Archive | October, 2012

Thoughts from an Indie Show

31 Oct

1,2 and ya don’t stop…literally.

Sound check– If you aren’t a famous headlining band; keep that shit to a minimum. I watched an unknown group of idiots say, “1, 2” into a microphone while gesturing to some shadowy hipster in the back for over 25 minutes. This is unacceptable. Do you know how much negative anticipation is built? How awesome you have to be to justify 25 minutes of nonsense with waning arch support in my hep shoes? Pretty damn awesome, and they fell short. I was gone after the first song.

I want to start a group called The Soundchecks where all we do is dress in skinnies and swooping v’s and check the levels on stage, never actually playing more than a few chords in no particular progression. Most in the audience will detest our existence, but one scruffy shitgoat with an influential blog will coin us the Andy Kaufmanns of the indie music scene making us the hottest shit in Echo Park for a month. We will all date cute, malnourished women with pale skin and ride our iconoclastic status until we are pressured to finally release an actual song, which will be terrible, and eventually our lack of musical talent will force the group to take a break and reassess the merits of law school.

Rumpy Chaplin

Weird Chicks– Unlike clubs, bars and parties where women generally choose clothes that accentuate parts of their body, women at concerts around these parts tend to look like… Fill in the whoride.

– Indiana Jone’s understudy
– Your 5th grade production of Shakespeare’s The Tempest
– Punky Brewster’s foreign cousin, Rumpy Mooster
– Someone who collects recycling for a living
– An evil sustainable farmer
– Charlie Chaplin in less modern clothes
– An extra from a yet to be released indie film, “We’re Fucking Cooler Than You.”

I’ve seen girls wearing shorts that give them wedgies. Some wear things called rompers, which make it look like they have pooped themselves. Other times they wear something on their arm that looks like an androgynous skeletor…oops, that’s your boyfriend? My bad.

How dare you small girl!

The Ambience – This is of course contingent on the venue, but if I don’t have arch support, a good amount of booze and an exit strategy you better believe there will be some low-key freaking out on my part. One of the worst feelings in life is to be trapped in a crowd where everyone is more fucked up than you. It is intolerable. Every shoulder bump, foot smash, small girl’s aggressive elbow to your back is an affront to your humanity. Even the cute little white Pocahontas’ with their feather headdresses and adorable prancing get on your nerves. Call me square or close-minded, but I can’t just will myself to dance if I have no connection to the music or group. People who freely gangle about to any sequence of chords frighten me. All I ask for is beer under 7 bucks, a few attractive girls who aren’t completely fried and a bus route nearby if case The Soundchecks go on too long.

Last Minute Halloween Costume Ideas

25 Oct

Dear Lord.

Halloween hasn’t been the same since the great big baby debacle of ’06. I dressed in a child’s onesy with a pillow zipped in. You know…cause fat is funny. I then proceeded to drink 90 shots of Jack and attempt the riskiest Halloween night move, the costume change. I thought the crack head, Tyrone Biggums, of Chappelle Show fame would be funnier, so I got a red beanie, put baking soda around my mouth and applied chocolate bar “doo-doo” stains to my backside…you know, cause poop is funny. In true Hallows eve fashion, I frightened many people that night with my aggressive gibberish and gangly attacks on unsuspecting friends and females. I ended up losing my digital camera and just a shred of dignity, but gained a blog post 6 years later so it all evens out. Anyway, here are some last minute costume ideas.

I guess the bus is optional as well.

Rosa Parks– (Dress optional. Black face discouraged) Basically you’re at a party and you wait until someone gets up from their seat and take it. When they return to reclaim their seat, you refuse to give it up and make a big fuss citing inadequate civil liberties. Once the partygoer is properly confused and angry, you let him know who you are. If he gets mad, then he is racist, if he doesn’t, then you get a seat and props for a sweet ‘stume.

Pretty much the same thing

YouTube Commentator– Go around calling people hurtful and racially insensitive names. Try to make as little sense as possible and when flustered or in doubt, make bold political claims in reference to nothing.

I have 25 years of business experience.

Robot Romney– Topical costume alert! Air horn! Dress as a robot with a suit and tie and make wildly vague claims all night. Pretend to malfunction periodically and in a robot voice keep saying, “I can balance a budget” over and over.

If you are a big group, you can assemble yourselves as Mitt’s cyborg sons and name yourselves weird things like Tag and Jib…oh wait.

Like this, but sexier.

Sexy Vending Machine– Didn’t think I would leave the sexy costume out did you? You crazy. This is a gender friendly sweet ensemble with a twist. You simply cut out cardboard in a vending machine shape, mark the appropriate letters and numerals and attach candy to the cardboard. If you are feeling R rated, much like an adult piñata, you can add things like lube, condoms and butt plugs. Is that a natural progression?

Yea buddy. It’s brutal.

Disgraced Lance– There is always a too soon costume. This one might be it. Wear a cyclist’s outfit, short shorts with tight shirt and helmet and TONS of tinfoil medals around your neck. Behave questionably all night and have your friends strip you of all your medals.

Doing too much option: Wear and give out inspirational wristbands that read, “Livewrong.”

Have fun and hold onto those cameras and iphones!

The Potluck

2 Oct

Last Friday on the eve of my 27th birthday, I went to a potluck. I don’t frequent the potluck scene, which may be a reflection of how few friends I have in L.A. or a simple reminder that I don’t enjoy sharing food. Normally, I would head to Trader Joe’s, pick up chips and salsa and a bottle of Yellow Tail and call it a day, but something came over me that night. I decided to whip up a Quinoa with basil chicken and peppers. Whip up!? I never say that. Quinwhat!? If you had asked me two years ago what quinoa was, I might have thought you were making fun of Chinese people. A year ago I would have called you a health nut freak, and now here I am whipping up a fresh batch for a potluck dinner. Wild stuff.

Whiff that fresh grain

I nervously entered the apartment with my big ass bowl. Rushing thru the pleasantries, I scanned the counter top for a prime location. I now know what my grandmas and aunts felt like at holiday gatherings when they would subversively move each other’s dishes around vying for the good table real estate. Taking a cue from Aunt Margie, I moved the grossest looking thing to the side and slid my big ass bowl of quinoa into the spotlight. I can’t tell you how nervous I was the rest of the night. People would approach me and want to know where I was from, how I knew the host, what I did for a living, but my attention was fixed on the countertop. “You seem very nice, but unfortunately I made this fresh quinoa and I’m pretty excited about it, so we are going to have to talk later.” I didn’t care if I was labeled the socially inept food freak at the party; I wanted to be a potluck success for once in my life.
The guests started to form a line. Veggies were picked, salads were scooped and so it came time for my dish. I watched, as the saran wrap was unfolded to reveal hours of sweaty, proud kitchen labor. I almost wanted to interject and add a disclaimer like, “Just to let everyone know, this was my first time making quinoa…so…you know” but I decided to let the situation play out organically. The first girl took a bite and exclaimed, “Oh my god, who made the quinoa!?” Hell yea girl. I did. In reality, I hesitantly raised my hand. Was someone at this party going to call me a faggot? She got real close to me and asked how I made it. I tried to play it off, but she insisted I tell her, step for step.

So there I was, a 27 year old at a potluck that had just been complimented on his quinoa, telling an eager foodie how to prepare the dish. “You see the key is to cook it in vegetable stock.” I laughed out loud after I said that, and she looked confused. If only she was there during College when my go-to dish was the Tuna Nut surprise, otherwise known as whatever the hell was left in the cupboard with olive oil surprise. I have come a long way.

My Recipe: 1 box of quinoa and whip that shit up.