i beg of you.

I have a proposal for all males over the age of twelve: Can we please call an indefinite moratorium on the usage of "weiner," "weenie," "weenis," or any derivative thereof when referring to one's member? That terminology stopped being cute around the time you learned the scientific nomenclature for said organ. Whenever I hear it, it literally makes me cringe. If you stop using that, I'll stop referring to you as "boys." I swear.

steve jobs needs to get his act together.

Due to Apple's 2007 Campaign to Drive bailee. Absolutely Batshit Crazy (brought to a screeching halt by my benevolent mother), posting has been impossible as of late. Vegas is keeping me busy, so I'm just gonna throw up this one that's been percolating for awhile:

Via Seattlest, BLVD Gallery's Damion Hayes has begun a video series on local artists on his blog, Artstash. Much to my merriment and delight, his first installment features both my fave Seattle street artist, No Touching Ground, and the divine musical stylings of my boys in Truckasauras' more developed and brilliant main project, Foscil. Enjoy.

notes on a failed attempt (or, he really can rap that fast!)

I was all stoked for the Busdriver CD release party here in LA last night. It was to be Busdriver performing alongside Nobody and Boom Bip (who shared production duties on Roadkill Overcoat), and Daedelus was going to be recording his set for a live album. I got my girl Brooke all excited, she rallied the troops, and off we went.

We showed up to The Airliner around midnight and things looked promising. Not too bad of a line to get in, or at the bar, and the crowd seemed rather sparse. We grabbed drinks and headed back to the show space, snaked up a few stairs, and walked into a wall of people. We tried to move forward into the crowd, but we were walking uphill (!) into a reverse amphitheater-type setup. Daedelus was just beginning his set, but there was no way we were going to be able to see anything, so we headed upstairs to a different section. This decision proved fortuitous, as Boom Bip was throwing down rave-tastic acidy breakbeats for the unlucky people who couldn't squeeze onto the show floor.

We danced for a bit (to Peter, Bjorn and John's "Young Folks" at one point), and I headed outside to "catch some air." What's this? The upstairs smoking area was a deck looking down onto the stage! All was not lost. Busdriver had just begun his set (with "Casting Agents and Cowgirls," no less. It irks me when people begin their sets with the first song from their album. Daedelus did the same), so we were able to catch his entire performance, paper party hat and all. He played choice selections from Overcoat, threw out a stellar freestyle, and ended the set with "Imaginary Places," leaving a screaming, bouyant crowd.

i called it from the beginning (right, momma?)

My boy won.

on like, love, lust.

February's issue of (Sound) (is it Seattle Sound? Sound Seattle? I can't tell) has a surprisingly well-written and effectively sentimental article on Jesse Sykes, of Sweet Hereafter fame. Being the February issue, in favor of all things Valentinidous™, the angle of part of the piece and its corresponding sidebar centers on Sykes' relationship with Sweet Hereafter guitarist Phil Wandscher. The article's author does a bang-up job of describing Sykes and Wandscher's opposing yet complimentary personalities, and is able to make the songstress open up a tad with this quote that's stuck with me all day:

"I like the idea of loyalty before fidelity... When it comes down to it, we're extremely loyal. We totally have each other's backs, but at the same time we fight like cats and dogs. We've hurt each other deeply at times, but at the end of the day, we're best friends."

And in the sidebar, which focuses on Barsuk's affinity for married acts (Starlight Mints, Viva Voce, Mates of State), Sykes offers this flippant opinion:

Status: "We're whatever. [Musically,] I don't know what I'd do without Phil. As far as everything else, he can get lost. If we were rich, we'd probably be like Frida and Diego and have two houses with the bridge between them."

I like that. I really, really, like that. My perspective on "relationships" is a selfish and lonely one, but it's reassuring to know that it's shared and brought to success by someone else out there.

all in a day's work.

Today started out excitingly enough, with some pyromaniacal idiot finding it necessary to light a woman on fire in downtown Seattle.

Then came irrational demonizing of Ignignot and Ur.

Not to be outdone by the City of Boston's overreaction and ineptitude, tonight on my way home I walked past a fire engine on the side of the road, siren blaring and lights flashing, and watched four firemen stand around a wastebasket while one of them sprayed a fire extinguisher inside. I kid you not:


Thanks to Slog and Steve Schieberl for the tips.

girl talking.

all photos ©2007 jbin

The Girl Talk show at Chop Suey last night had been much hyped since it was announced back in October: The Stranger devoted tons of print space and bandwith to promoting the show, and word of mouth spread like wildfire amongst the hipster-elite in Seattle. Girl Talk's album has been the soundtrack to many a party in the last few months. People love it, and rightfully so. As one show attendee put it, "Night Ripper rocks!"



But, I really don't see what all the hype was/is about. I mean, it was a total dance party vibe night, and I love Night Ripper as much as the next dude (it's great to rock while getting ready for a night out), but dude's just chilling on stage with a laptop, cutting up mp3s. And not even busting out any new tracks or anything, just culling songs from the last 40 years or so, and mashing them up into a "frenzied, shiny mess." There's no vinyl involved; no true, inherent talent. I feel like I could do what he does if I had an egg timer, a sick laptop, and Serato. But, again, I still had a great effing time. He pwn3s the crowd.



The show was off the chains, however, and people were into it. As soon as he began his set (with an awesome sports reference, "Good evening, my name is Girl Talk, I'm from Pittsburgh, PA. Ignore the fact that we won the Super Bowl last year,") the crowd went absolutely nuts, rushing the stage and turning the club into one huge sweatbox. Girl Talk ended up shirtless, body surfing the crowd, dripping sweat on anyone and everyone who deigned to grab him as his body writhed overhead. After the show was over, as we filed out of the club, there were myriad people standing around in the below-freezing chill with clouds of steam rising from their bodies, glistening with sweat and shimmering energy. The show garnered a great turn-out that totally turned it out. Well played, Chop Suey.

girl talking (©2007 jbin)

nothing need be said.

From truckasauras/...

pictures of arty's party are here.

i must hate myself.

So here's the (tentative) plan for tonight:

8ish: one-on-one time (read: beers at the Dunne's) with Arturo, who is leaving Seattle FOREVER in about 36 hours.
9:30ish: scooch on up to Neumo's to catch Truckasauras. I haven't missed a performance since they opened for Dabrye in July and the Chop Suey website had the wrong door time, and I don't intend to ever miss another one again.
10:15ish: as soon as Truck ends, skip out on Pigeon John and run down to the Garage for *bess.'s b-day extravanganza. I figure I'll have just enough time to buy birthday girl a shot and enjoy a beer.
11:30ish: head back to Neumo's to catch the first part of Subtle's set. This will be the third time in a year I've seen them, and while my love for Doseone is powerful, my love for Arturo Robles trumps it.
12:20ish: head down to Linda's for Arty's going away party. I'll end up staying there until last call and then see where the night takes me.

It's nights like these that make me so glad I don't travel in packs. I always have the most fun when I'm only accountable for myself (I think that mostly has to do with my affinity for social butterfly-ness); it drives me nuts to have to coordinate more people than just my able body. Wish me luck in my endeavors; with the tiniest bit of fortune, I may have photographic evidence of it all tomorrow.

starfucker.

Remember Claire Danes, of My So-Called Life and William Shakespeare’s Romeo + Juliet fame? She is so much prettier in real-life than she is on the screen. Her skin is impossibly clear and milky, her eyes are huge and blue, and she looks great with absolutely no make-up on. How do I know this, you ask? I passed her on a stairwell at Moss in SoHo today. She looked me in the eye, smiled, and said, “Hi.” It was awesome. A few hours later, just as I closed the car door on the way to the airport, Kim the Lesbian from America’s Next Top Model walked right by my window.

I have an obsession with spotting famous people, and it honestly doesn't happen enough for my tastes. Really, though, levels of fame and/or recognition are completely subjective. For instance, when I saw Aesop Rock outside the Triple 5 Soul store, I started shaking and couldn’t really talk. The same thing happened with Christina Aguilera when she came into my place of employment on her Drrrty tour and also when I was introduced to Shepard Fairey in Vegas. It took me three interactions with Doseone (I swear, every time I’ve seen him play, at some point in the evening he ends up standing right next to me in the crowd) before I was able to tell him how great I thought he was. On the other hand, I’ve also been inches from Nelly, Will.i.am from the Black Eyed Peas, Gene Simmons, and Tommy Hilfiger, and felt nothing but slight annoyance that their entourages were getting in my way. My point is, I’m sure most of the people reading this couldn’t tell Shepard Fairey or Dose from Adam (snicker) if given the opportunity, and there are probably people out there that would trip over themselves to shake Nelly’s hand. It’s all relative, man. I guess I’m more impressed by people whose oeuvres I actually respect and admire (and yes, Xtina falls into that category).

On a vacation in Puerto Vallarta, my family happened upon Susan Sarandon, Tim Robbins, and their brood in the airport. My sister and I, classy even at the ages of 12 and 16, gazed in awe at Louise and the dude from Jacob’s Ladder, while my mom chased them down the terminal and stopped them, just to commend Sarandon on the fact that she doesn’t shave her armpits. “I read it in People, and I just think it’s great. I don’t either.” I’ll leave you with that; feel free to imagine the astronomical levels of our mortification when she told us what she’d said.