THERE IS SOMETHING YOU WANT TO SAY, I'M NOT ASKING

Midnight on last Wednesday. I was at Mercury Lounge enjoying my favorite New York band White Rabbits, tits deep in vodka and anticipation for a somewhat spontaneous long weekend in LA. There were your traditional New York indie industry wanks claiming the opener was something special and my traditional take-your-pants-off catcall. White Rabbits killed it, even with their predominantly unknown new material. There goes that whole "I hate all things indie" mantra.



4:00 am last Wednesday. I was at JFK with the usual suspects of grumpy early morning travel. It didn't even occur to me that it was Oscar weekend, but the revelation and abundance of potential celebs lent an extrafun air to my favorite JFK-LAX bored game - "Who's that and what have they done to their FACE?"

Now, in the past, I've declared myself an LA-hater. Found it lonely, alienating, boring. So imagine my trepidation boarding a flight with few set plans and a host stuck in studioland. Turns out my fears were unwarranted. I have amazing friends in LA (and in the case of Sarah Nir, an amazing friend with perfectly timed coincidental travel plans).

A lot of specific memories have been rendered private - mainly because the combination of Brooke Dulien, Ollie Stone, Adam Bravin and the power of suggestion resulted in me becoming quite friendly with an unfortunate mix of vodka and tequila, also known as the "did I do that?" So let's explore my trip in pictures. This will be just as revelatory for me.


That's me and Dez at Toast. My expression is either excitement over finding Spongebob, tasting Not yo Mamas Grilled Cheese, or spotting Chris Noth. I'm gonna go with the latter because Dez is clearly hogging the Spongebob book and I am clearly holding a menu. Whatever the case, we saw Chris Noth. And Ollie paparrazzied. That's my girl.

After lunch, we head over to the Grove for my first visit to the farmers market. I like hot sauce. I was stoked.


You know what I don't like though? Candy apples. I don't really get candy apples. I mean, they're awesome to look at, clearly:


But try eating one. You end up covered in goo with nuts in your hair. That's what she said.

Another night, Ollie and Caleb took me on a downtown adventure.







Those can be labeled: Karen n' Coles, Ollie n' whiskey, Caleb n' rye, dunno, dunno part deux, and what you doin' Bar 107 bathroom.

Somewhere amidst this excitement, Brooke decked me out in the coolest fucking jewelry on the planet, Adam and I failed to find the best bloody mary in LA, and Ian had a dream about me, a tutu-bottomed cocktail dress and a bunk bed.

Yeah, LA is one helluva trip.

A NECKLACE FOR ME OF CHEMISTRY

Omg, I tried. I tried to like you, indie rock. But then I was assigned to write about three "up and comers" for a to-remain-nameless publication - and actually considered self-harm. And then I gave you another go. Watched Subterranean in the hopes of being converted. But then these other bands - these Of Montreals and Ra Ra Riots, they single-handedly (or is that double-handedly?) ruined it for their knitwear brethren. I just. Can't. Stand it.

Give me these guys (and the earth-moving crowd participation) any day instead:



Look at that mass of people. That's what rock music is supposed to do to you, folks. That is what's known as "deriving enjoyment."


(that's also what's known as deriving enjoyment, in still)

Thankyougoodnight.

(PS - the saving grace of Subterranean was the Flosstradamus video for "Big Bills." Because it actually compelled me to want to check out the rest of their shit. As opposed to the other bands. Who just make me want to bury them in shit, Back to the Future style).

EVERYTHING HAS CHAINS, ABSOLUTELY NOTHING'S CHANGED

Saturday was marked by an unwittingly romantic brunch with Sarah, when we ended up at a place called Tapeo 29 on a corner of Clinton street (this after we discovered that every one of our traditional brunch spots has become a veritable shitstorm, particularly on a mildly-temperatured afternoon). The bloody marys were spicy and bottomless which made our subsequent quest for ribbons and candy all the more exciting.

When I woke up on Sunday, I was haunted by the popular urban ghost of guilt that shakes me silly whenever the weather is nice. Seriously, what is it about sunshine and noticeably warmer temps that propel us, cattle-prod style, out of our apartments? Where is this unwritten rule that says our life sucks ass if we don't take advantage of the opportunity to wear fall coats in winter? Anyway, Gurj's boy Jared was in town and since I had yet to meet him properly I suggested they meet me at St. Dymphnas on St. Marks for some foods and bevvies. Dymphnas boasts one of the only veggie English breakfasts in Manhattan, and eff me, veggie English breakfasts rule my school. Plus, Jared's band had just returned from a UK tour, so I figured he'd enjoy a continuation of British steeze. Once they agreed, I rounded up Mark, Jenny and Josh (I am a very successful bully, what can I say), for what turned out to be an enjoyable afternoon (despite a restaurant straight out of Gordon Ramsay's nightmares) (service-wise. The food and bloody marys were just fine).

After brunch, Gurj and Jared and I popped into our fave cheapo watering hole (emphasis on hole), for some shots.


Jared was particularly stoked because he had played gigs at the Continental as a teen (in various other bands). Alas, the stage is long gone, but the jukebox is still hilarious. Times change, times change.

Speaking of music-related change, I got a pleasant surprise this morning. I logged into Facebook and noticed that my friend Tom had been tagged in a bunch of photos. I took a look at the album, titled "Losers Live at Proud Gallery." Now, one of the songs that has been ruling my life for the past three months is a remix of "Killing in the Name Of." More specifically - the Losers' Remix of "Killing in the Name Of."

Go to the Losers' Myspace page and listen to "Losers V Rage." It pretty much defines "kickass." And here I've been takin names to it left and right completely oblivious to the fact that a friend is behind it. So awesome. Add this to the list of fantastic contributions to music society by former members of the Cooper Temple Clause.

And speaking of fantastic contributions to music society... full stop... here's today's happy metal video. Featuring the world's most absurdly tiny rock n roll guitar apparatus (seriously, it makes Guitar Hero look macho).

RUNNING TO STAND STILL

First things first, I am days away from hearing Art Brut's new, Frank-Black-produced record. SO FUCKING STOKED. New Brut eye candy:


I love the Brut, and if the tricklings of stories from their Oregon trail of a recording experience are anything to go on, this record will be just as smile-inducing as their past output, and lord knows we could all use some smiles.

That said, in an attempt to either be contrary or energized, I've been watching a ton of horror movies lately. I finally got around to seeing that Alaska-based vampire flick, 30 Days of Night. Sad to say, it falls under the category of amazing concept/crap film (Cloverfield being another recent, glaring example of such). Maybe it's cuz I can't get past the image of Josh Hartnett banging a girl in the window across the street from Hanger Bar, but I could not take him seriously as the star of such a stark film. Credit points for featuring some seriously scary vampires and for giving me a whole lot to think about in my dreams (namely the metaphorical connection between a top-of-the-world town like Barrow, Alaska and their 30 days of snowed-in darkness, and...).

In happy news, Andrea bullied me out of the house to meet her and Mark's bundle of joy.


How freakin adorable is their baby girl??? We got along great. I'm gonna teach her how to DJ. We're gonna open up for Ash on their next tour. Karenplusone and Millerminushamilton. Shit's gonna rule.


Yeah, she was bummed when I had to leave. Anyway, one more point for now - I was re-watching that amazing VH1 Classic miniseries 7 Ages of Rock, and was struck by a clip of REM performing "Radio Free Europe." Ok, so like, I knew we all (we being our friends and the rock press alike) give Roddy shit for being sooo Michael Stipe... but like, wow:



(Here's a lil Idlewild for comparison):



Have I ever mentioned how much I love Idlewild? So much more so than REM, fyi, btw, ttyl.

TOUCH ME AGAIN FOR THE WORDS THAT YOU WILL HEAR EVERMORE

Holy. Effing. Amazingballs. I have loved Metallica since I was 10 years old. On Saturday night I was out drinking with them til 3 am. End of story. I couldn't even bring myself to speak to James and Kirk and Rob because I was too shy and fangirl embarrassed. I just gawked, and accepted Lars' apology when he and Sune got too into the Danish speaking manlove as we rode to the aftershow. One of the best nights of my life. (And once again I managed to frighten myself by being inexplicably drawn to/fascinated by the cluster of Hells Angels at the gig. I think I've watched too many 60s documentaries).