Comic Books, Drag Race, & Life in New Zealand
by krisis
Hi. Announcing two upcoming field trips made possible by me not getting cast in Fiddler. Thank god.
#1 – Peter Mulvey, April 18th, @ The Point in Bryn Mawr.
#2 – GARBAGE, April 26th, @ The Electric Factory in Philly
I intend to attend both shows with as many people as i possible can bring with me. Any takers?
by krisis
I don’t have enough time to turn all of these thoughts into what they want to be. I just ate breakfast in front of a one-two punch of Springer’s “Prostitutes Tell All” and Katie Couric ogling Janet Jackson’s abs on the post-Grammy fashion wrap-up. My brain is fried.
Last night was wickedly cold, and if i hadn’t noticed it on my walk down to campus or sprint to the train station, then i definitely noticed it when we wound up waiting a half an hour for the train home after the show My scarf wrapped all around my head in an attempt to retain warmth and Kat edging around to stand so i was between her and the wind, and both of us jumping up and down and trying to find the right key for us both to sing Pinkerton songs in.
I calmly explained my theory on opening acts as we sat at the back of the room and surveyed the crowd. First i place them on my musical spectrum, and then i speculate on if i could vanquish them in unarmed song-to-song combat. A good opening act doesn’t quite fit on my spectrum because they don’t have obvious influences; an amazing opening act convinces me that i couldn’t possibly walk up on stage, pick up a guitar, and please the crowd as much or more than s/he did.
Burning my tongue so badly on chai that i got stuck between try to scream, swallow, or just spit it out. Having to picture the taste of everything afterwards.
Charlie knowing my name and where i lived even though i hadn’t seen him for half a year and letting me off the shuttle at the corner of Walnut street where i knew that, despite the utterly desolate chill in the air, i was close to my door. How i let my scarf unravel from the knot it had formed around my neck until it was just being carried by the wind behind me. Me running down 44th street trailing my monochrome scarf behind me like a kite, giggling into the thin air and barely breathing.
Pillows taking up half my bed.
by krisis
I’m not sure what came over me.
Okay, i’m actually quite sure of what came over me. I had been having a shitty depressing day and i didn’t want it to continue into a shitty night and possibly an altogether miserable weekend. I decided that a Best Friend was needed to salvage what was left of my evening, so i put in a phone call to Laurel.
What’s strange is that i don’t do this; i don’t call people up on a Friday night to see what they’re doing. If there’s a party i’ll be there, and if we’re all going out to eat i might show up, but i’m not really into the whole one-on-one hanging out scene. It’s like dating without the date. Or something. But, anyhow, tonight i really just needed to get out of the house, and Laurel was heading out to see a mutual acquaintance of ours play at the NorthStar, so off we went.
I had never been inside of NorthStar bar, because every time someone i want to see plays there it’s not an all ages show. Being an all ages show, tonight was heavy on the college crowd and what had to be a couple dozen fourteen-year-olds who were definitely more punk than i’ll ever be. I am, let’s face it, about as non-punk as it gets. Well, other than Laurel. Although, Laurel at least has boppy ska-grrl potential if we were to get her into a plaid skirt. I, on the other hand, looked like i got lost on the way to a very touching Emo concert; i self-consciously shoved my token studded bracelet into my pocket with tongue firmly planted in cheek.
Laurel happened to be less punk than me precisely because of her bopping … she’s totally unembarrassed to dance around and have a good time, regardless of whether or not she’s fitting in with “the scene.” I, on the other hand, am definitely intimidated by scenes — so much so that i feel desperately out-of-place even at an Ani DiFranco concert (where i probably have as much scene credibility as anyone in the room who isn’t a lesbian). In light of this, i was of the more toe-tapping head-nodding persuasion until the last band came on and we pushed our way up to the front, at which point i actually exhibited some shoulder-movement and general rhythmic body-bopping. With much awkward self-consciousness, of course.
As embarrassment goes, we were definitely a distant second to the massive fist-fight that broke out when a Neanderthalic mosher crash landed too many times on a highly strung hard-core guy. Aside from the frightening part where i had to catch Laurel and ascertain that she hadn’t been struck with a ham-sized fist it was rather amusing; i’ve never been at a concert small enough that the performers stopped mid-song to admonish the moshers. But, anyway, it certainly drew attention away from our toddler-like dancing.
You know, i bet if they bopped more they’d be less violent.
by krisis
Sometimes there is a most perfect version of a feeling, and it is shockingly round and easy to hold in your mind instead of being edgy and representative of all the things you were expecting to experience.
There is lust and then there is the perfectly shaped want that is rational and tangible… one sticky and rushed and intense but the other fluid and expanding to meet you when you are near to it, turning all of your tangents into quickly filled-in gaps. Want will press itself up against you until it is another skin on yours, and then you are consumed and it is more than just the sharp angles you thought it would be.
Right now i am the perfect kind of tired, with heavy-lidded eyes and my mind feeling just perfectly soft.
Tonight i took the train home from work with Maggie and we had pizza and lattés and wound up sitting four feet away from Andy Stochansky, who is like Douglas Adams with a guitar. Now i am in her guest room with an internet connection and a pile of new cds but i am the embodiment of the perfect curves of weariness instead of the slope of exhaustion, and the crickets have told me to turn down my music and let them lull me in their cannon chorus … vibrating like a tuning fork until i match pitch and shut out like a light.
I am hoping for a fetal sleep, round and tucked.
by krisis
On Friday night i had an argument with Justin about what was better: sex or concerts.
To understand the context of this discussion, you need to know a few things about Justin. First, he’s my “one male friend.” I don’t mean this to imply that i don’t consider any other men as close friends, but Justin is my guy friend… the only human being on Earth who you’ll catch me assessing the merits of an ass to, or talking about who i truly think is “hot.” Justin has impeccable taste in music, but it isn’t any of the organic thoughtful music you hear me whine about from day to day, it’s bump’n’grind and rhythm’n’blues with Prince at the helm of his collection as his own version of Garbage or Ani DiFranco. Finally, Justin and i have known each other for a long time, and while we don’t always agree with each other i tend to defend him in conversation just because i get to play advocate to his devil.
So, on Friday night we had taken one too many purity tests and everyone had ingested at least a shot of some sort of Jersey moonshine that came in an unmarked plastic anti-freeze jug, and somehow we started talking about sex and music. I opined that an amazing concert is better than good sex, and that a great song easily outpaces a good orgasm. And, Justin ripped me to shreds. How could i value something audible and intangible over sweaty lusty tangled bodies in heat? How could i rank singing along to a great song higher than getting off?
Two things became rapidly apparent in this conversation. The first was that neither of us were referring to “making love,” but to sex – and that in my book the latter doesn’t really exist without some semblance of the former so “sex” as an act wasn’t even comparable to a really shitty pop concert. The second was that Justin had only ever seen one or two concerts where the performer wasn’t merely reciting their catalogue of songs to the audience. With such incompatible views on sex and concerts, it became obvious within a few minutes that Justin and i were meant to agree to disagree.
Physical attraction is a wonderful thing, but in my world i lust after music. Imported singles make me hot under the collar. Newly announced release dates make my heart skip a beat. Getting good seats at a concert evokes a cry of passion. The day that Izabelle and i charged our Madonna tickets to my credit card my whole world was an excited explosion of joy and rapturous numbness … it was hard to believe i was living rather than dreaming. And, yet, somehow i’m sitting here at my computer and in four hours i’ll be seated inside of the First Union Center, and the lights will go down, and i will suddenly find myself in the same room as Madonna for the first time in over a decade. And, though i’ll be singing along to song after song about physical attraction and lust, i’ll know in my heart that it’s love that matters. And, right now, the love i will have for the woman singing to me from a stage in South Philly is greater than anything i could feel for anyone i’m sharing space, a bed, or body fluids with. When Madonna strums her guitar to open “Candy Perfume Girl,” or when she explodes into the vocals of “Ray of Light,” or when she closes the show with a electronically infused “Holiday,” i will be barely able to catch my breath – those moments will be ones i’ll try to replicate for years without ever being able to put them into words. The experience will be between Madonna and i and thousands of other adoring fans, and we’ll be the only ones who will ever be able to understand.
Maybe one isn’t quantitatively better than the other, but i think each of us is still a virgin with respect to what we’re not defending. And, the same way that making love to someone for the first time must eclipse everything that came before, tonight i’ll be like a virgin again; touched for the very first time.