All 2.5 of you. I have no idea why some blogs are posting, then disappearing. Or why certain blogs are telling me they are posted and then showing up at different times. Probably the same reason my phone is only accepting about 3/4 of the texts sent to me, giving me picture texts sometimes a week later, my facebook is continuously telling me I have a new message in my inbox and my Skype sometimes runs in slow motion:
I'M AWESOME AT TECHNOLOGY. Life is full of challenges, let's just embrace this together.
Monday, May 7, 2012
RIP MCA
A few years ago, I was dating a guy. (I know, weird.) I don't know if we were out on a date or on the phone, but at some point early on, we had a conversation about childhood and music. I told him a story about the first albums my sister and I bought. One of if not the first album my sister purchased was Beastie Boys Licensed To Ill.
At the time, I was pretty busy grooving to Phil Collins, Chicago 17 and Lionel Richie. And loving it. Then I heard Paul Revere blasting out of our dining room. I was entranced. Our parents exposed us to plenty of different music, but I really had never heard rap. My sister listened to RATT, and Dokken on the reg, for crying out loud, I had no idea what the hell she was doing with this record. Though, there was a rock edge to it. And borderline pop. It was dreamy. I wanted it. I wanted every song to play all the time. (My parents, and definitely my grandparents, disagreed.)
I told this boy this story. About how I fell in love with the Beasties and those songs that I was listening to still sounded brand new when I later bought them on cassette and then again on CD. And then again on CD when that first CD had a tragic accident in a friend's Ford Escort. I told him I was still always jealous that she had that record. She got to tear the plastic off a brand new Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill vinyl and I knew my parents wouldn't let us both have it, that we would have to share, and my sister shared her records about as well as she shared the hidden booze in her room or her Van Halen posters.
A few weeks after we had this little exchange, I went to see him and as we were walking up to his place, he said "its here! close your eyes". He had a present for me. I closed my eyes and sat down and he handed me a large, flat, padded envelope. I had no idea what it was and when I tore it open and pulled out a Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill album, I screamed. I held it back, because I didn't want to look like a lunatic, but I really wanted to cry holding that thing. It represented more than something I wanted when I was a little girl. It was like holding a piece of my childhood that survived the wildfire that growing up spreads across the landscape of your life.
That album is now displayed in my room on my bookshelf to remind me of great things. The music on it, my childhood envy and awe, and the fact that boys actually listen sometimes. I need to frame it, but I love picking it up and handling it every once in a while.
Just like I did every time Jennifer wasn't looking. :)
At the time, I was pretty busy grooving to Phil Collins, Chicago 17 and Lionel Richie. And loving it. Then I heard Paul Revere blasting out of our dining room. I was entranced. Our parents exposed us to plenty of different music, but I really had never heard rap. My sister listened to RATT, and Dokken on the reg, for crying out loud, I had no idea what the hell she was doing with this record. Though, there was a rock edge to it. And borderline pop. It was dreamy. I wanted it. I wanted every song to play all the time. (My parents, and definitely my grandparents, disagreed.)
I told this boy this story. About how I fell in love with the Beasties and those songs that I was listening to still sounded brand new when I later bought them on cassette and then again on CD. And then again on CD when that first CD had a tragic accident in a friend's Ford Escort. I told him I was still always jealous that she had that record. She got to tear the plastic off a brand new Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill vinyl and I knew my parents wouldn't let us both have it, that we would have to share, and my sister shared her records about as well as she shared the hidden booze in her room or her Van Halen posters.
A few weeks after we had this little exchange, I went to see him and as we were walking up to his place, he said "its here! close your eyes". He had a present for me. I closed my eyes and sat down and he handed me a large, flat, padded envelope. I had no idea what it was and when I tore it open and pulled out a Beastie Boys Licensed to Ill album, I screamed. I held it back, because I didn't want to look like a lunatic, but I really wanted to cry holding that thing. It represented more than something I wanted when I was a little girl. It was like holding a piece of my childhood that survived the wildfire that growing up spreads across the landscape of your life.
That album is now displayed in my room on my bookshelf to remind me of great things. The music on it, my childhood envy and awe, and the fact that boys actually listen sometimes. I need to frame it, but I love picking it up and handling it every once in a while.
Just like I did every time Jennifer wasn't looking. :)
20 Reason To Watch Roadhouse.
Dalton stitches his own shoulder. Shirtless guy dancing at Double Deuce. There's chicken wire to protect the band. Who's lead singer is a blind slide guitar player. Mullets galore. Dalton doesn't fly. But he does wear mock turtlenecks. Giant bar fight. The Doc's hair. Brad Wesley's 3 wheeler. Monster truck. Guy with the cross earring. That knows pool stick martial arts. Sam Elliot is "the best". And has long hair. The strip tease that included matching satin heels and ended in giant white panties. The half-face shiner that followed. The aerobics being done while "hiding" said shiner. Full blown 80's sex scene. Sooooooo many roundhouses.
What are the chances that a guy wearing a silk blazer with shoulder pads is going to kick ass?
150 fucking percent!
What are the chances that a guy wearing a silk blazer with shoulder pads is going to kick ass?
150 fucking percent!
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