went to my headDear Web Journal,
Hear that chanting? Hear it? Listen closely now....shhhhhhush, there it is? Getting louder, louder....CHAMPIONE CHAMPIONE CHAMPIONE. That's right friends and enemies. I am a dodgeball champion. Well, champion in the loosest meaning of the word, as in, I played dodgeball with a bunch of hipsters in Williamsburg and happened to be on a team that one 9, NO! 10! games straight.
It's true, I wouldn't lie about such things. On Sunday, my buddies Phil and Azrael accompanied me to McCarren Pool for a Sunday music pool party woo! Well, not only did they have an a-ma-zing slip and slide, but they also had a dodgeball tournament. We signed our waivers and jumped right in! After teaming up with a charismatic lil' guy named Jack and forming the team Motherfucker, we proceeded to lose 3 games straight. But lo and behold, one water break later we took the makeshift court once again and the reign of terror began! We couldn't lose! I had my own cheering section ("Yay girl" seemed to be my newly christened dodgeball name). Someone called down to me from the spectators area that he was placing money on us. Jack ran around as the distractor, Phil hit people with the greatest of ease, all the other members (like Ian - some guy who was absolutely adorable) threw balls with an alarming accuracy, and I caught anything thrown my way. Ten games straight we went, and in the blistering heat of the day, it was nothing to scoff at, I tell you what. I don't care if it is only dodgeball.
Icing on the cake-as Phil, Azrael and I were walking toward the L train, no longer in McCarren Pool but out and about in *actual* Billyburg, a hipster approached us with a "Hey, Dodgeball Champions". Then he gave me advice on how to treat my skin for sunburn. I kid you not. It happened. For a few cherished moments, I was a celebrity. A celebrity amongst the hipsters. Can you fucking believe it?!? Neither can I, still, which is why I am writing about it a week after it happened. What does this mean for me? Is MisShapes next? I can only keep my fingers crossed, as should you.
Love, Rachael
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