SAVE IT TIL THE MORNING AFTER


I have discovered a new species of predator. Hockey wives. Or girlfriends. Or, wannabe hockey wives and girlfriends. PA and I went to the Ranger game last night and spent the post-game hour or so in the green room. I've never felt so uncomfortable in a green room in my life - and I mean, I've been in a lot of fuckin green rooms. I think girls can smell the fear when someone is new. I obviously didn't know anyone apart from PA and thus spent a great deal of time looking around, getting a sense of who was hanging out at what was essentially an afterparty for a sporting event. The bathroom was a trip. I stood in the queue, sipping my beer in my sparkly Rangers cup (through a straw, no less), watching the girls watching me. They were eyeing my outfit which, in fairness, was not nearly as elaborate/night-appropriate/girlie as theirs. They were eyeing my makeup which, in contrast, was not caked all over my face and topped with cheeseball razorsharp mascara overload. I mean, I looked like me. Not like them. And I guess it was painfully obvious that I had never been to one of those affairs before. I tried to break the proverbial ice by offering everyone Purell - because the soap dispenser was malfunctioning, but the looks I got implied that niceties were not welcome in that there ladies room. Oh well.

I rejoined PA and his friends Billy and Lianne just in time to catch the first stream of Rangers as they emerged from the Garden depths into our area. Man oh man, the contrasts continued. The last time I had been in that room was after the Killers gig in January. Those guys, as dapper as they seem on-stage, still made the casual decision to come hang with us in t-shirts and jeans, as any normal exhausted person would. But not these Rangers. They came to hang in suits. With their hair all neatly combed and slicked back and OMFG OK... it was a bit of turn-on overload. PA introduced me to Brandon Dubinsky and I felt like a schoolgirl. Henrik Lundquist stood a few feet away speaking to friends in Swedish and I just stared. It's funny - I've probably spent the majority of my nights out at afterparties, surrounded by people who in theory could be considered celebrities, and I have never felt as speechless as I did last night (ok, with the two exceptions of meeting Robert Plant and Brian May). I couldn't talk to anyone. Just stood there with my sippy cup and let PA make fun of me for not getting to meet Sean Avery. I'd say it was a night well spent. Rangers, get in.

EAST LONDON IS A VAMPIRE

Had dinner with Russell and his amazing fiancee Mel before the Bloc Party gig on Tuesday. Russell and I always take time out for hangs when we're in the same city - usually to reminisce about past shenanigans, but also to catch each other up on recent activities. Quite a bit of Tuesday's dinner was devoted to Ian's new DJ project, L'Amour LA Morgue. I've been chasing up old friends for songs - he's just done "Spaceman" for the Killers and is working on a treat for Mystery Jets... so I figured Bloc Party was as good a source as any for another potential remix. I'd say we're still in the "discussion" phase - apparently Ian was quoted in the NME years ago slagging off BP (though no one can quite remember the specifics - Kele said he thinks it was something along the lines of Ian saying the Bloc has "no choruses," but again, this was NME, and as much as I love it, multiple grains of salt are in order). Cross those fingers for peace and order to be restored and a L'Amour LA Morgue/Bloc Party marriage to emerge.

In the meantime, let's just revel in how far BP has come. Gone is the fear of crowd interaction and in its place, Kele's incessant energy, bright red tracksuit, and a little dash of rafter-climbing. (The latter was fucking terrifying on Tues. One minute Mel and I were having a laugh about some drunk guy in the mosh pit (yes, there was a mosh pit at Bloc Party) and the next there were fingers gripping the railing in front of us. Kele had climbed the side of the venue mid-song and was scaling the balcony onto our table. Matt gestured from the stage for us to shove him (oh, Matt), but instead we joined Simon in the effort to deliver him to safety).



After two encores, the soundtrack switched to Dirty Dancing and the remaining crowd broke into an impromptu recreation of the movie's finale. It was fucking awesome.


Not as awesome as Kele's post-show t-shirt.


Which itself is not as awesome as my own wolf tee (which is not pictured, because my fucking camera is broken and I was left snapping random shots on my BBerry). In its place I will share the pic my darlings Jenny and Gurj sent me from Austin... they found my dream store:


Oh, and another thing... I caved. I am now on Twitter. I feel like I'm cheating on this blog. Nevertheless, follow. (Is it just me, or should the creators of Twitter come up with a different verb. If slaves to the internet didn't feel like sheep already....)

twitter.com/karenplusone

DON'T SURROUND YOURSELF WITH YOURSELF

Adam and I were just having a chat based on his iTunes selections. One thing led to another and I've come to realize that I was in fact a Twitterer before tweeting was even remotely imposed on the human condition (seriously, its now reached freakish levels). Back in the day, ie, around the time I started this blog, Brigid and I had the most ramshackle t-shirt factory concocted in our living room. Piles and piles of iron-on letters, random jars of paint, stencils, the works. Every idea we ever came up with whilst watching tube became an idea for a t-shirt. I mean, hell, we were making shirts based on Law & Order marathons. "Briscoe is god," "McCoy can press my charges,"shit like that. I think I had two shirts inspired by the Darkness. I know I wore one that said "If that's 30, sign me up!" to Carlos' 30th birthday party. If you think about it, that was essentially tweeting. Nowadays, rather than the initial thought being "oh, you should totally put that on a t-shirt" its "oh, you should totally Twitter that." Could that be why I hate Twitter? Could it be the lazy production values? Is Twitter the Snuggie to my Slanket? It may very well be.

Anyway I now have an arts & crafts assignment. Which is only slightly problematic because the last time I went to American Apparel, my friends and I were politely asked to leave (yes, I'm aware that there are probably better places to buy tees anyway, but fuck off I like theirs).




Love you mean it, you crazy DIY porn shop!

I CAN FEEL IT, I CONCEAL IT

Apparently Papa Roach have been a band for ten years. Apparently the singer is called Jacoby Shaddix, formerly known as COBY DICK. Really? Coby Dick? How could I not have known this? (Okay, truth - I probably did know this at some point, but conveniently forgot before accepting Galea's invitation to join him at Blender last night). Had I been able to ignore the fact that this aforementioned dick - I mean, Dick - shaves his armpits, I might've taken the experience more seriously. Now don't get me wrong - it was a fun time, but I think said fun was more a result of being with my old Agency friends and less a result of having beer poured on my feet by a drunk nu-metal chick making out with her drunk nu-metal boyfriend.

Upon leaving the venue, security bestowed free Monster drinks and Jeremy captured my stokedness.


I mean, what else does a girl need when leaving a gig apart from energy sauce and an all access pass?


Jeremy seemed to think I needed those. Thanks, J. Ho. Papa Roach called, they're looking for a few good street-teamers.

Anyway, as much as I love shows where people throw genuine metal signs, I cannot in good faith devote this entire post to Papa Roach. So check it. Brand new Art Brut. Featuring cameos by Keith TOTP, Dyan from the Blood Arm, and those kooky, kooky Indelicates.



Furthermore, have a nice lil nugget of band-swapping goss: Skully, former drummer for Men Women & Children, is the new drummer in Razorlight. Amaze.org.

ALL MY OLD WORLD STORIES TAKE ME BACK AGAIN



Listen to that song. That song is amazing. (That slide show is amazing, but for entirely different reasons, obvs). My dear friend Chris sent it to me the other day and we have been wanging over it ever since.

Me: i can't get that starsailor/b flow track out of my head. i just listened to it six times in a row on my lunch break.
C: it's fucking awesome
Me: seriously. I love it. thank you for sending. what's the story with it?
C: i was told it was recorded, starsailor's label didn't like it. then it was "leaked."
Me: is it a remix or was brandon guesting on the record?
C: it was called a remix. but it sounds like guesting to me.
Me: yeah totes. there's very little "remix" element, but i guess i'm no one to judge since i haven't heard any other version. but what a dumb label. it's so good.
C: yeah, i assume that the song was better than anything else. they wouldn't want it to overshadow.
Me: hahaha probs
C: although it sounds very starsailor-y to me.
Me: well yeah that's why i'm saying i don't get a remix vibe. just a cooler starsailor vibe.
C: exactly
Me: i have the thin white duke version of "four to the floor," that is a remix.
C: hahaha yes. i bet. he really b flows it - it is very obvious who is singing with the ss dude.
Me: oh totes. b flow is blazing his personal trail to be the next bono.
C: yeah hopefully he stays cool and doesn't become a faux politician.
Me: i would've given anything to be the nerve endings in his peen when bono sang "all these things that i've done" with him.
C: hahahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahaha

Annnnnnd... scene.

(In case you missed it):

I'M THE FEAR ADDICTED

I'm like a shark on city streets. If I stop moving, I sink. This isn't meant to be a quaint metaphor, but rather an explanation of why I'm such an asshole when I walk. It's why I have such a vicious sense of entitlement when it comes to right of way. Forgive me, but when I'm listening to an awesome playlist, I move. My stride is always long and my patience always short. This doesn't always translate to a happy commute because as everyone knows, most people in New York walk too fucking slowly, particularly in the middle bits. They stop and stare. They dawdle. Sure, the sights are nice.


But have you ever gotten in a Park Avenue groove to Rage Against the Machine? Thin line between entertainment and war indeed.

It's kinda funny spending time on the Upper East Side again. I spent my formative years up there, and not much about the neighborhood has changed. Of course, I still perv the uniformed private school boys as they sneak off to smoke during lunch, but it was a helluva lot more appropriate when I too was in high school. The air is always rich with the smell of pears and pot. I don't mean the nice Kiehls pear like that which Babbers and A-Ford bought me on New Years, but rather the pungent Victoria's Secret variety that perfumed many a teenage makeout (not to mention the mingling of that with Eternity or Polo Sport, both of which make prominent appearances on my nightly walks home as well).

Anyway, my life has become a movie set.




Now I just need a good script. Brookie, let's write this.