Category: music

ya’ll know…

…i love to throw some song lyrics around for my friends like secret messages…

so let’s see…

message numero uno for someone pretty terrific and i’m just laughing so hard but i can sing along to the whole thing:

we work all day and we don’t know why
Well there’s just one thing that money can’t buy
When your body’s been starved feed your appetite
When you work all day, you gotta….(can you finish that line!?!)

ok, ok, this one is for someone else:

It’s a broken kind of feeling, she’d have to tie me to the ceiling;
A bad moon’s a comin’ better say your prayers, child

for my little bro:

I moved all that freakin heavy furniture in the middle of the night for your last minute desperate butt and you didn’t show up the next day, you freakin weasel, so i’m pretty pissed off at you right this second yeahhhhhhhh (ok, that’s not really a song, but after moving everything in the middle of the night, you owe me a drink at the Yacht Club, beeotch.)

 this one’s for mr and mrs dog as they’re movin’ on up:

Fish don’t fry in the kitchen;
Beans don’t burn on the grill.
Took a whole lotta tryin’,
Just to get up that hill.

one more, one more for the birthday girl:

He’s a little bit gentle, he’s a little bit runnin’ wild
She’s a little bit of full-grown woman, she’s a little bit of child

U2 in 3D is so cool!

Rattle and Hum was such a cool movie experience (I saw it on opening night at Beaucatcher Cinemas back when Beaucatcher was the biggest and the best Asheville had to offer) that I couldn’t wait to see U2 in 3D.

If you enjoy U2, it is absolutely worth the $10.50 admission.  It’s like being at their concert with the best seats in the house but without the jostling and the concert-going drunk guy sloshing beer on your shoes.  It’s visually stunning, and the sound was surprisingly awesome—the opening riffs of With or Without You and Pride (in the Name of Love) literally made the little hairs on the back of my neck stand up.  I did some singing along and some dancing in my seat much to Minime’s horror.  The 3D effects are ample, so it seems like you’re right there beside Bono or you’re close enough to Larry to bang on the drum along with him during Love and Peace or Else.  It is interesting to note that even though you get insanely “close” to the band, you really don’t get too many sweaty facial zoom-ins like you do on the big screen at a real concert…perhaps someone decided I didn’t need to see if The Edge has crow’s feet or laugh lines?

It’s not the same as being there, sure,  but when the camera sweeps over the audience, it’s so packed, I don’t think I’d want to have been there in the first place.  It looked like it was miserably  crowded and hot, with security giving out cups of water to sweltering concert-goers by the stage.  If you want U2 without the drama of seeing a band that sells out arenas, check this movie out…you won’t have to pay to park, no one is trying to sell you $50 tshirts, no one will spill beer on you or puke near you, you’ll be able to actually see the band instead of craning your neck around the tallest person at the concert all night.  It was really neat, and I’m quite happy I went. 

Go while you can!  It’s only showing 2 times per day at Carmike in Asheville.

My Name is Prince…And I Am Funky!

Just a quick word to point out that I’ve given Kid Rock and So Hott all the credit for multiple consonants in upping one’s hotness factor (see my recent ‘foxxxy guy’ post and the one about me rolling around on the hood of my car to So Hott)…but alas, I had forgotten that Prince did it even earlier on with his super subtle tune Gett Off, full of great lyrics like It’s hard 4 me 2 say what’s right when all I wanna do is wrong.  My apologies to his Royal Purpleness.

Fred Durst to my Aaron Lewis

If you’ve been in my car at any time, you know I sing in the car almost non-stop.  You must engage me in conversation to get me to stop, and even then, I’ll still sing between my sentences or sing at you in reply to your questions.  It is only in slightly embarassed hindsight that I just realized that I sang Buckcherry’s Crazy Bitch to a near stranger very recently (look up the lyrics if you don’t know why that’s mortifying), but it’s just habit to sing behind the wheel.

I don’t sing well, noooooooo.  Lack of talent doesn’t stop me.  It’s my car, I’ll do what I want, so there.

Generally, I have my mp3 player on random.  My thought pattern is fairly random, so my music should be, too.

This afternoon, I was sitting in traffic downtown.  I had the windows down because it was nice and warm.  I had just finished throwing down Run DMC’s It’s Tricky (this beat is my recital, I think it’s very vital…) when the random mp3 player mix brought up Staind’s Outside, the studio version of the tune.  The more popular version of the song is the one that emerged from the Family Values Tour with Limp Bizkit’s Fred Durst sort of warbling backup vocals.

 I gulped down some water and scooted forward in traffic only a smidge before I embraced my inner Aaron Lewis, power ballad-ing into the steering wheel like Staind was auditioning me to replace Aaron right then and there.  And I hit the chorus I’m on the outside (horribly off key, but with enthusiasm!) and I heard another voice sing I’m lookin’ in!

WTF?

I look over and the passenger in the Subaru WRX next to me is hanging his head out the window.  He’s singing the Fred Durst backup!  It was so cool!  I was Aaron, he was Fred and we were rockin’ the power ballad out!  The light turned green just a few seconds later, and I had to wave goodbye to my backup vocalist and return to my solo efforts, but, man, there for an instant, we were both rock stars.

Belly Rubs, Butt Rubs: a typical night on the town

On Friday, I went to see Nashville Pussy, Hank III and Rev Horton Heat at the Peel.  Well, the band(s) I went to see is a bit o’ trivia that’s neither here nor there.  What’s important to note is the wildly entertaining men that were sharing space with me in the front of the Peel. 

One gent had his shirt yanked up with his generous slightly-furry belly on display.  He asked if I wanted to rub his belly for luck.  I declined ever so politely like the delicate southern belle I am.  He told me he was due in just a few months and the man behind him was the Baby Daddy. (yes, that’s Baby Daddy, not Baby’s Daddy—watch enough ‘Maury’ episodes about finding the Baby Daddy and you’ll understand).  I congratulated them on their bundle of joy.

Another fellow happily declared to me that lots of people were rubbing and touching his butt in the elbow to elbow crowd at the sold out show.  I said they should at least buy him dinner, that he shouldn’t be so easy. 

I didn’t get to interact with the last fellow on my list: top hat man.  Top Hat Man decided that not only should he be annoyingly tall in front of my not tall self, but that he should also don a hat as tall as he for the show.  This velvet topper towered over the crowd.  I wondered if there was a monkey in there.  Or maybe a cooler filled with snacks.  I wished he would take his monkey and snacks elsewhere, and because I am me and the world revolves around me and my every whim, he was soon moshed away and I could see the stage unobstructed.

 I just love the friendly demeanor of a fun crowd, a group happy to be all smushed up together in a pile.  Maybe next time I’ll reach out and rub that belly for luck, but I can’t promise any butt rubs.

that really hot guy at the crank county shows

So there’s this guy that I consider ridiculously hot, and he shows up at most of the Crank County shows.  I’ve never seen him in the light of day or anywhere else I wander, but in dimly lit bars surrounded by flailing drunks, he’s hot.

At the CCD/Luxury Pushers/Automanic show, he ended up shirtless…and I was like “heh heh heh heh heh…”  Seeing as I was  smashed into a herd of good-looking, strong, sweaty shirtless men, it might be hard to pick just one out.  Ah, but there was one.

At Stella Blue on Friday, he was chatting with some chicks post-show.  And I looked at him.  And he looked at me, or at something near me, but for ego’s sake, I’m going to go with the idea that he was looking at me.  And I looked at him some more, assessing if the chicks were chicks he was “with” or just chicks he was with…like, I was with some guys, but I wasn’t “with” any of the guys, know what I mean?  I’m so glad you and I can have these deep conversations.

Anyway.  I know that he knows some of the guys I was hangin’ with, as earlier in the evening they’d shared a man-hug (one armed, usually involves some slapping on the back or shoulder while trying not to spill the beer).  But I don’t know him.

I am not shy.  I blurt out all kinds of things to all kinds of people (hello, I’m telling you all this deep stuff, I’m not good at self-editing) all the time.  For all the Jager in Stella, I couldn’t have walked over there and said anything to him on Friday.  Don’t know why.  And at Fred’s, he was close by at the end of the night, too, but nary a word could I blurt.
I think maybe possibly part of the allure is the unknown.  All I know for now is that we like the same band, and that he’s hot.  If I know real things about him, it could all fall apart and what’s the fun in that?  He might still live with his mom, or maybe he has fifteen kids that he pays no child support for, or perhaps he has an extra nipple on the side of his neck—all these things would shatter the illusion of hotness!

This is extra especially on my mind this evening since the last local CCD show for a while is about to get underway at The Orange Peel as they open for the Misfits, and I’m here at home.  I’ve got a huge project at work at dawn tomorrow, and Minime, of course, has school, so I’m at home, missing out on something.  Or missing out on nothing.  He could be gay!  He could be celibate.  He could be a celibate gay who lives at home with mom saving money to remove the nipple on his neck!

So I guess I’ll just sulk, I’ll pout, I’ll whine…and keep my fingers cross that we cross paths in the light of day (please God, let it be on a day I look good, not on a day I look like something the dog barfed up on the couch).  And on that day, I’ll have something good to say.

I Love “Valley Girl”

I had to shake off the drama of Brokeback Mountain and Butterfly Effect, so Netflix bestowed Valley Girl upon me this weekend.  I love this movie.  It’s one of my all time favorites, ever.  Young Nicholas Cage: he’s a punk, he’s furry and he’s ever so hot. So Hott.

It’s a corny movie, predictable, but the soundtrack is tons of fun.  The Plimsouls are in the movie several times as the Hollywood bar band in the dive that Randy and Fred frequent, so you hear several of their ditties.  “I Melt With You” by Modern English figures heavily into this movie; long before it was a Burger King commercial, kids, this was music I liked ever so much.

Where is my Nicholas Cage, my punk Randy, ready to punch out the prom king in my honor?  I’m waiting.  Sigh.

Best Bruises Ever

From last weekend’s sweaty, flailing mosh pit at the Crank County show, I still have quite a few huge bruises.  Generally, if you’re the sober one in the pit, somehow all the rubbery, bouncy drunks fall on you–they leave unscathed, you leave looking like you’ve been beaten with a lead pipe.

I have a huge bruise on each arm.  I have a bruise on my left shoulder.  I have a bruise on my right boob, and I remember the exact moment of it, because after that smashing blow to the cleavage, I had to request that the gent in question stop heaving himself into my decolletage with such force.  He complied, thank goodness, or I might have a matched set of cleavage bruises today.

I’m not complaining, mind you.  I could’ve moved out of the crazy action and into a tamer zone at any time, but I chose to stay in and had a really great time.

The collection of bruises got me thinking about bruises from shows past, and the best bruise ever.  The runner up bruise(s) come from a Vic Crown show at Stella Blue where I threw myself in the pit not so much to rock out but as sort of a referee.  Someone was going to get hurt if someone (someone sober) didn’t yank the drunk people up off the floor…so that’s what I was doing when I got nailed by some airborne flailing guy.  The next morning, my right arm was purple from the shoulder all the way down to the elbow; it was so horrific I had to hide it at work to avoid the inevitable questions.

The winning Best Bruise of All Time comes from a Ramones show that I went to in Atlanta with Barton and Wiley (Barton, by the way, has gone on to do some good musical things of his own).  Where were we?  Some warehouse of a venue.  Social Distortion opened, and very few people seemed interested in them, but I sure was, so I went down front and there I stayed, front and center, hand on the security rail that kept us off the stage. 

And then the Ramones came on, and suddenly that vast warehouse was full of people, all of them pushing forward, all of them wanting my spot in particular.  I absolutely lost Barton and Wiley in the crush of people.  There was one guy determined to pull me loose from the security rail so he could have my spot; he kept reaching around me and trying to yank me backward.  So I bit him, and he stopped.  My shirt was halfway off, but I wasn’t letting go to adjust it.  If I ended up topless, I was going to be topless front and center during the Ramones’ set.

People were crowd surfing all over the place.  It was so packed in there, crowd surfing was easy to do, there were no holes to fall in, just people everywhere.  One doofus got pushed all the way to the front, and he kicked me in the head.  I pushed him along, and he was back moments later, carried by the crowd, and he nailed me in the ear.  Last but not least, on his final pass through the front, he nailed me in the back so hard that I hit the security gate, momentarily losing my breath.

After the requisite post-show meal of waffles, I drove us back to Swannanoa.  Wiley and Barton slept.   I crashed fully clothed as soon as we got back, dead tired.

When I woke up the next morning and pulled off the remains of my shirt and the tatters that were once a decent bra, my back sang out a painful tune.  I approached the mirror, looked over my shoulder and saw in living color, angry purple, the perfect imprint of a Doc Marten on my back; I would guess it to be a size 10.  Best Bruise Ever.

Rawk on!!