When was the last time you danced like crazy to Tiffany and Phil Collins?
If it wasn’t on Saturday night, then you should get with it already.
The scene: a few dozen shoulder-padded Wall-Street boom squash-playing cokeheads crowded into my favourite gallery.
The DJ played everything we loved about the late 80s – with an American Psycho leaning – think: Huey Lewis over Madonna. Comme des Garcons over neon.
(one exception...Golden Girls are still not winning me over. Am I alone in my disinterest in that guy?)
Then, clad in Holly glasses, 18 years old …all of 5 feet tall and 75 pounds soaking wet - this kid strolls up to the stage and kills it for the next 2 hours. Fucking. Unbelievable. Girltalk style mashups crossing Feist with old school Daft Punk. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again, the best parties are the ones that surprise you. For a second I saw my fleeting youth dash across the stage – oh to be 18 again and new to it all, notes of an LCD Soundsystem track whipped through my head. But then the second passed. Sure, we’re not 18 anymore. But my friends still know how to have a good time. And 27 isn’t exactly geriatric, either. Fuck – I’ll say it: 30 is the new 21.
It’s starting friends: The SPRING OF KELLY. Let’s hope every weekend goes out like that.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
lust.lust.lust.
Ok. I’m going to get back to writing about things that actually happen. (ok. Admittedly the light things)... This is not the place for me to tell you my opinion on foreign affairs or what I think of the new tax bill. Nor is this the place to whine about the weather and complain about chances missed…I've lost myself lately (following the loss of my wallet and the subsequent overly-complicated fallout of that for the past month….no money can make even the most sensible the most reliant on their friends…)
I think I’m back. I think I remember the sarcastic, hard-edged girl of late who – in milliseconds – started slipping into idealized oblivion. I know why I am the way I am. I think the Kelly of March is someone I don’t recognize. All starry-eyed and lovestruck.
This is the spring of Kelly and I promise it’s going to be all fun, all the time. Back are the days of album reviews, art shows, wicked banter and travelogues….I’ll remember that I never believed in that stuff anyway...that I was getting a million miles ahead of myself…and now I'm back.
(for the record, it was fun while it lasted).
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
back, back, forth, forth
Spring is always on the verge, it teases like highschool make-outs in basements....It is the back and forth last embrace of winter that – while still in March – leaves you feeling anxious, desperate and makes the skin crawl.I am so ready for sunshine....so ready for the feeling that spring and the possibility of summer, that I am aching with anticipation. And it’s not just the warmth, the suntan or the litany of spring shows to look forward to…it’s that everyone is happier in the spring.
We start to shed the bitter winter angst. The work week blends into the weekend and we wake up. I’m so tired of sleepy, cold, awful winter.
I want the return of Tuesday drinks, of nightly dinner parties, of stolen cigarettes on patios without the chill, of kissing outside and not freezing together and of black tights for style, not for necessity ; )
Monday, March 23, 2009
(I'm back. sorry. I have a real job. sometimes.)
I thought spring was here. I let my bitter winter guard down.
I thought I caught the faint drafts of bbq’s and sunscreen…alas the chilled wind is back and I could not be more non-plussed.
but! fear! not! friends! I promise you spring..then summer are coming. I know it's true.
To get back into the spring of things…here are the top 5 spring shows that make dreaming of the green grassy side of winter seem a bit more possible:
1. Dan-fucking-Deacon in what will probably be the weirdest show of the season in the most interesting venue.
2. Animal Collective. If not just to dance in total abandon to ‘My Girls’ (yes. I said it. I still love that song…see? What did I tell you? Best of ‘09….)
3. The National. I hear they have new stuff ready…I close my eyes and picture the National boys, all earnest and darkly clad against the hazy desert backdrop of a hot California day and I hope that this little (surely less epic..) show lives up to my first vision of them…
4. Noah and the Whale. Cute. Clever.British
(hmmm..this seems to be a Kelly- trend lately…)
I thought I caught the faint drafts of bbq’s and sunscreen…alas the chilled wind is back and I could not be more non-plussed.
but! fear! not! friends! I promise you spring..then summer are coming. I know it's true.
To get back into the spring of things…here are the top 5 spring shows that make dreaming of the green grassy side of winter seem a bit more possible:
1. Dan-fucking-Deacon in what will probably be the weirdest show of the season in the most interesting venue.
2. Animal Collective. If not just to dance in total abandon to ‘My Girls’ (yes. I said it. I still love that song…see? What did I tell you? Best of ‘09….)
3. The National. I hear they have new stuff ready…I close my eyes and picture the National boys, all earnest and darkly clad against the hazy desert backdrop of a hot California day and I hope that this little (surely less epic..) show lives up to my first vision of them…
4. Noah and the Whale. Cute. Clever.British
(hmmm..this seems to be a Kelly- trend lately…)
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
YES / NO / MAYBE
YES
Caplanski’s Deli – If you can’t handle the smoked meat sandwich/poutine combo, you can just take a permanent seat at the kids’ table there bud.
YES runner up: Coeur De Pirate. I imagine dancing in summer dresses in the dark with CLOSED eyes, all grins and sunkissed cheeks. Listen to this and I want the summer of my youth.
NO
this is my first unsatisfying Chuck Palahniuk experience. I get the hyper-consumer-superficial-debased reality, but I still don’t care.
Caplanski’s Deli – If you can’t handle the smoked meat sandwich/poutine combo, you can just take a permanent seat at the kids’ table there bud.
YES runner up: Coeur De Pirate. I imagine dancing in summer dresses in the dark with CLOSED eyes, all grins and sunkissed cheeks. Listen to this and I want the summer of my youth.
NO
NO NO NO to this never ending winter. It is ruining me. Enough already. I'm dry and cold and wrinkly and bitter. Stop already.
MAYBE
this is my first unsatisfying Chuck Palahniuk experience. I get the hyper-consumer-superficial-debased reality, but I still don’t care.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
...I just want to turn you down..I just want to turn you around...
Everyone hates MGMT. Five years ago, everyone hated the Strokes. It’s soo indie to hate whatever ends up on the radio. Forget that Oracular Spectacular is a great album. Forget that This Is It changed a million musical minds and they actually said something on that album that meant something to people like me who thought we were the only ones who didn’t know who the fuck we were (or are, for that matter).So, whilst perusing my favourite dress store the other day, this track filled the space, I was immediately reminded of why that band mattered. I hope their new album pumps blood back into the limp corpse they became after the backlash. I hope they make music that is so tight and on point again. I hope they have it all figured out now and they can tell me how they got there.
I hope I can figure it out too, all I know is in that song, I am 100% with Julian.
The last chorus is fucking telepathic.
Monday, March 2, 2009
Monday Top 3.
1. The dry month of march begins: day one.
I’m already boring. I can tell. Boring and sober and boring. See? I can’t even think of another interesting adjective. Fuck. This is going to be a long month.
2. I’m giving in. letting go and sliding down the hill to complete and utter brainwashed consumer bliss. I have decided to buy the dreaded girl trappings of feigned exercise fiends. I know. I know! The most brutal, overly-done overly-priced fashion of the least-fashionable. And now I’m one of them. But the truth is, those fucking pants are awesome. And I vow to wear them ONLY to pilates and ONLY indoors.
Please take heed my friends, if, in 3 weeks, you see me scuffing down the street in pony-tail, uggs and the aforementioned lulu’s, please, do not hesitate to intervene immediately.
This is a slippery slope, dear friends.
I’m already boring. I can tell. Boring and sober and boring. See? I can’t even think of another interesting adjective. Fuck. This is going to be a long month.
2. I’m giving in. letting go and sliding down the hill to complete and utter brainwashed consumer bliss. I have decided to buy the dreaded girl trappings of feigned exercise fiends. I know. I know! The most brutal, overly-done overly-priced fashion of the least-fashionable. And now I’m one of them. But the truth is, those fucking pants are awesome. And I vow to wear them ONLY to pilates and ONLY indoors.
Please take heed my friends, if, in 3 weeks, you see me scuffing down the street in pony-tail, uggs and the aforementioned lulu’s, please, do not hesitate to intervene immediately.
This is a slippery slope, dear friends.
3. Guys, I’m totally starting a band. I’m going to be the lead (OBVS.) and only my ridiculously attractive friends are allowed to audition.
Once formed, we’ll destroy the local scene with our inherent, attractive, awesomeness. All’s we need is a few thousand color photos of my face and the yettobedecidedbandname splayed in only the cool neighborhoods across town.
The outoftheloopers will be all, “who are those ridiculously attractive people I see on all of the telephone poles lately?”
Intheloopers, “pffffft. You don’t know? That’s yettobedecidedbandname. I heard the lead singer is dating Winona Rider.”
How will we achieve such success, and so soon?
Pfft. We’ll steal the booking books from only the coolest venues in town. Once returned, out yettobedecidedbandname will be splashed all over and those books don’t just fill themselves you know. If the book says you’re playing tonight? You bet your ass you are.
And if that doesn’t work. I’ll just watch these guys and get more tips.
p.s. dear Jay McCarrol, let’s get married already. You can be all deadpan funny and tall and shit and I’ll laugh a lot and let you write piano songs for me. I don’t ever need to eat peanuts again if it means not killing you.
Once formed, we’ll destroy the local scene with our inherent, attractive, awesomeness. All’s we need is a few thousand color photos of my face and the yettobedecidedbandname splayed in only the cool neighborhoods across town.
The outoftheloopers will be all, “who are those ridiculously attractive people I see on all of the telephone poles lately?”
Intheloopers, “pffffft. You don’t know? That’s yettobedecidedbandname. I heard the lead singer is dating Winona Rider.”
How will we achieve such success, and so soon?
Pfft. We’ll steal the booking books from only the coolest venues in town. Once returned, out yettobedecidedbandname will be splashed all over and those books don’t just fill themselves you know. If the book says you’re playing tonight? You bet your ass you are.
And if that doesn’t work. I’ll just watch these guys and get more tips.
p.s. dear Jay McCarrol, let’s get married already. You can be all deadpan funny and tall and shit and I’ll laugh a lot and let you write piano songs for me. I don’t ever need to eat peanuts again if it means not killing you.
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
No You Girls*
Tips for successful living by Kelly.
1. Be nice to cab drivers. Your friends will give you a hard time. Make you always sit in front. Chide you for flirting with old Indian men. BUT when in three consecutive weekends, you lose your cell phone (x2) and your wallet and cab drivers personally bring them back to you the same day solely on their own accord, I’m not so silly after all friends.
2. I’m considering taking March on the wagon. I KNOW! It’s crazy. I like gin like most girls like vibrators. And I’m no weekend warrior. This cold turkey thing would send ripples throughout the week. No Wednesday drinks at my local. No free wine at art openings. No drinks to aid my wreckless abandon dance moves. Can it be done? Why would I want to do such a crazy thing anyway? I know you are dying to ask.
I’ll tell you, dear readers: the reasons are three-fold.
reason #1. Moneymoneymoneymoney. I spend more money on booze than the average Stepford wife and I definitely don’t have the absent rich husband (ew) to pay for it.
reason #2. Decisionsdecisionsdecisions. I don’t make good ones on the ol’ gin. Drunk texting and bathroom make outs are soooo 2008.
reason #3. Skinnyskinnyskinny. No one ever got skinny on 3 bottles of gin a week.
3. Do something that scares you. So the guy from your pilates class asks you for drinks? And your safe zone instinct say that pilates flirter is a pretty man who does girly exercise classes and is therefore, gay, and thus, confused. So you say “maybe?” and then said cute pilates man never comes back. Causing you to think he might have just been trying pilates to meet girls, and therefore, NOT gay. Fuck. Foiled again.
Sidenote: crackberriez take photos that Invisible Monster protagonists dream of. Like instant soap opera blown out lighting that practically erases half the face. And sometimes? It kind of works.
*I like Franz Ferdinand again. I need a bit more bravado in my life I think. More fist pumping. More spastic dancing. Thanks Franz. See you at Coachella.
1. Be nice to cab drivers. Your friends will give you a hard time. Make you always sit in front. Chide you for flirting with old Indian men. BUT when in three consecutive weekends, you lose your cell phone (x2) and your wallet and cab drivers personally bring them back to you the same day solely on their own accord, I’m not so silly after all friends.
2. I’m considering taking March on the wagon. I KNOW! It’s crazy. I like gin like most girls like vibrators. And I’m no weekend warrior. This cold turkey thing would send ripples throughout the week. No Wednesday drinks at my local. No free wine at art openings. No drinks to aid my wreckless abandon dance moves. Can it be done? Why would I want to do such a crazy thing anyway? I know you are dying to ask.
I’ll tell you, dear readers: the reasons are three-fold.
reason #1. Moneymoneymoneymoney. I spend more money on booze than the average Stepford wife and I definitely don’t have the absent rich husband (ew) to pay for it.
reason #2. Decisionsdecisionsdecisions. I don’t make good ones on the ol’ gin. Drunk texting and bathroom make outs are soooo 2008.
reason #3. Skinnyskinnyskinny. No one ever got skinny on 3 bottles of gin a week.
3. Do something that scares you. So the guy from your pilates class asks you for drinks? And your safe zone instinct say that pilates flirter is a pretty man who does girly exercise classes and is therefore, gay, and thus, confused. So you say “maybe?” and then said cute pilates man never comes back. Causing you to think he might have just been trying pilates to meet girls, and therefore, NOT gay. Fuck. Foiled again.
Sidenote: crackberriez take photos that Invisible Monster protagonists dream of. Like instant soap opera blown out lighting that practically erases half the face. And sometimes? It kind of works.
*I like Franz Ferdinand again. I need a bit more bravado in my life I think. More fist pumping. More spastic dancing. Thanks Franz. See you at Coachella. Monday, February 23, 2009
squalor victoria
I liked the Wrestler. I liked Mickey Roarke. I even wanted him to win a stupid Oscar.
For two hours, his watery-eyed performance as the washed up, juiced up, shell of a fictional goliath really got to me.
Where are all of those aged-ragged one-time celebrities? The ones without the breadth to see outside of their one-time moments of glory? The guy who dressed up like Barney or Pockaroo or the cast of Saturday morning teenybopper sitcoms…once kids and teenage girls threw themselves at these stars of 1980s. Then one day it was over. Pockaroo is selling insurance in New Mexico. Until last year, half of the New Kids on the Block were working construction in Arizona. Kids got over wrestling. Teenage girls outgrew those teen heartthrobs.
And still the washed up former WWF wresters were schlepping their fake-tanned asses to every small town rink in the country to get paid $40 to get a few steps closer to an aneurism and relive something that was never real to begin with. Guys I know from my small hometown went to see Randy the Macho Man Savage at the Pictou County Hockey rink, and even at age 10, the spectacle left a bad taste in their mouths.
I wanted Roarke to win. There is such grace in redemption. The means are glazed over by the glitter of the ends.
I have made a lot of mistakes. Said a lot of things I shouldn’t have said. But I doubt any grandiose redemption is in the cards for me, it’s far less dramatic when there is no audience. And I probably don’t deserve it anyway.
Mickey Roarke though, he does.
For two hours, his watery-eyed performance as the washed up, juiced up, shell of a fictional goliath really got to me.
Where are all of those aged-ragged one-time celebrities? The ones without the breadth to see outside of their one-time moments of glory? The guy who dressed up like Barney or Pockaroo or the cast of Saturday morning teenybopper sitcoms…once kids and teenage girls threw themselves at these stars of 1980s. Then one day it was over. Pockaroo is selling insurance in New Mexico. Until last year, half of the New Kids on the Block were working construction in Arizona. Kids got over wrestling. Teenage girls outgrew those teen heartthrobs.
And still the washed up former WWF wresters were schlepping their fake-tanned asses to every small town rink in the country to get paid $40 to get a few steps closer to an aneurism and relive something that was never real to begin with. Guys I know from my small hometown went to see Randy the Macho Man Savage at the Pictou County Hockey rink, and even at age 10, the spectacle left a bad taste in their mouths.
I wanted Roarke to win. There is such grace in redemption. The means are glazed over by the glitter of the ends.
I have made a lot of mistakes. Said a lot of things I shouldn’t have said. But I doubt any grandiose redemption is in the cards for me, it’s far less dramatic when there is no audience. And I probably don’t deserve it anyway.
Mickey Roarke though, he does.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
Performance Enhancers
I’ve been thinking about the climb lately. I think at age 10 I thought I would be a CEO by 27. I need a boost. I need to look forward to more than just the next Cut Copy show (ok, F that, even CEO’s should still be excited about that shit.) I think I’ve toiled at this level long enough and it’s time to start juicing.
I want to be a Director before I hit 40. I want to do work that matters. Finish a masters’ (or two). Read more Kafka. More Baudrillard. Sometimes I worry that one day I’ll wake up, and I’ll be 34 and I’ll have achieved only minimal successes and sunken into the lull of mediocrity. Sometimes I can’t sleep. I lay awake and try to recount the academic writers I so hotly debated over drinks years ago. The Chomskys the Adornos the Mulveys the Haraways.
Do you worry about this?
We all do something to get ahead. I’m so over this “I can’t believe ARod did steroids” story the Sports sections can’t seem to get enough of. That we ever believed any Major League player wasn’t using ‘roids since Mark Maguire’s muscles practically burst through his skin 10 years ago is f’ing insulting. Of course they use performance enhancing drugs. Baseball is a business. It’s not a non-profit making dreams come true for little boys with dreams of athletic greatness. Players who can break records fill seats and boost ratings. Owners make more money. Players make more money. It’s win-win. Baseball lost all credibility years ago and now how can it go back? Clean players will never be as entertaining as juiced up super hitters. Drugs enhance ability. Ability enthralls us. We tune in. Love of the game is a thing of the past.
what career booster superdrug do I need?
I want to be a Director before I hit 40. I want to do work that matters. Finish a masters’ (or two). Read more Kafka. More Baudrillard. Sometimes I worry that one day I’ll wake up, and I’ll be 34 and I’ll have achieved only minimal successes and sunken into the lull of mediocrity. Sometimes I can’t sleep. I lay awake and try to recount the academic writers I so hotly debated over drinks years ago. The Chomskys the Adornos the Mulveys the Haraways.
Do you worry about this?
We all do something to get ahead. I’m so over this “I can’t believe ARod did steroids” story the Sports sections can’t seem to get enough of. That we ever believed any Major League player wasn’t using ‘roids since Mark Maguire’s muscles practically burst through his skin 10 years ago is f’ing insulting. Of course they use performance enhancing drugs. Baseball is a business. It’s not a non-profit making dreams come true for little boys with dreams of athletic greatness. Players who can break records fill seats and boost ratings. Owners make more money. Players make more money. It’s win-win. Baseball lost all credibility years ago and now how can it go back? Clean players will never be as entertaining as juiced up super hitters. Drugs enhance ability. Ability enthralls us. We tune in. Love of the game is a thing of the past.
what career booster superdrug do I need?
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