I blame Sarah...
Since I've been officially addicted to friendster (Did you know I'm within 2 degrees of Rachel Carns. Well I'm pleased.)
for this past month or so I figure it's high to quit ignoring my lonely, lowly live journal account. Even if Brit is the only person I still actually know on here. (PS I'm still sad you didn't see me in Minneapolis. I was going to you to Dillenger 4's bar, the one that all the fashion punks hang out at. You would have gotten laid there for sure.)
Anyway, this summer has thoroughly kicked my ass. Since interning at my roommates booking agency, thus completing the circle of doing every shit job in rock'n'roll, I've come to the scary conclusion that the music industry might actually be kind of boring. The movie theater has REALLY gone downhill since the union got voted down and the girl with a really great smile that melts my little heart is moving to Brooklyn before we even got a chance to make-out, or least have her turn down the offer to make-out with me. The radio station still has me logging cds in the data base with no hopes of a radio show anytime in the future. (My 3 new redio show ideas: "The Outlaw Cowgirl Show" rebel Americana and criminal country, "Ham on Rye Radio" experimental spoken word ala Kathy Acker/ Sue P Fox mixed post-punk and no-wave bands from 80's NYC, "The Anarchist Dance Hour" self-explanatory although I will cringe whenever I have to play the new corporate Le Tigre.) Hotel work continues to suck away at my very soul, still it is the best paying job I've ever had and will probably ever get (up to hooker money on good days if I count in tips and tax free!). At the desk yesterday I checked out Mr. Har Mar Superstar and he fucking snubbed my ass. Probably because he knows he still owes me $20.
I leave for my massive West Coast ride in a few days. I know I should be excited to spend 2 weeks in a car with Courtney seeing ever hot dyke and tranny in band ever, but my stomach is knots. Courtney jinx the whole damn thing by telling me about this "bad feeling" she got heading out. What the fuck? The last thing I need is my co-pilot on a 2+ week roadtrip across the country on little to no money, no place stay and no map to tell me that this might be a bad idea. We're going to see Team Dresch, damn it! King Cobra! If I'm lucky, girl pirates and bike punks. Why do I feel so nervous about all this?
for this past month or so I figure it's high to quit ignoring my lonely, lowly live journal account. Even if Brit is the only person I still actually know on here. (PS I'm still sad you didn't see me in Minneapolis. I was going to you to Dillenger 4's bar, the one that all the fashion punks hang out at. You would have gotten laid there for sure.)
Anyway, this summer has thoroughly kicked my ass. Since interning at my roommates booking agency, thus completing the circle of doing every shit job in rock'n'roll, I've come to the scary conclusion that the music industry might actually be kind of boring. The movie theater has REALLY gone downhill since the union got voted down and the girl with a really great smile that melts my little heart is moving to Brooklyn before we even got a chance to make-out, or least have her turn down the offer to make-out with me. The radio station still has me logging cds in the data base with no hopes of a radio show anytime in the future. (My 3 new redio show ideas: "The Outlaw Cowgirl Show" rebel Americana and criminal country, "Ham on Rye Radio" experimental spoken word ala Kathy Acker/ Sue P Fox mixed post-punk and no-wave bands from 80's NYC, "The Anarchist Dance Hour" self-explanatory although I will cringe whenever I have to play the new corporate Le Tigre.) Hotel work continues to suck away at my very soul, still it is the best paying job I've ever had and will probably ever get (up to hooker money on good days if I count in tips and tax free!). At the desk yesterday I checked out Mr. Har Mar Superstar and he fucking snubbed my ass. Probably because he knows he still owes me $20.
I leave for my massive West Coast ride in a few days. I know I should be excited to spend 2 weeks in a car with Courtney seeing ever hot dyke and tranny in band ever, but my stomach is knots. Courtney jinx the whole damn thing by telling me about this "bad feeling" she got heading out. What the fuck? The last thing I need is my co-pilot on a 2+ week roadtrip across the country on little to no money, no place stay and no map to tell me that this might be a bad idea. We're going to see Team Dresch, damn it! King Cobra! If I'm lucky, girl pirates and bike punks. Why do I feel so nervous about all this?