I woke up hungover, fighting through the urge to spring from my bed, run into the bathroom, and barf my guts out. Granted, those guts included 10 White Castle hamburgers from 3am that morning, but fortunately, I held my mud. I spent all day in front of my computer putting the finishing touches on the website; when I wasn't doing that, I was out. I bought oven mitts, a small pot, a strainer, and a push cart (though, no toaster as of yet). Finally got the website done at 12:15am Sunday morning, went to sleep about an hour after that.
Woke up, ate some Kraft Cheese & Macaroni, watched some Season 1 O.C. action and some Freaks & Geeks action, went grocery shopping, made some Italian sausage & pasta concoction, watched more O.C. and Freaks & Geeks, visited with Jenny and Emily as they moved more stuff over to their new apartment, watched an Eddie Izzard stand-up set for two hours, read a JFK article in Rolling Stone, and went to bed far too late for words.
This Post Is About Friday:
I was highly agitated on Friday, what with my impending doom here at work, my up-in-the-air apartment situation, my continuing debt, my website not being finished, and everything else. I needed a drink. I needed many drinks. But, not this chintzy beer or wine kick I've been on so far this 2007. Oh no, tonight was about one thing: Vodka. And lots of it.
I almost pounded down an entire fifth by myself. I probably would've if I had one more fucking phone call. After downing about half of a fifth with my 2-liter bottle of Vanilla Pepsi, I was prepared to either go out and see a movie or go out and see some live music. I was on the fence the entire night, but didn't really have time to make a proper decision because of the solid 2-3 hours of telephone conversation I was hit with back-to-back-to-back. I mean, it was fine, because I enjoy gabbing when I'm drinking, but by the end of the night my phone was DEAD.
In the end, I made due with going to see some live music. I asked Liz where a good place to go was in the Lower East Side, and she directed me to Ludlow street, which had two happening places. I picked one, went inside, paid the $10 cover, and was not disappointed.
First up was a band by the name of Surgeon. I only caught a couple-two-three songs from them, but they were servicable: rocking, loud, yelling, two guitars and a bass guitar, cool name, lead singer with one of those 1950s Greaser-style hairdos straight out of Rebel Without a Cause (or like one of John Travolta's goony buddies from Grease).
Here's something that spun me around for a bit of a loop: the lead guitarist was a woman. In a 4-piece with three guys. Well, maybe that isn't all THAT surprising, except for the fact that she was actually pretty good. If you don't know my theory on female lead guitarists, it's this: women can't be lead guitarists. Chauvinistmuch? Well, riddlemethis, Chickenfucker, have you ever SEEN or HEARD a quality female lead guitarist? There are plenty of perfectly NICE female lead guitarists (I'm a big Sleater-Kinney fan, and ... I suppose if I'd ever seen Hells Belles I'm sure they'd rock reasonably hard), but no one in the league of Jimi or Clapton or Allman or even Mayer (wait, John Mayer isn't good enough to be referred to solely by his last name, fuck John Mayer!). Then, if you think about rock bands with female lead singers, generally you're looking at a man playing lead (Hole, Jefferson Airplane, Big Brother & Holding Company, The Distillers). Anyway, I probably SHOULDN'T say there "can't" be a female lead guitarist, I'm just saying I've yet to see one and I'm not damned bloody likely to be proven wrong anytime soon.
The chick from Surgeon was capable; she even managed to rip off some fairly menacing solos, but she had no passion. No soul. She stood straight and tall, stoic, emotionless. Sure, the way her fingers moved up and down the guitar neck made me wonder what she'd be like while playing my penisflute, but it was all technical. She might as well have been playing a recital in front of a group of crater-faced, metal-mouthed nerds. Meanwhile, her male counterpart on the other side of the stage - while an inferior player - was at the very least getting into the music and being all Rock N' Roll for us. One of these days, Alice.
The final band I saw went by the name of The Jealous Girlfriends. I'm officially in love with the lead singer. I don't know her name, I don't know where she lives, if I had a pair of testicles about my body, I would've found this information out after the show, but I'm MySpace friends with the band and I plan on seeing them again and maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to pronounce my everlasting affections to this exquisite vision of eternal beauty.
Wait wait, hang on, I'm sorry, that was a typo. What I MEANT to say was, "I officially want to DO the lead singer of The Jealous Girlfriends in multiple positions, in multiple holes, for 92 hours straight and then hang out watching TV in her bedroom while she goes out and buys me some well-deserved White Castle." I don't know how I screwed THAT up!
Seriously tho? (why "tho"? are you so important you can't spell "though"?). Seriously tho. She was so hot, yo. Like, she's been yelling a lot (or ingesting lots of semen orally), so her voice was all husky and weathered, but in that sexy way where you can't help but imagine her saying something like, "and then afterward my twin sister will come and sit on your face." AND she was wearing a wifebeater. AND she was just my body type only with dark brown hair. Kinda on the shorter side, petite, really skinny ankles (ooo baby, skinny ankles), appropriately-sized rack (in other words, not to big/small for her frame). And she's a smoker. Not that I'm, like, into that or anything. Not that that's, like, a turn-on in any way. Not at all. Not ...
And yeah, their music was good too, but seriously? It's one of those situations where nobody would give two waterlogged shits about this band without the lead singer. There's just something about an average-to-above-average band with a hot, spunky, female lead singer. You think the Yeah Yeah Yeah's would be ANYTHING without Karen O? You think I'd be as gaga over the Schoolyard Heroes or Pretty Girls Make Graves or Tsunami Bomb?
I may piss and moan because it's a stone-cold fact that every woman in America wants to be with a rock musician (and, I mean, EVERY. WOMAN. IN. AMERICA.), but that thing swings both ways. Because there is NOTHING hotter than a rocker chick on stage thrashing around. It's the same sliding scale: ugly chick I wouldn't give the time of day to + guitarist in a band = I'd totally do you with little-to-no alcoholic accompaniment. Hot chick I'd sever my left arm to be with + lead singer in a punk band (without TOO many tattoos or shit pierced into her face) = I'd sever both legs, an arm, and donate my eyes to charity RIGHT NOW to do you.
OK, now I'm getting all worked up about this while I'm still at work. I better cut this one off, I think I've had enough.