PBR You Kidding Me?

Today Netta e-mailed me the upcoming feature in Adbusters. After reading it, I reflected and sent her the following e-mail:

Yeah, this article is so defeatist. After I took a minute to criticize the writer (step 1), I realized he must have been pressed on a Tuesday to meet a Thursday deadline, so he hopped to that club on Wednesday, ended up blowing lines off that girl's Polaroid with her and Bruce Willis's nephew, and hit the send from his DELL. DESKTOP. some time around 7 am on Thursday. This could explain the fixed-gear bike fallacy (they can, and often do, have brakes) that could have been easily warded off with that last, crucial Wikipedia scan.

Some counterpoints:

That last paragraph is self-obsessed just by being! The Lost Generation died off before WW2. And now that acid and cocaine are illegal, the only things we can rebel against are the war on drugs and gas prices and the Right's deathgrip on consumer efficacy, by getting high and going on a bike ride to the thrift store.

Here's something that "feels real": cash. So having a college degree, especially in the progressive sciences, not only allows you to criticize every aspect of the feeding machine your paycheck powers, but to do so with the backing of, you guessed it, a government-funded institution.

"We are the last generation." He's really given up. He considered throwing those rocks (at a vacant housing development? talk about subversion!) and decided to reveal the huge conflict of interest apparent in this article: the royal "we" and the titular "hipster" are inseparable yet unwilling to admit their point of intersection, the reporter.

Wearing non prescription glasses (I have some) and skinny jeans (I have multiple) and listening to Deerhoof (you've probably never even heard of them) on your iPod (I don't have one, or a Facebook) while making sure everyone on the bus can SEE that you're reading Bukowski (shhh--I haven't read Bukowski, but Pete Doherty interviewed him in VICE) probably has little to do with a disillusioned backlash (not to be ironic) to the West's ignorant overconsumption and excessive reproduction of style and standard. Maybe everyone feels so snubbed by Hollywood that it's less hurtful to create mini, Internet Hollywoods or even pitch them up under a 300-year old bridge (et voila, DUMBO--"Down Underneath the Manhattan-Brooklyn bridge" DUH!).

But before this sounds too optimistic, I'll acquiesce to the conservative evildoers who Barry O's obviously grinding a self-challenging, earth-conscious cog against: the American Apparel has been pulled so far towards the belly button that we've been looking for nipple on Last Night's Party instead of even glancing at the dynamic shift occuring in our history that accompanies any change in power. Call it our New Millenium American Dream: We won't take the President, but we'll take a tip from his pastoral origins. Cowboy-fit jeans, white v-neck, and the interning class's perverted darling, piss ass beer.

Grind With Care

This show came up in a very Brazilian conversation with Carolina. I watched it every day when TV was raising me!

Then she gave me the sizzle on baile funk in Brazil: "hosa tucarinho" (sp?) means, "We grind with care."

Sweet and Sweaty!!!

Here are some pics from !!! last Tuesday. Best audience ever, fabulous ass-shaking, and crowd-band interaction. There are several more that I'll probably post to Flickr when the inspiration befalls me.

Tornado? I'm So Excited !!!

It's raining in Pittsburgh, putting an end to a nasty heat wave. Fruit flies need not apply. Cellphones are so impersonal, and the removal and addition of contacts can symbolize many things--breakups, makeups, hookups, new friends. Then there's the acquisition of numbers which become too many numbers to ever call them all, so they just take up space. A warm piece of plastic rests against my thigh, inhaling and exhaling, sending out noncommittal bleeps and buzzes, always nagging.

So I decided to throw my cellphone into the Allegheny this morning. It was a magnificently liberating moment, watching the mechanic, unseemly toy escape from my fingers and collide with the choppy, dynamic surface of the river before being swallowed completely.

And then I woke up to none other than...a text message! [Forced re-entry to] reality blows.

However, the day is ripe. Drew and I are going to see !!! tonight at Rex Theatre. Tonight's event proceeds many nights last summer in Fill's living room, when Drew and I, blind to the world, oscillated wildly to "Hello? Is This Thing On?"

Hell yeah it's on, turn it up!

Warm Leatherette

Saints preserve us! Trent Reznor covered this song and whereas before, I did not take well to Nine Inch Nails, this video hath made a believer of me. And I think I, Sassy Jones, am going to cover it too.

Not only is the song SIIIICK to begin with, but NIN is the latest in a line-up of electromusicians to cover it. I first heard the Chicks on Speed version, then more recently Giddle and Boyd (left) covered it. They're insane and I love it! Thanks for the tip, Nick and Emma. This music fits you like leatherette in a car wreck.

Future Roach Material

That's an Irvine Welsh creation. I'm almost halfway through Trainspotting and it gets juicier and meatier and scummier with each chapter. The characters are hi-larious, especially when they get introspective or start whining about interpersonal male conflicts, the same ones I thought not to exist. Reminds me of , Boyfights.

On Saturday Sam and I sat in his room, paralyzed by humidity, and listened to Da Drought 3. My favorite songs are "I Can't Feel My Face" and "Upgrade U".

"Lil' Wayne is the greatest rapper in the world." -Lil' Wayne

Well there's a clear conflict of interest above, but I'd agree that currently Lil' Wayne is the greatest rapper in the world. Others would concur:


Lil' Wayne knows a simile when he spits one. He's not starting a revolution with his music, rather he's making better versions of other people's songs and slapping the world in the face with them. This formula works for him on Da Drought 3, evidence that Weezy has the game on lock, and not by doing anything extraordinary with rap music, but by highlighting the inadequacy of his competition. What a dick.

Eventually, Sam and I arrived at this: In middle school you're too self-conscious, and in college you're not self-conscious enough.

Hey yinz, Primanti Bros. is 75 years old! They had a big ole bash in the Strip on Saturday to commemorate. As I watched it from a distance under a tarp, I ate some pad thai from this awesome family's truck, alternatively drawing, reading Trainspotting, getting sauce all over Trainspotting, getting sauce on the drawing (miraculously, I came out sauce-free). Saturday is my favorite day of the week.

Dank like a summer night in Atlanta and humid as hell's sauna, this weekend was perfect for 40s on the stoop, 40s on the fire escape, the buzz within and without, crickets shacking up, butterflies slapping their wings in the dark and dancing inside a fizzy tummy. Summer, thanks a bunch.

How bout them fake apples?

Ah wis leafing throah sabirspace win ah came acroos this. Ah sais tae masel, "Ah lurve em!"



Green: Interns. These are kiddies here for the summer to leech off us and pad their CVs. Also, just FYI, a green badge is usually synonymous with "easy lay." As my friend Misha likes to say, there's nothing like some overwhelmed, wide-eyed Yale undergrad who's here in Mountain View for the summer, totally lost and innocent and tighter than a carpenter's clenched fist. And the blowjobs! Vot eta da! These girls from college give them out like free mints at the restaurant. First date? Kiss goodnight? Nah. How about a blowjob instead? Then a slurpy swallow, big smile, all proud of herself, a quick peck on the cheek and she leaps out of the car and runs into her shitty apartment complex. Heaven!



A kto eta? Eta Ruslana Korshunova! Buyla Russkoi modyelyu kotoraya umerla v New Yorkye.