Damn, I thought to myself. There's one more guy I won't be fucking.

So I said I was going to have an all-ramen weekend and I damn well did. Above is the ramen that I spent about 7 hours making today. Why is that egg a funny color? Oh that's a seasoned soft-boiled egg, or ni tamago. Other toppings: spinach, green onion, toasted seaweed (nori), pickled bamboo, chasyu pork and kamaboko. Basically what I am trying to say is: in your face, humanity.

Other high point of the weekend: was in Fabric, one of the largest UK nightclubs and my vision of hell. I try to avoid at all costs, but when one of my pals from the Chicks on Speed was DJing there, I consented to grace the place with my presence. Alex clearly knew how much of an effort it was for me, because she played Spacer Woman and then says into the microphone "This is Italo disco! For Lina! She loves Italo!" Or something like that. Now Fabric isn't the sort of place where one would usually (or ever) hear dedications, so between that and the guy that followed us around trying to show us his abs, it was a pretty sweet night out.

...read the rest at Italo Hammers: 10 Bad-Boy Gems of Italian Disco on Splice Today.

Check out my interview with Speculator on Infinite State Machine.

Speculator's an interesting dude who is working on a lot of music projects that you probably haven't heard of yet. But there's no time like the present, eh?

My latest piece on Splice Today about that time when I worried I might be a lesbian but then it turned out I was just listening to too much Bikini Kill: Riot Grrrl, Then and Now

So there's this guy in Dublin. He has a moustache. If Dublin were to have a scene, he'd be a scenester. He is, to put it politely, a cunting moron. Anyway, rumor has it that he's gotten with the program and is starting an italo night.

Here's what Kenny had to say about the fact that a guy with glittery jumpers is trying to co-opt Kenny's favorite ultra-gay, ultra-cheesy, '80s Italian disco music:

"blood is going to spill over this bullshit. stay the fuck away from my music you cunts"

So it was with trepidation that I was talked into attending my first "real" festival. I'd been to a one day affair in Ireland before, but at three and a half days, Electric Picnic is a whole different kettle of fish. And by kettle of fish, I mean plastic bottles filled with Bucky. Buckfast is a tonic wine, allegedly made by monks, with medicinal qualities. Or at least, it's syrupy sickly sweet wine that has a large amount of caffeine in it, making it one of the preferred festival drinks. And Electric Picnic is a festival that involves sleeping in a tent for three nights in a muddy field in County Laois, tromping around in the filth and using port-a-loos. Over 30,000 people attend, including every single Irish person I know. Reputation has it that Electric Picnic is the best Irish festival due to its near complete lack of scumbags and less mainstream bands.

Preparing for Electric Picnic was more than half the battle. I had to buy a tent and a sleeping bag and a camping chair and hot pink Wellington boots with little white paw prints on them. I thought I should have the most cheerful boots possible to try and offset the inevitable look on my face. A few days before I found a list on the printer at work that one of my co-workers had forgotten about and started worrying about the possibility that I had missed something. I queried my pal Aoife, who sent me the following checklist in response:

Toilet roll
Baby wipes
Booze
Tent
Chair
Suncream (being optimistic)
Clothes
Sunglasses
Pink wellies with dog prints
Plastic bottles (for bringing spirits)
Bin bag (for your dignity)
Post-its to stick on your own head saying "I'm a total dickhead"

Needless to say, I found the experience exhausting. And loads of fun. Sort of like living in Ireland.

This is what it sounds like
when Dubs cries

In other news, I (randomly) bought a ticket to go to Tokyo in nine days. I'm very excited, as I'm a big fan of ramen. However, this means I won't be able to see Morrissey when he plays here at the end of the month. Sigh.

Today I was talking to a friend of mine about places that would be good to live. He ruled out a few, and then I said "But what about London?" Pause. "Giddy London?"

"Ah Jaysus. Ya fookin' Yanks." It's really a shame that more people don't appreciate my sporadic interjections of Moz lyrics.

They just released the line-up for the big Ireland festival, and of course there's always a lot of excitement and even more whining and grumbling over the choice of acts. One of my pals spit out a pearl of wisdom paraphrased:

The gigs are incidental. Mainly they just get in the way of the craic.

Check out my Valentine's Day Compilation. The theme is sort of like, reciprocal love. I'm totally into that. It's so hot.

1. I Will Follow Him - Little Peggy March
2. Obsession (Special Dub Mix) - Animotion
3. Every Breath You Take - The Police
4. Give Me Your Love - Junior Murvin
5. You'll Be Needing Me - Nino Tempo
6. Following - The Bangles
7. Climbing Up the Walls - Radiohead
8. The Stalker - Green Velvet
9. Dust (Rocque Wun Remix) - Recloose Feat. Joe Dukie
10. I'm Gonna Make You Love Me - Diana Ross & The Supremes
11. Run For Your Life - Nancy Sinatra
12. Never Gonna Give You Up - Rick Astley
13. Infatuation - Rod Stewart
14. One Way or Another - Blondie
15. You Belong to Me - Carly Simon
16. Need Your Love (Live) - Cheap Trick
17. Private Eyes - Darly Hall & John Oates
18. I'm Your Puppet - Jimmy London
19. You Belong to Me - The Duprees
20. All Strung Out - Nino Tempo & April Stevens
21. The More You Ignore Me, The Closer I Get - Morrissey
22. Fate (Tynneterje Edit) - Chaka Khan

That Indefinable Nothing.zip

Tracklist:
1. Sensoria - Cabaret Voltaire
2. Russian Radio - Red Flag
3. Compulsion - Martin L. Gore
4. Lucretia My Reflection - Sisters of Mercy
5. Nightporter - Japan
6. She's in Parties - Bauhaus
7. Darkness - Human League
8. Under the Milky Way - The Church
9. Touch - Secession
10. Peek-a-Boo - Siouxsie & the Banshees
11. Dreams Never End - New Order
12. So Alive - Love and Rockets
13. The Cutter - Echo & the Bunnymen
14. Dancing With Tears in My Eyes - Ultravox
15. The Great Commandment - Camouflage
16. Revenge (You Did It Again) - Ministry
17. Warm Leatherette - The Normal
18. Cicely - The Cocteau Twins
19. Charlotte Sometimes - The Cure
20. I Started Something I Couldn't Finish - The Smiths

Okay, so I flew over to Glasgow yesterday and went straight over to the show. I know in saying what I am about to say, I'm going to stray into the territory of ugly, fat girls (as I so often do), because those tend to be the types that have creepy long-standing relationships with bands. One time, in the mid-nineties, I went to an Afghan Whigs show in San Francisco. This was probably around the time that Honky's Ladder hit, ie. when they were finally making it "big." We were bopping along, and then this fat, ugly girl hisses in my ear "You don't even know this song." I did, indeed, know the song, and I specifically remember it because the song's title is "Retarded." She assumed I didn't know the song because it was on one of their older albums, and of course all cute fans show up once the bands go mainstream. Anyway, I went home that night with a wad of gum in my hair (seriously), but content that I was I not only had a wide breadth of pre-emo musical knowledge, but also that I was cuter than that fat girl.

Anyway, my point is, that everyone at the Verve show was completely unaware that they had a back catalog. Urban Hymns was it. Now, I don't really feel like going into all of the brutal details, but I could have given a shit by the time that album came out. I mean, I had it, don't get me wrong. And I sold my food stamps to see them on that tour, but like, it was not A Northern Soul. It didn't even have a Gravity Grave. Slide Away. Christ. So the girl next to me would just go mute during the few times they played a tune off of anything other than UH and then do these really annoying finger-extended wrist twirls throughout the other songs. Frankly, I want to sleep with one of these types of girls because for the life of me, I can't find anything else redeeming about them, and there must be some reason that you people keep them around.

I kind of got the feeling that Richard Ashcroft et al cared more about being a big rock star and having people scream at them and all that than actually making great music and making their fat, ugly fans happy. And that made me sad. Like, I understand that they want to play their newer stuff, but at this point it's all old. Do they really not think that History is a better song than some shit about catching butterflies? Because unless butterflies is code for AIDS, I'm just not interested.

I'm not 15 anymore. I've met guys a lot taller, skinnier, and more strung out than him. And even though this band meant a whole lot to me back then, I'm not sure if I'm willing to fly around the world to prove it again. Like, they represented something to me, and I'm not even sure what it was, but probably something loosely correlating to depression and drug use. And like, what can't I loosely correlate with those two things? That said, A Northern Soul was a fucking deadly album, right?

Anyway, the show was still really good, despite my gripes. Afterwards I went to the Art School to see Modeselektor and hear some dirty disco, made some new friends in Glasgow, came back to Dublin and am now gearing up to go hear Mr. Pauli, the man who is going to bring the vocoder back. Can't complain.

Somehow, I've fallen into a scene. Having been a perpetual scenester since my early teens, I've seen a lot. Overambitious gradesters hustling for GPA, intravenous drug-using punk rockers, riot grrls with questionable gender politiks, sexually perverse photography involving tennis racquets, grain-eating, therapy-loving "motivation" examiners--it's endless. But I'm not sure if anything I've been a part, or on the fringe, of, could possibly be as weird as what I've gotten myself into now.

Techno.

I know. Seriously, I don't think there's anything I can say to explain this away or even make sense of it. I can only being by saying moving to a new country is a very, very lonely time in one's life, and one's decision making abilities are often clouded by the desperate longing for human companionship and free drinks. Also, I think we all know that overall, I'm a miserable person. But the times in my life when I've been happiest are when I've had a gang and been on a scene. That's my best justification.

When I moved here, my only close friend was a DJ. Before I met him, I had been told he was one of the top DJs in Dublin --"Like being the best speller in your 3rd grade class," I later quipped to him--and thoroughly unimpressed, I proceeded to give him the notorious Lina stink-eye and brush-off when we first met. The second time, though, I said "So you're a DJ, eh? Do you know this tune?" I proceeded to list some of the stupidest songs I could think of, and he not only knew them all, he knew their 12" b-sides and the Razormaid mixes that sampled them.

Now, I'm known for having the most random musical preferences on the face of the earth. And not in a cool I-listen-to-60s-French-pop tunes sort of way, but in a kind of lame I-collect-Samantha-Fox-singles sort of way. So to find someone that although didn't necessarily support it, but at least knew it, was a breath of fresh air in this strange, new country.

Little did I know that this was like when the drug dealer gives you your first hit free. Talking about my favorite 80s new wave songs slowly brought us to italo disco, one of his--and now mine--passions. Italo is a word to describe music from the late 70s and early 80s, mostly Italian in provenance, and cheesy and wonderful beyond belief. Think Baltimora's 'Tarzan Boy.' I'm not going to write more about Italo right now because I have too much to say about it to do it all now.

Anyway, as it turns out, my new best friend is known for DJing two types of music, Italo and techno. Mainly techno.

It started slowly. Invited to a show or two, meeting a few people who became friends, getting perma-guestlisted at weekly clubs, but it wasn't until I had a shocking realization that I finally got into it. The predominant fan base at techno gigs are boys. Young boys. This in combination with the free ins I get to the clubs have made me a regular on the scene, albeit a ambivalent one. Don't get me wrong, I love anything with a synthesizer; I was there for the original Electroclash, after all, but I never thought I was going to be having idle chats about 808s with Dutch techno djs. Just last week I was talking to a German techno dj who was in town to play, about dubstep. I was telling him that I had heard it had to be listened to with a ton of speakers, festival-style, to be appreciated and I wondered what he thought about it. "I think if music is good, it sounds good at any volume," he said.

"Like Chris de Burgh, 'Lady in Red,'" I squealed happily, looking up for a sign of agreement.

"Uh, yes, like that."

So clearly I haven't quite learned to fit in yet. That night, I was in the club, leaning against a wall watching said German play. I was watching the dance floor as if it were a controlled experiment and I was a sociologist trying to sort of the relationship between man and ape. I can't begin to describe what really, really, enthusiastic teenage techno-heads behave like after midnight. I was standing with one of my other dj friends--I have about a dozen now--and finally he turns to me and says, "do you even like techno?"

He's caught me. My face turns red. "I just come here for the boys," I say, abashed. "I just come here for the boys."

Anyway. I have a lot more to say about what's going on musically in Dublin, and how last night, a DJ saved my life. Promise to update more.

Interestingly enough, I regularly think about this. Or at least, when I hear a song that speaks to me in a certain way, I think this would be a good song to strip to. I'm not sure if this is due to my previous association with strippers and their clubs, or just some sort of deep-seated psychological issue, but nonetheless, this is how my mind works. Back in the day there used to be a strip club in San Francisco that had a large number of goth girls working there who would dance to songs by Sisters of Mercy and The Smiths. More than dancing, they would just mope onto stage, expose their bits and sulk off. Frankly, it was far more enticing than most of the pole gymnastics they were performing at other clubs.

Other songs to consider: Pour Some Sugar on Me - Def Leppard

Micah and I stayed together after I left California to go to college in New York. We talked to each other on the phone every night, and I cried and carried on as if my heart would never heal from the separation. Micah had promised to move to New York to be with me, he was just taking a little bit of time to save some money before he came. Like the dutiful teenage girlfriend that I was, I had a large framed picture of him on my desk, and looked at it mournfully many times a day. Finally though, the lesbian influence at Sarah Lawrence affected me, and I allowed myself to be convinced that Micah would never, indeed, save the money he needed to move to New York, and therefore the relationship was doomed. I broke up with him, in a tearful long-distance call. It was only later that I discovered he had married a stripper three weeks earlier and neglected to mention it to me. A year later they had the marriage annulled, on the grounds that they had been under the influence of nitrous (in the form of whipped cream canister refills) at the time of the marriage.

Our relationship officially ended when I was still 17, but I've remained friends with him for the last decade of my life. The only thing more absurd than Micah is his awareness of his own absurdity--a rare trait. When you hear him tell the story of the time he was arrested for loitering with the intent to prostitute, you can't help but think he's got a great imagination. When I was a private investigator, though, I looked up his criminal record in San Francisco and there it was in black and white. The ridiculousness of him is overwhelming. Sometimes though, it's hard for me not to wonder what my life would be like if I had never gone to so many Fang shows and just kept shopping at J. Crew as I was meant to do. You can never really quantify how a relationship affects you, but I do know that my relationship with Micah shaped who I am, both in my teen years and to the present day, more than any I've had since.

And although I love him to this day, I can't help but think that perhaps he would be better served--not to mention the girls that he dates--if he dated women closer to his own age. When I walked in and saw him last weekend, he was with his band. A couple of eighteen year olds sitting around drinking cheap beer with spiked hair and sullen expressions. One of them was named Spaz. Seriously. Micah's new girlfriend was also there, and claimed to be 18. After a few beers though, it came out that she was not quite 18 yet, and I couldn't contain my horror. "I dated him when I was 17, and that was 10 years ago!" I squawked. He gets older and they stay the same age, as the joke goes. "Age is meaningless," the girl replied, snottily. "Yeah, call me in ten years and tell me how it works out," I said, sneering. Even while wearing pearl earrings, I can still make teenagers flinch with a well-aimed look.

Later, we all went to the show together. Mary and I stood and attempted to make conversation with the girl, who was clearly incapable of it. When she saw my new Converse, she said "Lucky!" unable to contain the wistfulness in her voice. I hadn't pined over a pair of $30 sneakers like that since I was, well, 17. Micah had only formed his band eight weeks ago, and had gotten a tattoo to commemorate each month of their survival. Onstage, they were better than I had anticipated, but still slightly horrifying. Besides Micah, I might have been the oldest person in the club, which was covered in graffiti and littered in Pabst Blue Ribbon cans. Underage drinking abounded. When Micah sang, he looked as if ha was going into convulsions and turned scarlet. I whooped when he started singing a Fang song and then caught myself. "Who am I?" I wondered. And then, watching the tattooed middle-aged man on stage screaming the word "fuck" over and over, I thought, "I can't believe I lost my virginity to this guy." I looked around at the crowd of 15-year-olds that had gathered to see the show, and snickered disdainfully. "I was going to punk shows when you were still in Pampers," I thought. And sadly, if any of them had some sort of delayed development--which, judging by the audience, seemed a distinct possibility--that might actually be true.

Mary told me that Micah said to her, "Sometimes Lina looks at me like I ruined her life." I can't help it though, I look at everyone that way.

Covering the entire span of my romantic life in just three songs:

Love to Hate You - Erasure
Loving You, Hating Me - Soft Cell
I Hate Myself for Loving You - Joan Jett

Right now I'm in the process of making a top ten list of things for us to do tonight. Currently, at the top of the list is calling/writing all of our exes and telling them we'll kill ourselves if they won't say "I love you." Sadly, this wasn't my idea, but was the genius of a friend who thought this would be a good group activity. Angry at him for having such a good idea, at 11:30 today I instant messaged him.

"Have lunch with me," I wrote.
I waited a second, then typed, "or I'll kill myself."

So far, other items on the list of possible activities include, in various combinations: glory holes, the Westminster Dog Show, rohypnol, Tijuana, Jewish porn, cigarettes, and crying softly. Nothing screams romance like suicide threats and dog shows.

My brother on V-Day:
Max: there was candy at the front desk
Max: and when i tried to grab one
Max: the secretary was like "YOU CANT HAVE ONE UNLESS YOU WRITE US A VALENTINE" and pointed to a box that had obviously been decorated for at least an hour
Max: i wrote "die in a fire" folded it in half and then took a hersheys
Max: BAM

Per usual tradition, Valentines of the past:

I was re-reading one of my favorite books this week'Of Human Bondage--and I was struck by the plight of the main character. After being left by the woman he passionately loved, he found that curiously, he did not miss her. 'He did not think of her with wrath,' Maugham wrote, 'but with an overwhelming sense of boredom.'

I too, feel overwhelmed by boredom when contemplating most of my exes. For fun, sometimes, I try to determine what, if anything, I have gotten out of these particular relationships. The psychic scars are clear; the emotional damage is decided and diagnosable.

I have gained something from these failed relationships besides psychological disorders, however. Each boyfriend that passes through my life leaves a definite impression on one vital part of me'my music collection.

My first boyfriend insisted on wooing me to the strains of The Ramones and The Circle Jerks. When he was feeling particularly amorous, he would slip in a cassette of G.G. Allin, lyricist of such thoughtful songs as 'Scars on My Body, Scabs on My Dick' and 'Needle Up My Cock.'

Boyfriend #1 had been in a punk band of his own, a fact that never failed to impress me. One of his few releases, titled 'Hell Bent For Rehab' featured lyrics about older men seducing teenage girls for kicks. 'Dude, that's not, like, autobiographical,' he would claim, as he told me to wait in the car so he could buy us the cigarettes and lottery tickets that I was not legally allowed to purchase.

And much as my mother expected and my father prayed for, Boyfriend #1 left my life, into the arms of a waiting stripper. The stain of his musical taste, however, was not so easily lifted. Listening to Iggy Pop still makes me quiver with delight, and I'd be lying if I said I didn't think some of Fang's lyrics didn't affect in a way that no one else has since been able to replicate'the song 'Everybody Makes Me Want to Barf' really speaks to me.

The next 'boyfriend' was the only one with any actual musical taste. An actual DJ, his taste ranged from Kiss to Olivia Newton-John, but new wave and 80's classics were his true calling. The floor of our apartment buckled under the weight of his records, and he would often stay hours after closing at his record store job, looking for disco classics or ultra-rare Sigue Sigue Sputnik remixes. #2 shaped my musical taste beyond compare'each time he infuriated me, which was many times daily, he brought me reconciliation gifts of records and cds. 'You like Tiffany?' he'd ask, and reappear with all of her b-sides and five other teenage girl artists that I was sure to like as much or more. He still sends me packages of cds occasionally, and is my lifeline into the world of pop music.

Boyfriend #3, despite being a self-proclaimed music aficionado, took much more from me musically than he gave, which was representative of much of the relationship. Notwithstanding his refusal to meet or acknowledge the existence of #2, he was content copying all of #2's music from my collection, and adopting it as his own. He would DJ entire parties with songs that were, essentially, sloppy seconds from my previous love.

I came out of that relationship with less positive additions to my musical collection, but a definitive idea of what I didn't want. Namely, emo-core bands with limited talent and a decided focus on their hairstyles, much like their dedicated fans. And sometimes, learning what you don't want, emotionally or musically, is all you can expect to get out of a relationship.

And now, working in an office with dozens of handsome young men with the 'Sharing' box on their ITunes checked, I've found that rather than deal with their personalities or problems, I'm content to scroll through their playlists, and imagine how my life could change if I downloaded them to my collection.

Feelin' it.

I got back from LA, none the wiser, but so much more tan. Actually, I don't tan, but sometimes when I get enough sun my freckles blend together to give the illusion of a tan. I've decided that I love LA. There are palm trees everywhere, and the entire 120 mile city is one big strip mall. If there is one thing that I like, it's strip malls. Well, I like malls and I like strippers, so I figure the combination is gold. My plan is to go on a diet and move to LA. I've already started. My diet plan is rather simple, I eat exactly what I would normally eat, I just feel really guilty about it. It's a plan that nearly anyone can follow! I had a great time there though. I got to see my old friends and stay in a fabulous house and pet a dog with a snaggletooth. And I must admit that I smoked cigarettes all weekend. Because I was on vacation, you know. And I drove the entire trip down by myself, which was almost 6 hours. I had decided that Mary was too small to drive my big car, but as it turns out she handled it quite adeptly on the way home. I drove faster than I have ever driven before too, which was super fun but I can't tell you how fast I drove because I have too many snitches reading this site who might report back to my daddy.

While I was there, I got to see yet another Electroclash extravaganza (seems like they are following me, almost) where I saw the infamous Avenue D again. Their line-up of songs include, "I want a donkey punch" and lyrics like

I'm sure you can see why I have the utmost respect for Daphne and Debbie. I went to that show with "Jamie" of unprotected sex fame of a few posts down, and she reminded me that four years ago we had made plans to start a band called "Unprotected Anal Sex With a Stranger." Had we followed through on such plans, it would be we, and not Avenue D performing in LA wearing nothing but pasties.

I actually have a number of band plans in the works at the moment. There is Lina Squared with the other Lina, The Invisibles (of which I am DJ Lina Invisible) with Teresa, and now of course, the resurrection of Unprotected Anal Sex With a Stranger. It's particularly intriguing because I do not play any instrument nor do I intend to learn. Unless of course we hark back to the tamborine debacle.

I'm afraid though, that once I move to LA I won't have a whole lot left to fall back on. I've always kept Los Angeles in the back of my mind as a place I might want to settle, and once I burn through that city, I'm not sure where I will have left. Unfortunately, I have terrible language skills (I only speak the language of love) so I am afraid to leave the country for an extended period. There's always England, but the weather sucks. And weather is important, you know? I'm just rambling because I should be doing my homework right now. I've been putting it off for 12 hours.

In other news, I've decided that I am completely broke. Apparently, I have this little "problem" that haters like to call a "shopping addiction."

And PS you better start leaving more comments here, I'm getting bored.

Well, the non-smoking dealy has been going really well. I haven't had a cigarette since my birthday, primarily because I am still breathing with the strength of a 90 year old with emphysema. So that part of my plan to swear off fags has been rather successful. Unfortunately, my coup d'etat has not been complete, as I went to see Erasure last night with my mother. It was only about halfway through the show--when Andy Bell stripped down to nothing but a corset and leather underwear (and the corset came off soon afterwards)--that I realized that perhaps these fellows were homosexual and I had, unintentionally, crossed my own mental boundary. I had a great time though. Fabulous, really.

In case you don't remember, Franny and I were roommates in college. Not housemates, mind you, we lived in a single room together. Anyone who can put up with me like that deserves your love and support. Fran and I used to listen to the Smiths frequently--we also talked about ritual suicide frequently. At one point, we had a plan to hang giant signs out our window with one or two lines of Billy Joel's "We Didn't Start the Fire." We intended to divide it perfectly so it would last an entire semester. We had big plans, Fran and I, but of course, like all things that are important to me, they never came to fruition.

We did many other amusing things together, like driving to syracuse, drawing skulls on everything we owned, buying those 4oz. cans of Budwiser, calling security on dirty hippie drum circles, and eating sushi on the floor. Now that I look back on it, I guess it wasn't so fun. Fran, correct me if I am wrong. Maybe you can supplement this somehow. Make us sound cool, or something.

Today I was talking to Fran on the phone:

Me: I'm thinking about becoming a compulsive masturbator.
Fran: That's kind of like having a weblog.
Me: Damn you.

Anyway, I miss Fran and want her to come visit me so go tell her to come here or give her money or buy her things or something.

Once this week is over I might become sane again, but no promises. Did I ever link that paper I wrote a while ago? I dunno.

Dear Eminem,
You are super hot. Thanks for taking off your shirt that one time in 8 Mile.
It was also nice to see that you only need approximately 2 minutes to procreate. I love you forever.

Love,
Lina

So anyway, I went to a free Devo show last week--that was fun. And then this weekend I went to the Electroclash thing again this year, but this time at the Fillmore in San Fran and not in NYC where I was last year (this is to help out those of you who are lina-geographically-challenged). I thought I would commemorate the one year anniversary of this crappy domain by linking to my post from last year's show. Turns out I was just as amusing last year as I am today.

This is me and my gal pals at some bar getting hit on by weird guys. This picture is noteworthy primarily because we are all so incredibly sassy.

I posted this picture because Teresa is so cute and my earrings are cool.

This was backstage at Electroclash and I am just posting it to impress you.

So anyway, I saw Tracy and the Plastics, WIT, Chicks on Speed and Peaches. Chicks on Speed opened their set by calling for a class war and they made me tingle. I have seen them so many times and it makes me happy every single time. They always inspire me to go out and do things like wear blue eyeshadow and make art. Peaches was also fabulous, as usual. She tossed out vibrators to the crowd, simulated sex, threw herself into the crowd, and dressed like a Capp St whore. I love her. At one point she put the mike down her pants and sang into a dildo. If putting a microphone in your underwear and crooning into a dildo is wrong, I don't want to know what right is.

The whole thing made me depressed though. I got to hang out with my old friends who came to town, see some of my other old pals like good old Larry Tee, watch the show from backstage and make fun of the mere mortals, etc. But the thing is, it's over now. And my friends are gone. And I don't have designer clothes. All I want to do is shop. For expensive shoes. I think this must be the flu talking. Anyway, nothing I am typing or thinking is making sense so I had better stop soon.

I would also like to mention that I have gotten 2 more A's since my last grade update, so for those of you who question sending me money, think about it this way--you are investing in America's future. Smooches.

So, since I blocked my mom from reading my webpage, I can go ahead and start publishing her emails again.

I like my mom, and my mom likes freaks. My brother and I got my mom some crap for her birthday, that I mentioned at the time, but forgot to link for fear of ruining the surprise. So here it is, you should all run out and get these things for yo mommas.

"Do you think Bad or Thriller is better? Just wondering...."

Let us compare and contrast:

1. Wanna Be Startin' Somethin'/Bad
Oh yeah. Double hitter territory. Bad just rocks! And the video with those gay gang members must be the first attempt to raise the issue of homosexuality in gang culture in music video history. For that alone, it must win.

BUT NO! We are forgetting "Ma Ma Se, Ma Ma Sa, Ma Ma Coo Sa" twinned with the tightest musical backing since James Brown played the Apollo in trousers that didn't so much as show you which sex he was, but also his religion. "Startin'..." is such a good song. It is like a complete album in 5 minutes. All the positive vibes of an opener, the soulsearching middle and the hand-clappin', backing-singered finale. Thriller 1 - 0 Bad

2. Baby Be Mine/The Way You Make Me Feel
No contest. The weakest song on Thriller against the second best song on Bad. "Chika, chika Chika, chika, chika Go on, girl" Thriller 1 - 1 Bad

3. The Girl Is Mine/Speed Demon
It's a close one, but Speed Demon throws in the towel with, as Paul Simon once said, 'words that tear and strain to rhyme' I mean, "Speeeeeeeeed Dmnnnn!" And The Girl Is Mine has a Beatle singing. Game, set and match. Also features Michael saying, "I'm A Lover Not A Fighter" Thriller 2 - 1 Bad

4. Thriller/Liberian Girl
There is no need to justify this. Thriller 3 - 1 Bad

5. Beat It/Just Good Friends
Now, I am not that crazy over Beat It. I think the guitar solo is plain awful. Spoils the song. Then, I can't for the lifer of me remember Just Good Friends. So... Thriller 4 - 1 Bad

6. Billie Jean/Another Part Of Me
One of the great Bad songs. In the best Stevie Wonder tradition. This song walks over so many other Michael Jackson songs. Unfortunately, just when Bad really needs to start picking up some points, along comes Billie Jean. The greatest bassline ever written struts into town.
There is nothing that comes even close to this song. When King of Pop time is over. Heck, 1000 years from now. This will remain. Two points. Thriller 6 - 1 Bad

7. Human Nature/Man In The Mirror
A close one. Man In The Mirror should knockout, but can't as it is cloyingly ego-lead "look at me, I am human too" wank-a-thon. Good tune, however. Plus, I am feeling pretty bad for Bad getting its ass kicked so royally. So I guess I tie is okay. Even though Human Nature is better :D Thriller 7 - 2 Bad

8. PYT/I Just Can't Stop Loving You
There was a time that Michael wrote wonderful ballads. Without him, there would be so fewer Bens in this world. Good thing/Bad thing - whose to decide? Anyway. Again, a nice lil' MJ ballad comes up against yet another Thriller headfucker. The only thing that is gonna make Bad look awful now is the fact it has more tracks. hehe. Thriller 8 - 2 Bad

9. Lady In My Life vs The rest of Bad (Dirty Diana, Smooth Criminal & Leave Me Alone)
Okay. Lady In My Life in schmaltz. Since the age of ten, I have known that this record should have finished with a reprise of track one. But no. It kinda whimpers away. Against that we can ignore Dirty Diana, as song-writing by numbers (and another awful guitar part) and move swiftly on to the best song on Bad. Smooth Criminal is out there. This song is so good that, 15 years on, I am still concerned to find out if Annie was okay. I mean, she may have had major recontructive surgery or something, and is now working as a volunteer in a shelter somewhere. And Leave Me Alone shows that Eminem having a "oooh. I hate being famous! Everyone bugs me all the time" Is not new. And Jacko said it with class. And still meant 'Fuck Off'. Two points to Bad. It would have been three, but thinking about Dirty Diana's guitar part has put me off eating tonite.

FINAL RESULT THRILLER 8 - 4 BAD

I must say, I do agree with this analysis except for one key point. Dirty Diana ROCKS (rox0rs?) the house. Other than that, perfect. :)

Last night I went to go see Ian's band play. You know, maybe I am just getting old, but it has become rather painful to see shows now. Even though I really liked the music, and it was the perfect level of emo for me, I kept thinking, "why is this so loud?" But Ian is a rock star.

Also, there were scores of boys/men there, and it made me nervous. I can't seem to function in their presence. I am pathetic, yes. Of course the lovely Tracy was also there. Tracy used to be a financial analyst. Now I am not one to point fingers (or wiggle them for that matter), but the word 'analyst' clearly features the word anal. Appropriately enough, I suppose. Speaking of which, PLEASE, go read the last letter in Savage Love this week. I peed myself laughing.

Today, as a form of birth control, I hung out with my friend Christy's three children, and two of my buddies from the North Bay. This little excursion has encouraged me to stay celibate for at least another 20 years, even though I probably would have anyway, by default. As far as small boys go, these ones are pretty f'in cool. But I am too tired to do that at a full-time level, yaknowwhatimean?

Love me.

Girl One: "I mean, like, what do you call a guy that cheats on you all time???"
Girl Two: "Your boyfriend?"

AHAHAH

Okay, I'm done with finals, and am almost done with moving. My cam will be down for a week or so, but since I barely update you probably won't even notice! I am so stressed out that I keep having weird panic attacks where I can't breathe. It's kind of fun though, because if you don't breathe for long enough brain cells start to die and it gives you a buzz.

Tonight I went to hear the PLF dj. It was fun. He played the popcorn song (my theme song) for me, and hooked on a feeling. Then this asshole came over and said, "Can you do me a favor and turn this off?" Then I wasn't allowed to make requests anymore so he wouldn't play my next few choices which were O-Town, Amish Paradise by Weird Al, All She Wants to Do is Dance by Don Henley and Everybody Wang Chung Tonight. Why is life so hard??

Go visit Gutterslut, she's the newest chickenlegs writer lady--and with such an enticing name! It makes me question my whole spin on life.

So I was planning on just posting the lyrics to Biggie Smalls' Back To Cali but I decided that would be way too annoying for my "mature" readers. Meaning anyone who doesn't have their hand in their pants right now.
I had a weird dream about moving last night. It was mostly good, except I was with my parents and there were all these dogs there, and my dad was being mean to me. But then we went to get me a bed so that's when it because a good dream.

I'm boring. But I love COPS too. The show I mean.

I just read this post and realized that I am the biggest moron.

So I know I have said it before, but I am not ashamed to say it again. I LOVE THE CHICKS ON SPEED. They motivate me to put on mascara and leave my apartment on occasion.

New photo album from chix show tonight up here.

Hahah I had a double chin so I had to cut it out of this pic. HAHAHHAHAHAA. Don't tell internet gossip!