Light me up like a lemon grove.
Fuck a goat ass, boys and girls, I've been annoyingly emo lately. My last couple of missiles launched blearily into the blogosphere read sort of like half-asleep cries for help. Neau. Bad. It's (almost) FFFriday, and I have a Short List of Awesome to discuss with you fine people.
•I have a Flogging Molly ticket for the sold-out show tomorrow night at one of my favorite concert venues evah. Yep, I said a ticket, because I'm going blissfully alone. There is no greater musical cockblock than bringing someone who doesn't like punkish music to a punkish concert. This was reaffirmed for me last night when I told the Cute Boy this while listening to their album that just came out, and he asked, "But... aren't they kind of obnoxious??" Why, yes, yes they are. Uhm, yes, hello, this is the entire genre of vaguely-punk-rock-rooted music calling. I don't believe we've spoken?? That's okay, I actually quite like going to shows alone; not least of the reasons which is that I have a very serious Frottage Problem. Heh.
•I am going to Rigoletto at our local (surprisingly good, completely renovated) opera house on Sunday. The tickets were a Christmas gift from my mother. I love the opera, and have since I was a teenager. I bet you think I'm kidding. But nope.
•I scored Weakerthans tickets for the end of the month too! March overfloweth with ways to get sweaty amidst 700 of your closest friends.
•As if my ears weren't already going to be seriously tired and busted after all that, I'm taking the Cute Boy to They Might Be Giants on Tuesday. It's his birthday. HIS 30TH BIRTHDAY. Yikes. I think I just felt my phantom scrotum recede back into my abdominal cavity vicariously and in imagined sympathy while contemplating that one. Eek. And ew. Nice one.
•I JUST GOT PAID. Because, as it turns out, I'm actually an indentured servant and not just a plantation negro after all! Finally, my cupboards can once again be flush with only the tip-top of the top ramen like dey once wuz. Hell to the yes from one paycheck to da otha.
•Cleaning of house has been accomplished.
•I started reading Against Happiness last night. I think I already want to cover this book in my saliva and lust, because it rocks. It's an ode to melancholy, essentially, and an open letter to American culture warning it not to medicate, purchase and new-age all its less-than-manic-giddiness feelings away like an eraser on a chalkboard. Would we have your favorite piece of art, that song that makes a tear come to your eye, or the gorgeous poem written by the dude who later died facedown in a puddle of cheap Irish whiskey were it not for sadness? Methinks not.
•It takes very, shamefully, shockingly little to please me. Which in itself is a good thing. And self-evidenced by the above. Weeee.
•The fetid cesspond that is Florida has decided to kick out one last spate of beautifully chilly, rainy weather before it goes back to steaming for the year. I thought this pathetic sham we call pseudowinter had already sung its swampy Swann Song! Hooray for clinging to the last drop of not-hot!
On that note, boys and girls, I'm off to get some sleep that, fingers crossed, isn't actually just a method of transmission for bizarrely fractured dreams about everyone I know becoming marionettes and the like (gawd, everything about my sleep is totally fucked up). I wish you the very shiniest of Solid Gold Weekends. Don't forget to Spring Forward onto something.
•I have a Flogging Molly ticket for the sold-out show tomorrow night at one of my favorite concert venues evah. Yep, I said a ticket, because I'm going blissfully alone. There is no greater musical cockblock than bringing someone who doesn't like punkish music to a punkish concert. This was reaffirmed for me last night when I told the Cute Boy this while listening to their album that just came out, and he asked, "But... aren't they kind of obnoxious??" Why, yes, yes they are. Uhm, yes, hello, this is the entire genre of vaguely-punk-rock-rooted music calling. I don't believe we've spoken?? That's okay, I actually quite like going to shows alone; not least of the reasons which is that I have a very serious Frottage Problem. Heh.
•I am going to Rigoletto at our local (surprisingly good, completely renovated) opera house on Sunday. The tickets were a Christmas gift from my mother. I love the opera, and have since I was a teenager. I bet you think I'm kidding. But nope.
•I scored Weakerthans tickets for the end of the month too! March overfloweth with ways to get sweaty amidst 700 of your closest friends.
•As if my ears weren't already going to be seriously tired and busted after all that, I'm taking the Cute Boy to They Might Be Giants on Tuesday. It's his birthday. HIS 30TH BIRTHDAY. Yikes. I think I just felt my phantom scrotum recede back into my abdominal cavity vicariously and in imagined sympathy while contemplating that one. Eek. And ew. Nice one.
•I JUST GOT PAID. Because, as it turns out, I'm actually an indentured servant and not just a plantation negro after all! Finally, my cupboards can once again be flush with only the tip-top of the top ramen like dey once wuz. Hell to the yes from one paycheck to da otha.
•Cleaning of house has been accomplished.
•I started reading Against Happiness last night. I think I already want to cover this book in my saliva and lust, because it rocks. It's an ode to melancholy, essentially, and an open letter to American culture warning it not to medicate, purchase and new-age all its less-than-manic-giddiness feelings away like an eraser on a chalkboard. Would we have your favorite piece of art, that song that makes a tear come to your eye, or the gorgeous poem written by the dude who later died facedown in a puddle of cheap Irish whiskey were it not for sadness? Methinks not.
•It takes very, shamefully, shockingly little to please me. Which in itself is a good thing. And self-evidenced by the above. Weeee.
•The fetid cesspond that is Florida has decided to kick out one last spate of beautifully chilly, rainy weather before it goes back to steaming for the year. I thought this pathetic sham we call pseudowinter had already sung its swampy Swann Song! Hooray for clinging to the last drop of not-hot!
On that note, boys and girls, I'm off to get some sleep that, fingers crossed, isn't actually just a method of transmission for bizarrely fractured dreams about everyone I know becoming marionettes and the like (gawd, everything about my sleep is totally fucked up). I wish you the very shiniest of Solid Gold Weekends. Don't forget to Spring Forward onto something.