Why Won't This Lasts Forever?
Get a warm cup of coffee and settle in. I'm gonna try to recap this weekend the best I can. Some of these stories happened while I was passed out in the corner of a hotel room, but they need recognition none the less.
Let me begin with the road trip. The trip to Lancaster consisted of 8 brave souls who were poised for rocking. We split the team into two cars. Stevo, Ghory, Mike and Amy took Erin's car (thank you so much Erin!) while Beach, Daylen and I were in with Builder. The trip was going well, and we were making perfect time. Beach even played me the new Franz Ferdinand full-length so I was beyond copasetic. We were barreling down the Jersey Pike when Beach first noticed that something was amiss. He mentioned it to the rest of the vehicles occupants, but Builder assured us that he knew, "Exactly where we need to go." As we continued to forge ahead, Delaware grew closer and closer. Around Exit 3 panic struck the car so we pulled into a service station. I asked Builder about the kids who were supposed to be following them, and he replied, “I just thought we lost them. I was driving pretty fast.” Once we were inside the station we realized that we should have hit the PA Pike nearly 30 miles ago. We managed to develop a plan that would take us into Delaware and then have us shoot a diagonal up to Lancaster. We were golden. Or so we thought.
We had made it to the first leg of our new direction when a sign stated that arrival in Lancaster would rely on us abandoning our new plans. We pulled into a shoulder and hit the phones. Beach called Oveis while I called Hawkins. Between the two we managed to figure out the correct path. We rolled into the Ramada nearly 2 hours later. Funny enough, as we walked to the elevator Jim James of My Morning Jacket stepped out and informed us that he was heading to the club to catch the opener.
We met up with the rest of the kids and did a high speed pregame. In the matter of an hour, we were well on our way. We headed to the Chameleon Club in just enough time. As we entered the joint, the Jacket was taking the stage to a huge room of hungry PA types and kids from all over. Their show was fantastic. Though it leaned toward the new material, their set was played with some serious rock n’ roll conviction. If you haven’t seen the beauty that is the Jacket in the flesh, get your ass to their next concert and be prepared to be knocked down, (and I don’t mean a unassuming Culkin knockdown, I mean an upset girlfriend kick in the balls). They are that good. The hair, the guitars, and the cheap beer all added to an evening of ridiculous hedonism.
Following the gig, we headed to the basement for 50 cent drafts and conversations with the locals. I met a nice girl from Harrisburg whose name now escapes me, but she is in a band and loves the Jacket. We headed back to the Ramada where my surely ass passed out by 12:30am after a brawl with my roommate. I missed hallway chair races, pretzel fights and a 4am session of throwing everything around the pool into the pool in an attempt to create what Stevo called, “An underwater Oasis.”
Saturday was hell for me. I spent the morning sick as a dog, but soon recovered after I popped my Waffle House Cherry. Our waitress, Nina, was such a sweet girl and she hooked up our food something wonderful. We arrived back in the NYC by 5pm and concluded that the trip was the, “Definition of Top Notch.”
Saturday Looked Good To Me.
Not even three hours after returning home, we were preparing for battle once again. Phoebe and I planned to catch some grub at 7A, and much to my dismay (or delight, at this point I can’t decide) we ordered some Mexican appetizers. A drink or two later and we had made it back to my place to slug a PBR before heading to the Bowery to see another Stills gig.
We managed to miss both of the openers and rolled into the back corner just as the Stills were taking the stage. Tonight they had a projection screen hanging behind them and images, reminiscent of Alkaline Trio’s, artwork were dancing around during their set. It added to the overall stellar performance by these Canadian boys. Their confidence was boiling over and with good reason. Two sold out nights at the Bowery is nothing to shake a stick at, (what the hell does that mean). The vocals didn’t seem as shaky as Thursdays, and even the drummer’s song was tighter. After some discussion with Phoebe we decided that their songs are a great timestamp of our demographic amidst the horrible fear tactics of the Bush administration. I hope this band can keep it up for a second effort.
Following the show, we bounced around the L.E.S. in search of the Vice after party at Happy Ending. A few mistakes later, we arrived at the bar and made it to the basement where Carlos D was spinning records and Vice was keeping the alcohol free. We ran into more of the Cali crew who were taking as much advantage of the free bar as physically possible. Nate, Brian, Phoebe and I eventually rolled back to Phoebe’s place for a night cap and some chats about SXSW. Another great evening in the books.
No More Football.
It’s over. I can’t believe it’s over. Last night the Carolina Panthers lost to the New England Patriots in the Super Bowl. It was a great game and the Panthers covered the spread so I’m a happy camper. We spent the game at Daylen and Beach’s apartment. It was crowded, but all the hits showed up. I concocted a huge plate of nachos and we ordered a pile of wings. That grub coupled with the PBR made for a solid evening. My personal highlight was the half time tit show. I’m glad to see one of the Jackson’s isn’t embarrassing the family. And by one I mean Tito.
And the winners of the commercial medals (In my opinion) are:
Bronze: Monkey on Your Back
Silver: Simpson’s MasterCard Commercial
Gold: NFL “Tomorrow Tomorrow” Commercial
If You Can Keep Reading, Here is the News.
It's the 25th anniversary of the death of Sid Vicious. Read the official report here. God bless that boy what he did for so many disillusioned youth in search of escape from their plots. He may have sucked at singing and playing bass, but damn that boy had the touch.
Is it March yet? One Weezer fan is on the edge of his seat in anticipation of this release. Mykel and Carli, Jamie and a pile of other tracks are going to be on this record. I can't wait.
Dr. Dre also throws some fuel on the anticipation fire. This will have Dan pissing his pants. Literally.
In honor of yesterday's Super Bowl half time spectacular, the Times has done a report on lip synching. This coming prior to that horrible display by Nelly at the big game.
Can you believe this article from the Post. They are upset with yesterday's half time sex romp, but I thought this was right up their ally.
Pussy problems at CBGB's. Is this a real story?
The Coachella roster continues to grow with the additions of Wilco and the Flaming Lips. That's it. I'm fucking going.
The Guardian gushes over Yoko Ono's artwork. I've never seen her work, but after this article I believe its necessary.
I really have to get to work.
Get a warm cup of coffee and settle in. I'm gonna try to recap this weekend the best I can. Some of these stories happened while I was passed out in the corner of a hotel room, but they need recognition none the less.
Let me begin with the road trip. The trip to Lancaster consisted of 8 brave souls who were poised for rocking. We split the team into two cars. Stevo, Ghory, Mike and Amy took Erin's car (thank you so much Erin!) while Beach, Daylen and I were in with Builder. The trip was going well, and we were making perfect time. Beach even played me the new Franz Ferdinand full-length so I was beyond copasetic. We were barreling down the Jersey Pike when Beach first noticed that something was amiss. He mentioned it to the rest of the vehicles occupants, but Builder assured us that he knew, "Exactly where we need to go." As we continued to forge ahead, Delaware grew closer and closer. Around Exit 3 panic struck the car so we pulled into a service station. I asked Builder about the kids who were supposed to be following them, and he replied, “I just thought we lost them. I was driving pretty fast.” Once we were inside the station we realized that we should have hit the PA Pike nearly 30 miles ago. We managed to develop a plan that would take us into Delaware and then have us shoot a diagonal up to Lancaster. We were golden. Or so we thought.
We had made it to the first leg of our new direction when a sign stated that arrival in Lancaster would rely on us abandoning our new plans. We pulled into a shoulder and hit the phones. Beach called Oveis while I called Hawkins. Between the two we managed to figure out the correct path. We rolled into the Ramada nearly 2 hours later. Funny enough, as we walked to the elevator Jim James of My Morning Jacket stepped out and informed us that he was heading to the club to catch the opener.
We met up with the rest of the kids and did a high speed pregame. In the matter of an hour, we were well on our way. We headed to the Chameleon Club in just enough time. As we entered the joint, the Jacket was taking the stage to a huge room of hungry PA types and kids from all over. Their show was fantastic. Though it leaned toward the new material, their set was played with some serious rock n’ roll conviction. If you haven’t seen the beauty that is the Jacket in the flesh, get your ass to their next concert and be prepared to be knocked down, (and I don’t mean a unassuming Culkin knockdown, I mean an upset girlfriend kick in the balls). They are that good. The hair, the guitars, and the cheap beer all added to an evening of ridiculous hedonism.
Following the gig, we headed to the basement for 50 cent drafts and conversations with the locals. I met a nice girl from Harrisburg whose name now escapes me, but she is in a band and loves the Jacket. We headed back to the Ramada where my surely ass passed out by 12:30am after a brawl with my roommate. I missed hallway chair races, pretzel fights and a 4am session of throwing everything around the pool into the pool in an attempt to create what Stevo called, “An underwater Oasis.”
Saturday was hell for me. I spent the morning sick as a dog, but soon recovered after I popped my Waffle House Cherry. Our waitress, Nina, was such a sweet girl and she hooked up our food something wonderful. We arrived back in the NYC by 5pm and concluded that the trip was the, “Definition of Top Notch.”
Saturday Looked Good To Me.
Not even three hours after returning home, we were preparing for battle once again. Phoebe and I planned to catch some grub at 7A, and much to my dismay (or delight, at this point I can’t decide) we ordered some Mexican appetizers. A drink or two later and we had made it back to my place to slug a PBR before heading to the Bowery to see another Stills gig.
We managed to miss both of the openers and rolled into the back corner just as the Stills were taking the stage. Tonight they had a projection screen hanging behind them and images, reminiscent of Alkaline Trio’s, artwork were dancing around during their set. It added to the overall stellar performance by these Canadian boys. Their confidence was boiling over and with good reason. Two sold out nights at the Bowery is nothing to shake a stick at, (what the hell does that mean). The vocals didn’t seem as shaky as Thursdays, and even the drummer’s song was tighter. After some discussion with Phoebe we decided that their songs are a great timestamp of our demographic amidst the horrible fear tactics of the Bush administration. I hope this band can keep it up for a second effort.
Following the show, we bounced around the L.E.S. in search of the Vice after party at Happy Ending. A few mistakes later, we arrived at the bar and made it to the basement where Carlos D was spinning records and Vice was keeping the alcohol free. We ran into more of the Cali crew who were taking as much advantage of the free bar as physically possible. Nate, Brian, Phoebe and I eventually rolled back to Phoebe’s place for a night cap and some chats about SXSW. Another great evening in the books.
No More Football.
It’s over. I can’t believe it’s over. Last night the Carolina Panthers lost to the New England Patriots in the Super Bowl. It was a great game and the Panthers covered the spread so I’m a happy camper. We spent the game at Daylen and Beach’s apartment. It was crowded, but all the hits showed up. I concocted a huge plate of nachos and we ordered a pile of wings. That grub coupled with the PBR made for a solid evening. My personal highlight was the half time tit show. I’m glad to see one of the Jackson’s isn’t embarrassing the family. And by one I mean Tito.
And the winners of the commercial medals (In my opinion) are:
Bronze: Monkey on Your Back
Silver: Simpson’s MasterCard Commercial
Gold: NFL “Tomorrow Tomorrow” Commercial
If You Can Keep Reading, Here is the News.
It's the 25th anniversary of the death of Sid Vicious. Read the official report here. God bless that boy what he did for so many disillusioned youth in search of escape from their plots. He may have sucked at singing and playing bass, but damn that boy had the touch.
Is it March yet? One Weezer fan is on the edge of his seat in anticipation of this release. Mykel and Carli, Jamie and a pile of other tracks are going to be on this record. I can't wait.
Dr. Dre also throws some fuel on the anticipation fire. This will have Dan pissing his pants. Literally.
In honor of yesterday's Super Bowl half time spectacular, the Times has done a report on lip synching. This coming prior to that horrible display by Nelly at the big game.
Can you believe this article from the Post. They are upset with yesterday's half time sex romp, but I thought this was right up their ally.
Pussy problems at CBGB's. Is this a real story?
The Coachella roster continues to grow with the additions of Wilco and the Flaming Lips. That's it. I'm fucking going.
The Guardian gushes over Yoko Ono's artwork. I've never seen her work, but after this article I believe its necessary.
I really have to get to work.
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