Hey Hey Baby Fish Mouth
Like the guess who said, i got no time.
My brother Ben told me last night at the Rustic that they have found a new type of monkey man in Africa. It is six feet tall with 13 inch feet. I don't even want to know about the other body parts. This monkey must smell really bad. Crazy old monkey.
Is it bad to go to Bikram yoga and detoxify your whole body, then come home and smoke a cigarette?
Just wondering.
The best rock club in America, and maybe todo el fucking mundo, First Avenue--the club where Prince recorded much of Purple Rain live--has a big ass fun oral history this week in City Pages.
I wish I had some stories as fucked up as those in the article. Hmm. Let me see.
Well, First Avenue was where I met my first and only "real" boyfriend (i.e., we were fully codependent), whom we shall call Zac the Sweet. Zac and I loved each other to teeny-tiny bits, but we definitely lacked a certain sparkle, and we knew it. I remember one night when we had already broken up, we went to First Ave. to see Pavement. The show was so boring we ended up making out upstairs and getting back together for another year.
I have seen a lot of good shows there: Eminem, Beck, Stereolab, PJ Harvey, Built to Spill, the Zombies, X, Cibo Matto, Superchunk, Emmylou Harris (on her 50th birthday!), Jonathan Richman, Cornershop, Chili Peppers, and the late great Remy Zero. I remember me and Hillary hanging out with the two cute guys in the band--I liked the weird one and she liked the lead singer, but unfortunately they liked us vice-versa. Well, enough said about that particular evening.
The 7th St. Entry is my favorite part of the club--a tiny side-venue where bands usually play the first time through--like Nirvana played there and shit. The Entry is where a girl can easily become an indie rock groupie. Here's what you do. You waltz in and walk down to the "green" room like you live there. You put your coat and stuff down and sit on an amp and light a cigarette. Inevitably one of the band guys who's just gotten into town appears and assumes you know the ropes. You start talking. You tell him about a party afterwards. Instant groupie. The end. Next week, rinse and repeat.
Ha ha ha. I never got into that. It just seemed so... I don't know. So pre-Roe V. Wade.
Hillary and I sang backup for this glam-rock band there a few times, on both stages. I was on cowbell duty. Mark Mallman taught me angrily that you must play the cowbell with wild conviction, or not at all. I don't know why but we thought it would look cool to dress all glam but then wear cowboy hats. Can't say what we were thinking. That was where i discovered what it's like to be in a band before you go onstage. I also found out that you get FREE BEER before the show.
mmm, beer.
xo
me
Like the guess who said, i got no time.
My brother Ben told me last night at the Rustic that they have found a new type of monkey man in Africa. It is six feet tall with 13 inch feet. I don't even want to know about the other body parts. This monkey must smell really bad. Crazy old monkey.
Is it bad to go to Bikram yoga and detoxify your whole body, then come home and smoke a cigarette?
Just wondering.
The best rock club in America, and maybe todo el fucking mundo, First Avenue--the club where Prince recorded much of Purple Rain live--has a big ass fun oral history this week in City Pages.
I wish I had some stories as fucked up as those in the article. Hmm. Let me see.
Well, First Avenue was where I met my first and only "real" boyfriend (i.e., we were fully codependent), whom we shall call Zac the Sweet. Zac and I loved each other to teeny-tiny bits, but we definitely lacked a certain sparkle, and we knew it. I remember one night when we had already broken up, we went to First Ave. to see Pavement. The show was so boring we ended up making out upstairs and getting back together for another year.
I have seen a lot of good shows there: Eminem, Beck, Stereolab, PJ Harvey, Built to Spill, the Zombies, X, Cibo Matto, Superchunk, Emmylou Harris (on her 50th birthday!), Jonathan Richman, Cornershop, Chili Peppers, and the late great Remy Zero. I remember me and Hillary hanging out with the two cute guys in the band--I liked the weird one and she liked the lead singer, but unfortunately they liked us vice-versa. Well, enough said about that particular evening.
The 7th St. Entry is my favorite part of the club--a tiny side-venue where bands usually play the first time through--like Nirvana played there and shit. The Entry is where a girl can easily become an indie rock groupie. Here's what you do. You waltz in and walk down to the "green" room like you live there. You put your coat and stuff down and sit on an amp and light a cigarette. Inevitably one of the band guys who's just gotten into town appears and assumes you know the ropes. You start talking. You tell him about a party afterwards. Instant groupie. The end. Next week, rinse and repeat.
Ha ha ha. I never got into that. It just seemed so... I don't know. So pre-Roe V. Wade.
Hillary and I sang backup for this glam-rock band there a few times, on both stages. I was on cowbell duty. Mark Mallman taught me angrily that you must play the cowbell with wild conviction, or not at all. I don't know why but we thought it would look cool to dress all glam but then wear cowboy hats. Can't say what we were thinking. That was where i discovered what it's like to be in a band before you go onstage. I also found out that you get FREE BEER before the show.
mmm, beer.
xo
me
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