Sunday, January 23, 2005

Add It Up...more random shit.

Ah, the Violent Femmes...brings back memories of being young and irritable. Seriously though, was there ever a better 'Fuck You' song than 'Kiss Off'? I think not.

I bought 4 DNC albums off today, to flesh out my collection. Since the D-I-V-O-R-C-E, I have been woefully DNC deficient, excpet for some complilations, but I am rectifying that problem. It's still hard to get Whisper Tames the Lion and Scarred but Smarter, but one can keep trying.

WHY, oh why, do Jason Isbell, Thad Cockrell, and Kickin Grass all have to be playing on the self-same night (2/12/05)? This is terribly unfair. Yes, Isbell is playing at The Garage, which is just in Winston. Cockrell, who I haven't seen in two, count 'em, two years, is in CHill. Kickin Grass is in Raleigh, but despite my longing to see Thad and my newfound interest in Jason Isbell/DBT, I happen to know one of the dudes in Kickin Grass and he's an old friend, plus my sweetie hasn't had a chance to hear them play live, or meet said friend, so I am really leaning towards that option.

All of which, of course, rests on whether we can get a sitter. So all of this musing may very well be a moot point. Yes, it was easier pre-child, but then again, it wasn't as interesting.

I am dreaming of a Seagull I need to hear how it actually sounds...hard when you can't just walk into a store and pick one up and play it, huh? It's particularly distressing that I live less than 3 blocks from an authorized dealer, and I can't just walk over and pick one's a paradox- I know what guitar I think I want to learn to play on, but until I learn how to play, I can't really just walk in and pick one up. Sigh.

Friday, January 21, 2005

Oh, dear

Blogthings - You Are 27 Years Old

You Are 27 Years Old


Under 12: You are a kid at heart. You still have an optimistic life view - and you look at the world with awe.

13-19: You are a teenager at heart. You question authority and are still trying to find your place in this world.

20-29: You are a twentysomething at heart. You feel excited about what's to come... love, work, and new experiences.

30-39: You are a thirtysomething at heart. You've had a taste of success and true love, but you want more!

40+: You are a mature adult. You've been through most of the ups and downs of life already. Now you get to sit back and relax.

I don't know how I should feel about this...I mean, I'm glad I don't act, say 72, but I feel fairly mature, and 32 isn't looking all that bad to me right now...I guess...I act my age.

Oh, God! Save me now!

Death to Losers!

Yet another way to waste time...

Wx Plotter Fun Tests - Fatal Quiz (aka Death Test)

I am going to die at 70. When are you? Click here to find out!

I am 66% loser. What about you? Click here to find out!

Only 43 more years? I guess if I'm a loser, I should be glad that I'm not living any longer.

Thursday, January 20, 2005

Let's Be Honest

I've always said that if I was as richer than God, or say, Oprah, I would be in the shape of perfection. I would have a personal trainer haul my fat ass out of bed at 6am and whip me into shape, I'd have a personal chef to cook me delicious, yet low-fat food, and I'd have a personal tailor to design and create kickin' clothes to show off my fabulous figure.

Actually, if I were that rich, I'd lay around all day and eat rich ethnic food, cooked to order by a stable of authentic native chefs kidnapped from the 4 corners of the Earth, sold into culinary slavery, and bought by me, me, me. They would be on-call 24/7, whipping up Chicken Korma at 1am, Pho for breakfast, tamales for lunch...I would then nap on my ultra-luxe sheets in my huge TempurPedic bed, surrounded by down pillows, only to wake up in the wee small hours of the evening and be carried to the clawfooted, three and a half foot deep jacuzzi bath by my seven barely legal, toned, taut and tanned Swedish houseboys, who would lovingly caress and massage each and every pit of cellulite and fat. Then my slightly older but still incredibly virile, intellectual but not snooty, tall, dark, and handsome (but not pretty) lover would make sweet, sweet love down by the fire to my soft, pale, doughy body, all the while telling me how he loves a 'real' woman with plenty of curves. Then we would order some steak frites from the Frenchy cook we keep tied up in the basement.

I would NOT be out running the Marine Corps marathon. I would not be able to bounce a quarter off my abs. I would not have a 6 pack, except in the specially made built in fridge under my nightstand, and that would be fresh selections from my personal brewery. I would probably be fat, but I would absolutely not give a tinkham damn.

Am I too old? Too old to do the things I've dreamed about doing, anyway. Not anything like climbing Mt Everest, becoming a rocket scientist, or winning Miss America. I have slightly more modest dreams. I'd like to finish a good novel (writing it, not reading it, which if I didn't do so much of, I might have time to write my own...reading's an addiction, I know, but it's slightly less expensive than coke.) I'd like to learn to play golf. I'd like to learn to play the guitar. These are all things that I've wanted to do for 3-15 years now, and I feel I would probably gain much pleasure form all 3. So why don't I just do it? Well, you know, there's never enough time, and there things going on, and there's the Kid, and work, and, and, and, and, and....I'm lazy and scared. Too lazy to get my shit together and make time in my admittedly busy schedule to do something for myself, because if I did it, I'd have to stop dreaming and wanting and bitching about it. And too scared, because what if I did it and was no good at it? Then I would know and I couldn't have the fantasy about what my life would have been like if I did it. And then, even worse, what if I did it and was good at it and ENJOYED it? That's scary. What would I do if there were no barriers to happiness? And are there any now, really, other than the chains of my own mind?

Hey, wait a minute. This is getting way too deep, and I don't have my waders. I'm not prepared to deal with self-help existential angst today without feeling nauseated.

So let's talk about the guitar I think I want. Seagull S6. Great reviews, good resale potential, solid construction. The problem is that I know how I want my guitar to sound, but I can't play yet (that's why I'm BUYING a guitar, duh), so how do I go about purchasing one without getting totally ripped off, looking like a total ignoramus, or both? There are also some good deals on EBay, but I am wary about buying a guitar online and having it shipped from Kalamazoo sight unseen...what if something is wrong with it? Even if $200 is a fucking awesome deal, it's all for naught if you get merch that isn't what was advertised...or am I just trying to create more roadblocks to my bliss???

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaah! Make it stop, make it stop! Get the New Age therapist out of my head!

Must go read Goats archives now...

Sigh. Much better now. There's nothing that Satanic chickens and randy goats won't cure.

Wednesday, January 19, 2005


Winter in the so delightful...???

WTF? Why is it that so many alt-country/Americana/folk/southern rock/whatever the hell you call it artists I want to see decide to take lengthy tours in Northern Europe in February and March? Yes, it IS 15 degrees in Greensboro today, but hey, we're lower in latitude than the freaking Netherlands! I mean, what do they have in the Netherlands besides war-crime tribunals and weeee...d. Oh. Nevermind.

Couldn't put my finger on it...

So The Kid went potty for the first time ever last night! Hooooray! I went in the bathroom to do something (pop a zit, I think) and Little Dude followed me. We got the potty down Monday night and he had a big time sitting on it, but nothing happened. Well, last night, he followed me in and started yanking his pants down. We got 'em down around his ankles, and he plopped down on the potty with this big ole smile. I said in that silly sweet Mommy voice, "Do you have to do something?" And he smiled even bigger and started to pee...all over the bathroom rug. Being a life-long girl, it never occurred to me that dudes can't just plop down on the pot and let 'er rip. You gotta hold that thang down, so you don't pee all over the rug. Learn something new every day, that's what I always say, and it was definitely true last night. After I related this story at work, a co-worker told me to just show him how to put his finger on his wee-wee to hold it down so he pees in the potty. Oh. So that's how you guys do it when you sit down. Hmmm. Never noticed that before. So, of course, I wondered how many drunk guys have peed on their bathroom rug because they were too drunk to remember to hold their wee-wee down when they drunkenly sat down to pee because they were too drunk to stand up and do it? Does this ever happen? I wonder.

Quoth the raven...

Coming to the Nevermore film festival in Durham this weekend, to see some gothic/horror films. Of course, once you've seen the product of the awesome and terrible Rotovirus, nothing can ever scare you again. Trust me. Two words for you- Neon Green. Eeeeewww. And on that note...

Have a blessed day! (yeah, nice sentiment, but if one more telemarketer tells me that, I'm going to bless something other than their heart, catch my drift?)


Friday, January 14, 2005

Warning- this site could be addictive

The Goth-O-Matic poetry generator, guaranteed to help you wile away at least 10 minutes in complete silliness. This is especially amusing if you or those you love are former denizens of the dark side of high school freakiness known as Goths (aka 'The ____ Mafia- every high school had one, long before wacked out kids started mowing down their classmates. And most Goths I knew were waaaaay too disaffected to even care about their fellow students enough to go to the trouble of doing anything more than give them withering looks. Freaks have gotten a bad name over the past few years, which disturbs me. If a couple of cheerleaders had brough automatic rifles to school and gone on a rampage, you wouldn't see high schools banning cheering squads or sending Muffy and Peaches to counseling, but try wearing a black trenchcoat to school and looking surly...)

Where did that soapbox come from? So sorry about that...

Anyway, here's my latest Goth-O-Matic masterpiece. Go and create your own and then tell me you didn't laugh just a little bit.

death deserved

what have you wrought?
a miasma of agony as perceptions vanish.
once we savored bliss,
untainted and virginal,
but your thirst shrank.
a deadened pool of bitterness -
tears follow memory, follow pain,
love bled dry.
in a haze of hatred,
i still love you.

Thursday, January 06, 2005

Hell fucking yeah!

I don't know who all came up with the idea of a Caitlin/Kevn/Jason show, but they have my undying gratitude. What a fucking awesome show. I should write a proper review, but after today's work, my brain might explode unless I consume another generous G&T fairly shortly. So just take my word for it until later.

I would like to personally thank Caitlin, Kevn, and Jason for being gracious enough to happily sign the t-shirt I bought for my ultra-cool, unbelievably sweet man who had to stay home with The Kid. (This falls under the heading HOW TO BE THE BEST BOYFRIEND IN THE WORLD.) Of course, at that point in the evening, judging from the relaxed smiles and empty glasses, they probably would have signed a pizza box for me and not known the difference. I do love people who know how to enjoy themselves.

I will say that I can't wait to hear the rest of Caitlin's new album with Thad Cockrell. The only possible way that the show could have been improved upon is if he were on stage with them, but the dude singing backup for Caitlin did an admirable job (did she call him Big Bartholomew? I have seen him around in years past, doing sound for The Brewery and I think playing in another band...)

I also need to pick up Kevn's new album (The Sun Tangled Angel Revival), but I knew that already.

What did surprise me was how much I enjoyed Jason Isbell, of the Drive By Truckers. I've noticed that band name before on music schedules for certain venues, but never heard much about their music or been tempted to go hear them play sight unseen (would that be aurally unknown?) as it were. Well, slap my ass and call me Charlie if that boy can't sing and write songs. (And if anyone really wants to slap my ass, let it be known I prefer to be called "Naughty Girl" while you're doing it, not Charlie. Nothing wrong with Charlie, it's a very nice name and I have known a couple of exceedingly nice people named Charlie, it's just not a turn on for me. To be called Charlie, that is. I'm sure that there are plenty of nice, attractive men named Charlie who might be able to turn me on, if I wasn't otherwise involved at the moment, so it's not like the name is a total deal breaker or anything, I just don't want to be called Charlie myself.)

Hey, I told you upfront there would be digressions. Look at the top of the page. See?

So anyway, we should all go buy at least 2 new albums this week. I know I will.

On a final note, it was super fabulous awesome to see Jamie Dawson, Jamie's very nice sister-in-law whose name I don't remember because I am terrible with names, and Adam Lane. It has been waaaaay too long. I was very pleased to hear that Jamie's bluegrass band, Kickin' Grass, is doing smashingly, and that Brothers Grim is still around in a slightly different incarnation. Rock on.

My only regret is that I did not make Adam Lane tell me the story of "Lumber and the Terribly Hot Chicken Wings." It is my very favorite Adam Lane story, and Adam Lane has many good stories, so that is saying something. In fact, he is the only person I know besides me who seems to have a story for everything, and his were always much more amusing than mine. I have tried several times, usually after several delicious libations, to tell my boyfriend Jason this story, and I always fuck it up royally because I can hear Adam telling it in my head and it makes me laugh and then I don't get it right and I thoroughly confuse Jason and myself and end up laughing in a pathological fashion for many minutes. Anyway, if you happen to meet Adam Lane one day, make him tell you this story. It is fine.