WHAT THE FUCK DID I SAY EARLIER?! I ALWAYS FUCKING FORGET ABOUT BLOGS. ALWAYS ALWAYS ALWAYS.
Not much has changed. I still hate Kanye West for dissing my girl, Taylor. I still miss Patrick Swayze so much it almost physically hurts me to watch Roadhouse.
I still hate school even though I'm on winter break. Managing a newspaper has managed to suck the life out of me. Look, I love writing. I think it's awesome, I love reporting the news and designing shit and all that. But can't I just fucking write shit and fuck around on InDesign without having to worry whether or not our idiot sports editor remembered to change his page numbers? Guess not.
In the time since I've gotten out of school I've been spending a lot of time lounging around the house in leggings and v-necks and cheap Ugg Boot knockoffs I got at Old Navy. When I'm not watching Law & Order reruns dressed like I'm heading out the door for Jazzercise class or having cuddle parties with the bestie I'm devoting ever fiber of my being to not eating meat or dairy.
That's fucking right. I've gone (quasi) vegan. I'm mostly pretty good at it when Denise isn't waving slices of cheap Pavilion's cheesecake in my face. Really I didn't go vegan for the sake of the animals or because, as Morrissey so eloquently put it, Meat Is Murder. [I have two cats, and I love them but that doesn't mean that just because I like to roll around with domesticated animals I have a philosophical problem with munching on burgers and steaks] I did it for purely selfish reasons: Vegans consume considerably less fat and calories than meat-eaters and I'm sick of looking like Porky Pig's girlfriend with the pigtails. I'm also lactose intolerant and my intestines are SO grateful that I'm abstaining from dairy. No longer will I wake up in the middle of the night, curled in the fetal position because I decided to have a SlamBurger at Dennys.
Fuck. That sounds delicious.
Now I wake up curled in the fetal position, cold sweat, screaming* for other reasons. Purely nonsexual ones.
You see, I'm batshit crazy. I put up a front like I'm all witty and put together, when really it's so no one suspects that I AM BATSHIT CRAZY. The stress of the semester and life and not getting laid for 23 years had really gotten to me so now I have panic attacks on the daily where I convince myself that everyone I have ever come into contact with hates me. I writhe around in bed and listen to sad songs and text message everyone I know with the hopes that someone, ANYONE, will text back with something along the line of "You're amazing! You're hot! Everyone wants to be you. No one thinks you're completely insane. You're SOOO MONEY." When really all I get back is "Miss U! Let's do lunch sum time!" Then I shit myself in a fit of rage because apparently most of my friends are idiots and can't handle putting together whole words on a telephone keypad. Well, now I don't have friends at all, because I somehow have an inferiority complex AND a superiority complex AT THE SAME FUCKING TIME. I'm convinced everyone hates me because I must be a moron, but, really, I'm better than them because THEY are the real morons for thinking I'm a moron.
I wish I could have a personal assistant just for my manic episodes because I have so many good ideas that I need to right down that very moment, if I don't, I forget them and then I get pissed off at myself forever. I AM A BOILING CAULDRON OF ARTISTIC PASSION.
The biggest contributing factor to my insanity has been my family. Let me break this down for you: I have an insane, ego maniacal mother, an emotionally retarded drunken father and THREE bitchy, obnoxious, high maintenance, critical sisters. Two of them are married to retards, the other one is still looking for a new baby daddy, because she's the craziest one of all. Those three sisters have spawned SIX nieces. This family is a estrogen powerhouse. You can see why I'm so high strung. This is my family.
I got to see Against Me! at a teeny venue in Silverlake called SPACELAND a couple of weeks ago and it was one of the greatest shows I have ever been to. There are certain bands that no matter what musical phase I'm going through I will always love. Bands like X, Joy Division, New Order, Bauhaus, Against Me!, Hole, ok the list goes on an on, but you get the point.
*A la Bella Swan. That's right, fuckers. I saw New Moon. TWICE. And I liked it. Mostly because it's really nice to watch a ripply 17-year-old run around in indie-kid cutoff shorts and no shirt. Hot damn, I'd do horrible things to him. Look at me. I'm ashamed of the person I've become. Forget I ever even mentioned New Moon. For serious, though. I almost bought a Jacob Black poster at Borders today. Fuck my life.
Monday, December 28, 2009
Thursday, September 17, 2009
IMMA LET YOU FINISH
I started writing this OpEd piece for the paper yesterday about how Kanye West is a dickhead for throwing another one of his drunken hissyfits. I didn't want to write, so I figured I'd just be really funny about it. Long story short, I passed the story on to someone else and now I've got this half-finished rant that doesn't make much sense, but whatever. Here it is.
I am a closet Taylor Swift fan. I like to listen to “Love Story” when I’m sad and sometimes my best friend and I rock out to “You Belong With Me” in the car. I don’t really care about the VMAs. I mean, I recorded them and all, but I only planned on fast forwarding to the juicy bits. Instead, I went out with friends, but when I got home it seemed like the internet was on fire.
“Team Taylor” was the No. 1 topic on Twitter. Google News had more or less exploded. Perez Hilton was probably crying and calling some guy a faggot. IT WAS EVEN ON CNN. BREAKING NEWS: Drunken, washed-up, egomaniacal hip-hop star steals thunder of 19-year-old country sweetheart. I figured he had stumble onstage reeking of bourbon and overpriced imported beer with a confused look on his face, only to stumble off after realizing his booze-fueled faux pas.
Then I watched the video.
For those of you who haven’t seen it, it goes like this:
Shakira and that hunky werewolf kid from Twilight present Taylor Swift with the award for Best Female Video. She’s stoked. She looks like she wants to cry. The losers congratulate her. Even Lady Gaga takes a break from being COMPLETELY INSANE and bids Ms. Swift mazel tov. Still awestruck, Taylor starts her acceptance speech.
About 10 seconds into it, Kanye West, drunk off of his own self-importance (and that Costco-sized bottle of Hennessey he was chugging from earlier) rushes the stage, snatches the microphone away and launches into some tirade about how Beyonce had ONE OF THE BEST VIDEOS OF ALL TIME. OF ALL TIME. Yes, the black and white one where she dances around in a black body suit and heel for three and a half minutes.
Now, I’ve fel t that sense of celebrities being robbed before. I’ve had those instances of pure blind rage before. Instances like when Three Six Mafia won an Academy Award, or when Herbie Hancock (WHO?!) won the Grammy for Album of the Year, and every single time I didn’t hear “And the Emmy goes to…SUSAN LUCCI!” But injustices aside, when is it ever cool to just run up and embarrass people like that?
That's as far as I got. I was going to say something funny about how even though he interrupted her, he promised to let her finish, so shuttup about it. Whatever.
Tune in next week for my open letter to Patrick Swayze.
I am a closet Taylor Swift fan. I like to listen to “Love Story” when I’m sad and sometimes my best friend and I rock out to “You Belong With Me” in the car. I don’t really care about the VMAs. I mean, I recorded them and all, but I only planned on fast forwarding to the juicy bits. Instead, I went out with friends, but when I got home it seemed like the internet was on fire.
“Team Taylor” was the No. 1 topic on Twitter. Google News had more or less exploded. Perez Hilton was probably crying and calling some guy a faggot. IT WAS EVEN ON CNN. BREAKING NEWS: Drunken, washed-up, egomaniacal hip-hop star steals thunder of 19-year-old country sweetheart. I figured he had stumble onstage reeking of bourbon and overpriced imported beer with a confused look on his face, only to stumble off after realizing his booze-fueled faux pas.
Then I watched the video.
For those of you who haven’t seen it, it goes like this:
Shakira and that hunky werewolf kid from Twilight present Taylor Swift with the award for Best Female Video. She’s stoked. She looks like she wants to cry. The losers congratulate her. Even Lady Gaga takes a break from being COMPLETELY INSANE and bids Ms. Swift mazel tov. Still awestruck, Taylor starts her acceptance speech.
About 10 seconds into it, Kanye West, drunk off of his own self-importance (and that Costco-sized bottle of Hennessey he was chugging from earlier) rushes the stage, snatches the microphone away and launches into some tirade about how Beyonce had ONE OF THE BEST VIDEOS OF ALL TIME. OF ALL TIME. Yes, the black and white one where she dances around in a black body suit and heel for three and a half minutes.
Now, I’ve fel t that sense of celebrities being robbed before. I’ve had those instances of pure blind rage before. Instances like when Three Six Mafia won an Academy Award, or when Herbie Hancock (WHO?!) won the Grammy for Album of the Year, and every single time I didn’t hear “And the Emmy goes to…SUSAN LUCCI!” But injustices aside, when is it ever cool to just run up and embarrass people like that?
That's as far as I got. I was going to say something funny about how even though he interrupted her, he promised to let her finish, so shuttup about it. Whatever.
Tune in next week for my open letter to Patrick Swayze.
Monday, September 14, 2009
An open letter to Patrick Swayze
Dear Patrick,
I was 356 days old when Dirty Dancing came out in theaters. Nine days shy of my first birthday, I wouldn't see it until I was 3. That fateful day, my sisters sat me down for a double dose of your dreaminess.
We watched The Outsiders first. You were so mean to your younger brothers, but it's ok! You were only strict because you loved them. And then Pony Boy and Johnny came back from hiding, you were so delighted! Oh god, YOU WERE SO WORRIED ABOUT HIM. Sitting by the door at night, waiting patiently for your dear baby brother to come home safe. You weren't even mad that he and a friend had accidentally killed Leif Garrett in knife fight at a park and left his body in that huge Italian-looking fountain.
Yes, Patrick, that was when I noticed how breathtakingly masculine you were. Yet, you were so warm and inviting. I thought to myself, "Hey, I could get into this guy."
Actually, I was only 3 so I was probably thinking "HEY GUYS, LET'S MAKE PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY SANDWICHES AFTER THIS SO WE DON'T GET HUNGRY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NEXT MOVIE," I was a very sensible toddler.
Snacks in hand, we sat down to watch Dirty Dancing.
Oh. My. God. WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME THIS GUY LIKED TO DANCE?! I guess I was a hopeless romantic from childhood, because I saw you sweep Baby off her feet and I was smitten. You started off as kind of a dickhead, though. And your ginger cousin was pretty adorable. But then you and baby get back from the Sheldrake AND OH MY GOD, NO, PENNY'S ABORTION WENT TERRIBLY WRONG. And you scoop penny up into your big, strong dancer's arms and whisper, "it's ok, Johnny's here." Seriously, Patrick, if I wasn't only 3, my panties would have been flying at that television screen.
After that I watched the VHS over and over again until it wore out. I cried until my parents bought me another copy. You know that fat royalty check you got in 1988? You're welcome.
You went off the grid for a while after that, started boozing and went to rehab like everyone else did in the 80s. But I could never forget you, Patrick.
Ghost came out in theaters. OH GOD IT WAS SO ROMANTIC. YOU LOVED DEMI MOORE SO GODDAMN MUCH I COULD HARDLY STAND IT. But it all seemed so overdone, the romance was exaggerated and I felt like you were still Johnny Castle and you and Baby had broken up for one reason or another. (Maybe because you were like 30 and she was about to start Mount Holyoke in the fall, so it just couldn't have worked.) And you had resorted to marrying Demi Moore only because she seemed kinda nice and everything, but Baby was always in the back of your mind. Whether it was the night you deflowered her or the day you rescued her from her parents and boldly declared that "nobody puts baby in a corner," YOU WERE ALWAYS THINKING OF HER.
Then your career kind of waned. You did some action movies, worked with the prestigious Keanu Reaves and even played some creepy religious pedophile in Donnie Darko. The whole time, I never forgot you.
Then I heard the news. You had pancreatic cancer. Stage IV. You weren't going to make it.
I prepared myself for the inevitable. I knew you would die. I knew it would be hard for me to handle, but that's life, Patrick, and I just had to accept it. You did that Barbara Walters interview. I watched it with a pint of ice cream and a box of tissues. I pride myself on not being an estrogen time bomb, but I just couldn't handle it. YOU WERE HOLDING ON FOR LIFE, PATRICK, THAT IS SO LIKE YOU.
You lasted so long until I got that phone call that you had passed on. I came straight home and laid in bed, watching your films and listening to Bill Medley croon about he'd had the time of his life and he owed it all to you.
The five stages of grief kicked in.
1. Denial
Whatever, it's not like I even knew him. I'll be fine. I don't even care. He's not even dead, it's probably one of those rumors like with Jeff Goldblum a few months ago. He's fine.
2. Anger
YOU SON OF A BITCH, PATRICK. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME NOW?! NOW, WHEN I NEED YOU THE MOST. HOW AM I EVER SUPPOSED TO GO ON KNOWING THAT THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO POSSIBILITY OF ME LOSING MY VIRGINITY TO YOU. FUCK YOU, PATRICK SWAYZE. I'M GLAD YOU'RE DEAD.
3. Bargaining
Alright, god. I'll give you the full monty and completely convert to Judaism, paperwork and everything as long as you let him live. Seriously, I'll observe Shabbos, go to temple, Yom Kippur, Hannukah, everything. JUST LET HIM LIVE.
4. Depression
I am sitting Shiva for six months. I am going to wear black for the rest of my life. My bones heart, my heart hurts, I don't want to leave my bed ever again.
5. Acceptance.
I knew this was going to happen. It's better this way.
Wherever you are, Patrick, you dance that mambo like it's nobody's business.
I was 356 days old when Dirty Dancing came out in theaters. Nine days shy of my first birthday, I wouldn't see it until I was 3. That fateful day, my sisters sat me down for a double dose of your dreaminess.
We watched The Outsiders first. You were so mean to your younger brothers, but it's ok! You were only strict because you loved them. And then Pony Boy and Johnny came back from hiding, you were so delighted! Oh god, YOU WERE SO WORRIED ABOUT HIM. Sitting by the door at night, waiting patiently for your dear baby brother to come home safe. You weren't even mad that he and a friend had accidentally killed Leif Garrett in knife fight at a park and left his body in that huge Italian-looking fountain.
Yes, Patrick, that was when I noticed how breathtakingly masculine you were. Yet, you were so warm and inviting. I thought to myself, "Hey, I could get into this guy."
Actually, I was only 3 so I was probably thinking "HEY GUYS, LET'S MAKE PEANUT BUTTER AND JELLY SANDWICHES AFTER THIS SO WE DON'T GET HUNGRY IN THE MIDDLE OF THE NEXT MOVIE," I was a very sensible toddler.
Snacks in hand, we sat down to watch Dirty Dancing.
Oh. My. God. WHY DIDN'T ANYONE TELL ME THIS GUY LIKED TO DANCE?! I guess I was a hopeless romantic from childhood, because I saw you sweep Baby off her feet and I was smitten. You started off as kind of a dickhead, though. And your ginger cousin was pretty adorable. But then you and baby get back from the Sheldrake AND OH MY GOD, NO, PENNY'S ABORTION WENT TERRIBLY WRONG. And you scoop penny up into your big, strong dancer's arms and whisper, "it's ok, Johnny's here." Seriously, Patrick, if I wasn't only 3, my panties would have been flying at that television screen.
After that I watched the VHS over and over again until it wore out. I cried until my parents bought me another copy. You know that fat royalty check you got in 1988? You're welcome.
You went off the grid for a while after that, started boozing and went to rehab like everyone else did in the 80s. But I could never forget you, Patrick.
Ghost came out in theaters. OH GOD IT WAS SO ROMANTIC. YOU LOVED DEMI MOORE SO GODDAMN MUCH I COULD HARDLY STAND IT. But it all seemed so overdone, the romance was exaggerated and I felt like you were still Johnny Castle and you and Baby had broken up for one reason or another. (Maybe because you were like 30 and she was about to start Mount Holyoke in the fall, so it just couldn't have worked.) And you had resorted to marrying Demi Moore only because she seemed kinda nice and everything, but Baby was always in the back of your mind. Whether it was the night you deflowered her or the day you rescued her from her parents and boldly declared that "nobody puts baby in a corner," YOU WERE ALWAYS THINKING OF HER.
Then your career kind of waned. You did some action movies, worked with the prestigious Keanu Reaves and even played some creepy religious pedophile in Donnie Darko. The whole time, I never forgot you.
Then I heard the news. You had pancreatic cancer. Stage IV. You weren't going to make it.
I prepared myself for the inevitable. I knew you would die. I knew it would be hard for me to handle, but that's life, Patrick, and I just had to accept it. You did that Barbara Walters interview. I watched it with a pint of ice cream and a box of tissues. I pride myself on not being an estrogen time bomb, but I just couldn't handle it. YOU WERE HOLDING ON FOR LIFE, PATRICK, THAT IS SO LIKE YOU.
You lasted so long until I got that phone call that you had passed on. I came straight home and laid in bed, watching your films and listening to Bill Medley croon about he'd had the time of his life and he owed it all to you.
The five stages of grief kicked in.
1. Denial
Whatever, it's not like I even knew him. I'll be fine. I don't even care. He's not even dead, it's probably one of those rumors like with Jeff Goldblum a few months ago. He's fine.
2. Anger
YOU SON OF A BITCH, PATRICK. HOW COULD YOU DO THIS TO ME NOW?! NOW, WHEN I NEED YOU THE MOST. HOW AM I EVER SUPPOSED TO GO ON KNOWING THAT THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NO POSSIBILITY OF ME LOSING MY VIRGINITY TO YOU. FUCK YOU, PATRICK SWAYZE. I'M GLAD YOU'RE DEAD.
3. Bargaining
Alright, god. I'll give you the full monty and completely convert to Judaism, paperwork and everything as long as you let him live. Seriously, I'll observe Shabbos, go to temple, Yom Kippur, Hannukah, everything. JUST LET HIM LIVE.
4. Depression
I am sitting Shiva for six months. I am going to wear black for the rest of my life. My bones heart, my heart hurts, I don't want to leave my bed ever again.
5. Acceptance.
I knew this was going to happen. It's better this way.
Wherever you are, Patrick, you dance that mambo like it's nobody's business.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
I've got my friends, I've got my songs
I woke up at 5:30 the other morning after having a very strange dream where the ginger kid from Salute Your Shorts was now grossly obese and was stalking me at the convenience store I worked at. Why was he stalking me? Because the dream version of me had ACTUALLY GONE to Camp Annawanna. How fucking cool is that? I wish I could tell people I went to Salute Your Shorts Camp. But, Dream Kat also works at a convenience store, and that's fucking sad. BUT! Apparently at this dream convenience store I work at, I get free unlimited Arizona Iced Teas.
Just thinking about it is getting me all worked up.
The first day of school is always bullshit. No parking, awkward and clumsy kids fumbling around campus looking all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. I give those little bastards a month before they're dragging ass to the nearest coffee cart while they consider the pros and cons of dropping out and getting a full time job instead of crawling out of bed at 6:00 am and pulling yourself up four flights of stairs for an 8:oo am Cultural Anthropology class that you know you're going to either zone out or sleep through anyway.
Look at me, ever the optimist. But this isn't my first rodeo and this certainly isn't my last. How sad for me. I'm such a bitter, cynical old bitch. And then people say "Oh, Kat's so nice! Ohhhh, Kat's so funny! OOOOHHH she's so helpful!" When, really, they're too stupid to realize that I'm making fun of them.
Ah, I'm going to hell.
The bestie says I'm being extra funny today, and I don't feel funny at all. This obviously means I'm headed for a violent mood swing where I sleep too much and lay in bed listening to The Smiths , all the while I'm screaming at the top of my lungs for the housekeeper to bring more oreos and peanut butter. When I'm not yelling for treats I'm yelling "AND IF A DOUBLLLE DECKEEERRRR BUUUUSSSS CRAAAAASHES INTO UUUUUUUS. TO DIE BY YOOOUUUUUURRRRR SIIIIIIIIDE, WELL THE PLEASURRRRE AND PRIVILEEEEEGE IS MIIIIIINE" in an obnoxious falsetto with red lipstick on and my bangs pinned into a makeshift pompadour. But, we don't have a housekeeper anymore, which means I'd have to get my own oreos and peanut butter, and that takes all the fun out of it.
If I had the ability - nay, the willpower - to stop listening to the same seven bands I've had on repeat for almost the last month, I would totally listen to that right now. But Morrissey and Johnny Marr ain't no Dan and Alan, so those mopey British fucks can suuuuuck iiit.
NONSEQUITUR !
Courtesy of Facebook chat:
KAT: Is it just me, or is Launey getting fat?
KAT: Also, Lainey seems to be getting quite portly, no?
DENISE: Yeah, they're both fucking heffers
KAT: It's because all Austrians have the Augustus Gloop gene
KAT: Fat fucks.
Just thinking about it is getting me all worked up.
The first day of school is always bullshit. No parking, awkward and clumsy kids fumbling around campus looking all bright-eyed and bushy tailed. I give those little bastards a month before they're dragging ass to the nearest coffee cart while they consider the pros and cons of dropping out and getting a full time job instead of crawling out of bed at 6:00 am and pulling yourself up four flights of stairs for an 8:oo am Cultural Anthropology class that you know you're going to either zone out or sleep through anyway.
Look at me, ever the optimist. But this isn't my first rodeo and this certainly isn't my last. How sad for me. I'm such a bitter, cynical old bitch. And then people say "Oh, Kat's so nice! Ohhhh, Kat's so funny! OOOOHHH she's so helpful!" When, really, they're too stupid to realize that I'm making fun of them.
Ah, I'm going to hell.
The bestie says I'm being extra funny today, and I don't feel funny at all. This obviously means I'm headed for a violent mood swing where I sleep too much and lay in bed listening to The Smiths , all the while I'm screaming at the top of my lungs for the housekeeper to bring more oreos and peanut butter. When I'm not yelling for treats I'm yelling "AND IF A DOUBLLLE DECKEEERRRR BUUUUSSSS CRAAAAASHES INTO UUUUUUUS. TO DIE BY YOOOUUUUUURRRRR SIIIIIIIIDE, WELL THE PLEASURRRRE AND PRIVILEEEEEGE IS MIIIIIINE" in an obnoxious falsetto with red lipstick on and my bangs pinned into a makeshift pompadour. But, we don't have a housekeeper anymore, which means I'd have to get my own oreos and peanut butter, and that takes all the fun out of it.
If I had the ability - nay, the willpower - to stop listening to the same seven bands I've had on repeat for almost the last month, I would totally listen to that right now. But Morrissey and Johnny Marr ain't no Dan and Alan, so those mopey British fucks can suuuuuck iiit.
NONSEQUITUR !
Courtesy of Facebook chat:
KAT: Is it just me, or is Launey getting fat?
KAT: Also, Lainey seems to be getting quite portly, no?
DENISE: Yeah, they're both fucking heffers
KAT: It's because all Austrians have the Augustus Gloop gene
KAT: Fat fucks.
Monday, August 24, 2009
What a pussy
There is nothing I love more in this world than going through old livejournal, deadjournal, blogspot, myspace blog, friendster bulletin, and xanga entries. Laughing and how wonderfully poetic and existential I thought I sounded. Truth: I was, like, 16 and had no idea what the fuck I was talking about.
Even now, I'm going to look back on this in a few years and laugh at how forcedly nonchalant I seem. Why the fuck do I keep starting these things? Probably because I can't even remember what I had for breakfast, let alone what I did last week. (EDITOR'S NOTE: That's bullshit, last week was GIGLIFE and it was fucking gnarly as all hell. Time of my life, bro, for serious)
Moving on, these usually help me remember what a crossroads I'm at in my life at the moment. Right now I'm regretting eating two cheeseburgers in one day. Captain's Burger at the Olde Ship for lunch and a Double Double for dinner. What the fuck was I thinking? As much as I love feasting on dairy and the flesh of the innocent, it makes me bloat and ultimately curled in the fetal position from stomach cramps. You see, as much as I would love to be a vegetarian, I have a violent iron deficiency that would lead me to commit unspeakable crimes against humanity if I don't have a burger at least once a week. Also, I love yogurt, cheese, milk and ice cream (among a multitude of other dairy products) but moments after consuming said treats, I'm crippled my stomach cramps and the feeling that a poltergeist is trying to escape from deep in my gut.
But enough of my intestinal soap opera.
The bestie and I did GIGLIFE last week. A mega-tour of our favorite bands we'd been planning to follow for three consecutive nights. We bough tickets in May. Needless to say, we were stoked.
NIGHT ONE: San Diego, Wednesday, August 19
Probably the worst night of the three. The crowd was half spanish-speaking and half douchey scene kids. I don't think I've seen so many bad haircuts in one place since I hung out with those sad kids from high school. The crowd was terribly unreceptive, which made me feel like a retard when I got stoked for every band that came on. Super stoked for Polar Bear Cub, since it was my first time seeing them live. Not disappointed at all. Ok, I lied, I was incredibly pissed the first night because they didn't play my jam, Most Miserable Life. Bastards. FYS brought the noise, as usual, I love seeing them live. Set Your Goals was amazing, they're always amazing. I've never been disappointed by those bay area sons of bitches. Still, it felt like there were a total of about seven people in all of SOMA who were stoked for GIGLIFE. Kind of a bummer, if you ask me. Two good things came out of night one:
1. I shook hands with Jimmy Stadt and was all cool about it. I'm like a Mexican Samuel L Jackson.
2. My love affair with Fireworks began.
NIGHT TWO: Pomona, Thursday, August 20
Shit got real. Fantastic crowd except for that bitch behind me who kept tugging on my ponytail and putting her hand on my head. And that guy who got way too close for comfort during FYS and kept knocking his junk onto my back. Awwwwkwaaaaarrrrd. Fireworks brought out a lot of people, including a guy with snakebite piercings (gross) behind me, who I'm pretty sure wept openly during a couple of songs. Polar Bear Club played my jam, I had decided if they didn't, I was going to walk up to each individual member and punch him square in the nose. Luckily, no violence was needed. Four Year Strong was much more energetic, even though it was brought to everyone's attention that most bands had succumbed to a food coma. Set Your Goals rocked it. Seriously, they totally fucking annihilated everything. They also played The Few That Remain with Jimmy Stadt subbing for Hayley Williams (A wise substitute, in my opinion) Also, can I just mention how much I love Luke Truman filling in for Vinnie Caruana? What a badass.
Pomona was gnarly as all hell. I love being in a crowd where everyone around you knows the word to every song, it's that good old hardcore brotherhood thing these douches in camo shorts keep talking about.
NIGHT THREE: San Francisco, Friday, August 21
The Pomona show times a million. Tons of energy, awesome sets, tons of audience/band interaction. NO FUCKING BARRICADE. I have a big issue with barricades, as they have a tendency to knock out my teeth, making me look like a hillbilly Kathleen Hanna. So, the fact that All i had to worry about was getting rugburn on my face from the stage was quite the relief. Every single band just fucked Slim's with their badassery. Sadly, the last night we'd be at GIGLIFE and I still miss it. My only reminders are a fuckton of merch and Alan's guitar pick. But I didn't lose any teeth!
OH BY THE WAY. Can I just mention real quick how much I hate San Francisco? The traffic is fucking awful, it's full of dirty hobos who break into cars and steal shit, the hills are terrible to drive and park on and the drive there is hideous. Had I not had the bestie with me, I think I would have killed myself. Despite the shittiness of San Francisco, it was probably the best three days of my life. Wouldn't trade that shit for the world but I would trade anything to do it again.
Even now, I'm going to look back on this in a few years and laugh at how forcedly nonchalant I seem. Why the fuck do I keep starting these things? Probably because I can't even remember what I had for breakfast, let alone what I did last week. (EDITOR'S NOTE: That's bullshit, last week was GIGLIFE and it was fucking gnarly as all hell. Time of my life, bro, for serious)
Moving on, these usually help me remember what a crossroads I'm at in my life at the moment. Right now I'm regretting eating two cheeseburgers in one day. Captain's Burger at the Olde Ship for lunch and a Double Double for dinner. What the fuck was I thinking? As much as I love feasting on dairy and the flesh of the innocent, it makes me bloat and ultimately curled in the fetal position from stomach cramps. You see, as much as I would love to be a vegetarian, I have a violent iron deficiency that would lead me to commit unspeakable crimes against humanity if I don't have a burger at least once a week. Also, I love yogurt, cheese, milk and ice cream (among a multitude of other dairy products) but moments after consuming said treats, I'm crippled my stomach cramps and the feeling that a poltergeist is trying to escape from deep in my gut.
But enough of my intestinal soap opera.
The bestie and I did GIGLIFE last week. A mega-tour of our favorite bands we'd been planning to follow for three consecutive nights. We bough tickets in May. Needless to say, we were stoked.
NIGHT ONE: San Diego, Wednesday, August 19
Probably the worst night of the three. The crowd was half spanish-speaking and half douchey scene kids. I don't think I've seen so many bad haircuts in one place since I hung out with those sad kids from high school. The crowd was terribly unreceptive, which made me feel like a retard when I got stoked for every band that came on. Super stoked for Polar Bear Cub, since it was my first time seeing them live. Not disappointed at all. Ok, I lied, I was incredibly pissed the first night because they didn't play my jam, Most Miserable Life. Bastards. FYS brought the noise, as usual, I love seeing them live. Set Your Goals was amazing, they're always amazing. I've never been disappointed by those bay area sons of bitches. Still, it felt like there were a total of about seven people in all of SOMA who were stoked for GIGLIFE. Kind of a bummer, if you ask me. Two good things came out of night one:
1. I shook hands with Jimmy Stadt and was all cool about it. I'm like a Mexican Samuel L Jackson.
2. My love affair with Fireworks began.
NIGHT TWO: Pomona, Thursday, August 20
Shit got real. Fantastic crowd except for that bitch behind me who kept tugging on my ponytail and putting her hand on my head. And that guy who got way too close for comfort during FYS and kept knocking his junk onto my back. Awwwwkwaaaaarrrrd. Fireworks brought out a lot of people, including a guy with snakebite piercings (gross) behind me, who I'm pretty sure wept openly during a couple of songs. Polar Bear Club played my jam, I had decided if they didn't, I was going to walk up to each individual member and punch him square in the nose. Luckily, no violence was needed. Four Year Strong was much more energetic, even though it was brought to everyone's attention that most bands had succumbed to a food coma. Set Your Goals rocked it. Seriously, they totally fucking annihilated everything. They also played The Few That Remain with Jimmy Stadt subbing for Hayley Williams (A wise substitute, in my opinion) Also, can I just mention how much I love Luke Truman filling in for Vinnie Caruana? What a badass.
Pomona was gnarly as all hell. I love being in a crowd where everyone around you knows the word to every song, it's that good old hardcore brotherhood thing these douches in camo shorts keep talking about.
NIGHT THREE: San Francisco, Friday, August 21
The Pomona show times a million. Tons of energy, awesome sets, tons of audience/band interaction. NO FUCKING BARRICADE. I have a big issue with barricades, as they have a tendency to knock out my teeth, making me look like a hillbilly Kathleen Hanna. So, the fact that All i had to worry about was getting rugburn on my face from the stage was quite the relief. Every single band just fucked Slim's with their badassery. Sadly, the last night we'd be at GIGLIFE and I still miss it. My only reminders are a fuckton of merch and Alan's guitar pick. But I didn't lose any teeth!
OH BY THE WAY. Can I just mention real quick how much I hate San Francisco? The traffic is fucking awful, it's full of dirty hobos who break into cars and steal shit, the hills are terrible to drive and park on and the drive there is hideous. Had I not had the bestie with me, I think I would have killed myself. Despite the shittiness of San Francisco, it was probably the best three days of my life. Wouldn't trade that shit for the world but I would trade anything to do it again.
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