So apparently you can be healthy as hell and end up with some--probably a dumbass child's--infected snot germs that they intentionally wiped on the subway pole in your immune system.
I was drinking four huge glasses of freaking lemony whoop-di-do water every day last week, and didn't even stay out late or do any drugs. Yet here I am feeling like I went down on a rolled-up piece of sandpaper... that happened to be sick, so as to explain my sinuses and general crumminess.
It's cool. It's not like I have a ton of things to do right now, like write and shoot two weeks worth of articles for my pimp, Jane, lest she gives me a swift jaw popping, like, "Where's that hooping article you promised me? I SAID VIDEO." Lol, just the thought of this is making me feel better and get all giggly and stuff. Not because violence is funny, duh, but because Jane even pretending to be angry or violent would be so terribly awkward. She's so niiiceee.
But seriously, I have to churn out enough stuff to keep myself sprinkled all over Vain/Jane like annoying glitter specs that never go away throughout next week while I'll be on some other planet at Psych Fest.
This is probably the lamest thing I'll ever say and I totally hate myself--ugh, I'm sooo basic--but: whenever I'm feeling down in NYC, I jam on some west coast tunes and vibe away the pain.
My favorite stuff, if it isn’t from righteous dead Cambodian babes or bands that put their records out on vinyl because that was literally the only option at the time, is coming out of Burger Records. (Dot org, so cool.)
I visited the shop last summer while I was road-tripping through California and Nevada with my cool MOM, and my boner went from an excited 2:00 to 6:00 when I got lost in the midst of board-shorted bros and Ghengis Grills in the strip mall wasteland that is Fullerton, California.
Burger is an absolute gem of a place in that culturally arid wastetown. I mean, the angst-iest pop jams totally would come out of a place that I’m pretty sure had a combo Del Taco/Starbucks drive-thru thing going on, and if they don’t already, it’s coming for sure.
Sorry, I’m totally dumping on Fullerton, but even my friends that are from there hate it almost enough to move out of their parents’ house.
But the point I’m trying to make is that Burger Records is releasing some of the dopest new music available today and it’s a shame that “music” money is going to absolute pantywaste sounds dubbed "Top 40" while guys who build their own pedals-- hell, play their own instruments--are living out of an ’86 Chevy van that may or may not explode at any given moment for eight months out of the year.
I’d say that this rant is done, but it’s not. Mainly because I think it makes me sound cool, so blah-di-blah VINYL. REVERB. LIGHT SHOWS. BEER. God, I know, these posts are supposed to be quick.
CASSETTES. Like Wax Idols’ No Future. (The cassette released through Burger is sold out, duh, it's cool. But you can buy their LP and CD through Hozac, whose website is kind of awkward, but just scroll down to buy.) This was my absolute jam toward the end of my time with my little red Jetta from high school. I’m glad my dad got all of the cassettes out before handing it off to that dude from Colorado a couple of months ago--thanks dad! And for real, click away. STOP READING THIS OMG YOU’RE KILLING ME.
Yes, I’m going to girl-power right now and say that I think it’s cool that they’re a chick band (well, mostly chicks, right?). Times are a-changin’ but I definitely strained my eyestrings rolling them after my dude was all, “Yeah, they’re pretty cool for a girl band.” This was about some other band, by the way, but you get the point.
Wax Idols is just great, OK? I’m not a music writer--maybe I’ll get better at this kind of thing, but right now I’m better at describing textures and visuals than sounds.
But I can listen to "Hotel Room" on repeat, in fact, that’s what I’ve been doing for the past half hour, lying around on my mattress with these Bliss Triple Oxygen Instant Energizing Eye Mask things on, willing myself healthy again, cathart-ing my miserableness through the sound waves of Heather Fortune’s totally DGAF voice droning on, “This is the human condition. This is the human conditiooonnnn.”
Ugh, I get it. This is totally the human condition.
Also: "Gold Sneakers." Ahh this whole album is tops.