Last night I went to see Peter Sotos DJ at Heathers. Yes, some others were providing tunes (hi Philip Best, Adam Parfrey, Mark McCoy, and Brandon Stusoy), but to be honest I didn't care, even though Mark was the only one who had his shit together. There are some people I cannot handle myself around because I am too nerdily psyched/awe-struck and it makes me act like an over-compensating tequila-shooting asshole, and apparently Peter Sotos is one of them.
In Manitoba the province will pay for breast reductions if you can prove that you need it done for medical reasons. I was a double D, or maybe even an E, and my back didn't hurt. But frankly, I was pissed about the way my shirts pulled at the buttons and made those lines that indicate that your tits are trying to pull your shirt apart from the inside. When I wore my Slash t-shirt his face stretched out like he had giant eye tumors. This had to stop.
Do you have a lot of fetish photographs lying round the house and an internet connection that would allow you to download pictures of celebrity faces? Bet you wish you had, because then you could be a significant artist like Ben Westwood.
I'm not a trendsetter. Nor am I really a follower. When something new presents itself in my sphere it takes me a while to get used to the idea of it being around. BlackBerry? Trust me, I'll get one in a few years, but right now I'm content with my flip phone. Drop-crotch pants? No thank you, I still enjoy the high-waist variety, camel-toe properties and all. Count me out for anything with a line or a waiting list attached. So me getting the swine flu a few weeks after the initial media hubbub had quieted but still during its very exclusive pre-pandemic phase was somewhat out of character. What can I say? Sometimes I'm a one-among-thousands sort of gal.
Did you ever see that documentary John Landis made about used car dealers, Slasher? If not, you should put it on your queue/folded-up wallet-list. Basically, Landis just sets up camp in this Memphis car dealership whose sales are so bad they have to fly in an alcoholic version of John "Mighty Mouth" Moschitta from California and have him run around the lot with a bullhorn and tuxedo to get rid of all their overstock. It's extremely depressing, but it also provides some pretty crucial insight into one of the most well-mined veins of comedy of the last 30 years.
What is the DJ line-up at Heathers tonight, a panel discussion at SXSW 1996 entitled "Musical Transgression in the Post-Grunge Era"? Enjoy some black metal, power electronics noise, and (of course, for maximum contrast value) teen pop courtesy of Philip Best, Peter Sotos, Adam Parfrey, Mark McCoy, and some other people only those with shot cochlea from crushing waves of harmful frequencies seem to enjoy (us included).
Look, some guy who works somewhere that has a black filing cabinet and a really depressing snap-together gray workspace got a tattoo of that Shintaro Kago cover we ran on the 4-ACO-DMT Issue. That's pretty great, and it just goes to show you that even if you've resigned yourself to wearing that horrible modern bank teller blue button-down shirt and pleated black slacks as you plop down into your corner of misery to crunch numbers, submit reports, and snack on Funyuns from the vending machine (which always seems to be half-empty with Balance bars and Baked Lays, godfuckingdamnit) while mouth-breathing your own farts, you can still totally be your own person and express yourself.
I sat down with my buddy Nick, who lives upstairs in my house, and asked him why he's such an appalling slob. He is pretty much full of shit because I doubt he takes anything out in three days like he says in the following interview, and I promise you Febreze doesn't cover up the smell of garbage. His room usually kind of smells but he does keep it in his room, so I guess I can't complain that much...
I know the “LA is gay” sentiment is pretty prevalent in most East Coasters. And I was reminded of why that is when I was out there last week. The reason is because LA IS GAY. Why? Let me count the ways…