It's been almost three months since we lost you. And not one day goes by you don't somehow or somewhere find your way into my thoughts.
I've missed you so much. I know anyone who knew you would tell you the same thing, but coming from me, I just want you to know my life has a void without you that no one will ever fill.
When I was at your funeral I promised myself I wouldn't sit around and cry anymore. You'd hate that. Not only do you absolutely condemn doting on you, but I think you'd be more angry at the fact that I was wasting time on something that nothing could be done about. You'd tell me to get up, wipe my eyes, and move on. So, in a nutshell, that's what I've been doing. But there are still so many things I want to tell you, so many stories, ideas, happenings, bands and songs, movies, TV shows, issues, thoughts...countless topics that I swirl over and over in my head, topics that make me want to get in the car, drive the heinous hour to Fallon, and pick you up to smoke cigarettes, drive around, and hear me babble on and on about. You were always the greatest listener. You knew how to never interrupt, how to soak in everything that spilled out of my ever-running mouth, and then take it and summarize your response so gracefully and simply that it just made everything make sense.
So instead of constantly wishing you'd come around and do it again, I figured it best to put all of this stuff down somewhere for you, and I've chosen this blog to do so. I'll keep doing this until I've nothing left to say. Which, as anyone who knows me worth a damn, knows that moment won't come. So, here goes...
Dear Ryan,
I'm bummed you missed Thanksgiving. My mother, in all of her glory, drove from Vegas with Pat. I've been thinking lately- why does this woman always insist on driving? I mean, a Southwest ticket from Vegas to Reno is dirt cheap, even cheaper than the gas if you book enough in advance, and as you and I both know, that drive is nothing short of hellish. There's zero landscape gazing opportunities, and the thriving metropolises that lay in between offer little to no cultural intakes or enticing roadside stops. You of all people know how much I appreciate the desolation, isolation, and raw beauty of the Nevada desert, but at the same time, I'd rather chew on 40 year old toenails than make that drive.
But, being Rebecky, there's always some sort of twisted purpose behind her madness. And you would have loved this one.
She's been getting these random outpatient surgeries- I'm sure you remember the one on her knee, or at least that you'd walk into her house on any given day and take a blind shot in the dark as to what body brace she happened to be sporting that week. Well, she recently got a surgery on her shoulder, which has left her with one of those arm slings you get when you break your collar bone, constant bitching about the pain, and, the coup de grâce of it all: a large, medical chair which looks to be about 30 years old, complete with blue-green vinyl coverings. If you were to turn a crash test dummy into a chair, this is what it would look like. The part that actually serves a function is the armrest that pairs with the shoulder she hurt- it exercises her arm up and down, in slow, concise movements, not straining it or overextending it, but giving it just enough workout to suffice as physical therapy.
Nevermind the fact that one of us could have easily done a 15 minute exercise routine with her where we carefully lifted her arm up and down; no, for Becky, there is no substitute but the most outrageous apparatus she can find. That's why we love her!
Because of this stupid contraption, her, Pat, Ainslee, and pat's dad, who surprisingly isn't terrified of me post-wedding, had to make the 450 trek in not one, but two cars. Talk about an environmental sham. Not to mention the over abundance in luggage they all brought. Who needs 2 suitcases for 4 days?! You and I could do that in one backpack, and still have room for our computers!
Needless to say, the chair sat in the middle of Abbi and Ty's living room and made for a fantastic toy once I got slightly intoxicated. We would have had a blast in that thing, but I'm almost glad we didn't; we might have broken it, and that would have sent the already "stressed and on edge" Rebecca into a frenzy of rage and aggravation. Although, now that I'm writing this, she would have easily forgiven us. I mean, come on, it's us! It's hard to forgive our antics after a little outburst. We're that adorable. Plus, we're Becky's favorites. If we'd have thrown Mel into the mix, man, we'd of got off easy! Good times.
Ryan, you would not believe the hype over Kanye West's new album. Seriously. Pitchfork, which is kind of my music reference guide, except when it comes to dance stuff, gave it a perfect rating. It's #1 on EVERY friggin best of 2010 list. People are going ape-shit over this thing. I wish you were here to hear it. We could sit around and discuss the fact that he doesn't name so many artists that contributed to his songs, including Elton John (then I'd make a joke about him being a homo-hater), how the interludes are at least 15 seconds too long, and how the overall hype over this makes the talk around Eminem or Jay-Z's albums look like whispers. However, I think you'd LOVE the Cee-Lo Green album "The Lady Killer". Its got this glorious mixture of hip-hop, funk, soul, rnb, and creates this groovy tone throughout each song that makes me feel like he's reviving these outlandish elements of Outkast, old Black Eyed Peas, and even the lighter side of Mos Def to bring our generation a true example of what it means to be soulful, black, and make music. I really do think you'd adore this album. Plus, he covers Band of Horses- how rad does that make a hip-hop artist when they cover some cowboy indie band?! fucking awesome, I know!
I saw Arcade Fire live. I know you were never super into this band, at least not in any way I am, but I know you appreciated their music. It was truly a show you would have marveled at. It was in Berkley at the Greek Theater, which sits to the side of UC Berkley, and is one of the most marvelous, captivating, and aesthetically perfect venues I've ever had the pleasure of being inside. It's set up like a real Greek amphitheater, the sides cascading down in an almost vertical slant, until they reach the bottom pit, which leads to a massive stage that can be seen perfectly from ANY spot in the house. Its not indoor though, so you get the full experience of n outdoor show, with the city-scape of SF serving as a transcendental background. The acoustics are golden, this place was made for live performances. What struck me about their performance that pertains to you is that their first album, "Funeral", which is my favorite of theirs, parallels a lot of my feelings toward your situation. The confusion, the torment, the depression, the downright unexplainable misery that accompanies one when dealing with death. The way the songs spoke to me during that concert; I pictured a march through a desolate graveyard, one with only your tombstone, with each individual instrument playing its input to each song with such conviction, such honesty, and really, such brutality, all in the name of loss. It didn't make me sad. In fact, it did quite the opposite. It made me joyous, in some sick and twisted way, that there really were people who felt the unbearable sting of the physical, emotional, and mental torment of emptiness that one only feels when the world as they know it has been ripped from underneath, on top of, and every which way around, all because they had someone that's now gone. If I could have, I would have marched with them in my vision, holding a picture of you high above my head, high enough so that the heavens and the earth could see how beautiful you really are. By the end of the performance I felt your presence so alive inside of me I had to remain speechless for several minutes, just to take in the pure bliss of the music, the feeling, and the idea that you, in some way, felt it too.
So now that I've slightly poured my hear about a few select topics I would have discussed with you off the bat if I had been able to see you again, I'll end this first letter. Just know I've made it, I'll continue making it, and when I've really made it into something, you'll know. And I'll let you know.
I love you, Ryan. I always will. You'll always be the man who stole my heart, kept it, and made it shine. I do a lot of what I do that's worth a damn because I know you'd want to see me succeed. How many people can HONESTLY say that about one of their friends? Not many. You cared. And I'll give you reasons to keep caring while you're watching me from that Adult Swim, music haven in the abyss of the afterlife. I love you buddy. Keep shining for me, I still need it.
Nothing put pure love and infinite devotion,
Connie
Friday, December 10, 2010
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Being a person is getting too difficult
I have been removed from myself and from the vast majority of my surroundings lately. This utter exhaustion I feel as a result of this year thus far has truly winded my ass and set it firm on the ground.
So let me begin with the big news.
I lost my best friend. I hadn't visited this blog in months, but now looking back at the most recent post I'd managed to squeeze out before abandoning my Internet soapbox, I realized it's all about the last time I actually interacted with him in the flesh. After reading it about 800 million times, picking each detail apart and analyzing if there were any indications, not just in my writing description but during the weekend as a whole experience, as to why this would happen, I've ran head on into a dead end.
To further explain, let me give a tiny glimpse into the world of Ryan and I.
From the moment I met Ryan I was in love. I was infatuated with his ambiguous aspirations, his ability to block out the hasty judgment of others that plagues us all so deeply, and most of all, his charismatic charm, the way he could talk to you and make you truly feel like you were the greatest person in the world. He won me over right from the start.
Ryan lived with me, my mother, and a slew of various friends on and off for around 3 years. We shared a room, a bathroom, a roof, and a life. He was always so optimistic, and never doubted that the wrongs of the world could be made right with the right approach and a whole lot of love. He was compassionate and understanding, and his soft spoken kind words will exist in my heart forever.
Scroll forward to Tuesday September 21st. I was sitting in history class awaiting another thrilling lecture on Greek Constitutionalism when my phone rang. Obviously, a phone ringing is nothing out of the ordinary. When I glanced down to see if it was anything important, I saw that it was simply my other very good friend, Mel, who usually calls at the most random times of the day or night to replay the best and most intimate details of her outings and life's occurrences. Let it go to voice mail. Mel never leaves messages anyhow. A few seconds later- there was my voice mail icon. So I discreetly check the message; could be important, right? As I'm half engulfed in the message and half distracted by reloading lead in my pencil, I realize that Mel's tone is hasty and panicked. This is unlike Mel. She's very nonchalant, upbeat, and vibrant. An unsettling sense of intensity flushed over my entire body. This was no a social call. This was not a happy call. This was communication of dread. Ohhhhhhh no.
I step out to call her back. She answers, and in the matter of seconds warns me this is not news she wants to deliver. The true set up of disaster. The seconds feel like light years as words fall out of her mouth and absorb into my unsuspecting brain.
According to rumor, Ryan was dead.
Suddenly, the stream of students flushing in and out of hallways and up and down stairs became a vague cloud of blended colors. Every sound faded back into one droning murmur. I felt everything inside of me drop. The gravity of the situation so rapidly descended every organ in my body until they all hit the floor and splattered at my feet; I literally felt the blood drain from my face until and rush to my heart.
In a surreal daze of confusion and astonishment, I walked back into my classroom, threw all my materials in my bag, and just walked out. With tunnel vision and about 2902428374823432 horrible thoughts floating through my head, it was all I could do to just get out in the parking lot, out into daylight and away from the crowds of happy little college kids, and to my car so I could make sense of the past 2 minutes.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Moment of truth, I thought. If I called Ryan's phone, I knew one of two things would happen. Ryan would answer and I'd get some sort of explanation from him as to why and who started the rumors. Or his mother would answer and my whole world would come crashing down. I prayed I'd hear his gentle voice on the other line, assuring me I had nothing to fret over.
After two rings, the phone answered. I said hello as hastily as I could, and then waited. A pause. Pauses are never good in these situations. A squeaky and reluctant voice finally managed to push out a faint "hello". Oh god. It was his mother.
The events following that do not need to be divulged. Mainly because I'd rather not relive that day, even if in words. Truthfully, there are no words I know of to describe the senses that steamrolled through my mind and body over the next couple of days. I lived in a haze on confusion and bewilderment, fueled by xanax and cough medicine. I slept to avoid thinking. I went outside of the house one total time, and that was just to buy more cigarettes.
The service was everything an event of that circumstance could be. His family and friends gathered together in one small room, and together we shared comfort in our mutual sensitivity and the roller coaster of aftershock we were all riding front row on. I was able to say some goodbyes; these are not the kind of settling, pacifying, or conclusive goodbyes given after an undesirable break-up, a meeting you know will be the last, or a farewell to an accepted death. It was the kind that you say because there simply is nothing left to say. I could continually beat myself and his memory until there was nothing positive left to relish in. I could pick apart and over analyze every moment, every conversation, every sign that maybe things weren't okay, but in the end I'd torture myself and dwindle our precious time together down to nothing but an unsolved case. Ryan would be so disappointed with such an outcome; and so would I.
So I left a collection of words on the floor that day, with hope still that whatever afterlife brings us mere mortals when we take our final bow, allows him to somehow hear my final bid adieu.
I'm now struggling between the realities and concreteness of waking life, and the in between of consciousness and sleep, where my mind is just boggled with questions that have no answers. No sense, no logic, no closure. I'm learning to disconnect with the idea of Ryan's physical; his body, his voice, his smile, his stupid emo-like haircut that drew in the dumbest broads and pushed away so much of the societal norm who crossed his path. Instead, I'm trying to focus on the gratification of having experienced and been directly embraced by his charisma, his well chosen words of reason and tranquility, his warmth, his humor, and his love.
Since then, I've tried to stay busy, but not overwhelmed. I've never experienced a loss such as this, and the most difficult part in healing is that I wish I could heal his family. I'd relive Odysseus's trying and struggle-filled journey if it were stamped with a guarantee the end result equaled their eternal stability and well-being. But as we all know, that's just not possible.
Having now had a genuine experience with loss, I can assure anyone who will come into contact with it in the future that there is no "making sense" of things. The dealer of life tosses us the hand we have. There is no promise of satisfaction, of triumph, of stability, of achievement, or understanding. We are given a certain amount of processing skills, intellectual storage space, and a set of basic instincts. With those people have accomplished the greatest of feats and by the same hand, committed inconceivable inhumane acts.
Life seems more real than ever before now. The opportunity, both good and bad, that imposes itself on us is simply astonishing. I now take those opportunities as ones that I act upon not just to better myself, but to allow the memory of my friend have a place with all of us who will continue to miss his presence in every tangible form.
I had another mix assignment from the CD exchange group. This time I made a compilation of music I enjoyed sharing with Ryan. Music both he and I liked. Music I'm sure he would have liked had I got another chance to have him sit shotgun.
A little personal dedication of Ryan's and my favorite thing outside of people- music.
Here you go. From energetically woven electro-pop and heavy beats, to ambient smooth riding tones, and never leaving out the always appropriate songs of lust and longing, this is just a little piece of a big puzzle who's big picture was my favorite picture. You and Me, buddy.
Downfall:
This playlist website didn't have some of the songs I included on the original mix. While I am a bit overly picky when it comes to the order of tracks, I'll overlook that this time and just simply add the other songs below this.
Color of Clouds "I Want You"
So let me begin with the big news.
I lost my best friend. I hadn't visited this blog in months, but now looking back at the most recent post I'd managed to squeeze out before abandoning my Internet soapbox, I realized it's all about the last time I actually interacted with him in the flesh. After reading it about 800 million times, picking each detail apart and analyzing if there were any indications, not just in my writing description but during the weekend as a whole experience, as to why this would happen, I've ran head on into a dead end.
To further explain, let me give a tiny glimpse into the world of Ryan and I.
From the moment I met Ryan I was in love. I was infatuated with his ambiguous aspirations, his ability to block out the hasty judgment of others that plagues us all so deeply, and most of all, his charismatic charm, the way he could talk to you and make you truly feel like you were the greatest person in the world. He won me over right from the start.
Ryan lived with me, my mother, and a slew of various friends on and off for around 3 years. We shared a room, a bathroom, a roof, and a life. He was always so optimistic, and never doubted that the wrongs of the world could be made right with the right approach and a whole lot of love. He was compassionate and understanding, and his soft spoken kind words will exist in my heart forever.
Scroll forward to Tuesday September 21st. I was sitting in history class awaiting another thrilling lecture on Greek Constitutionalism when my phone rang. Obviously, a phone ringing is nothing out of the ordinary. When I glanced down to see if it was anything important, I saw that it was simply my other very good friend, Mel, who usually calls at the most random times of the day or night to replay the best and most intimate details of her outings and life's occurrences. Let it go to voice mail. Mel never leaves messages anyhow. A few seconds later- there was my voice mail icon. So I discreetly check the message; could be important, right? As I'm half engulfed in the message and half distracted by reloading lead in my pencil, I realize that Mel's tone is hasty and panicked. This is unlike Mel. She's very nonchalant, upbeat, and vibrant. An unsettling sense of intensity flushed over my entire body. This was no a social call. This was not a happy call. This was communication of dread. Ohhhhhhh no.
I step out to call her back. She answers, and in the matter of seconds warns me this is not news she wants to deliver. The true set up of disaster. The seconds feel like light years as words fall out of her mouth and absorb into my unsuspecting brain.
According to rumor, Ryan was dead.
Suddenly, the stream of students flushing in and out of hallways and up and down stairs became a vague cloud of blended colors. Every sound faded back into one droning murmur. I felt everything inside of me drop. The gravity of the situation so rapidly descended every organ in my body until they all hit the floor and splattered at my feet; I literally felt the blood drain from my face until and rush to my heart.
In a surreal daze of confusion and astonishment, I walked back into my classroom, threw all my materials in my bag, and just walked out. With tunnel vision and about 2902428374823432 horrible thoughts floating through my head, it was all I could do to just get out in the parking lot, out into daylight and away from the crowds of happy little college kids, and to my car so I could make sense of the past 2 minutes.
I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Moment of truth, I thought. If I called Ryan's phone, I knew one of two things would happen. Ryan would answer and I'd get some sort of explanation from him as to why and who started the rumors. Or his mother would answer and my whole world would come crashing down. I prayed I'd hear his gentle voice on the other line, assuring me I had nothing to fret over.
After two rings, the phone answered. I said hello as hastily as I could, and then waited. A pause. Pauses are never good in these situations. A squeaky and reluctant voice finally managed to push out a faint "hello". Oh god. It was his mother.
The events following that do not need to be divulged. Mainly because I'd rather not relive that day, even if in words. Truthfully, there are no words I know of to describe the senses that steamrolled through my mind and body over the next couple of days. I lived in a haze on confusion and bewilderment, fueled by xanax and cough medicine. I slept to avoid thinking. I went outside of the house one total time, and that was just to buy more cigarettes.
The service was everything an event of that circumstance could be. His family and friends gathered together in one small room, and together we shared comfort in our mutual sensitivity and the roller coaster of aftershock we were all riding front row on. I was able to say some goodbyes; these are not the kind of settling, pacifying, or conclusive goodbyes given after an undesirable break-up, a meeting you know will be the last, or a farewell to an accepted death. It was the kind that you say because there simply is nothing left to say. I could continually beat myself and his memory until there was nothing positive left to relish in. I could pick apart and over analyze every moment, every conversation, every sign that maybe things weren't okay, but in the end I'd torture myself and dwindle our precious time together down to nothing but an unsolved case. Ryan would be so disappointed with such an outcome; and so would I.
So I left a collection of words on the floor that day, with hope still that whatever afterlife brings us mere mortals when we take our final bow, allows him to somehow hear my final bid adieu.
I'm now struggling between the realities and concreteness of waking life, and the in between of consciousness and sleep, where my mind is just boggled with questions that have no answers. No sense, no logic, no closure. I'm learning to disconnect with the idea of Ryan's physical; his body, his voice, his smile, his stupid emo-like haircut that drew in the dumbest broads and pushed away so much of the societal norm who crossed his path. Instead, I'm trying to focus on the gratification of having experienced and been directly embraced by his charisma, his well chosen words of reason and tranquility, his warmth, his humor, and his love.
Since then, I've tried to stay busy, but not overwhelmed. I've never experienced a loss such as this, and the most difficult part in healing is that I wish I could heal his family. I'd relive Odysseus's trying and struggle-filled journey if it were stamped with a guarantee the end result equaled their eternal stability and well-being. But as we all know, that's just not possible.
Having now had a genuine experience with loss, I can assure anyone who will come into contact with it in the future that there is no "making sense" of things. The dealer of life tosses us the hand we have. There is no promise of satisfaction, of triumph, of stability, of achievement, or understanding. We are given a certain amount of processing skills, intellectual storage space, and a set of basic instincts. With those people have accomplished the greatest of feats and by the same hand, committed inconceivable inhumane acts.
Life seems more real than ever before now. The opportunity, both good and bad, that imposes itself on us is simply astonishing. I now take those opportunities as ones that I act upon not just to better myself, but to allow the memory of my friend have a place with all of us who will continue to miss his presence in every tangible form.
I had another mix assignment from the CD exchange group. This time I made a compilation of music I enjoyed sharing with Ryan. Music both he and I liked. Music I'm sure he would have liked had I got another chance to have him sit shotgun.
A little personal dedication of Ryan's and my favorite thing outside of people- music.
Here you go. From energetically woven electro-pop and heavy beats, to ambient smooth riding tones, and never leaving out the always appropriate songs of lust and longing, this is just a little piece of a big puzzle who's big picture was my favorite picture. You and Me, buddy.
Downfall:
This playlist website didn't have some of the songs I included on the original mix. While I am a bit overly picky when it comes to the order of tracks, I'll overlook that this time and just simply add the other songs below this.
Color of Clouds "I Want You"
Friday, July 2, 2010
WHAT A SLACKER!
Whether or not anyone reads my posts, it truly helps me sleep better at night, take my vitamins, and live with myself knowing my blog is up to date with my life's happenings. I mean, if they're not on the internet then they're not really legit, right? Well in that case, I've just convinced myself to write posts on all my one night stands and drunken rants simply to make them vanish from reality. God, I give myself great ideas sometimes.
Onto the news...
I haven't posted since my mothers wedding in Las Vegas. And let me tell you...
That whole "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" bullshit people say- that's just good advertising.
The copious amounts of debauchery fueled by alcohol and other unmentionables in one weekend left me with an empty bank account, three large and grotesque bruises on my thighs, and a weekend that will lurk in the dark depths of my mind and heart for all eternity.
The events, although blurred at times and censored for online, go as follows:
FRIDAY: The morning to start all mornings. Thursday night I worked a bike race during the farmers market, which really means I got hit on by disgusting men goggling my breasts and offering me 99 cent margaritas in exchange, I'm sure, for a good time in the Nugget bathroom. I'll pass, thanks. But anyhow...
I poured at the beer booth with our fabulous and absolutely adorable new intern, Jill. Jill is about my age, blond, slender, and a complete badass on the slopes. She and I decide we're going to traipse around downtown Sparks and then carry our good time to Chapel bar. After a romping good time of bars filled with folks at least 10 years our senior, we end of at the shittiest of shitty college dive hangouts, The Little Wall. This is the kind of place where kids throw up on the porch, order expensive liquors but mix them with coke and cranberry juice, and are most likely sniffing cocaine (or what they think is) off the toilet seat lids. It's a young meat market and the farthest thing from "my scene" besides some club-rat infested, well, club.
Point of describing Thursday night: I drank a lot. Too much, in fact. I rolled home around 2 am, complete with Jack in the Box, which I have no recollection paying for or even ordering. Needless to say, my dog George had a grand feast of greasy delight.
So, Friday rolls around. Or really, it was already Friday, but not necessarily for me. In case you haven't already figured out, I run my show on my time.
I wake up around 7:30, still intoxicated, a little flustered, and definitely unorganized. I realize I have to pick up the rental car in 1/2 an hour and I still have yet to pack my bag for the weekend. That might have been a good idea last night. Oh well, shit happens.
I jump out of bed, take my nappy ass into a scalding hot shower and attempt to regain consciousness and being my day.
I throw a few things into my backpack, which I will later discover are not only not enough, but just not quite the Vegas attire I was aiming for to being with. I grab what I consider to be the most important and essential tools to the car ride and trip, and lastly could not forget my "fun bun". (Backstory: the "fun bun" is a hair tie surrounded with real hair strands to help the woman-on-the-go, or rather the clueless-I-Can't-do-my-own-hair woman, make her weave look hip and snappy in 3-5 seconds. My mothers hairdresser pal, PJ, who refuses to reveal her birth name, forced me to purchase one a few months back. I'm now grateful I did.)
The small events that followed are not important. Eventually I made it to the small brick house a hop, skip, and jump away from campus, appropriately dubbed "The Burrow" (my friends are Harry Potter fans. That's cool.) Awaiting my arrival are my hot mess, but still hot, friends Ana and Mel. These are two "brown bitches" who can drink grown men under the table, dance harder and faster than Michael Flatley, and still bring home the finest man, or lady, and live to tell the tale.
So I grab them, their shit, and load up the car to get the hell out of Reno, at this point only an hour behind schedule. Yay us.
We arrive in the thriving metropolis of Fallon, NV, aka my hometown, where my 15 yr old sister Madeline and one of my most cherished pals, Ryan, are awaiting our arrival. Safely in the car with the entire crew, we head out. We make it to Schurz, which is about 2 1/2-3 hrs away from Reno when a ghastly discovery is made. MEL FORGOT HER FUCKING WALLET. Great. A city of sin where anyone under 21, or just without proof, is practically chained to the drab confines of the pool area and the Excalibur. With a weekend already set in motion of drinking and tearing up the town, there is no way that Mel cannot have her money and her ID. Fuck.
We turn around and head back. I call my roommate, whom I graciously left my car with for the weekend to at least drive the wallet to us in Fernley. After some finagling, she agrees. Wallet in hand hours later, we're back on track. Now 4 hours behind schedule. Shit.
During the drive about every 1/2-1 hour we would randomly scream throughout the car "VEGAS", just to keep our tired and slightly irritated moods on the up.
6 hours later we arrive in Vegas.
As we pull into the smog infested dump hole of a city, the air gets about 1182738917 pounds heavier and at least 20 degrees hotter. We are officially in hell.
Haul balls to the Henderson Elks lodge for the rehearsal dinner, which is really some good pizza and old folks hanging out on the porch. Don't worry, my kind of good time. We quickly burst inside for drinks and the madness officially begins.
After the "meet and greet" we head over the always classy Fiesta Station, where our bargain priced and smoking allowed room was located.
A quick change of clothes and a smoke, and an hour later we're on the strip, buzzing for a good time. Las Vegas Blvd is a nothing short of a complete bitch to navigate and drive through on a weekend night. After finally finding parking inside the Bellagio garage, we are ready for business.
We go to grab a drink at Planet Hollywood. Ana is first up, and orders a double bloody mary...girlfriend knows how to do it. After seeing her drink ring up at a whopping $20, I was ready to high tail it to the nearest convenience store for a 5th that would be half the price of her one cocktail.
Then God graced us with Yarek. Yarek is my Polish sausage- a real European gay man with calm, low-key style and an accent that could melt an iceberg. You can barley understand what the man has to say 90% of the time, but his eyes are piercing enough to turn me straight and I'm convinced he'll be the sperm donating father of my children, so I don't really mind. In my opinion, Yarek always makes great points.
We head a little off the beaten path of glitz, glam, and stunning ladies gliding the plethora of night clubs, and head to a place called Crave. Crave is a gay bar, divided into two halves, one side for men, the other for women. Yarek gets us in with no cover charge (gotta love how easily gay men can play each other) and inside opened up a whole new world. I'm used to watching movies and seeing TV shows where troops of metropolitan hotties roll into clubs that are wall-to-wall with gorgeous faces and bodies, go-go dancers in tighty-whities and every house remix ever made to the current chart topping singles. But I didn't think those really existed until that night. Oh how wrong was I!
A few reasonably priced drinks later and I'm ready for the dance floor. While I'm an absolute crap dancer, when I'm drunk and in the zone, there is nothing I enjoy more than burning a few beer calories on the floor shakin my romp. A little later into our time there, Mel and I decide to check out the offerings next door. As usual, the lesbian bar is a graveyard of girls who will mean mug your entire being up and down until you see their face wash over with the false pleasure that they know everything about you. It's a marking thing that gay girls do, which has always confused me, and I believe, the reason that 90% of lesbian bars just eventually turn into gay man hangouts. Why do my kind have to be such haters?
We decide that, despite the great atmosphere and good looking eye candy, we're ready to move on. So, we head to another homo hot spot, Piranha. Say that with a lisp, it's really quite entertaining.
Inside this much larger club, every bartender would not give us the time of day until either Ryan or Yarek ordered our drinks. Those bitches. More dancing ensued as the drinks kept flowing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my completely heterosexual friend Ryan being accosted by a man with fabulous metro hair, like something out of a Japanese cartoon, appropriately named "Fierce" (that one is just as fun to say with a lisp. Go on, try it). I think Ryan was born again on that couch in the corner. And yes, Ryan is still straight and no, he did not sleep with him. Experiences are experiences, and they don't all have to be sexual. Get your mind out of the gutter and back to the story.
We tramp around to several area bars for the next couple of hours. I do remember falling on Ana, licking beer off her thigh, watching Mel get hit on by the jolly green giant of lesbians, and then seeing Mel meet a Tegan and Sara groupie look alike named Kelly, and promptly disappearing for several minutes. It's Vegas, right? Let's have some fun.
4 am rolls around. We look at each other and realize my mother's wedding is in 12 hours and the night before we each got about 3-4 hours of sleep. Yeah, it might be time to call it a night. We still have Saturday.
SATURDAY: D-day.
I'm the first up at around 9 am, I shower and go down to the lobby for coffee, because the Fiesta is such a classy joint, they don't even carry coffee makers in the rooms, for fear of getting them stolen. Remember the next time you're in Vegas to Expedia that place.
Heading down to the Elks Lodge (which was the classic location for my mom's 5th wedding), I'm tired, hungry, and already slightly irritated. I cherish my sleep like I cherish women, so when I'm deprived, I tend to get a little on edge.
My mother is a complete trainwreck. Her flowers aren't ready, her ladyfriend caterer is being a complete nutsack, and it's already 100 degrees outside. My big gay brother and his husband decided to announce their divorce the previous day, so he's at his hotel getting rip-roaring wasted and refuses to answer her phone calls.
After a small bickering match, I agree to leave, go get my brother, and take him to pick up his tux.
We arrive at Lake Las Vegas and immediately have a cocktail inside the air conditioned confines of his hotel room. He proceeds to call his newly ex every vulgar name in the book, and added in a few new ones to me. You learn something new every day.
Running an hour or so late, we finally pour into our hotel room, ready to get the show on the road. Ana showers to try and relieve some drunkness still lingering from the previous night (Ana was also the wedding photographer), I slide into my dress, which I think made me look like a cross between a cocktail waitress and a hooker, but more importantly, openly displayed my epic chesticles which aren't normally brought to the attention of the public. Mel dresses in a sexy little black number from the night before, because she's a class act like that, and Ryan was already good to go- and looking quite debonair, I might add.
Finally, we're ready to go. We pile into the car and head to the Elks Lodge, like three kids straight from a bad Hunter S Thompson story.
And, let the festivities begin!
The ceremony was actually quite nice and went down with little issues. Speeches immediately followed. Champagne was flowing. Then the dancing music started. My friends and I were the only group of guests that willingly piled onto the dance floor, bottles of wine in our hands, and began to bump and grind on each other. Totally appropriate, right? If you know my family, you'd agree with me.
A few hours later and I'm a complete shitshow. Let's openly establish something right here and right now: If someone is more than 1/4 Mexican, DO NOT GIVE THEM TEQUILA. So, to whoever at my mothers wedding bought me (yes, cash bar. Thanks a lot mom) 5 shots of Patron...fuck you.
I proceeded to go apeshit on every detail of the evening that just happened to strike the wrong chord with me. I broke plants and decorations. I threw chairs. I threw drinks. I screamed. I tried to knockout (thankfully, very unsuccessfully) my best friend, and all the while my tits are flying all over place, along with objects and obscenities. I'm still claiming someone slipped me some PCP earlier and everything was out my control. Not really working, but inner peace is important.
Finally, after being asked to leave the Elks Lodge on account of my wild temper and 21093709213 sheets to the wind Ana passing out on the pavement slab in the parking lot, my Vegas pal and almost family member, Angel, drives us back to the hotel.
The rest of the night is a stream of arguing, making up, and a mass hint of awkwardness. Yeah, thanks drunk Connie.
After announcing to the room that she's going to the Bellagio and Treasure Island, Ana sets her drunk head down on the pillow and proceeds to pass the hell out. Good news. I sober up...slightly. At least enough to change out of my liquor-soaked dress and head down to the lobby bar with Angel and Mel.
To be honest, the rest of the trip isn't worth all the typing time. The next we kissed, made up, and hung by the pool. We met Angel's girlfriend, who turned out to be a drunken good time, and reminded me of about 200 girls I went to high school with. We kept it low key and simple. By the end of Sunday night Vegas had truly kick our ass to the moon and back, and our bodies, minds, and my voice box were drained beyond recognition.
In summary: If you're ready to party in Vegas, bring me and my friends. The things that were too inappropriate to write on my blog are scandalous and juicy and nowhere under a rating of NC-17. Oh, and, thanks mom for getting married. I hope you enjoyed your wedding as much as we did. Wait, scratch that. NO ONE enjoyed the wedding as much as we did.
Cheers, bitches!
O yeah, I once again suck at single of week.
Well, here it is:
In case you've been hiding under a rock from indie music for the past several months, I'm sure you're well aware of this amazingly talented duo, Sleigh Bells.
Her soft, angelic voice paired with roaring guitars and intricate drum beats, along with an almost industrial sound on the guitar. Fast beat, easy flowing voice, creates a harmony of pure heart-pounding bliss.
Onto the news...
I haven't posted since my mothers wedding in Las Vegas. And let me tell you...
That whole "what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas" bullshit people say- that's just good advertising.
The copious amounts of debauchery fueled by alcohol and other unmentionables in one weekend left me with an empty bank account, three large and grotesque bruises on my thighs, and a weekend that will lurk in the dark depths of my mind and heart for all eternity.
The events, although blurred at times and censored for online, go as follows:
FRIDAY: The morning to start all mornings. Thursday night I worked a bike race during the farmers market, which really means I got hit on by disgusting men goggling my breasts and offering me 99 cent margaritas in exchange, I'm sure, for a good time in the Nugget bathroom. I'll pass, thanks. But anyhow...
I poured at the beer booth with our fabulous and absolutely adorable new intern, Jill. Jill is about my age, blond, slender, and a complete badass on the slopes. She and I decide we're going to traipse around downtown Sparks and then carry our good time to Chapel bar. After a romping good time of bars filled with folks at least 10 years our senior, we end of at the shittiest of shitty college dive hangouts, The Little Wall. This is the kind of place where kids throw up on the porch, order expensive liquors but mix them with coke and cranberry juice, and are most likely sniffing cocaine (or what they think is) off the toilet seat lids. It's a young meat market and the farthest thing from "my scene" besides some club-rat infested, well, club.
Point of describing Thursday night: I drank a lot. Too much, in fact. I rolled home around 2 am, complete with Jack in the Box, which I have no recollection paying for or even ordering. Needless to say, my dog George had a grand feast of greasy delight.
So, Friday rolls around. Or really, it was already Friday, but not necessarily for me. In case you haven't already figured out, I run my show on my time.
I wake up around 7:30, still intoxicated, a little flustered, and definitely unorganized. I realize I have to pick up the rental car in 1/2 an hour and I still have yet to pack my bag for the weekend. That might have been a good idea last night. Oh well, shit happens.
I jump out of bed, take my nappy ass into a scalding hot shower and attempt to regain consciousness and being my day.
I throw a few things into my backpack, which I will later discover are not only not enough, but just not quite the Vegas attire I was aiming for to being with. I grab what I consider to be the most important and essential tools to the car ride and trip, and lastly could not forget my "fun bun". (Backstory: the "fun bun" is a hair tie surrounded with real hair strands to help the woman-on-the-go, or rather the clueless-I-Can't-do-my-own-hair woman, make her weave look hip and snappy in 3-5 seconds. My mothers hairdresser pal, PJ, who refuses to reveal her birth name, forced me to purchase one a few months back. I'm now grateful I did.)
The small events that followed are not important. Eventually I made it to the small brick house a hop, skip, and jump away from campus, appropriately dubbed "The Burrow" (my friends are Harry Potter fans. That's cool.) Awaiting my arrival are my hot mess, but still hot, friends Ana and Mel. These are two "brown bitches" who can drink grown men under the table, dance harder and faster than Michael Flatley, and still bring home the finest man, or lady, and live to tell the tale.
So I grab them, their shit, and load up the car to get the hell out of Reno, at this point only an hour behind schedule. Yay us.
We arrive in the thriving metropolis of Fallon, NV, aka my hometown, where my 15 yr old sister Madeline and one of my most cherished pals, Ryan, are awaiting our arrival. Safely in the car with the entire crew, we head out. We make it to Schurz, which is about 2 1/2-3 hrs away from Reno when a ghastly discovery is made. MEL FORGOT HER FUCKING WALLET. Great. A city of sin where anyone under 21, or just without proof, is practically chained to the drab confines of the pool area and the Excalibur. With a weekend already set in motion of drinking and tearing up the town, there is no way that Mel cannot have her money and her ID. Fuck.
We turn around and head back. I call my roommate, whom I graciously left my car with for the weekend to at least drive the wallet to us in Fernley. After some finagling, she agrees. Wallet in hand hours later, we're back on track. Now 4 hours behind schedule. Shit.
During the drive about every 1/2-1 hour we would randomly scream throughout the car "VEGAS", just to keep our tired and slightly irritated moods on the up.
6 hours later we arrive in Vegas.
As we pull into the smog infested dump hole of a city, the air gets about 1182738917 pounds heavier and at least 20 degrees hotter. We are officially in hell.
Haul balls to the Henderson Elks lodge for the rehearsal dinner, which is really some good pizza and old folks hanging out on the porch. Don't worry, my kind of good time. We quickly burst inside for drinks and the madness officially begins.
After the "meet and greet" we head over the always classy Fiesta Station, where our bargain priced and smoking allowed room was located.
A quick change of clothes and a smoke, and an hour later we're on the strip, buzzing for a good time. Las Vegas Blvd is a nothing short of a complete bitch to navigate and drive through on a weekend night. After finally finding parking inside the Bellagio garage, we are ready for business.
We go to grab a drink at Planet Hollywood. Ana is first up, and orders a double bloody mary...girlfriend knows how to do it. After seeing her drink ring up at a whopping $20, I was ready to high tail it to the nearest convenience store for a 5th that would be half the price of her one cocktail.
Then God graced us with Yarek. Yarek is my Polish sausage- a real European gay man with calm, low-key style and an accent that could melt an iceberg. You can barley understand what the man has to say 90% of the time, but his eyes are piercing enough to turn me straight and I'm convinced he'll be the sperm donating father of my children, so I don't really mind. In my opinion, Yarek always makes great points.
We head a little off the beaten path of glitz, glam, and stunning ladies gliding the plethora of night clubs, and head to a place called Crave. Crave is a gay bar, divided into two halves, one side for men, the other for women. Yarek gets us in with no cover charge (gotta love how easily gay men can play each other) and inside opened up a whole new world. I'm used to watching movies and seeing TV shows where troops of metropolitan hotties roll into clubs that are wall-to-wall with gorgeous faces and bodies, go-go dancers in tighty-whities and every house remix ever made to the current chart topping singles. But I didn't think those really existed until that night. Oh how wrong was I!
A few reasonably priced drinks later and I'm ready for the dance floor. While I'm an absolute crap dancer, when I'm drunk and in the zone, there is nothing I enjoy more than burning a few beer calories on the floor shakin my romp. A little later into our time there, Mel and I decide to check out the offerings next door. As usual, the lesbian bar is a graveyard of girls who will mean mug your entire being up and down until you see their face wash over with the false pleasure that they know everything about you. It's a marking thing that gay girls do, which has always confused me, and I believe, the reason that 90% of lesbian bars just eventually turn into gay man hangouts. Why do my kind have to be such haters?
We decide that, despite the great atmosphere and good looking eye candy, we're ready to move on. So, we head to another homo hot spot, Piranha. Say that with a lisp, it's really quite entertaining.
Inside this much larger club, every bartender would not give us the time of day until either Ryan or Yarek ordered our drinks. Those bitches. More dancing ensued as the drinks kept flowing.
Out of the corner of my eye, I catch my completely heterosexual friend Ryan being accosted by a man with fabulous metro hair, like something out of a Japanese cartoon, appropriately named "Fierce" (that one is just as fun to say with a lisp. Go on, try it). I think Ryan was born again on that couch in the corner. And yes, Ryan is still straight and no, he did not sleep with him. Experiences are experiences, and they don't all have to be sexual. Get your mind out of the gutter and back to the story.
We tramp around to several area bars for the next couple of hours. I do remember falling on Ana, licking beer off her thigh, watching Mel get hit on by the jolly green giant of lesbians, and then seeing Mel meet a Tegan and Sara groupie look alike named Kelly, and promptly disappearing for several minutes. It's Vegas, right? Let's have some fun.
4 am rolls around. We look at each other and realize my mother's wedding is in 12 hours and the night before we each got about 3-4 hours of sleep. Yeah, it might be time to call it a night. We still have Saturday.
SATURDAY: D-day.
I'm the first up at around 9 am, I shower and go down to the lobby for coffee, because the Fiesta is such a classy joint, they don't even carry coffee makers in the rooms, for fear of getting them stolen. Remember the next time you're in Vegas to Expedia that place.
Heading down to the Elks Lodge (which was the classic location for my mom's 5th wedding), I'm tired, hungry, and already slightly irritated. I cherish my sleep like I cherish women, so when I'm deprived, I tend to get a little on edge.
My mother is a complete trainwreck. Her flowers aren't ready, her ladyfriend caterer is being a complete nutsack, and it's already 100 degrees outside. My big gay brother and his husband decided to announce their divorce the previous day, so he's at his hotel getting rip-roaring wasted and refuses to answer her phone calls.
After a small bickering match, I agree to leave, go get my brother, and take him to pick up his tux.
We arrive at Lake Las Vegas and immediately have a cocktail inside the air conditioned confines of his hotel room. He proceeds to call his newly ex every vulgar name in the book, and added in a few new ones to me. You learn something new every day.
Running an hour or so late, we finally pour into our hotel room, ready to get the show on the road. Ana showers to try and relieve some drunkness still lingering from the previous night (Ana was also the wedding photographer), I slide into my dress, which I think made me look like a cross between a cocktail waitress and a hooker, but more importantly, openly displayed my epic chesticles which aren't normally brought to the attention of the public. Mel dresses in a sexy little black number from the night before, because she's a class act like that, and Ryan was already good to go- and looking quite debonair, I might add.
Finally, we're ready to go. We pile into the car and head to the Elks Lodge, like three kids straight from a bad Hunter S Thompson story.
And, let the festivities begin!
The ceremony was actually quite nice and went down with little issues. Speeches immediately followed. Champagne was flowing. Then the dancing music started. My friends and I were the only group of guests that willingly piled onto the dance floor, bottles of wine in our hands, and began to bump and grind on each other. Totally appropriate, right? If you know my family, you'd agree with me.
A few hours later and I'm a complete shitshow. Let's openly establish something right here and right now: If someone is more than 1/4 Mexican, DO NOT GIVE THEM TEQUILA. So, to whoever at my mothers wedding bought me (yes, cash bar. Thanks a lot mom) 5 shots of Patron...fuck you.
I proceeded to go apeshit on every detail of the evening that just happened to strike the wrong chord with me. I broke plants and decorations. I threw chairs. I threw drinks. I screamed. I tried to knockout (thankfully, very unsuccessfully) my best friend, and all the while my tits are flying all over place, along with objects and obscenities. I'm still claiming someone slipped me some PCP earlier and everything was out my control. Not really working, but inner peace is important.
Finally, after being asked to leave the Elks Lodge on account of my wild temper and 21093709213 sheets to the wind Ana passing out on the pavement slab in the parking lot, my Vegas pal and almost family member, Angel, drives us back to the hotel.
The rest of the night is a stream of arguing, making up, and a mass hint of awkwardness. Yeah, thanks drunk Connie.
After announcing to the room that she's going to the Bellagio and Treasure Island, Ana sets her drunk head down on the pillow and proceeds to pass the hell out. Good news. I sober up...slightly. At least enough to change out of my liquor-soaked dress and head down to the lobby bar with Angel and Mel.
To be honest, the rest of the trip isn't worth all the typing time. The next we kissed, made up, and hung by the pool. We met Angel's girlfriend, who turned out to be a drunken good time, and reminded me of about 200 girls I went to high school with. We kept it low key and simple. By the end of Sunday night Vegas had truly kick our ass to the moon and back, and our bodies, minds, and my voice box were drained beyond recognition.
In summary: If you're ready to party in Vegas, bring me and my friends. The things that were too inappropriate to write on my blog are scandalous and juicy and nowhere under a rating of NC-17. Oh, and, thanks mom for getting married. I hope you enjoyed your wedding as much as we did. Wait, scratch that. NO ONE enjoyed the wedding as much as we did.
Cheers, bitches!
O yeah, I once again suck at single of week.
Well, here it is:
In case you've been hiding under a rock from indie music for the past several months, I'm sure you're well aware of this amazingly talented duo, Sleigh Bells.
Her soft, angelic voice paired with roaring guitars and intricate drum beats, along with an almost industrial sound on the guitar. Fast beat, easy flowing voice, creates a harmony of pure heart-pounding bliss.
Friday, June 11, 2010
Slacker! Single of the Week & Nonsense
Since my return from Sasquatch, I've continued to abuse my body (note: the eggshell on my forehead and massive bruises on my legs and knees) and neglect my daily duties outside of work.
For instance, I have yet to do laundry, so I've been wearing a combination of discarded clothes from the hall closet and jeans I just cut off into shorts each morning. I call it recycling. Come winter, I might have a different opinion.
My room is littered with a accumulation of dirty clothes and empty bottles. I'm starting to display similar characteristics to a frat boy.
My mother is getting married next weekend in Vegas. That gives me 1. an excuse to calm down this weekend and save money that I no longer even have & 2. rent an over-sized SUV that I otherwise never even consider getting behind the wheel of so my friends and I can trek down to Sin City and, well, get loaded. I do have one friend who is not attending the wedding with me, and it deeply saddens my heart to know she won't be there to share the joyous occasion of passing my mother off to some other poor soul to pamper her for the rest of her life.
Please remember I am a professional, and on a day-to-day basis, I can keep it in my pants, so to say.
I'm really stoked the Blackhawks are owning the Flyers right now, even though I would have much rather seen the Sharks there. Oh well, you can't have everything.
But now to wrap up and get to the point. Single time
This song comes off of an album release last year. Danish Group The Raveonettes haven't always struck a lasting chord with me, despite the name and reputation they've built for themselves (not to mention the countless grabs of one of the hottest women in rock by the lead singer)
It was the simplicity of this song that immediately caught my interest. Just a simple drum machine and a kick-back to goth-rock guitar, paired with her almost angelic voice, belting our lyrics about teenage suicide.
It's weird, but it works.
Watch/listen for yourself
For instance, I have yet to do laundry, so I've been wearing a combination of discarded clothes from the hall closet and jeans I just cut off into shorts each morning. I call it recycling. Come winter, I might have a different opinion.
My room is littered with a accumulation of dirty clothes and empty bottles. I'm starting to display similar characteristics to a frat boy.
My mother is getting married next weekend in Vegas. That gives me 1. an excuse to calm down this weekend and save money that I no longer even have & 2. rent an over-sized SUV that I otherwise never even consider getting behind the wheel of so my friends and I can trek down to Sin City and, well, get loaded. I do have one friend who is not attending the wedding with me, and it deeply saddens my heart to know she won't be there to share the joyous occasion of passing my mother off to some other poor soul to pamper her for the rest of her life.
Please remember I am a professional, and on a day-to-day basis, I can keep it in my pants, so to say.
I'm really stoked the Blackhawks are owning the Flyers right now, even though I would have much rather seen the Sharks there. Oh well, you can't have everything.
But now to wrap up and get to the point. Single time
This song comes off of an album release last year. Danish Group The Raveonettes haven't always struck a lasting chord with me, despite the name and reputation they've built for themselves (not to mention the countless grabs of one of the hottest women in rock by the lead singer)
It was the simplicity of this song that immediately caught my interest. Just a simple drum machine and a kick-back to goth-rock guitar, paired with her almost angelic voice, belting our lyrics about teenage suicide.
It's weird, but it works.
Watch/listen for yourself
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Sasquatch Wrap Up
If you've never been to the Gorge, the landscape on the drive there, once off the Interstate, resembles the drive from Fallon to Reno. Or anywhere in Nevada, really.
The campgrounds are the Burning Man of music festivals.
It feels like the Great Migration every time you walk from the campgrounds to the stages.
The Id-ing security guards are no match for Wayne and Garth and our path to $9 PBRs
Everyone from the Pacific Northwest knows each other, apparently.
People give a lot of mixed reactions when you say you're from Nevada. Most are either of confusion or bewilderment.
It's truly a crime to charge $12 for shitty Canadian beer
But it's not a crime to have a festival filled with great looking Canadians
Contra may be boring, but Vampire Weekend is still an amazing live act to see. Flawless in their playing and more fun than Googling disgusting phrases
EVERYTHING The National does is just fucking perfect
A tent with flashing lights, hundreds of sweaty kids, and called the Rumpus Room is a real rumpus
Cute boys on LSD might want to chat up your 15 year old sister. Don't let them
Fuck Wayne
A $13 pack of cigarettes should not be shared with anyone
If Pavement opens up for a band, you have a really good chance of getting to the front.
Massive Attack was mid blowing. And their backdrop couldn't have been more fascinating, especially when trying to read it while incredibly drunk
Your hair becomes a petri dish of funk when you don't shower for 4 days
Throwing up in port-a-potties is the worst thing ever. You'll just keep throwing up. Do it outside
You get a lot of fans when you camp next to the tee-pee people
MGMT is so far from what you'd expect live. And I, personally, appreciated it
Band of Horses stole the show, hands down
It's cool to see Neko Case in person
Dr. Dog isn't as folk-y live as recorded. Nothing wrong with it
My dancing skills are perfectly suited to Fruit Bats
The lead singer of Passion Pit looks just like Nathan and that's weird. But he sounds exactly like he does on the records when playing live.
Ween fans are crazy bastards. Now that's a group of people who know how to party.
The Columbia River background to the main stage looks so surreal, you could swear it's a painting.
Driving back was the worst, yet most satisfactory, experience of my life.
It really will take a few more days before I'm completely back to normal.
The campgrounds are the Burning Man of music festivals.
It feels like the Great Migration every time you walk from the campgrounds to the stages.
The Id-ing security guards are no match for Wayne and Garth and our path to $9 PBRs
Everyone from the Pacific Northwest knows each other, apparently.
People give a lot of mixed reactions when you say you're from Nevada. Most are either of confusion or bewilderment.
It's truly a crime to charge $12 for shitty Canadian beer
But it's not a crime to have a festival filled with great looking Canadians
Contra may be boring, but Vampire Weekend is still an amazing live act to see. Flawless in their playing and more fun than Googling disgusting phrases
EVERYTHING The National does is just fucking perfect
A tent with flashing lights, hundreds of sweaty kids, and called the Rumpus Room is a real rumpus
Cute boys on LSD might want to chat up your 15 year old sister. Don't let them
Fuck Wayne
A $13 pack of cigarettes should not be shared with anyone
If Pavement opens up for a band, you have a really good chance of getting to the front.
Massive Attack was mid blowing. And their backdrop couldn't have been more fascinating, especially when trying to read it while incredibly drunk
Your hair becomes a petri dish of funk when you don't shower for 4 days
Throwing up in port-a-potties is the worst thing ever. You'll just keep throwing up. Do it outside
You get a lot of fans when you camp next to the tee-pee people
MGMT is so far from what you'd expect live. And I, personally, appreciated it
Band of Horses stole the show, hands down
It's cool to see Neko Case in person
Dr. Dog isn't as folk-y live as recorded. Nothing wrong with it
My dancing skills are perfectly suited to Fruit Bats
The lead singer of Passion Pit looks just like Nathan and that's weird. But he sounds exactly like he does on the records when playing live.
Ween fans are crazy bastards. Now that's a group of people who know how to party.
The Columbia River background to the main stage looks so surreal, you could swear it's a painting.
Driving back was the worst, yet most satisfactory, experience of my life.
It really will take a few more days before I'm completely back to normal.
Monday, May 24, 2010
Launching: Single of the Week
Since I obviously slack in the posting often department, I've decided to start something which I know will tickle my pickle enough to keep me coming back to blogger at least once a week to share something with whoever happens to read my posts.
Starting today, I'm launching the "ConnieBean Single of the Week" program. Basically, it'll go down along these lines:
Every Monday or Tuesday, depending on how the week starts (or ends), I'll post a music video or MP3 of a particular song I'm enjoying at the time to share. I figure this is the best way to generate content and indulge in something that takes up enough of my time to where I should be rationing my findings out to someone/somewhere. I'll only write a couple of sentences on the music, as I am a music enthusiast, not expert, and I'd rather just let you listen to the sound.
For the first song, I give you:
Delorean
"Stay Close"
Hailing from Barcelona, Delorean found me at the perfect time. I've been longing for Merriweather Post Pavilion pt 2 for some time now, and having been highly indulgent in repeating MPP, I went in search of more dream-pop oriented bands. What I found was Delorean, and the minute their transcendental sounds began to carry through my speakers, I was in love. Colorful and graceful, "stay close", is the band's first single off their full-length Subiza. Its sound is poetic and abstract, and their gorgeous sound is sure to crawl and infect every happy wall and corner that exists inside.
Starting today, I'm launching the "ConnieBean Single of the Week" program. Basically, it'll go down along these lines:
Every Monday or Tuesday, depending on how the week starts (or ends), I'll post a music video or MP3 of a particular song I'm enjoying at the time to share. I figure this is the best way to generate content and indulge in something that takes up enough of my time to where I should be rationing my findings out to someone/somewhere. I'll only write a couple of sentences on the music, as I am a music enthusiast, not expert, and I'd rather just let you listen to the sound.
For the first song, I give you:
Delorean
"Stay Close"
Hailing from Barcelona, Delorean found me at the perfect time. I've been longing for Merriweather Post Pavilion pt 2 for some time now, and having been highly indulgent in repeating MPP, I went in search of more dream-pop oriented bands. What I found was Delorean, and the minute their transcendental sounds began to carry through my speakers, I was in love. Colorful and graceful, "stay close", is the band's first single off their full-length Subiza. Its sound is poetic and abstract, and their gorgeous sound is sure to crawl and infect every happy wall and corner that exists inside.
Wednesday, May 12, 2010
The case for Justin Bieber
Disney has been sucking the life out of me for the past 5 years or so.
Everytime a new Miley Cyrus came out with a tv series, an album, and a clothing line, all in the same month, I was forced to listen to my younger siblings belt out dried-up pop lyrics so over-produced I wondered if Disney was actually building child robots to fulfill their evil schemes to dig their hands as far into parents wallets as possible. I was also forced to be embarrassed at every checkout line when their birthdays rolled around- it's not flattering to purchase the Hannah Montana movie on a Saturday afternoon at Target. I have an image to protect.
The prepubescent slaves graced magazine covers for their wholesome ideals and cheek-to-cheek smiles that could truly melt Scourge on the coldest day the North Pole has ever seen. They're the new Olson twins, complete with guarantees you'll never see them fall out of a club at 2 am in a cocaine-induced coma. Wholesome America had a new group of, well, I'll call them "politicians".
But fact of the matter remains, no matter what heart-warming story these kids come attached with, they were brought to the top by a corporate machine which I feel uses children to cash in on the most sensitive audience who've got their hands deeper in mommy's purse than mommy herself.
And in the midst of this clean-cut adolescent celeb movement, along came Justin Bieber. The Canadian boy (literally) who resided with his single, struggling mother in Ontario was a mere 12 years of age when his mom began posting videos on Youtube of Justin playing guitar, covering radio-friendly tunes, simply to share with family. Within a few months, the buzz spread. Big time. The charm of his wispy hair, baby face, and talented vocals gained the young star thousands of views on Youtube. That's all it took for an Atlanta manager to stumble across his videos one night; and that's all it took for that manager to fly Justin and his mother to the states and sign him the very same day.
But Bieber, in one of the smartest moves of 21st century promotions, kept it grassroots. He recorded and posted more videos on Youtube. And people responded. In yet another brilliant, but simple, move, he responded back. He gave his young fans a reason to come back for more. His engagement resulted in a loyal fan base who felt that Bieber did more than just care about his young audience; he was one of them.
And although it did nothing to help the boy get signed to a label, it did garner up attention from celebs interested in collaborating with him- particularly folks like Justin Timberlake. Yeah, that's a pretty big deal for a 13 yr old Internet famous singer.
To this day, Bieber regularly interacts with his fans, responding to select tweets from his more than 2 million Twitter followers. His bubblegum music hits hard in the hearts of teenage girls- Bieber writes ballads about lust and broken homes. Subjects every teen can relate to. But, remember what I just said- HE writes them. Take that Miley, who can't even pretend to know the Jay-Z song she belts about in her hit single "Party in the USA".
He's been on just about every late night TV show, SNL, and even made his way to the White House. He's the longest running trending topic on Twitter. The kid is unavoidable.
Please don't mistake my remarks- I'm not on a mission to convert anyone, including myself, into a Justin Bieber "fan". But, with the announcement of his tour making a pit stop in Reno, and my little sister knocking on my door every five seconds to score her tickets, it's made me take a second look at the kid. And you know what- I'm impressed.
I give you this Justin- props for communication. So many of my favorite musical artists refuse to do interviews, interact, or even play shows near certain areas (particularly the areas close to me). This is the kid that was willing to put on a show at Roller Kingdom, even after he exploded. He may have a strong resemblance to Ellen, but I don't see that bothering any of the millions of tear-streaked, screaming/screeching fans of his.
He just goes to show that the Internet is a powerful tool once it's used properly. By keeping things personal, he developed a person relationship with each and every fan across the world. These girls (and maybe even boys, haha) feel like they've got a front row view into the life of someone who is just like them. And what better can a person do to secure their fame than draw positive attention to themselves through the easiest/cheapest medium there is than prove that where there is a dream, a webcam, and a browser, there can be a rise to the top.
Everytime a new Miley Cyrus came out with a tv series, an album, and a clothing line, all in the same month, I was forced to listen to my younger siblings belt out dried-up pop lyrics so over-produced I wondered if Disney was actually building child robots to fulfill their evil schemes to dig their hands as far into parents wallets as possible. I was also forced to be embarrassed at every checkout line when their birthdays rolled around- it's not flattering to purchase the Hannah Montana movie on a Saturday afternoon at Target. I have an image to protect.
The prepubescent slaves graced magazine covers for their wholesome ideals and cheek-to-cheek smiles that could truly melt Scourge on the coldest day the North Pole has ever seen. They're the new Olson twins, complete with guarantees you'll never see them fall out of a club at 2 am in a cocaine-induced coma. Wholesome America had a new group of, well, I'll call them "politicians".
But fact of the matter remains, no matter what heart-warming story these kids come attached with, they were brought to the top by a corporate machine which I feel uses children to cash in on the most sensitive audience who've got their hands deeper in mommy's purse than mommy herself.
And in the midst of this clean-cut adolescent celeb movement, along came Justin Bieber. The Canadian boy (literally) who resided with his single, struggling mother in Ontario was a mere 12 years of age when his mom began posting videos on Youtube of Justin playing guitar, covering radio-friendly tunes, simply to share with family. Within a few months, the buzz spread. Big time. The charm of his wispy hair, baby face, and talented vocals gained the young star thousands of views on Youtube. That's all it took for an Atlanta manager to stumble across his videos one night; and that's all it took for that manager to fly Justin and his mother to the states and sign him the very same day.
But Bieber, in one of the smartest moves of 21st century promotions, kept it grassroots. He recorded and posted more videos on Youtube. And people responded. In yet another brilliant, but simple, move, he responded back. He gave his young fans a reason to come back for more. His engagement resulted in a loyal fan base who felt that Bieber did more than just care about his young audience; he was one of them.
And although it did nothing to help the boy get signed to a label, it did garner up attention from celebs interested in collaborating with him- particularly folks like Justin Timberlake. Yeah, that's a pretty big deal for a 13 yr old Internet famous singer.
To this day, Bieber regularly interacts with his fans, responding to select tweets from his more than 2 million Twitter followers. His bubblegum music hits hard in the hearts of teenage girls- Bieber writes ballads about lust and broken homes. Subjects every teen can relate to. But, remember what I just said- HE writes them. Take that Miley, who can't even pretend to know the Jay-Z song she belts about in her hit single "Party in the USA".
He's been on just about every late night TV show, SNL, and even made his way to the White House. He's the longest running trending topic on Twitter. The kid is unavoidable.
Please don't mistake my remarks- I'm not on a mission to convert anyone, including myself, into a Justin Bieber "fan". But, with the announcement of his tour making a pit stop in Reno, and my little sister knocking on my door every five seconds to score her tickets, it's made me take a second look at the kid. And you know what- I'm impressed.
I give you this Justin- props for communication. So many of my favorite musical artists refuse to do interviews, interact, or even play shows near certain areas (particularly the areas close to me). This is the kid that was willing to put on a show at Roller Kingdom, even after he exploded. He may have a strong resemblance to Ellen, but I don't see that bothering any of the millions of tear-streaked, screaming/screeching fans of his.
He just goes to show that the Internet is a powerful tool once it's used properly. By keeping things personal, he developed a person relationship with each and every fan across the world. These girls (and maybe even boys, haha) feel like they've got a front row view into the life of someone who is just like them. And what better can a person do to secure their fame than draw positive attention to themselves through the easiest/cheapest medium there is than prove that where there is a dream, a webcam, and a browser, there can be a rise to the top.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)