DON'T PUT BABIES IN HERE

Today I earned the privilege of becoming Headmistress of the School of Stupid Stupids.

I received an unsolicited package in the mail yesterday from Walgreens.com. I sized it up, gave it a few squeezes, and concluded that it kind of felt like a package of sanitary pads, which would technically make sense coming from Walgreens.com, even though I never have and never will order pads from the internets.

Curious, I ripped through the weird mylar baggie envelope-y thing the pad-feeling things were wrapped in and I was pleased to find that inside, it was decidedly NOT pads, but rather a set of photo-coasters that my mom sent.

[My favorite photo-coaster, you ask? The one featuring my lil sister and I sporting our Ralphie For The Modern Era very shiny Candies tracksuit pajama Christmas presents. At the time the photo was taken, my sister put hers on and said, "I feel like a 12-year old Mexican girl." When Kevin saw that particular photo-coaster, he said that she looked like Lady Sovereign. Six or a half dozen, I say.]

Anyways, back to that Headmistress of the School of Stupid Stupids business.

I keep a shredder in my office so that all of those identity thieves prowling the dumpsters outside my apartment can't, you know, steal my identity, and I use it to shred anything with my name and/or address on it. The weird mylar baggie envelope-y thing containing the photo-coasters totally qualified as bearing both.

Before feeding it into the shredder (the 2nd cheapest one available at Target, by the way - I figured the cheapest one wasn't a good idea, but also didn't feel like springing for anything moderately expensive, so 2nd cheapest won out), I paused - should this go in there? Should I just go mental on it with my scissors to prevent identity theft?

No, no, no. The only way to keep my precious personal information private would be to put it in the shredder. I'll just fold it a few times and pass it through.

So I feed it in slowly...and the shredder starts chewing at it...and chewing...sloooooowly...and then I notice a bubble forming at the top of the weird mylar baggie envelope-y thing...and it begins to feed even mooooore sloooooowly....

And then it just stops.

I try reversing. I try using another piece of paper, then an envelope, then a folded-up cover of some magazine I got from Mo's swag bag at SXSW. No dice. This bitch is stuck.

It dawns on me - maybe I shouldn't have stuck a weird mylar baggie envelope-y thing into a paper shredder.

I unplug it and look at the 6 diagrams printed on top of the shredder and decipher their meanings, in order to see if this guy was meant to handle anything other than paper:

- Danger! Warning!
- Don't put babies in here
- Don't high-five the machine while in operation
- Don't put neckties in here
- Don't put 80's hair metal bands in here
- Don't spray paint graffiti on here

Long story short, I ended up sitting on the floor for well over 15 minutes, using a dull pair of scissors to dig out every last stretchy piece of weird mylar baggie envelope-y thing from the shredder's teeth. Eddie Cat Halen watched on in fascination.

Lesson?
If a piece of machinery indicates that you shouldn't feed it babies, neckties, or 80's hair metal bands, you probably shouldn't feed it weird mylar baggie envelope-y things, either.

THE BEST BAND I DIDN'T SEE LAST NIGHT

Local Natives opened the show I attended at Spaceland last night,but due to working late on ye olde podcast and driving around for what seemed like ten hours looking for a parking spot, I missed them.

Thankfully, Laurie saw them and told me how amazing they were, so I checked them out online today and was incredibly disappointed...

...that I missed their damn set yesterday.

I'm sure they get the Fleet Foxian (and possibly even Bon Iverian, during their slower moments) comparisons (sparse songs, harmonizing), but thought I really love both of those artists, Local Natives have something a bit different goin' on - more of a pop sensibility, a bit more flair for the percussively dramatic, and the potential to be anthemic.

MYSPACE: myspace.com/localnatives
NEXT L.A. SHOW: Bordello, Wednesday, April 8 (tix)

WATCH: "AIRPLANES" ACOUSTIC
This vid is them doing one of their songs ("Airplanes") acoustically in an abandoned floor of a NYC building. Pretty, sparse, haunting, and kinda down home all at the same time...

THE BEST BAND I DIDN'T SEE AT SXSW

Sometime the buzz'll gitcha...

And then it will toss you off, half-baked, unsatisfied.

Such is the case with half of tonight's show at Spaceland - a post-SXSW double-bill of The Pains of Being Pure at Heart and Austin's own White Denim, both highly recommended to me by various friends and hangers-on during (and after) the festival. When Laurie mentioned that she was headed out to see them both tonight, I parted with $12.25 and joined her, stage left, ready to fulfill the promise of palpable, frenzied capital B-U-Z-Z.

Sadly, The Pains Of Being Pure At Heart were just...good. A quick flip of the ole dictionary will tell you that Good ain't Bad, but it's definitely not Great. I like shoegaze, I like a buzzy synth. I like double-guitar attacks. What I don't like are slightly-too-precious-and-shy twee vocals that are nearly inaudible, and when a band has all the stage presence of my grandma taking a nap.

(Love you, gramma.)

South-By Strikeout, sadly.

But White Denim made up for it with their space-rock blues, entirely captivating, even when they tread a wee bit too close to the fuckin'-rockin'-out vs. totally-jammin'-dude line.

Guitar Guy had an array of pedals, including a much-lusted-after Boomerang that I stared at for most of one entire song, and he used them to dive into psychedelia and layer on sounds no doubt culled from teenage years spent immersed in 70's prog rock.

Drum Guy sat front and center and threw alla his weight on the floor tom and the crash, making delightful loud noise after delightful loud noise. Though I called these guys out as being "space-rock blues," Drum Guy didn't dwell in the blues-rock ghetto, and though I loves me a good blues-rock experience, he spanked the blues with a hint of punk and I loved it even more.

Most surprising to me was Bass Guy, who looked like he was swept out of algebra class at the Rock n' Roll Middle School For Clean-Shaven, Ruddy-Cheeked Androgynes, but he ground into his four strings like he was having his way with Carmen Electra or something. You know it's a good show when you're noticing the BASS PLAYER.

No offense to all of you bass players, but really - who watches the bass player at a show? Unless you're a bass player yourself, or you're the mother of one, or you're hoping to bone one because neither the singer nor the guitarist are available and the drummer is just too crazy-seeming, NO ONE pays attention to the bass player.

So kudos you, Pat. Or Sam. Or Chris. Or whatever your name is. Kudos you.

CHECK OUT WHITE DENIM:

NOT JUST GOOD, BUT GRATE

Halfway through The Grates' set at Spaceland tonight, Giselle shouted out, "MY CHEEKS HURT!"

Presumably, from smiling for a solid twenty minutes straight.
I totally empathized.

On the way home tonight, I tried really, really hard to think of when I've seen such a happy band.
Nope, can't think of such a thing. The Grates are definitely The Happiest.

Drummer Alana sits unassumingly at her kit, permagrin slapped from cheek to pudgy cheek, playing all herky jerky like a kid simultaneously overstimulated and trying to rein in their sugar high.

And singer Patience? White socks cranked around her knees, she bounds around the stage, Siouxsie after shooting up rainbows and lollipops with a sprinkling of meth backstage. She's transfixing, hopping and pointing and smiling and bouncing and Roger Rabbit-dancing and twirling onstage, getting off on the most genuine of connections with her audience. She peeeenches our heads with her forefinger and thumb, dedicates songs to us, comes out and dances with us, places her hand on our shoulders familiarly as she encourages us to join her in chorus. Simply put, she is Happy personified, and I love it.

The icing on the ridiculously sweaty, joyful evening? Unfurling a $20 bill, asking for a T-shirt and a CD, and having Patience lean in conspiratorially to tell me, "Shhhh...you're getting an extra T-shirt in there. It's like there's a menu and you just ordered off of it. You ordered off the menu and you get an extra T-shirt," then patting me on the shoulder, thanking me, and pumping her fist in the air. Awesome.

Watch - "Aw Yeah" by The Grates:

NOPE

Why is it the men who always reject me?

Case in point, excerpts from the email I just received:


"It could, under different circumstances / planetary alignments etc, have made it all the way..."

I did read that the next few weeks were supposed to be a crapalicious time for we Cancers...


"I sincerely wish that we could..."

Coulda, shoulda, woulda....


"If you're interested in some more detailed feedback, I'll do my best to provide it..."

You know, I'll give him this...most guys aren't this amenable to talking about why it didn't work out.



Yeah...so there won't be a 33 1/3 book on Sleater-Kinney's One Beat this time around.

Bummer, bummer, bummer news to start the weekend, but I'm thankful and proud that my proposal made it to the shortlist. Thanks to all of you who supported me along the way. You're all superstars.

Off to have a tiny little pity party...
xo

SXSW - THE AFTERMATH (AKA - YES, THERE WAS A DAY 4)

Yeah...so there was a SXSW - Day 4, but I just never got around to posting about it.

That's not to say that it wasn't awesome.
It was.
Or that I didn't see some great music.
I did.

It's just that I went to bed on Friday night feeling like a pound of live Maine lobsters had taken up residence in my entire digestive tract, from gut to throat, and by the time Saturday evening rolled around, I could barely speak, much less muster the energy to comment on what I enjoyed all day through my germy haze.

So let's take a trip back down memory lane. If I recall:

LIGHTS ON
Like a zombie, I amble down Red River to the Red Eyed Fly, to see Lights On at noon. But it's noon:oh:five and the doors are shut. Hmpf. I catch a glimpse through the back - Oh! There's Chris! And Daniel! They will see me! They will let me in! [Ignore fire ants burning my entire esophagus] Texts, calls...ignored. I run into Chris Mollere and we make small talk. Clearly he just woke up, as well. When we finally get in to see the band, they are kick-in-yer-pants electro-synth rock greatness. Why do I have to feel like scorpions are crawling up and down my throat? Why?

PRESS HERE/DOMINO PARTY
Blindly make my way to the beautiful French Legation Museum grounds. Trip a little as I walk in, because my throat is burning like I just spent an entire week crossing the Gobi. Buy water. See Mo. Make feeble attempt at conversation with various people, all of whom probably thought I was either extremely hungover or on really bad drugs. Excuse myself to go die a painful death in my hotel room.

NOPE
As soon as I drag myself back to my bed, Daniel texts that Lindsay Wolfington is around and wants to meet me before she flies home. In 20 minutes. Drink the last Emergen-C in one hot, fiery gulp. Eat cough drops like after-dinner mints. Die a little more inside. Walk 16 minutes to meet Lindsay. Meet Adam Swart. Drink mojitos to quell the sensation of hot lava inside of my neck. Pray the alcohol kills whatever bacteria have taken up residence in there.

CHOP SHOP PARTY
How did I get here? Did I walk? Did someone carry me? I know that I mingled and talked and acted human, but I did not feel human, that I assure you. I think I might have scared Amy Treco with my ghastly pallor.

30 MINUTE NAP
Bliss!

SUGAROO! DINNER
Hot Tea. Ice water. Alternate. Conserve my voice. Feels like this may be my last meal before death takes me in her burning grip. At least it was really tasty.

EUGENE MIRMAN
Tried for a 2nd round of Efterklang, but the line was down the alley. In my weakened, delirious state, I cannot stand in an alley. No. Mo texts. I join she, Ric, & Ben for some comedy at Esther's Follies. Ric hands me a whiskey. It burns the burn that is already burning in my throat. But I am still hopeful that germs are dying with every sip.

DUKE SPIRIT / SILVERSUN PICKUPS
The homestretch. I may faint. I eat 20 Luden's cough drops and drink all of the free water in the cooler. I try not to collapse on Mo and Bronson. Leila Moss lifts my spirits with her slinky Lady Jagger dance moves and raspy howling. Silversuns do her one up with their CAPITAL R-O-C-K. Drew Barrymore pushes in front of us for "Lazy Eye," hippie-dancing, arms-a-waving. I barely recognize her because I am certainly two steps away from death's doorstep at this point.

SLEEP

So that was Day 4, in case you were wondering.

SXSW - DAY 3

I have the chills, a sore throat, and bags under my eyes. Don't expect any fancy writin'.

YAYS
- Vitamin-packed lunch w/ Shayla of W+K
- Scraggly, dirty garage blues of The Fumes
- Atmospheric waves of shoegazey sound from School of Seven Bells
- N'awlins food, cajun grooves, and fine folks @ Bug par-tay
- The overstuffed cab ride and photo session back across the rivah from the Bug par-tay
- Mojitos and mingling at Bank Robber/Zinc par-tay
- Cajoling my way (with the solicitor) into the NZ party, though I only caught 1 or 2 Cut Off Yr Hands songs before I got let in
- Detour to The Infamous Ric Baca Pool Party, leaving with Metallica press pass around my neck
- Boiling Pot!!!!!!
- Skipping Metallica for a 2nd dose of Mumford & Sons
- High-thumbing w/ Baca, Ben, & Mo

NAYS
- Hoofing all the way over to Scoot Inn to hear some Nino Moschella, only to find myself sick as a dog
- Waking up today with swollen glands

But I shall forge on, Emergen-C willing.