In the dark no one can hear you sweat...

My first perk as a writer on the website was two tickets to the SOUND team concert last night at the Hi-Pointe. Roomie Jables is a fan, and I asked him to join. They were about $10 each, but hey. They were free. And Beatle Bob was there. Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin was the opening act, and surprisingly, they didn't suck.

Unfortunately, I forgot my digital camera, so I had to run across the street and grab a disposable. So, the pictures from after the show aren't that great. Oh well.

Otherwise, it was a great time. The six guys in the band were having a blast; that was very easy to see. They danced during their entire set. And they are all so young. It was the drummer's 22nd birthday, and the oldest guy in the group is 27.

I'll be doing a review for Inside STL, so hopefully you can check that out soon (if they figure out their IT problems so they can actually post new articles again).

Clarification(s).

E-mail exchange between friend Kara and me:

Kara: Um, I just read your list of people to kill. I noticed that "Cheers Heavy" listed Carrot Top. I just want to set the record straight.

Carrot Top is actually a very nice man. He shops at Jack's store all the time, and although he's unusually large, wears eyeliner, and produces unremarkable stand-up, Jack says he's one of the nicest people in the world. He doesn't deserve to die.

This is what I do at work.

Me: I will definitely have to set the record straight with your response for the world to know the truth about Carrot Top.

Kara: It's just my duty. I didn't ask for this celebrity knowledge, but with great power comes great responsibility.

On another note, I want to stress the fact that my blogger nickname rhymes with Mel Blanc, not crank. It sounds easier on the tongue and not as vicious. I want to be known as a nice little blogger.

No exit...

My list of people to kill...

1. Jerod the Subway guy
2. Richard Simmons
3. Joan Rivers
4. Melissa Rivers
5. Tony Danza
6. Paris Hilton
7. Marilyn Manson
8. Anyone appearing on the MTV shows Next or Parental Control
9. Kevin Eubanks
10. Mary-Kate Olsen

In your face, Mick...

It doesn't take much to give me an extreme sense of satisfaction. Here are some things that work:

1. A full tank of gas
2. Typing fast, without any mistakes
3. Opening a brand new box of Kleenex (I love the sound of the perforated cardboard tearing)
4. Finishing a book
5. Removing the lint from the dryer filter thing in one big piece
6. Sweating like a beast during a run
7. Getting up early and not struggling too much
8. A properly made Greyhound
9. The sound of cracking my back (and neck, and toes, and fingers)
10. Sucking something up in the vacuum

6 minutes to downtown...

June 23, 2006 in Chicago

Nand bames...

Matt said very seriously, "If Gnarls Barkely would have called themselves Barls Charkley instead of Gnarls Barkley, I would have sued them."

I asked, "Why?"

He explained, "Because that is the name I picked out in 7th grade for my future rock band. Either that or Potty Skippin."

Then we giggled for five minutes.

Um.

Check out this music video. It features bizzaro world David Bowie and Olivia Newton-John. And oh yeah, one of my bosses at the shoe slangin' store is a backup dancer in it.

He was in Hong Kong at age 17 (about 30 years ago), and they asked him if he wanted to be an extra for $100. The video wasn't released in the U.S. Otherwise, the music video as we know it would surely be a completely different animal.

Randomly, eBaum's World sent this to him in a weekly newsletter...little did the website know he was in the chorus line. Talk about a blast from the past.

God does exist...

The funny thing is, Jables and I watched License to Drive yesterday. Just yesterday. And now I receive this news from friend Krat who knows about my obsession with the Haimster.

If you read Matty's blog "The Ashtray Says..." then you saw a post back in April about The Two Coreys and my thoughtful comment about which one I'd rather be. If not, then you can check it out here. You have to scroll down the page a bit.

My day has been made. Hope yours is, too. Peace be with you.

The Lou's answer to Ronnie Woo Woo and general douchbaggery...

Tonight, Matt and I went to the Mason Jennings show at Mississippi Nights, down on The Landing.

Beatle Bob was there in all his glory.

I have only recently heard of this local legend, I'm not gonna lie. I was out with Dinner, Jables, Rosey, and Dinner's law school crew at Broadway Oyster Bar about a month ago. Beatle Bob was dancing like a crazy person by the stage while some unknown blues band played. He is a very interesting specimen.

Tonight, I managed to pick the two seats in the house that were closest to the biggest bags of douche in the world. Matt wanted to "stab himself in the face." I laughed out loud at this couple that flat out put the "P" in PDA during each slow song. One guy danced to every tune like he was bumping and grinding at Club Buca.

And if you noticed, if you know me well enough, I let the title of this post extend to two lines today for the first time ever. It hurts, and it's hard, but the d-bags needed to be called out.

Nevertheless, we really enjoyed the show. Mason Jennings is still dreamy.

Perplexing question.

Why do all old(er) men in movies lose their ability to open and close their jaws when supposedly passionately kissing a woman? Or do they do this on purpose, so as not to gross out a younger audience?

I watched Shopgirl last night, and Steve Martin looked like he'd never kissed anything but a wall in his life.

But, I've noticed this in other movies, too. They grab the girl, wrap their arms around her, and lunge in with their mouths half open. And then for the entire 5-minute kiss in the rain, their mouth position does not change. They simply move their head from side to side, like they have a Jane Fonda workout playing in their heads.

Alt-country and dads...

Just got Ryan Adams tickets for August, and I am a happy, happy girl.

Enjoy the weekend and La Dia de Padres...or something like that!

Your call to duty.

As you may or may not know, I am currently writing pro bono and sans gratis for Inside STL for the "STL Ladies" section. I took a look at the "STL Music" section today, and I noticed that it hadn't been updated since the first of the month, a la Bone Thugs in Harmony. So, I e-mailed one of the head guys and asked if they needed any support. I got an e-mail back that said "YES! HELP!"

Which is where all of you come in...

But first, to get you pumped up. I am currently reading A Long Way Down by Nick Hornby, my first venture into "dick lit." A recently read passage made me think of all my psycho music nazi friends:

(Four "friends" listening to Nick Drake; three for the first time ever)

"But he's such a drip," she said. "He's like, I dunno, a poet or something." This was meant to be an insult: I was spending my days with someone who thought that poets were creatures you might find living in your lower intestine.

"I don't mind it," said Martin. "I wouldn't walk out if he was playing in a wine bar."

"I would," said Jess.

I wondered whether it would be possible to punch both of them out simultaneously, but rejected the idea on grounds that it would all be over too quickly, and there wouldn't be enough pain involved. I'd want to keep on pummeling them after they were down, which would mean doing them one at a time. It's music rage, which is like road rage, only more righteous. When you get road rage, a tiny part of you knows you're being a jerk, but when you get music rage, you're carrying out the will of God, and God wants these people dead.

Ok, now, the task at hand. I'd like to put together an article of sorts about summer singles that everyone should be listening to...but you know, not the new Christina or T Pain or any shit. You can comment here on the bloggy blog or e-mail me. I will do my best to call you out by name or description and include good quotes if you give them, as an incentive to get your name in lights. Then maybe thirty or forty more people will know you as a person with excellent musical taste.

Lester Burnham lives across the street.

Before the dojo-warming party, Jables and I went around to the close neighbors to forewarn them about the number of people and the subsequent noise that would surely annoy them on the Saturday evening of the party. One of these such neighbors included a guy named Matt, who claimed that he had a wife and kids but spent most of his time in his "party pad" in the garage. We could tell he was a family man right away.

When ten o'clock rolled around, and none of our neighbors had shown, we thought we were in the clear. Then neighbor Matt arrived, drunk as a skunk.

Now, the rest of this story is rather hazy for me. I remember Vanessa trying to befriend him. I also remember neighbor Matt persuading some of our party guests to walk across the street to check out his "party pad." (They came back disappointed, after they learned it was only a couple of couches and a TV). The most important detail that I remember about neighbor Matt was his inclination to pick a word and then scream it at the top of his lungs...for what seemed like minutes at a time...much like a pig caller.

"Little Buuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuudddddddddddddddddddddddyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!"

The first time I heard this was in the living room. Staring in disbelief, shaking my head "no," with my mouth agape, I remembered our efforts to cozy up to the neighbors to avoid pissing them off with our party. It was at that time that I decided it was all for naught.

The worst sequel ever made.

This evening, Jables and I became sucked in to one of the worst 80s movies that we had ever seen: Teen Wolf Too. Don't get me wrong, the original Teen Wolf is pure movie magic, but the sequel just doesn't live up to the expectations of the first's stellar soundtrack, charismatic characters, quotable quotes, and totally realistic plot. I don't mean to be a son of a bitch, but Teen Wolf Too is laughable...yet still a good enough excuse to avoid the workout that's trying to call your name. (It would be an absolutely fantastic movie to watch while hungover and behaving like a piece of shit, much like any sorority hazing movie).

Let's take this point by point.

Teen Wolf featured such memorable soundtrack gems as "Way to Go" by Mark Vieha (played during a basketball montage in which Michael J. Fox's character single-handedly dominates all other 5-man teams in typical werewolf fashion) and "Win in the End" by Mark Safan (in which Scott Howard actually acknowledges his teammates and plays the game all human-like). Teen Wolf Too does include "Send Me an Angel" by Real Life in an exhausting cramming-for-a-final scene, but that was already an 80s hit. The sequel doesn't take a unknown song and turn it into any given 25-year old's favorite memory from youth, like the first Teen Wolf totally does. Does it for you? I think not.

The sequel basically regurgitates the characters we came to know and love in the original. But, like a bad soap opera, 99% of the time a different actor plays the same character, and the producers think we're dumb enough to not notice the difference. The only returning actors are James Hampton as Harold Howard and poor Mark Holton as Chubby. Stiles is still Stiles, but now sporting a mullet and trying out a new ethnicity. Coach Finstock has apparently graduated to coaching a new sport on the college level. Nikki is the new Boof, but she doesn't hold a candle to that 7 Minutes in Heaven champion. Jason Bateman plays the new wolf. He's a definite cutie, but he's no MJF. And there's a creepy guy wearing mirrored aviators that, frankly, I just don't like.

Teen Wolf is the kind of movie that allows you to work in its hilarious quotes into everyday conversation. "GIVE ME A KEG OF BEER!" I mean, that's what Jables said just this past weekend when we were getting ready for the dojo-warming party. His eyes even glowed a creepy red color (to match his freaky black hair) to demand faster service and get a free tapper. In the original, Coach Finstock also has one of the best lines in the history of cinema: "There are three rules that I live by. Never get less than twelve hours sleep, never play cards with a guy who has the same first name as a city, and never get involved with a woman with a tattoo of a dagger on her body. Now you stick to that, and everything else is cream cheese." IMDb doesn't even offer the "memorable quotes" link for Teen Wolf Too, so what does that tell you? I'm not able to provide you any further information.

How much of this can you take? Probably not as much as I can dish out, Mick.

Teen Wolf's sport of choice was high school level basketball. Teen Wolf Too brings us the totally believable sport of college level boxing, complete with half-naked ring girls in bikinis and stilettos. You know that is definitely backed by the NCAA. The dance sequence in Teen Wolf takes place at a high school dance to a song called "Big Bad Wolf." It basically consists of students doing a sort of line dance that looks like it came straight out of Michael Jackson's "Thriller" video. Nothing too crazy. The dance sequence in Teen Wolf Too not only features Jason Bateman's wolf as an acrobatic Broadway dancer, but also highlights his vocal abilities as he belts out "Do You Love Me?" His fellow students, all of them obviously classically trained dancers, shimmy, shake, pirouette, and leap around him. I'm calling bullshit. There's no way those kids can dance that well.

After all that, let me reiterate my point: Teen Wolf Too sucks. Now, quick...go rent it in preparation for Sunday afternoon's dull headache and psuedo nausea. You won't be sorry.

Dojo-warming party pictures...

Cousin Karie and Matt














Josh, Bird, Brother John, and Zack













Shoe slangin' people: Andrew, Kurt, me














Kerri, me, Kathleen, Britt, Nikki, and Vanessa

One more time, with feeling...

Last Friday started with happy hour for Jables, Nikki, Vanessa, Britt, and me at the Seven Gables Inn. Many margaritas and song requests of Pierce Crask later, we hit the neighborhood bar, Babe's, with LeBlanc and Kerri. On the walk home, we girls passed by a little Greek restaurant. The neon signs were turned off, but patrons still mingled in the outdoor patio area. The smell of cooking lamb was in the air. We were instantly overcome with drunken hunger, and we poked our faces through the rod iron fence to search for someone with enough power to put together a gyro or two. Unfortunately, the owner apologized for his inability to provide us with the sustanance to walk the two blocks home. We were turned away...but not without the inspiration to express our disappointment through musical verse, thanks to Nicole Hamilton.

To the tune of "I Need a Hero" by Bonnie Tyler from the Footloose soundtrack:

I NEED A GYRO!
I'M HOLDING OUT FOR A GYRO AT THE END OF THE NIGHT
IT'S GOTTA BE WARM
AND IT'S GOTTA BE SOFT
AND IT'S GOTTA HAVE CUCUMBER SAUCE
I NEED A GYRO!

Don't miss me too much...

Brief hiatus with the start of the weekend, friends and family in from out of town, and the official dojo party taking place.

Dinner, wws, and brown 'n bubbly, miss you like the wind!

Neither snow nor rain nor raging fires...

Relevant picture for the 06/06/06 date that I found while looking through old pictures. Taken in Hell, Grand Cayman, BWI. The postman probably doesn't even ring once. He probably throws your mail on your doorstep and flees for dear life.

The fruits of the deee-vil...

I only remembered that today was 06/06/06 when my hairdresser, Josh Stonewater, hoped aloud that he wouldn't randomly give birth to Damien today as punishment for his gayness. (Suri Cruise was already born, no need for him to worry there. Plus, he doesn't have a vagina). People are freaking the funk out, but I'm still here bloggin'. So, the world hasn't ended yet. Unless making people read my blog is a form of severe punishment from Lucifer himself.

I first learned that 6-6-6 was some form of evil when I was seven or eight. My dad, a then math teacher at Christopher High School, and the rest of our family suffered torture every Halloween season in the form of toilet paper, soap, and eggs from mischievous high school kids. One year, someone got the bright idea to scare the collective pants off the Quank household by soaping 6-6-6 all over our living room windows.

Today, two phenomenons are simultaneously occuring: people are either painstakingly working to avoid the stigma of this date, or they are working their asses off to capitalize on its supposedly freaky nature. Women are begging their doctors to somehow keep from delivering their babies today, so as not to forever punish a child with an unfortunate date of birth. Heads of corporations are releasing movies (the remake of The Omen) and books (The Rapture, Godless: The Church of Liberalism) as dilligently planned tie-ins with the centurial mark of the beast.

I advise everyone to lighten up. As INXS tells us: "every single one of us has the devil inside." Go read Goethe's Faust, listen to The Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil," eat some deviled eggs, and clean your room with your Dirt Devil vacuum. And pray to God.

Style over comfort pays off...

Perhaps the most random moment in my otherwise very normal weekend occured near the end of the Cards game on Saturday.

I was sporting my favorite olive green and gold cork-bottom wedges, which I admit aren't the most practical of shoes for a game. However, my trendy new long shorts (just for you, Dinner) that I was also wearing called for a 3-inch heel to lengthen my legs. The light and airy shorts were practical for the 85-degree weather, so give me that.

A man, a very old and obese man, was sitting three seats to my left. Just to make things clear, I did not talk to this man or even make eye contact with him during the entire game. He decided to leave before the start of the 8th inning because it was then evident that the Cubbies were going to somehow win the game. As I stood up and shrunk myself as much as possible to let this very big man by me, he said, "Great shoes, by the way."

Neither Matt nor his dad was around to hear the comment. I just sat down...perplexed, flattered, and extremely tickled all at once.

The best discovery of the week...

I thought I was harmlessly whitening my teeth on a nice little Friday night at home. Josh thought I was trying to master my Taco Reeves impression. Apparently, trying to speak with the strips in your mouth enables you to impersonate our favorite S & S patron perfectly. Therefore, I say to you: Waccup? Waccoin' on?

Two sandwiches short of a picnic...

Now, this is how to start a weekend. Check out this clip from So You Think You Can Dance. Ridiculous.

High brow much?

Tonight I saw the flick Art School Confidential with good friend Kara. We all know that the previews before the movie are arguably the best part of the show, and luckily we arrived at the Tivoli in time to catch them all. However, I was horribly disturbed after watching the trailer for Drawing Restraint. I may or may not have literally laughed out loud when I realized the girl in the movie was Bjork. Damn avant-garde art.