So I'm backtracking again. The Used and their self-titled debut needed a second listening to become, easily, one of my favorite bands and records. Great use of noise, distortion, sound, melody, anger and control within that seemingly uncontrollable pallette.
"Third Eye Blind with balls" is how I described them to a certain Frank Madden of TC fame.
Tech support is useless. If you can't make it work by yourself, you don't need another idiot wasting your time to tell you that you can't make it work. That was today's moral.
I want to go to Asia next summer. Anyone else interested? Though I've been told to be careful about Nepal because "it changes people." I'm more scared of hacking coughs and pirated DVDs.
The only time when I'm at piece is when I'm close to one.
Kenyans Gone Wild: Summer Weekends in NYC
This native, unemployed subway rat went to do his own thing before. Little did he know that the bottle of wine and the sexy Cafe Lalo SUper Shake he had earlier in the evening would come back to haunt him. Meagan was wise enough to duck out before the Kenyans hit the scene. Ave B and 3rd Street later, in a ittle underground place called Guernica, I got bombed into a Picasso. After having a heart tattooed onto my hand by a scandalously uncovered cover-collector, I dropped two flights to the club. An 80-90 year old man took his time on the stairs, so I had to contain the beat within until he and his cane made it all the way to the bottom to lecherously stare at the girl in their spray-on pants and turtlenecks that couldn't contain their cleavage. 3 vodka and tonics and an empty wallet later, the party was just getting going. 2 AM and the Kenyans are owning half the dance floor. Shu's doing his best Justin Timberlake while Thairu is containing the flod waters of Rio--all while Flo is mesmerizing Minas and Thairu's look-alike with her best back-up dancing from a Sean Paul video. Soon enough, this part devolves into a lap dance with dollar bills being offered. Flo shows the sense of a woman not easily bought and does it for free a la N.E.R.D. Minas begins guzzling Heinekens like Amsterdam's on tap, Thairu's doing his best to keep up with me on the Vodka Tonics and Thairu Jr. is losing his shirt to the heat. I'm standing in amazement as Shu refuses to let me sit. I'm just trying to take in the scene and he won't have any of that--I must dance. I must keep up with 4 black men and 1 black woman that have moves. This isn't a rave, this isn't a breakdance, this isn't 70's or 80's night--and the next track isn't by Reel Big Fish. I'm done. I chug my V&T and hit the floor like Rossman when Billie Jean comes on. I'm working it, I'm dancing, I'm trying to keep my motions reserved and in control, but smooth and in time--and everybody's wondering, what the hell is that white boy doing with all of them? And why's he messing up their steps? And why is he wearing dark, tight wool jeans and a tight stretchy shirt in the company of people rocking a loose, summery style? I was "what doesn't belong." Then, to my rescue comes James Mwangi--who doesn't recognize me immediately (in fact he gave me the "what is this white boy doing touching me and greeting me" look). He's rocking a Kenyan shirt, his cleanest mustache and the pearliest smile. He's practically married, older than everyone else by at least a couple of years and should be the tamest. Bam! He's on the floor like Vanilla Ice on a crack deal. I realize my wallets empty and I should roll if I want to make the 3:22 instead of the 5:22. I already owe Thairu a V&T and he's offering to throw a few more on my running tab with him. I tell James I'm thinking of rolling, he taps his watch, wags a finger and throws me in the middle of the dance floor. I have partied hard. I have yet to fully party like a Kenyan.
In the flashing strobe and the disco lights of multicolor with "Pass the Courvoisier" floating through my fading consciousness, all I saw was the disembodied head of Thairu staring at me with the biggest eyes and raised eyebrows saying "Literally, I'm the tamest of the lot."
See you in Nairobi.
"Third Eye Blind with balls" is how I described them to a certain Frank Madden of TC fame.
Tech support is useless. If you can't make it work by yourself, you don't need another idiot wasting your time to tell you that you can't make it work. That was today's moral.
I want to go to Asia next summer. Anyone else interested? Though I've been told to be careful about Nepal because "it changes people." I'm more scared of hacking coughs and pirated DVDs.
The only time when I'm at piece is when I'm close to one.
Kenyans Gone Wild: Summer Weekends in NYC
This native, unemployed subway rat went to do his own thing before. Little did he know that the bottle of wine and the sexy Cafe Lalo SUper Shake he had earlier in the evening would come back to haunt him. Meagan was wise enough to duck out before the Kenyans hit the scene. Ave B and 3rd Street later, in a ittle underground place called Guernica, I got bombed into a Picasso. After having a heart tattooed onto my hand by a scandalously uncovered cover-collector, I dropped two flights to the club. An 80-90 year old man took his time on the stairs, so I had to contain the beat within until he and his cane made it all the way to the bottom to lecherously stare at the girl in their spray-on pants and turtlenecks that couldn't contain their cleavage. 3 vodka and tonics and an empty wallet later, the party was just getting going. 2 AM and the Kenyans are owning half the dance floor. Shu's doing his best Justin Timberlake while Thairu is containing the flod waters of Rio--all while Flo is mesmerizing Minas and Thairu's look-alike with her best back-up dancing from a Sean Paul video. Soon enough, this part devolves into a lap dance with dollar bills being offered. Flo shows the sense of a woman not easily bought and does it for free a la N.E.R.D. Minas begins guzzling Heinekens like Amsterdam's on tap, Thairu's doing his best to keep up with me on the Vodka Tonics and Thairu Jr. is losing his shirt to the heat. I'm standing in amazement as Shu refuses to let me sit. I'm just trying to take in the scene and he won't have any of that--I must dance. I must keep up with 4 black men and 1 black woman that have moves. This isn't a rave, this isn't a breakdance, this isn't 70's or 80's night--and the next track isn't by Reel Big Fish. I'm done. I chug my V&T and hit the floor like Rossman when Billie Jean comes on. I'm working it, I'm dancing, I'm trying to keep my motions reserved and in control, but smooth and in time--and everybody's wondering, what the hell is that white boy doing with all of them? And why's he messing up their steps? And why is he wearing dark, tight wool jeans and a tight stretchy shirt in the company of people rocking a loose, summery style? I was "what doesn't belong." Then, to my rescue comes James Mwangi--who doesn't recognize me immediately (in fact he gave me the "what is this white boy doing touching me and greeting me" look). He's rocking a Kenyan shirt, his cleanest mustache and the pearliest smile. He's practically married, older than everyone else by at least a couple of years and should be the tamest. Bam! He's on the floor like Vanilla Ice on a crack deal. I realize my wallets empty and I should roll if I want to make the 3:22 instead of the 5:22. I already owe Thairu a V&T and he's offering to throw a few more on my running tab with him. I tell James I'm thinking of rolling, he taps his watch, wags a finger and throws me in the middle of the dance floor. I have partied hard. I have yet to fully party like a Kenyan.
In the flashing strobe and the disco lights of multicolor with "Pass the Courvoisier" floating through my fading consciousness, all I saw was the disembodied head of Thairu staring at me with the biggest eyes and raised eyebrows saying "Literally, I'm the tamest of the lot."
See you in Nairobi.
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