( 11:04 PM )
Memorial Day Weekend Recap
Friday evening’s happy hour dissolved into a night of watching a couple cool movies. One Last Thing is a decent, but bittersweet comedy about a terminally ill teen’s unexpected ‘make a wish' wish— to spend a weekend with a snotty supermodel. His mom is played by Miranda from Sex and the City (I’m too lazy to look her name up) and it also stars the kid who played the young Cameron Crowe in Almost Famous (although he’s older now obviously). So lazy. Also watched Inside Deep Throat—a fascinating documentary on the classic porn flick. It’s still insane to imagine Deep Throat appearing in regular movie theaters. Years later the VCR effectively killed off porn theaters, while decades later, cheap homemade videos have killed off good pornography.
Saturday morning was rushed packing for a white water rafting trip at Letchworth State Park with several close friends. Before I knew it, everyone was here for breakfast activities, uh, camera stashing, and carpooling assignments. Hey the Good American carpools—well, that, plus the park charges $ 7.00 a car—no need to all drive separately now. I hadn’t been to Letchworth in years and forgot how huge it is. Once through the gates, it took a half-hour to drive to the rafting area deep in the gorge.
Despite the water level being low and spending a lot of time freeing-up rafts stuck on underwater rocks, we all had a good time. The best part of the trip was the wet and cramped ride back in an old school bus. Our river guide (and daredevil driver) warned us that the waiver forms we signed weren’t for the rafting--they we for the perilous bus ride back up the walls of the gorge. Like driving an out-control bus in Speed, Evel had that thing gunned to get up steep unpaved trails. After several hours of incredible scenery, sun, water, endless paddling, and a near bus crash, I couldn’t wait to get on the road (paved road).
By the time we drove back to Rochester I missed my window for a good nap before going to the Bug Jar to see the Isotopes and Hi-Risers. Both are local bands with their feet awash in surf music. The Risers are a fairly traditional mix of surf/early rock, and as I discovered with the ‘Topes—they are truly Brutal Surf. A tight five-piece dressed in scientist outfits and black nerd glasses, the Isotopes have it all—Ventures meets Man or Astroman? meets Fu Manchu meets Nirvana meets sci-fi drive-in kitsch. They even had sexy Isotopes go-go dancers and neat 50’s-styled public service announcements. With the exception of the douche bag who kept yelling “Wu Tang!” after every fucking song, the entire show rocked—so hard. Also Herman the bartender got me faced.
On Sunday we watched more movies—The Squid & The Whale (which was oddly great) and Matchpoint (which really sucked). I still can’t believe Woody Allen wrote and directed this pointless movie. I also took a ride out to the House of Guitars to rummage around. I contemplated purchasing several albums, but kept it to a minimum--the new Damone album, Out Here All Night and Ghostface Killah’s Fishscale. I’m still kicking myself for not buying this early rare Fleetwood Mac import set I found in a pile near the back register.
On Monday I powered through hours of springtime house and yard work in scorching 90-degree heat. I was hot and miserable because my weak rafting muscles tightened up after a two-day delay. I perked up for the weekend finale though-- a Sun Kil Moon show at Milestones. The Hulk and Paco (the names have been changed to protect the innocent) came over early before the show to have some drinks and take photos. It was uncomfortably hot in the house and even worse outside. Hulk drove. I know both Paco and myself thank Hulk tremendously for driving as we proceeded to drink and sweat profusely.
Obviously this wasn’t a Red House Painters or really a Sun Kil Moon show, but Mark Kozelek and another guitarist from his band (again, lazy) playing mesmerizing guitar melancholy on a bare stage. Um, it was my understanding there would be a drummer. Anyway, it was definitely interesting, but the interior of Milestones was a sweaty oven packed with curious listeners turning around to frown at people talking by the bar.
There’s this thing about special concerts like these—they either become a reason to belong or an excuse to ridicule. I don’t know what this was. I’m not even sure what I mean. Kozelek played maybe a dozen songs, cooing far-away sounding vocals over moody, breathy music, and then he would just cut them off abruptly. He spoke little, but mentioned that he’s sick of talking to guys, so if you’re a guy, “don’t talk to me.” Good show, but it had a strange vibe to it.
The night was also like a local myspace reality meeting. I talked with the Herman the Bartender (again), King Shit of Fuck Mountain, and finally met Sally from WCMF who still refuses to add me as a friend. I think it’s because I can simultaneously slam Barry Manilow and then completely defend him too--sort of like supporting troops but not a war. I don’t know. I remember talking to her after the show...but can’t for the life me remember what about. I do recall her asking me during the show if I had another breath mint, so I gave her one that had been loose in my pocket. She said she didn’t care and popped it in her mouth anyway. Now that’s a cool chick in a hot room.
Song of the Day:
“Surf Rider” The Lively Ones 1963
::
0 comments
( 12:17 PM )
The following handwritten letter was found early this morning on the marble steps of McKinley Hall:
Dear Lisa,
Hey my metal allergy has been a real magnetic push & pull phenomenon lately. My sense of direction is all screwy, I’m attracting repelling troglodytes with braces riding segways, I can’t travel in cars, walk into city buildings, or even listen to old Dokken albums anymore. It’s reduced me to reading Oprah-approved paperbacks in a log cabin made of wood nestled in a hemp field of dreams. That reminds me, did Napoleon have high cholesterol? He was the French dude who kept his armies in his sleevies, right? As an obsessive-compulsive half-assed perfectionist, I find it ridiculous that mall stores hardly ever carry American-made narrow widths in small medium half-sizes anymore.
So much for the ride to Ozzfest in a zeppelin made of lead,
Kristin
Song of the Day:
“Sun and Steel” Iron Maiden 1983
::
0 comments
( 7:40 PM )
HOT POOP
What happens when you mix the sassy vocals of a fourteen year-old girl from Paramus New Jersey with an Irish sheepherding fiddler, a telekinetic bassist, and a crime-fighting drummer that used to play in a Hall & Oates cover band?
They're called Hot Poop-- and make no mistake-- they play hardcore funk with a sloping-forehead metal crunch, but Poop also drops in the mellow schmaltz of Enya and Yanni and flushes it all around. Wait, I'm starting wonder if I've got my facts straight here. Hmm, maybe I should've googled them before posting this.
Well, then would you believe that Matisyahu is actually Jimmy Fallon in disguise? Ever seen them together? I swear I saw Tony Clifton the other day on The View.
Song of the Day:
"Downed" Cheap Trick 1977
::
0 comments
( 10:58 PM )
The following handwritten letter was recently discovered strewn on the warming marble steps of McKinley Hall:
Dear Lisa,
I’m totally into this new lickable deodorant that doubles as a tasty breath freshener. It comes in three exciting flavors-- Stinkmaster Strawberry, Power Dry Cumquat, and spicy Mesquite Barbeque. Wow, now licking my pits is like sucking on a deodorized urinal cake with stubbly flavor sprinkles. Hey if Wheel of Fortune switched to remote controlled video screens like years ago, then why does Vanna White still have a job on the show? Oh yeah, let me know if your short-armed friends can’t get their hands around moving your giant cactus farm to the Netherlands this weekend.
Sorry about that crack about crack with crack,
Kristin
Song of the Day:
“The Comeup (Come Down)/Two Timer (The Pimp)”
Madlib the Beat Konducta 2006
::
0 comments
|
