Thursday, March 27, 2008

New Layout, same shitty aesthetic.

I attempted to make the blog look better today, and I failed.

I call upon anyone who knows a simple way to design a fairly simple blog with an image at the top and columns on either side to keep everything all centrally located to help a brutha out.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

Pitchfork: Old And Busted; Ifoughtthelol: New Hottness

RichDork has once again proved how annoyingly predictable by pouring serious derision on something that's awesome but doesn't fit into their canon of musical cool. Let's look at some quotes:

"Barely adequate dance-rock to keep you occupied until the next Klaxons record"

That's funny, because I have never even given thought to the possibility of a new Klaxons record. If it means new Klaxons track remixes, though, i'll get on board.

"like they've bought up some old Chemical Brothers kit on eBay and haven't read the manual yet"

Name drops in total throughout this article: 5. (two were for the klaxons, who are treated only in the warmest, most fellatious tones)

If you couldn't yet sense the consistent theme of "These guys aren't sounding like the band I like and they don't appear to notice that and it makes me very angry," here's the piece d'resistance:

"old-school ravers... they're just rightly pissed at the band's tired ideas and terminal complacency."

What a logomancer we have in Tom Ewing,
another successful graduate of the Pitchfork School of High-handed Language With Vague Intent and Utter Knowitallism.


Did I ever tell the story about how the Pitchfork internet cunt threatened my life via a Radiohead forum? Seems he was upset that the forum folk loved my In Rainbows review more vocally than PF preferred.

Pitchfork Media: The Internet Tastemaker Without Any Taste Of It's Own.

"And we rule." Oh Pitchfork, your snarky sarcasm always gives me the giggles. I wish I had enough thesauruses to be like you guys.

My blog helps me be more self-absorbed

Today I got back the photos from the USU Year In Review bit that I did a stint modeling for. Needless to say, I look amazing. They all came with the phrase "Courtesy of Bonzon" written all over disc and folders, so due diligence suggests I mention that these photos are courtesy of Bonzon.

They told me to bring something that represents me so I brought my headphones. All in all it was a fun experience, up until they made me take off my top. "I'm a male model, not a male prostitute!" Ahh, now that was a great album. (the show wasn't bad either)

Anyways, I feel I should also mention that when I posted those VBS.TV clips about North Korea (which you need to watch if you haven't) were at the request of Biz 3, a publicity company (and just cool folk) that I work with a lot for shows since they tend to have the best acts on their roster. What I realized after directing Biz' Dana to my blog to see that I'd posted the NK vids was that Crystal Castles is one of their acts. So not only did she see my CC post from a ways back, but she also saw the image I made. She was very amused and sent a copy over to Crystal Castles! So cool. I love being a media stooge.

Monday, March 24, 2008


Those shades are fucking powerful. They instantly photoshop any image they appear in.

I found this lyric quiz which forgoes the usual banality by listing every word in the song in alphabetical order. It's remarkably difficult, but I knuckled up and succeeded wildly. See if you can beat my score (I don't trust your word as to what score you get, so don't try to wow me with a better score than I put down.

Are you the Alpha lyric trivia master?

Most of the ones I missed I wasn't bummed about (some of them I've only listened to once), but #48 really made me feel foolish.

Ultimately, I got 28 out of 50 correct, and as far as i'm concerned that is world champ level lyric identification. I may have to make a trophy up for myself.

As an addition to the quiz, i've added the following 5 songs simply because they look awesome when alphabetically rearranged. Guess 'em!

2 a Afghanistan AIDS airline Alabama always and anymore Arabia are Around away Ayatollah's back Bardot Bay baseball Beatlemania beats been Begin Belgians Ben Berlin Bernie Bien Birth Bloc blown bomb Brando Bridge British Brooklyn's Buddy Budapest burn burning But California Campanella can't Castro Catcher Charlse Checker Chi children China China's Chou Chubby Clock Communist cola Congo control crack Crockett Davy Day dacron Dean debts didn't Dien DiMaggio Disneyland do Doris Dylan Edsel Eichmann Einstein Eisenhower else Elvis En-Lai England's falls fight fire Foreign Fortune Gaulle Glenn go Goetz goodbye got gone Grace H Harry have heavy Hemingway Ho Holly homeless homicide hoops Hula Hur Hypodermics I in invasion Iran is It James JFK Joe John Johnnie Joseph Juan Kennedy Kerouac King Korea Krushchev Kwai Land law Lawrence Lebanon Liberace light Liston Little Mafia Malcolm Malenkov Mantle Marciano Marilyn martial McCarthy metal Mickey Minh Miss monkey Monroe Moonshot Nasser Nixon new No North of Ole on Pacific Palestine Pan Panmunjom Pasternak Patterson Paul payola Peron Peter Peyton Pigs Phu Place politician Pope Presley Princess Prokofiev Psycho punk queen Ray Reagan Red Rhee Richard Ride River roller Rock Rockefeller Rosenbergs Roy Russians Rye Sally say sex shores Since Santayana South space Sputnik Stalin Starkweather start Strange Stranger Studebaker Suez Sugar suicide Syngman take team television terror thalidomide The to Toscanini tried trouble Truman turning U under vaccine vets Walter wars was Watergate We what Wheel when Will Winchell winning Woodstock world's X

After Do Better Ever Faster Harder Hour Is It Make Makes More Never Our Over stronger Than Us Work

3 a ability afraid all also an and animals antibiotics ants associate at baby back bad bank better boiling but cage calculated calm car careful cat chance charity check childish comfortable concerned contact contemporaries credit cries cry dark days dinners down dreams drink drinking driven ease eating employee enjoy escape exercise fats favours film fitter fond for frequently friends frozen getting good grip gym healthier hole illness in into keep killing kisses laugh less like longer love memory microwave midday moral more moths much never no not nothing now of old on or orders pace paranoia patient pig plughole powerless productive public saturated shadows so spiders the then to too washing well with

a again alive all An and another around asleep back be beach believe belly beneath break broken bump bumped But came can Chop chords chorus city coda come comes coming confess could crashing cry crystal curse days die divides Do Doing down dress drop drug earthy else ever Face faith feel feeling fell for four freak games get give given gives go goes gold golden Good-bye got ground grows head her hit hold holding How I I'm in inside is it its jaws just Keep kind life lift like line listening little lives living locked made make mattress me meth motivation must my myself no nose not nothing now of on One Ovation over own packed panties pass pictures place plane play priestess red rhythm right rips rose round run said sand say says scared Semi-charmed she she's show sips sky Slide smile Smiling Some something speak stage Still stock stop struggling survive take takes taking test that the them then there They this Those through tick-tock to toes took tripped until up urge velvet verse want we wearing were we're what when where Will wish with won't would you You're

Alcohol and C-c-c-c-c Cocaine Ecstasy Marijuana Nicotine Valium Vicodin

enjoy. Post your answers if you'd like. i'm certainly not telling.

Carnaptious Yearlings On Acid

Heartsrevolution has a new EP called C.Y.O.A. that's coming out on the 15th of April. Since they're on the ever-so-thoughtful IHEARTCOMIX records, they've already got a video up and a single download as well. The EP has remixes by some favorites of mine (Brodinski, Dan Oh), and there's even a Flosstradamus mix running around the net. Anyways, the video's pretty cool and i'm always down to distribute Flossmus' work.

Still don't know how to make that a streamalicious flash object. oh well.

Also, if you just go to, you can access a fucking ton of good stuff.


Thursday, March 20, 2008

Franki Says Remix

I'm sure you're all aware that besides my moonlighting as a blogger, I happen to be what they call 'press.' Like print media. It's kind of like a website, but you put it on paper and then fold a bunch of papers together and call it a 'magazine.' Anyways, I got an email from Franki Chan of IHEARTCOMIX and it asked all press folks to post his new mix. And since I'm always in the habit of circulating stuff by groups that I enjoy, I thought i'd oblige him. Plus, the more favors I do for IHEARTCOMIX, the closer I get to my dream of having Matt & Kim play at my house. So here's the SCION mixtape, which sounds a lot better than those god-awful machines look.

(Any HTML nerds that might know how I could make that stream with one of those flashy embedded deals ought inform me.)

Shill it 'til ya' kill it,

P.S. By the way, I hereby take credit for the phrase "FRANKI SAYS REMIX" if nobody else has come up with it. So long as you send me one of any product you place it on, i'll be happy. My T-shirt size is a spindly medium.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008


Vice just put up a really great travel documentary about North Korea. I don't want to ruin anything for you, but suffice to say if you've never seen a well-oiled propaganda machine this is a great opportunity.

The Vice Guide To North Korea

The rest you'll have to go to the site and get yourself, ya bunch of freeloaders.

Monday, March 17, 2008

Crystalgate: "This Is A Tricky Gray Area"

So the simple brushing of the cape that I received not too long ago has caused me to post about a comment I left on another blog which in all likelihood precipitated said brush.

On Digitalarmes, on this post, there was a whole lot of hubbub about an "artist" named Trevor Brown, some musicians named Crystal Castles, Madonna, and a shiner.

Basically, Crystal Castles was once tiny and unknown and they used an image they found somewhere by a tiny and unknown artist and put it on some stuff. Now, crystal castles has a record deal, Trevor Brown has a creepy website, and the issue of money has come into play. Each side is very quick to tell the other to go fuck themselves (since both operate outside mainstream taste, and outside of each other's taste, alot of "That's Not Art"/"That's Not Music" has been slung around), and it looks to each side as though the other is just being D-bags about it.

In the most direct sense, it's infringement. But then, once you think about it, it sort of complicates itself. The way I see it, this was the same kind of artistic borrowing that goes on between semi-professionals all the damn time. It's a truce forged on the idea that nobody's getting rich so we let it slide because everybody's got rent to pay. Then Crystal Castles broke the truce by becoming semi-popular and, damn it all, financially viable. Now they've got a label that can be sued for real amounts of money, and isn't that reason enough to get litiggy wit' it?

Also, i'm fairly certain there ought to be some sort of statute of limitations, but I won't go to bat on that. Sometimes, you just have to let it slide and find the silver lining. For Instance, wouldn't it hold that Crystal Castles digs the art and might consider using him for stuff in the future? And hasn't this all given Mr. Brown a vast amount of traffic that he wouldn't normally get, considering his artwork is mainly americanized hentai shock-porn?

In the interest of following my own preaching, here is an outside-the-box solution which requires no lawyers' fees.

I made this:

It's not very good, or at all original (Like Trevor Brown!), and I'm offering it for free to Crystal Castles, Mr. Brown, and anyone else of great, little or no consequence. However, if Crystal Castles would like to use it, i'm demanding an in-person handshake at the next CC show I attend (but that's negotiable). I don't want anything else, as it might encourage me to draw more things, and that's not good for anyone.

Also, best wishes to Crystal Castles' chanteuse/enchantress Alice Glass, who was recently injured in an automobile accident. As someone who also has suffered crash-related rib injuries and breathing difficulties, I extend my deepest sympathies.

Photo by Jez Cave!
(props to Tom for keepin' me honest.)

Get well soon.

Friday, March 7, 2008

Union Copy/Paste Vol. II

This was my byzantine word-journey through my Vegoose experience. I took a fair bit of crap for ripping off HST, but I felt it necessary to do a few nods in his direction given the subject matter. Plus, i've been doing that whole first-person meandering narrative bit for a very long time, since before I read (or watched) any Hunter material. Anyways, here 'tis:

A Mostly True Cautionary Tale

My first memory of Nevada is waking up, as it is for most people, I assume. Suddenly, a wave of nausea overtook me, which I chalked up to the loud music playing and my inattention to the road. But after a long night of drinking, singing, and general rudeness that had considerably cut into my sleep, I was in no mood to fight the itch to nap nor the resulting urge to vomit. Nevada is an excellent place to vomit. It is dry and in the mornings it is comfortably warm. And ever since the city committed itself to the “…Stays in Vegas” mantra, the driving populace has ignored such roadside adulteration. It did not, however, soften my bitterness at the loss of all that Gatorade.

I was not alone in this mission, as I still had too much alcohol in my bloodstream to be operating an automobile. However, I always treat these journalistic vacations as solo missions, and the sickness which beat down on my brain only helped to divorce me from the surrounding masses. That’s definitely going to be the word I use to describe the Vegoose audience: masses. Surrounding Sam Boyd stadium was a crowd of hideous clowns and skanky revelers. The upcoming Halloween holiday has always been an influence, I’m told, and the desert wasteland did little to discourage garish black dress-up. A man clearly hired off the street attempted to shanghai me without a press pass, but I evaded him by passing myself off as a photographer. As long as it gets me into the press area for my evening interview, I tell the man, I won’t have to call the site manager and tell him what a bucktoothed mooncalf he’d hired. He wrangled another ticket and assured me that the photo pass would allow me access to everywhere I was entitled and more. I vomited again, on the ground next to him, and moved on to the security line.
Once inside, I set myself to the stalwart task of curing this bastard hangover. As with any properly prepared trip to Vegas, I had a sizable repertoire of medicines, but I knew that I would need the whole load just to set me right that afternoon. A drunk near the toilets asked me to hold his drink, and I absconded with it. Certainly, he would have thanked me for my theft if he were clearheaded. It was cola and whiskey, and it tasted expensive. It went down well with pills. I set out to earn my press credentials.

The Vegoose grounds were set up like a miniature Las Vegas. In some towns, that might be considered disrespectful, but not here. You can gamble in gas stations and there are strip malls devoted to quickie weddings. Even Vegas has a hand in its own parody. A notable difference between Nevada festivals and those of our own fair state is the absence of beer gardens. In Nevada, the whole fucking festival is a beer garden. There were no less than twenty locations to purchase alcohol, and I’m fairly certain I indulged in most of them (the award for best bar going to the lovely ladies at the Double Down stage’s local watering hole). The downside of this is that the drunks are incorrugible multitaskers, and make every effort to do everything they’d normally do while holding their drinks. The charm of these lax drink restrictions wore out after about the tenth spilled drink on my remarkably ironic Acapulco shirt (which was also remarkably absorbent). Other than the always-transcendent Gogol Bordello, no performances really stuck out. I have vague recollections of STS9 being recommended to me by some Vegoose-savvy stranger, and I was pleasantly underwhelmed by them. It is an increasingly rare thing to find a band that still makes an effort to bring the energy of a crowd up while chasing their own tail with impossibly high conceptual aspirations. Kudos.

I was relieved when 4:45pm rolled around and I could sequester myself to the press area for my interview with Josh Homme. It went better than I expected, and I seized the opportunity to write some thoughts down. Blonde Redhead sat at the table next to me, and I played with Amedeo Pace’s pet Papillon while they did an interview with a hapless internet radio DJ.
Josh Homme is everything a rock star should be. He stands 6’5” tall and offers at least two hellos and goodbyes to everyone he meets. I steel myself with the knowledge that he is legally barred from carrying a weapon after an incident involving a beer bottle and the deserving skull of Blag Dahlia, frontman for the repetitive scatpunk band The Dwarves. Josh lights a cigarette before offering a second handshake and asking me how my day was. I ‘fess up to the hangover and he commiserates. “This is the first day in a while that I’m not.” A staff member comes over and informs him that he is not allowed to smoke in this room, nor is he allowed to smoke in any building on the grounds. Her frustration is palpable. Homme puts the cigarette out on his shoe and admits that he knew it wasn’t allowed and that he’d be harassed, but he figured he’d make them put in the effort to come and stop him. He speaks in proverbs. “We don’t try to be hip, we just try to shake hip.” He is tight-lipped about the upcoming Desert Sessions album, simply because there isn’t anything to say other than it’s happening. He says a new Eagles of Death Metal album is planned, and the title will have something to do with the phrase “Heart-on.” He also says he doesn’t have a setlist made for the night’s QOTSA performance. About a thousand terrible and childish questions enter my head and I feel an intense pride as I vocalize none of them. We shoot shit about drinking and rocking and generally positive bullshit that’s not worth reading.

Later, at the Queens’ performance, with my medicine salvo operating at full strength, I sit between the crowd barriers in the photo pit awash in rock. If there’s a glimmer of hope for modern rock music not made by computers for smarmy teenagers with too many feelings, it is Queens of the Stone Age. They are a living history lesson in the rich legacy of all the rocking that has been, and a testament to where it could go.

If there’s one inalienable clue that Vegoose audiences are, in large numbers, drunken automatons, it was the relatively light crowds for Iggy Pop & The Stooges. I guess it’s not particularly surprising considering the unsung nature of the Stooge’s Proto-punk bloodbath in the late 1960s/early 1970s. In a strange way, The Stooges’ aesthetic was pervasive throughout the festival, albeit in a strange mutation wherein the masses were all too happy to dress up in the most outrageous outfit possible and get wasted, but with the firm contention that nobody would have to get messy and we’d all go back to our window offices on monday. Something would have to cleanse my palate of all of this. Daft Punk.

If there’s anything more universal than a love of light shows, I have yet to find it. A screen flashed in red, and black words the size of monsters appeared and proclaimed such gems of affection as “HUMAN,” “TOUCH,” and “FUCK.” The crowd was immense. In any direction you could look, there was madness. The kind of cheap madness you can get in your own home, admittedly, but still impressive on such an enormous scale. Even in such a densely packed field of open eyes, we all danced like we were invisible. We sang like we were inaudible, and we probably were. Consider the implausability of it all, a desert in a vast realm of deserts, stuffed to the brim with electricity, music, dancing, and happiness. This was the ecstasy oasis. And just as quickly as it began, it ended. A mass exodus of mooing began, and the party continued in the parking lot fueled by entrepreneurial beer vendors.

Some strange convergence of dental assistant conventions and family reunions had sold out every semi-respectable hotel, motel, and campground in a 20-mile radius of the stadium, but luckily a kind innkeeper took some minimal amount of pity on me and offered to give us one of his hourly rooms (usually reserved for prostitutes, junkies, and unfaithful businessmen) for the night. I slept on the floor, unwilling to risk sleeping on whatever was living in the bed.

The second day was all about Rage. The hordes of troglodytic zealots showed up in force, in stunning tribute to everything that Che Guevara devotees hated about Rage Against The Machine. The revolution may not be televised, but there’s a strong chance that if it happens in Vegas it will be inebriated and shirtless. There was only one escape from the horror of these pooka-shell benecklaced dolts. I began drinking early. At the mock sports bar where I was sitting and testing the bartender’s knowledge of rum-based drinks, Ghostland Observatory and Robert Randolph both filtered in through the canvas walls in equal volume. The resulting mash-up, I assert, sounded something like Ratatat and Bocephus fucking. Something about this reminded me of war journalism, sitting in an unpopular bar waxing philosophically about the loud noises shaking the tent walls. “I’m sorry, Reggie,” my speech slurred when I addressed the bartender. “But I think I’ve still got another tour of duty left to serve out there.” And off I wandered, in search of a battle that could use a writer.

Infected Mushroom proved to be the surprise of the weekend. What I had expected to be uninteresting and heavy, ended up being engaging and energetic. What could have easily been accomplished with one man behind a set of keyboards was knocked out of the park by a crew of four absolutely stellar musicians. Not since the Basement Jaxx have I seen an electronic act that was so involved in making a live show (that was entirely independent of laser lights). Even the singer, who was left to repeat himself over and over again (since trance songs tend to have repetitive vocal samples), sold it to the crowd. He must have used the phrase “I’m deeply disturbed, and I’m deeply unhappy” a hundred times, and I believed every one of them. If I were a lesser writer, I would say something like: They really got the crowd going with their uptempo electronica. But I think it’d be a much more accurate hyperbole to say they caused two car accidents out in the parking lot as stunned concert-goers attempted to drive the band’s fabled cities of the future. Suffice to say, if you’ve never heard an Israeli trance band (they’re certainly my first), this would be a good place to start.

Rage Against The Machine was fun for about 3 songs. The anticipation was palpable, as a large portion of the crowd had never seen them live before. Cheers went out whenever anything happened on stage, only to flounder in the band’s tardiness in taking the stage. The jubilation was immediate and furious. Beers went flying, and lyrics were screamed at bloodcurdling volume. At the end of the first 3 songs, the air was wet with perspiration and alcohol and the crowd was giddy on an almost violent level. Every song afterward I moved 30 yards back, hoping to find a balance between a good view and a chill crowd. I never did. At 10:30pm, thoroughly drenched in other people’s excitement, I wandered back to the car. My companion, who had been so eager to boast his driving prowess, quickly began to succumb to sleep, and I took over the wheel. This was a weekend to remember, that was certain, even if it wasn’t entirely for positive reasons. About an hour later I felt my own sleepiness creep up, and reached into the backseat for a near-lethal dose of caffeine. I sucked the 24 ounces of Rockstar energy drink quickly, barely stopping to breathe.
We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the caffeine began to take hold.

Vol. III will be here just as soon as I write something for the newspaper again.

Thursday, March 6, 2008

Union Copy/Paste Vol. I

Yes, it's something I already wrote! Assuming some of you don't get a chance to pick up the CSULB Student Newspaper every week, here's a big CTRL-C (or Command-C or Apple-C, we don't discriminate) for y'all to wrap yo' brains around. This particular piece had everything and nothing to do with the grammys, since it was written before they took place and published afterward. Basically it's me doing what I love to do: Insult recording artists with all available gusto.

Hope ya hate it:

In case you couldn’t slake your hunger for trumped-up musical tripe with VH1 and Alternative Press, the Grammys were on Sunday. I’m writing this before they’ve happened, of course, but it really doesn’t matter who won. In fact, the only person who probably gives a shit about these little golden disappointments is Kanye West. What does matter is the gesture of avoidance that we make in ignoring this rock ‘n rollin’ circle jerk. So, as is my yearly prerogative, I will now insult the Grammy nominees.

Amy Winehouse: There’s something inspirationally fucked-up about Amy winning an award for a song about ducking treatment for her unrelenting drug abuse problem. Thousands of obituary editors wait with bated breath in order to finalize that last final detail: “Grammy-nominated songstress suffers fatal overdose,” or “Grammy-winning songstress suffers fatal overdose?”

Foo Fighters: Dave Grohl lives two lives. In one, he plays the drums, comes up with off-the-wall projects like Probot, and makes positive contributions to the world of music. In the other, he fronts the Foo Fighters and shits on my heart. If Kurt Cobain were alive today, there wouldn’t be enough shotgun shells on earth to satisfy his suicidal urges.

Paramore: This band is what’s wrong with music. A spunky retread of the clip-on pop-punk that Avril Lavigne was posing up years ago, Paramore is youthful rebellion marketed to people too boring for the real thing and too dumb to know the difference. And if the hair dye and homeroom power-pop weren’t bad enough, the band appears to be entirely incapable of stopping themselves from namechecking bands they have nothing to do with. Failure? Chicago? Why not just toss in Gershwin and Mozart while we’re at it? If you find this band enjoyable, please grow the fuck up.

Evanescence: As the Paramore of yesteryear, Evanescence’s recent tailspin toward insignificance puts a big sadistic smile on my face. Who knew that the twofold enticement of a pretty girl singing over nu-metal would have such a short shelf life? Or that 14-year-olds would one day tire of the mall-goth chic that once ruled their T-shirt selection?

Daughtry: As the line between rock and country continues to blur, so too does the line between popularity and garbage. Daughtry is a band forged by record industry persuasion and reality television; a modern day Monkees if you will. Frontman Chris Daughtry was famously on American Idol, although it should also be noted that the rest of the band has made sporadic appearances on COPS, The People’s Court and Locker Room Logjam 17.

The Arcade Fire: Wait, wha?

Nickelback: Puzzling though it may be that Nickelback has earned a Grammy nomination off of a special edition release of an album that came out only two years earlier, I think that the real issue goes much deeper. That album, as unilaterally boring as it is, has sold 9 million copies. So as much as Nickelback sucks, you have only to look deep within yourself to find the suck that is above all other sucks.

Michael BublĂ©: I can’t speak to his music, but I’ve always been a fan of his bath foam.

50 Cent: If it’s confirmed that Fitty used steroids, will they take his Grammy away? To be honest, I thought it was suspicious that his rhymes had increased so rapidly in physical strength and bulk. You can imagine how surprised I’d be to discover that that swollen head of his wasn’t just arrogance. Get buff or become infertile tryin’, y’all.

Feist: I actually feel bad for Feist. She’s locked in an award category with Amy Winehouse, Christina Aguilera, Nelly Furtado, and Fergie. Even a cursory comparison to those four is pretty degrading. And I heard that being that close to Fergie was how Macy Gray got crabs.

Best Metal Performance: Say what you will, my money’s on titanium. Ruthenium’s simply not at that level yet.

Vol: II, The Vegoose Chronicle, coming soon.

Creatine Vs. Evolutine

I've been taking Creatine lately now that i'm exercising and all that bullshit.
Apparently it may or may not help me work out more efficiently, but it definitely makes me look more muscular.

Because it makes the muscles retain more water!

Normal people might find that to be kind of a gyp, but it suits me just fine. Who wants to endure the hassle to be muscular when you can just appear muscular? It's like wearing water-wings under your skin!

Dream... fulfilled!

Also, I've officially jumped back on the "Third Party and Proud" bandwagon. Fuck Democrats. Fuck Republicans. Call it apathy if you have to, but at least i've given adequate pause to that stark realization that there is no light at the end of the electoral tunnel.

It reminds me of that line in waking life: "Which is the more universal human emotion, fear or laziness?"

It also reminds me that you should always assume the government is out to fuck you over, so then you'll be pleasantly surprised when it chooses not to.

This has nothing to do with music. Tsk.

P.S. I listened, without any sense of obligation, to the Postal Service record again after writing that last post. That's good shit right there. Makes me want to go be young and make mistakes.

Monday, March 3, 2008

NEW POSTAL SERVICE ALBUM never happening. ever.

Seriously, they're done. No joke.

Now go soothe yourself by listening to Give Up over and over.
You know you want to.

(So basically the news that started this was that even though they began work on a new release in Summer '06, Ben Gibbard and Jimmy Tamborello have both stated that they're going in other directions and that the project is not a priority for either of them. That means that we'll see them tour on the old record before you ever hear a single thing off of a new record.)

Ahh, memories. Semi-morbid, post-high-school-pre-college memories.

2 Albums, 1 Date (Now With Videos!)

Foals - Antidotes
"You got your Dance-punk in my Math-rock! You got your Math-rock in my Dance-punk! I'm Officer Foals, what's going on here?" Hahaha, Family Guy, get it? Oh that Peter Griffin, he's so fat.

"Hummer" isn't actually on the album, but I love it anyways. It's a good primer to Foals.

Does It Offend You, Yeah? - You Have No Idea What You're Getting Into
I Like Live Dance Bands. There, i said it. Now chew on this live performance!

Gotta love that weird Scottish dude in the intro.

March 24
mark your calendars.