Why Super Furry Animals' Rings Around the World is Totally Awesome!

Super Furry Animals were one of those bands I first downloaded simply because I liked their name -- much like Pants Yell!, Elf Power, and Say Hi to Your Mom (now the less-awesomely named "Say Hi") -- and when the couple of singles I found on Limewire seriously delivered ("Ice hockey hair", "Golden Retriever", and of course, "Juxtapozed with U") I decided I needed more, and away I went to Repo Records on South Street to find myself some albums. (This was circa 2003, mind you, when there was no What.cd in place from which to steal everything illegally.)

I picked up Rings Around the World because it was a double-album -- more bang for the buck -- and because I found the cover art to be especially cool. I listened to it nonstop my freshman year in college and later that summer, I remember bringing the album to a childhood friend's house and impressing everyone with my indie rock cred, even if I couldn't tell them whether the animals were super AND furry (as in, flying animals, with capes) or just really, really furry. To this day, I'm still not sure.

Super furry animal?

SUPER furry animal.

Anyway, SFA, for those not in the know, are a psychedelic Welsh rock band formed in the early '90s with an impressive 9 albums under their belt. They totally rule, and this album in particular is the sort of melodic psych-rock you can get lost in, catapulting from lush, meandering ballads ("Sidewalk Serfer Girl", "Shoot Doris Day") to heavy-hitting, ferocious rock (the last 1 minute of "Receptacle for the Respectable") and throw-away jangle-pop ditties ("Rings around the world.") The bonus disc is great too -- I love the futuristic, Bowie-esque "Gypsey Space Muffin" and the sorta grunge-y (but not really) "Happiness is a worn pun." But enough description! Here are some super sweet vids:

"Rings around the world"

"Receptacle for the Respectable"



"Happiness is a worn pun"



"Presidential Suite"



"It's not the end of the world"

It's hard to say for sure, but I think this might be one of my top 10 "desert island" albums. It's also 80 minutes long, so I imagine it would get old slower than say, If you're feeling sinister.

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And now, my (sorry they're so late, I was moving this weekend) thoughts on MJ's death

You know what was awesome? Thursday, when Michael Jackson died, and it was all over everyone's facebook status and every house I walked by in Center City was blaring "Thriller" and oh, whoops, the internet almost died as well. Seriously! This town was going crazy. Which leads me to ask....why are people so attached to Michael Jackson? Was I the only one that didn't really...care?

Maybe it's my age. Michael Jackson never was the music of my youth. Growing up, until I was 10 or so, I listened to my parents' records and Oldies Radio -- bands like the Beatles, the Doobie Brothers, Joni Mitchell, Supertramp, Squeeze. When I was old enough to choose for myself it was more of the same -- plus '90s bands like Green Day, No Doubt, Matchbox 20, and more. The first I ever heard of Jackson in fact was during the Chandler sex abuse scandal (I was in third grade) -- I remember my mom trying to shield my eyes from the tabloid covers in the ShopRite and seeming disgusted by the whole thing. I didn't know who Jackson was, but got the sense, at age 8, that he was some random creepy pedophile.




By the time I figured out who Michael Jackson actually was (probably around 6th grade or so, when we did the "Thriller" dance in jazz class), he seemed just another pop singer past his prime -- like Dylan, or McCartney, or Joni Mitchell or any of the other artists I grew up listening to. He was cool back in the day, and ubiquitous now. It happens.

Thriller dance. Elementary school.

Which brings me to the second reason I don't care that Michael Jackson died....didn't he really die a long time ago? I mean, the man hasn't released a decent album in 18 years (if you consider Dangerous a decent album) and has only been ridiculed and villainized since. I say: put the man out of his misery! Don't make us read about more child abuse scandals and the parceling out of horses from Neverland Ranch. Don't show us photos of Jackson looking like Miss Havisham, draped in mullet. Let him just die! And if he really was a pedophile...now I feel a little better about possibly one day having children. (Is that mean? I'm sorry. I'm sure you were all thinking it too though.)

Yikes.

So...rest in peace, Michael Jackson -- I hear Hell's a real Thriller.

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Varshons of Truth: The Lemonheads do Christina Aguilera (Best New Music)

What's with '90s bands and cover albums these days? First there was YLT and Condo Fucks; now there's the Lemonheads and Varshons, a BSN (that's brand spankin' new) collection of covers from Gram Parsons, G.G. Allin, Leonard Cohen, Christina Aguilera (yes!) and more, that is seriously and surprisingly pretty awesome.

Lemonheads front man (/'90s sex object) Evan Dando has always been a master of the cover -- from the Misfits to Simon & Garfunkel (check out the full list here...I love the interet!) and this baby's no different. I'm lovin' "Layin' up with Linda", the bouncy alt-country tune about killing an ex-girlfriend, and "Dandelion seeds", a trance-y, psychedelic number that gallops and thunders for 3 1/2 minutes. The album also features cameos from both Liv Tyler AND Kate Moss (who knew she could sing? Is there anything she CAN'T do?) and ends with a rousing rendition of "Beautiful" (you know...I am beautiful, no matter what they say...Words ...can't ...bring ...me ...dow-own...)

The Lemonheads cover "Mrs. Robinson." one of their biggest hits to date!

Seeing the band live last night (read my review here!) was like journeying back in time to 1993 -- Dando awash in ripped jeans, converse and long hair, refusing eye contact and seeming totally disaffected like the bad-ass grunge master he is. The girl next to me was definitely on psychedelic drugs, and most of the audience knew all the words and belted them loudly while dancing and fist-pumping the air. Live, Varshons was even more awesome, which makes me think the band's got something good going on here...come get in on it before it gets in on you!

Dando at Johnny Brenda's, 6/24/09.
Photo (c) Kate Bracaglia for Phrequency.com.

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 34

"Did you see this?" said Reid Pinkin to his cousin Weinstein, slapping down a copy of Tie-Rack on the coffee table. "Almighty Fucking King and Queen Nation story, finally in print. Not nothing about cocaine. Stadt got nothing. I think maybe we're barking up the wrong tree here. It's just a story on anarchy. Maybe that's all."

"Let me see that," said Weinstein, seizing it. He flipped through disinterested. "What the fuck man, the Nation doesn't let just anyone shoot photos of them in action. There's something going on here. It's not that simple." He pointed to a photo of a young child leaning against an overpass. "Where's this shot? We can go to this place. Get some answers." He paused.

"Bernstein's on my back about moving into the Village; I say this is our better bet. Don't compete with these guys, work with them. Get an in with this Jesse fellow and have him moderate the deal. These fucking hipster kids might have connections, but they ain't know shit about protecting themselves. Melt like buttah."

It was a funny thing to say considering Weinstein himself was somewhat of a pushover; Reid let it go. He gave his cousin a look as if to say: I don't want to.

Weinstein could tell he was losing him. "I'll tell you what," he said Reid. "You finish this out with me, I'll take it easy on you the next few months. Easy shit. Monitoring corners, chatting up pedestrians. Although really you know, you're my best guy. That acting background is really unbeatable."

"We can go to this place. Get answers." (Via flickr.)

The night after she made up her mind to tell Rachel about Harris, Sazz Tuttle headed to the Sandlot to talk to Thom. She was pretty sure he had Rachel's contact info, and was determined, no matter what it took, to wrestle it out of him. Justice would prevail!

But when Sazz arrived at the bar, it was packed, and Thom busy running the show and didn't feel like talking.

"I need Rachel's e-mail address. Or phone number. Something," said Sazz to Thom when she finally caught his attention. Thom looked at her unflinchingly.

"Oh yeah?" he said. "Why's that?"

"Just some stuff about her boyfriend I found out. Think she needs to know."

"What's that?" inquired Thom, slightly annoyed. "That he's been cheating on her with you?"

Sazz tried to suppress a smile -- just hearing him say it out loud made her feel like a bad-ass.
"No," she said. "Just other stuff. People he's been hanging out with."

But Thom was not convinced. "I don't think I can give it to you right now," he said. "I'm sorry." He turned away from her, towards customers at the other end of the bar. "I just don't want to facilitate that type of thing."

Thom walked away, and a second later Jesse Milkovich sidled up beside her.

"Sazz, baby," he said. "What's happening?"

And Sazz, trying to play it cool, relayed the news of her affair (describing it as totally Harris's fault -- she was an innocent seduct-ee) and how she needed to alert Rachel of his evil ways.

And Jesse Milkovich just laughed, and touched her on the arm.

"Relax darling, you're overthinking things," he said. "Sometimes, you need to let people figure things out for themselves."

Google Image Result #6 for "feel like a bad-ass"

Josh Stadt had called Patrick McKee earlier that day to ask if it was ok if he brought a friend over while he picked up, and McKee, who hated unsolicited visitors of any sort, particularly friends of new, not-yet-established clients, was iffy. But Josh had promised he was an alright dude, and had even offered to do business in the stairwell, old-fashioned hand-off style, and finally, McKee had acquiesced.

"But make it quick," he said. "And just the regular, no questions, no funny business."

"Ok, ok," said Josh, annoyed that the man didn't trust him. Who did he think he was anyway? -- and stopped by the Key Foods that evening around 7 to pick up Reid, who had all but begged Josh to hook him up.

"Please man, I'm desperate here, and I know you gotta be able to get something," said Reid just the day before (Josh Stadt had been buying groceries two items at a time as of late and was thus a frequent visitor to the store.) "I'll give you all the coupons we got, plus whatever else. You tell me. I hate to ask you, but I'm old and out of the loop."

And finally, Josh had agreed to help him -- with something -- and so together they journeyed to the nearby Brooklyn high rise.

Apparently, the top image result for "Help me out" is a photo of the Killers.
I guess because of that song "Yeah-ah, Yeah-ah, you know you gotta
help me out." (You know the one)

Still, when Patrick McKee opened the door to his apartment and saw Josh stading their with Reid Pinkin, something inside told him it wasn't a good idea. MeKee knew he might be paranoid, but it was better to be paranoid than in jail.

"I recognize you," he said, eying Pinkin suspiciously. "You were here the other week, looking for Marilyn. What do you want?"

Reid Pinkin felt a teensy bit nervous.

"Umm, just looking for a little something special; heard you could hook me up."

And McKee looked from Josh to Reid and back again, and shook his head. "Sorry, don't got nothing today," he grunted, and closed the door in their faces.

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Neighborhood Watch: It's my MOTHER-FUCKING BIRTHDAY, Part II

Woah, is it really that time again? Why yes, yes it is; I am getting older and there's nothing anyone can do to stop it. So instead, let's celebrate! Here's the schedule of events for the week (yeah, that's right, I said week) of my birth.

TUESDAY, June 23. Mini party at the Standard Tap, NoLibs. Hanging on the roof-deck with these people, eating burgers and drinkin'. 'Nuff said.

Yes, I just spent 20 minutes of "work" time making this graphic. Fuck yeah!

WEDNESDAY, June 24. Happy hour at the K. Filling up on $1 beers and tater tots, then checking out the LEMONHEADS at JBs. Did you know that Lemonheads singer Evan Dando landed on People's Most Beautiful People list in 1993, before he started hanging out with Oasis and got addicted to crack? (sorry if I've told you this already.)

The Lemonheads, Top of the Pops, 1993. I was 8.

THURSDAY, June 25. FREE Beer-tasting at Ladder 15 in Center City. do YOU know the difference between an ale and a lager? I think I do, but I'm sure I'm wrong. Come find out. RSVP here.



FRIDAY, June 26. TBD.

SATURDAY, June 27. Matt moves into the Kate-partment, all hell breaks lose. Furniture moving, grooving to the sounds of the Kinks and other bands that sound like the Kinks. Pizza and beer. Mmmmmm.

Happy Birthday me!!

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My workspace:

(click to enlarge)

Me pretending to drive a race car!!

My summer so far:

Eeep.

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Rockwell and Robots

I had a terrible, terrible nightmare last night, in which there was a knife-killer on the loose who snuck up behind people and stabbed them in the arm. Nobody knew the knife-killer's true identity except for me (don't you just love when this happens in dreams?) and I knew I had to stop him before he destroyed us all. The only thing was...I was TERRIFIED he was going to try and stab me in the process! So I kept turning suddenly and looking behind me, less he might be there, and would shimmy from place to place with my back up against the buildings to protect myself from his evil knife.

I woke up after this dream at 3 a.m, dripping with sweat, and sat up straight in my bed, scanning the shadows for knife-wielding creepsters. I realized I was all alone in my apartment, and felt very, very afraid.

This morning I've recovered, only to be paralyzed by another very real threat: robots, coming to life. Exhibit:

The robot man, Andrew Thompson, is a Brooklyn-based songwriter, who writes quirky, literate pop tunes about finding flies in your soup and going "bananas" from too much William Tell. While not swaddling his head in a towel and playing with robots, he can be found chilling with Tyler and Lee from Clap Your Hands Say Yeah (both play on his album I'm not likely to change) and apparently, performing self-psychology on himself. (because really, isn't that the point of self-psychology anyway?)

His single "In this Town" is the perfect frothy summer anthem, and the video is so cute it makes me want to shit lollipops (cute lollipops). Isn't Brooklyn just adorable?

Thanks to the formidable Chris T. for bringing this to my attention!

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 33

Rachel Lubovitch was elated to be engaged. She had called up her family and friends just minutes after it had happened (much to Harris's -- who wanted to have sex -- chagrin) and was showing off her ring to everybody in sight. A bride-to-be, at last! But even though Rachel was walking around with her head in the clouds, that didn't stop her from keeping a close eye on Harris. In fact, now more than ever Rachel was interested in keeping close tabs on her financé, less he do anything of which her parents might disapprove.

So of course Rachel was a bit perturbed Monday evening when Dan Bernstein dropped by what seemed like unexpectedly.

Rachel had met Dan before -- a friend of Ron's from law school, Ron had told her -- and had noticed nothing unusual before. He had seemed nice enough, and clean-cut. But showing up unannounced on a Monday seemed weird, and his behavior seemed even weirder.

"Bernstein!" said Harris, answering the door and patting his friend on the shoulder. "What's happening?"

Rachel noticed Bernstein glance warily at her from her spot on the couch.

Harris nodded. "It's cool, dude," he said under his breath. He cleared his throat and turned towards Rachel, then back again. "Yo, man, did I tell you I'm engaged?" he said to Bernstein.

"Engaged, nice, who's the lucky lady?" asked Dan. He turned to face Rachel: "Is it this lovely lass?" He walked towards her, and kissed her hand. He clearly doesn't remember my name, thought Rachel.

"Why it is the lovely Rachel!" exclaimed Harris. "Isn't she just everything a man could want?"

Google Result #3 for "what a man wants."
Yes, this is a cologne called "Snatch."

Sazz Tuttle was filled with determination. Jesse or no Jesse (and it was certainly beginning to look like no Jesse), Sazz was convinced Bernstein and this Reed fellow were the same douchebags that were responsible for Jess Smidge's jail stint, and with a little sleuthing, she was sure she could figure out their deal and have them busted. Sazz had also just finished her first year in law school (although judging by her grades, just barely) and was interested in "serving justice" in the real world.

Also on her list of people who needed to be served justice was Ronald Harris, the (clearly!) slimy wannabe attorney, who had cut her off when she started asking questions about Bernstein. It was quite certain he had something shady going on. Not to mention, he was an unfaithful pig who cheated on his girlfriend with some chick he met at bar -- although Sazz knew deep down that Ronald cheating on Rachel was partially her fault as well and that she probably would have acted the same. But he's still an ass! she convinced herself.

Sazz had spent many an hour concocting ways to serve justice and get back at Harris. There was one person for sure, she knew, who could tell Sazz the scoop about Bernstein, and would definitely not appreciate hearing he had fucked around. And thus, with a malicious twinkle in her eye, Sazz decided to contact Rachel Lubovitch.

Google image result #17 for "Justice is served HARD."

That Tuesday evening, for the first time since she had met Todd, Marilyn Morrissey went on a second date. Her date, Derek Lindfors, met her in the park down the street from her apartment (she wasn't ready to let him see where she lived quite yet!) and together they walked to The Fun Roll, a kitsh-y sushi bar in the nice part of Bushwick. It was a longtime favorite of Marilyn's and she had suggested it, hoping the familiarity would help her relax. It did -- although the benzos were helping more.

As the pair sat down and ordered miso soup, and a spicy roll combo for two, conversation turned towards Josh Stadt, after Marilyn mentioned he was helping her write songs.

"What's the deal with that guy anyway?" asked Derek inquisitively. "I mean, is he a drug addict or what? I checked out some of the stuff you guys write about him, and frankly, I'm surprised you're friends with him. I mean, do you just come down really harsh, or is he just a complete disaster?"

Marilyn was aghast. "Josh is not a drug addict! and we don't come down too harsh!" She paused, and thought about it. "Josh had some drug problems in the past," she clarified. "But he's pretty much over it nowadays."

Derek remained skeptical. "I don't know Marilyn, maybe it's the journalistic angle you're taking or something...but all these little posts about being drunk and crazy in the bars and passing out in clubs and stuff...you make him sound like a living, breathing trainwreck! I'd be pretty pissed if my friend's blog said that about me."

Google image result #1 for "The Fun Roll." AWESOME!

On his way home from the Key Foods Tuesday night, Reid Pinkin stopped at "the Church", a tiny, filthy dive bar near his apartment in Greenpoint, and picked up a copy of Tie-Rack, Tortilla and Tuba, a local indie/anarchist zine. Reid wasn't really much of a zine guy in general (he'd much rather spending his drinking hours with the crossword puzzle -- or better yet, the television) but had flipped through Tie-Rack half a dozen times at the Sandlot before and knew occasionally something might catch his eye.

This time --without question -- something did.

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The difference between boys and girls, Part III (Girls are crazy)

When I was in high school, I had a large, loosely connected group of female friends who were more a group of people you could sit next to at lunch than actual friends (although some of them I was certainly more friendly with than others.) The origins of these friendships stemmed waaaaaay back to 3rd grade or so, when we all used to play Popcorn and Spud on the playground, and by the time we reached high school, social standings and whatnot were so ingrained that it didn't matter that I had little in common with half of these people -- they were, decidedly, my friends. (this is one of many reasons why small towns suck.)

"Blowing rock." Heh.

Of course, there was one little problem: I didn't actually like most of these people. It sounds terrible, and I feel terrible just admitting it. But it's true. We were the over-achiever crowd: at the top of our class, and super into theater and debate and all other sorts of dorky little treasures that are embarrassing to admit nowadays, and there was so much competition and jealousy and back-stabbing between the group, that it was HARD to like anyone. I'm sure they didn't like me either.

However, I find it most perplexing that my male friends during this time (BOYS on the debate team, and into theater) didn't have any of these problems. Dudes don't hate on dudes; dudes don't back-stab, and dudes certainly don't talk trash. What IS it about girls?

what IS it about girls?

I'm not sure. All I know is that nowadays, if I heard one of my girlfriends trash-talking me, I would beat the shit out of her...because clearly, she must have been invaded by a demonic alien life-form, and that would be the only way to rescue her. (kind of like this.)

Anyway, the only reason I bring this up is because a crazy girl I was friends with in college (whose behavior in general can only be described as: psychotic) surfaced at a party the other week and immediately started engaging in some serious hardcore trash-talking. Ok, sure, whatever, it happens sometimes. But this incidence in particular really stuck with me because the girl she was trash-talking happened to be her best friend. And she was going off. Eek.

Eekness.

Why do girls hate other girls that are supposed to be their friends? I always thought that the jealousies and mind games of high school were a maturity thing, and that once people grew up a little and graduated college, they fell by the wayside. Apparently not. I'm a girl and I have to say...some girls are just crazy. When you figure out which ones are, stay away. I'm so glad I don't have to deal with that shit anymore.

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Cow Eats Grass, Man Eats Cow, Cymbals Eat Guitars

Cymbals Eat Guitars: you know the story. Chord-clash-y indie rock band from Staten Island, NY, famous (sort of) for having Pitchfork's "Best New Music" label bestowed upon them last March. I loved them Saturday night opening up for Art Brut (read my review here); aggressive P.com commenters disagreed, calling them "atrocious" and even noting "if they are around in 12 months, I'll be shocked." (Granted: this comment also comes from somebody who goes by the name "PringlesChief.") What's the deal with these guys anyway?

The best thing to come out of S.I. since Wu Tang.

Well, I'm not sure. The indie-rock blogosphere is keen on comparing them to Built to Spill and Modest Mouse -- applicable comparisons for sure, although it's hard to find ANYONE to really compare to CEG. Their music is all over the place -- long, twisted, full of sudden crescendos and decrescendos, tempo changes, tinkling keys and explosive guitars, gentle crooning and out-and-out yelling, lots of fuzz and drivel. There's certainly no "melody" here (as equally incisive P.com commenter Sir Digby noted) but still something...awesome. What is it?

"Wind Phoenix." not a video, just a song. Sorry, I suck.

Again, I don't know. But I think it has something to do with atmosphere. I like records that I can get lost in, that I can turn on and have them transport me to another world, where all I'm focused on is where the notes will go next, and the emotion behind the sound. Watching the band live, I was blown away by lead singer Joseph Ferocious's raw passion and fury...call me a yeasayer, but I'd be shocked if they're NOT still around in 12 months.

Not convinced? Check out the track "Indiana" (one of my faves) here. Thanks, Colour Me Impressed.

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Do Something Gorgeous for Yourself Today: Electrelane goes "To the East!"

Electrelane are a now-defunct British pop band, who write beautiful, cerebral melodies that stir up feelings of whimsy and warmth. Their 2006 album No shouts, no calls has been in constant play in my iTunes as of late, and the single "To the East" might be my favorite...

Watching this video, I feel like no matter what happens, everything will be alright...pretty impressive for one little song.

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Webisodes: Short Story Part 32

That Saturday night, Menstrual Mustache played a show at the Pie Shop, a dive-y indie bar a few blocks away from the Sandlot in Williamsburg -- their first show in nearly a month. Bree and Marilyn announced the performance on the Meatball and the joint was packed -- rumors about Marilyn's erratic stage behavior -- not to mention her kidnapping -- had obviously attracted some attention, and near 150 people crowded into the small space.

Thomas Sandleby ducked out of work at the Sandlot to catch the show (instructing Ted the Bouncer to "keep things under control") and delighted as she was, Bree Dawson didn't want to admit she wished Jesse were there as well -- who was this chick he was off gallivanting with that was better than a Menstrual Mustache show? -- and screamed extra loud on "Party time (you fucker)" as if Jesse, where ever he was, would hear her and respond.

Marilyn, in the meantime, felt relieved to have escaped Derek's watchful eye, and had immediately returned home and popped several benzos, and was downing whiskey sours up until it was time to go on stage. By 11:30, when she was rolling on the floor, hair all over her face, moaning consonants and pretending to have a breakdown (hey, dramatics sold the show!) she thought, this feels about right and stood up, head throbbing as if she were about to pass out, and strummed her bass defiantly. Rock n'roll, fuck yeah!

fuck yeah!

Returning home that night near 4 a.m. (why go home early when there's partying to be done?), Marilyn Morrissey's mind was abuzz with thoughts, like: what if Menstrual Mustache got big? like, really big. Marilyn had always prided herself on being (mostly) financially independent (the 'rents just kept her on their health insurance, since she didn't have a steady job) and was used to slumming it in Bushwick, in a crappy studio apartment. Would she move somewhere else?

As much as she didn't want to admit it, Marilyn couldn't fathom moving elsewhere -- where would she be without McKee and his endless supply of cheap drugs? She hated the idea of being stifled due an addiction, and was sure she could find more benzos elsewhere...but did she really want to be bothered? Living in Bushwick wasn't so bad when you thought about it...

And then...what about Derek? Sure, it had been only one date, but it was the first successful date Marilyn had been on in years, and just thinking about Derek gave her that nervous feeling in the pit of her stomach. Could she quit drugs if things worked out with Derek? Would he be understanding? Would he judge her? Change was a good thing, Marilyn knew, and yet, this way was so much easier...

Google image result #5 for "Bushwick apartment." Go figure.

Three weeks after Jesse Milkovich sent Tie-Rack to press, it was ready at the printer, and Jesse brought Lulu Quince (who was a photographer after all) along with him to pick it up.

"Just wanna drop a stack off at the Sandlot," said Jesse to Lulu as she hopped into the passenger seat of his pick-up truck. "And you can meet my friend Thom."

"Let's do it," said Lulu enthusiastically.

They drove down to Williamsburg, parked on the street, and entered the bar. As was becoming increasingly commonplace these days, the first person they saw was Bree Dawson, sitting at the bar with a lager, staring at them like an ornery gatekeeper.

"Bree!" said Jesse. He had a bad feeling about this.

"Jesse!" said Bree. She spun around and extended her hand to Lulu before Jesse could introduce her. "I'm Bree," she said, offering a firm handshake. "Nice to meet you."

"Lulu," said Lulu coolly, then glanced around quickly. "Mind if I use the bathroom?" she said, ducking behind them. "I'll be right back."

Bree Dawson gave Jesse a stern look. "Is this the Kiki Ann's chick?" she asked in a harsh whisper. Jesse Milkovich shook his head. She must be drunk, he thought, or she never would have asked.

"Yeah, that's her," he replied.

"Huh," said Bree drunkenly. She paused, took a sip a beer, and continued, in a whisper, "seriously? how old is that chick, Jesse? She looks like she's 13."

"I don't know," replied Jesse, nervous that Lulu would emerge from the bathroom at any second. "Old enough."

"Old enough."

"I bet you $20 she's not over 21," Bree Dawson retorted, finishing her beer and slamming the glass down on the bar. "You really can' t tell with those Asian chicks."

"That's a fucking racist thing to say," said Jesse. "Not to mention bitchy."

He heard a door close in the next room and Lulu appeared from the bathroom.

"Hey guys," she said softly. She turned to Jesse. "So, we popping in for a beer here for what?" She looked at Bree. "What's good?"

"I suppose that depends on your tastes," replied Bree.

"Nah, we got lots of issues to drop off; we'll stop for a beer later," interrupted Jesse. "You can meet Thom some other time. Let's blow this pop-stand."

He turned to walk towards the door, but Lulu was planted firmly at the bar, flipping through an issue of Tie-Rack.

"The Almighty King and Queen Nation, crazy!" she said, thumbing through photos. "You got some great shots here. Did you get to talk to those guys at all? I hear they're kinda tough to do business with, but they have some of the best blow in the borough."

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Demographic Study: The indie-dork

The indie-dork. Sometimes I forget that 10 years or so ago, liking indie rock automatically made you a dork. Stereotypes of malnourished, faggy men in Belle & Sebastian tee-shirts and chubby, awkward girls with thick frames and knee socks abounded (for proof, listen to the song "Expectations") and probably these kids ate lunch in the library every day then went home and put on some GBV and cried.

Man in a Belle and Sebastian tee (yes, they still exist).
Thanks, flickr dude Jamund.

Nowadays, indie rock is pretty much cool, and visiting Johnny Brenda's, you're more likely to find Kate Moss-look-a-likes and dudes with ironic mustaches who probably score TONS of bj's than you are library loners or social outcasts. But sometimes you do. These people are known as indie-dorks.

The indie-dork is easy to pick out -- he's always standing in front of the stage -- often pushing and squirming by dozens of intoxicated concert-goers to do so -- mouthing the words to all the songs and possibly shooting blurry photos with his cellphone/recording the entire time. Unlike the Kate Moss-look-a-likes and facial hair weirdos, many of whom are scenesters just there for cred and good times, the indie-dork is always seriously REALLY into this band, and is concerned only with having the greatest concert experience possible.

K. Moss - looking surprisingly, kinda busted (although you know she is actually gorg.)

His physical appearance is generally strange -- displaying an eclecticism different from everyone else's studied, similar eclecticism. Truth be told, he's probably the most original of the bunch, but only because he doesn't give a damn about trends. Indie-dork touches might include long ponytails on dudes, pink or purple hair for chicks, goth, Hawaiian shirts, pleated khakis worn un-ironically, greasy hair and/or a heavy stench of BO. Conversely, some just don't care about clothing at all, and wear black tee-shirts and jeans 24-7, attempting to blend in. This works only until the concert starts, when the I.D.'s outrageous behavior unfortunately attracts tons of negative attention.

sexy.

If confronted by liquored-up neighbors, who don't appreciate the pushing and dirty looks coming from the indie dork, the I.D. will claim he writes for a blog, even if that blog is nobodyreadsthisever.com, and if he's feeling feisty, he'll say he knows the band, which is technically true, if you count that comment he left on their Myspace last week as knowing someone. These technicalities mean nothing to the indie-dork, who feels he is smarter and more deserving than everybody else anyway, since he loves this band soo much and is probably the only one who knows the lead singer's birthday. Closer examination reveals these feelings of superiority to be mere subconscious reactions to feelings of ineptitude when surrounded by much cooler hipsters; as such, they should be promptly ignored.

I don't know what is going on in this photo, but I am quite sure this never
happens in real life. No that I would know or anything.

Because he traverses the world of the cool, the indie dork is the most likely variety of dork to end up on Vice Don'ts; he's also the most likely to have an awesome record collection, which is sad, because he rarely meets cute girls to share it with. A girl who gives an indie-dork a chance will find a well-read man with opinions on everything from '80s hardcore to French dance-pop, and an enthusiasm and passion not found in your typical nonchalant hipster. After all, this is the first time he's gotten laid in YEARS!

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Best New Music: Wilco (the album)

The Beatles released The Beatles (also known as the White album) in 1968, after the death of beloved manager Brian Epstein.

In 2009 (yet to "officially" occur), Wilco released Wilco (The Album), after the death of estranged ex-band member Jay Bennett.

The Beatles vs. Wilco. = practically the same freakin' thing!

The Beatles was the Beatles's ninth studio album, produced approximately 8 years after the band had formed. Wilco (The Album) is Wilco's seventh studio album, produced approximately 15 years after the band formed.

On the surface, these albums aren't very alike at all. But in each case, one thing is certain: when a band names an album after the name of their band, they mean business.

Mean business men.

Wilco (The Album) means business. On first listen, all I can think is: Wilco. The sound is familiar, low-key, melodic, folk-country-rock'n'roll with orchestral moments and stripped-down guitar and everything I have come to love and expect from mastermind Jeff Tweedy. It's the quintessential Wilco album. But only because it's not trying too hard to be so.

The first track, "Wilco (the song)," is upbeat, poppy, and juuuuust a little bit tongue-in-cheek, as if to persuade listeners: yeah, we know we called our album Wilco (the album). But we're not being pretentious, we swear! Decide for yourself:

Wilco (the song.) Sorry about the crappy volume.

From there, the album transitions fluidly, from troubled, angst-y rock anthems (check out the feisty "Bull Black Nova") to soft, beautiful gems (like "you and I" --a bittersweet duet with Feist; and "Solitaire" -- a heart-breakingly beautiful ballad.)

Wilco -- plus Feist

Listening to this album nonstop the past few days, I can't help but feel like it's some sort of grand emotional release on top of everything else -- for all this beauty, there's something sad about this record --it's about people worrying, wandering, not being 100% satisfied with life, but taking pleasure in the simple joys and refusing to settle. Perhaps I'm reading too deep. Either way, this is fantastic record, and just about the best way I can think of to pass 43 minutes.

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Cubicle Watch: 2-year anniversary

I realized today (June 1) that yesterday (May 31) marks my two-year anniversary at my current, cubicle-y job. This is significant for several reasons:

1. These are 2 years of my life I can never get back
2. I'm getting old (sort of.)
   

TP4D. Not there yet, thank god.

It has also helped me learn several important (if not unpleasant) truths about the life of a cubicle employee. Here they are:

1. Being employed in a cubicle job is kind of like being in high school again, only this time I get to be a popular kid. Seriously. Think about it: 100 or so employees, forced against their will (or against the will of landlords, who require rent) to come to the same place every day, sit in desks, and work their brain. Sometimes there's even tests!

Compare my daily routine to that of your average 16-year-old:

• Wake up early, grumble.
• Trudge to work.
• Grumble.
• Drink coffee, act sleepy/hung over/out of it until about 10:30.
• Meander through hallways with books, trying to avoid awkward encounters.
• Work hard, so as not to get fired, but not TOO good hard, so as to avoid being a suck-up.
• Hang out in cliques and talk about people in other cliques.
• Pass notes.
• Sneak out for coffee breaks and talk about people in other cliques some more.
• Wait with bated breath until it's time to go home.

omg, popular!

Being a cool kid is a nice change of pace (in real high school, I was the strange smart girl...secretly cool, although no one realized it), although I admit that such coolness only occurs now because the field that I'm in (academic publishing) seems to draw types that are even nerdier than I am, such as: fans of Star Trek, LARPING, and role-playing internet games; 35-year-old virgins still living at home; people with chronic allergies who sound like they're impersonating the singer in New Found Glory 24-7; people who wear tube-socks with Tevas; and people who read the Bible every night before bedtime at 8:30.

Also, in the years since I graduated high school, indie rock became kinda cool to like, which automatically makes old-school fans such as myself cool by default. Take that, popular kids!

Larp-ers. (Larp-sters?)

2. No matter what academics might claim, being a jock STILL still makes you popular. As probably everybody reading this already knows, my company has a softball team. I am not particularly athletic. But I wish I was, because labels like "team player" and "go-getter" apply to sports as well as editing.

Go...team!

3. In case you weren't aware/are in denial/have been living under a rock the past 9098080 years, I am sad to announce that the best years of your life are definitely in college. 2 hours of class a day, summer vacations...why didn't I stretch out my college career to last at least 6 or 7 years? And when will my cubicle job decide to pay me enough that I can take a year off and sit in the park all day? When when when when why why why why?

Me, college. College, me.

Cubicle watch. Where time goes so slowly, it feels like it's cubed.

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