7th AND powell/fri. OCT 27th
After the show at Valentines, which may I say was quite rocking though the absurd amount of underage girls dancing with dudes of dubious ages and varied stages of stubble growth was a bit unsettling, the crew and I headed on down to the Reptilian Civilian house to see if we could possibly catch a last glimpse of this awesome band. The answer, friends, was no. Regardless we chilled and drank what was left of a pile of 12 pack cartons and decided eventually to embark on a mass industry exodus over to 7th and Powell a mere few blocks away. I knew this party would be good from the start as when I arrived a guy dressed as what I can only assume was a Double Dare contestant screamed for everybody outside to shut up and herd in cause the cops were on their merry joy killing way. This of course is how I want all parties to start as it ensures that the trenches will be crowded and gory, smeared with the smell of vomit from (to remain anonymous{but seriously this guy exists and did infact:}) who puked only inches away from the keyboard while rocking out to...what were they called? YES.OH.YES from who cares where USA the place where all pop punk is born and should in my opinion stay. Sorry punksters I can't afford to vouch for your fashion grunge fury any longer...The Man is sending out memo's...You aren't to be trusted; apparently for various reasons including, though not limited to: You carry MF hair straighteners around in your backpack, Coke is out...again, heroin should be out again, GHB(where the fuck are you guys still getting that crap?)is out STILL!, you suck, I heard about that time you killed a puppy, you start too many fights cause you're afraid that otherwise people will think you're just like every other make-up wearing metro-sexual out there: Gay. But they don't start fights cause they're what we in the industry call secure A.K.A: you probably are gay. Fuck ya'll.
Alright but enough is enough, granted. Besides, the next band to play completely blew my mind to the point where I digressed a full 10 years and started screaming praises like: "AG! Ya'll rock tubular, Brah!" Because 10 years ago I was a surf bum meth head roller blader from Eastern Texas, obviously. But no! THE HOLY GHOST REVIVAL! Wow. And wow again. The keys were this crazy sort of off chord synchronicity to the vocals of one Conner Something who was standing on the drum kit so as not to get trampled by the overwhelming crowd flailing their way through the viking rock(and I do mean ROCK) melodies. The drummer was more on key than yours truly with an 8 ball of sweet cocaine he'd switch it up too fast to notice and then he was back to solid. Many a people have been claiming that THE GHOST was tragically injured with the loss of their last guitarist but as this is the first time I saw them I can only say: So what? These kids rock and probably get laid more than you could hope to in a year sans roofies. But I digress, and so did they. They had to cut the show short because these crazy drunkards in half-assed weekend before halloween costumes pushed the fucking keyboard onto the keyboardist! Great ending though. She looked pissed. And that's about it. THE MARK had too much technical trouble to merrit a review and their drummer ditched out on them before the show! So yeah. Captured by Porches made the drink, the dance floor was awesome and I'm out of free computer time. Check the photo's at OKPONY.COM.
REGARDLESS HOLMES!
Monday, October 30, 2006
Friday, October 20, 2006
7th and Going: The Speed Dating Party 10/20
The first question I asked when told that there would be an amateur speed dating party was: How is that going to work? The answer is simple enough and surprisingly obvious: It won’t. However perhaps if it had been publicized as more of a speed dating themed PARTY and less like it was going to be an actual singles mixer well maybe it would have been slightly more successful. Then again who’s to know. It was a nice house with a well manicured lawn- replete with trimmed and shaped hedges! Yes. Fancy digs. It turns out that the party would be exactly as I had imagined it, lot’s of guys sitting around a table full of booze talking about what they had imagined the party was going to be like. The hosts were great. A+. Jason Simms showed clips of fake comedy speed dating on his computer and kept the drinks flowing and the conversations rolling, the two ladies that were there were his two present roommates and they were cordial and not freaked out at all about the fact that they were the only female presence in a room full of dudes and I suppose you could look at it like well of course cause they were the center of attention, but in actuality there was a very calm egalitarian feeling once everybody mutually concluded that no actual speed dating would be happening. We all wore name tags despite the extremely low capita of the group and everybody seemed to be having nice laid back conversation in happy moods. That is until a couple of drunk girls showed up and did in fact become the center of attention. They were loud. They were witty. And these dudes were completely unprepared for the sort of boisterous verbosity these ladies were spitting. Unfortunately they perhaps had drunk a bit too much during their pre-party cause just as quickly as they had come in and livened up the place they disappeared: one to the couch passed out and one to who knows where...Though there were a few less guys there as well soooooo….Right. Any way then we decided to check out this other party we had heard about earlier, mainly because the liquor table was beginning to clear. Up we went into the chilly chilly night and walked up to 11th and Killingsworth. Much to our chagrin the party had already ended and the supposedly “these guys fuckin’ rock” rock bands had already fuckin’ rocked as much as they could much earlier in the night(though in fact it was only 1am when we showed). Of course, house parties must abide by neighborhood rules and thus the music usually does end rather early. Jim Stone got his bike stolen and so check it out: Fuck you retarded crack head bitches who go around stealing bikes from people and then selling them for 30 bucks to hipsters. Why don’t you just go suck a dick for some rock like your mother used to do back in the good old days. Last time I checked dome was still a perfectly reasonable currency for hard drugs. You sans nut pussy fucks are the guys I see in alleys holding sacks of adorable kittens and just chilling there chuckling through your swollen festering gums while you jam an ice pick into the helpless mewing bundle. You smell like a dead up wino ate his own shit and then vomited after chugging a jug of Carlo Rossi…I hate you and so does everybody else. Your mom cries every time she thinks of you. You suck. Oh and Portland…I realize that winter is here and everybody in the room is skirting around him being like: “Uhhhh….It’s that guy again…Everybody pretend like we aren’t trying to have a party.” But check it out. In a month or so he’s gonna be the one throwing all the parties and so let’s step it up a notch and just include him this time so that we can have a little fun again. ALRIGHT!
The first question I asked when told that there would be an amateur speed dating party was: How is that going to work? The answer is simple enough and surprisingly obvious: It won’t. However perhaps if it had been publicized as more of a speed dating themed PARTY and less like it was going to be an actual singles mixer well maybe it would have been slightly more successful. Then again who’s to know. It was a nice house with a well manicured lawn- replete with trimmed and shaped hedges! Yes. Fancy digs. It turns out that the party would be exactly as I had imagined it, lot’s of guys sitting around a table full of booze talking about what they had imagined the party was going to be like. The hosts were great. A+. Jason Simms showed clips of fake comedy speed dating on his computer and kept the drinks flowing and the conversations rolling, the two ladies that were there were his two present roommates and they were cordial and not freaked out at all about the fact that they were the only female presence in a room full of dudes and I suppose you could look at it like well of course cause they were the center of attention, but in actuality there was a very calm egalitarian feeling once everybody mutually concluded that no actual speed dating would be happening. We all wore name tags despite the extremely low capita of the group and everybody seemed to be having nice laid back conversation in happy moods. That is until a couple of drunk girls showed up and did in fact become the center of attention. They were loud. They were witty. And these dudes were completely unprepared for the sort of boisterous verbosity these ladies were spitting. Unfortunately they perhaps had drunk a bit too much during their pre-party cause just as quickly as they had come in and livened up the place they disappeared: one to the couch passed out and one to who knows where...Though there were a few less guys there as well soooooo….Right. Any way then we decided to check out this other party we had heard about earlier, mainly because the liquor table was beginning to clear. Up we went into the chilly chilly night and walked up to 11th and Killingsworth. Much to our chagrin the party had already ended and the supposedly “these guys fuckin’ rock” rock bands had already fuckin’ rocked as much as they could much earlier in the night(though in fact it was only 1am when we showed). Of course, house parties must abide by neighborhood rules and thus the music usually does end rather early. Jim Stone got his bike stolen and so check it out: Fuck you retarded crack head bitches who go around stealing bikes from people and then selling them for 30 bucks to hipsters. Why don’t you just go suck a dick for some rock like your mother used to do back in the good old days. Last time I checked dome was still a perfectly reasonable currency for hard drugs. You sans nut pussy fucks are the guys I see in alleys holding sacks of adorable kittens and just chilling there chuckling through your swollen festering gums while you jam an ice pick into the helpless mewing bundle. You smell like a dead up wino ate his own shit and then vomited after chugging a jug of Carlo Rossi…I hate you and so does everybody else. Your mom cries every time she thinks of you. You suck. Oh and Portland…I realize that winter is here and everybody in the room is skirting around him being like: “Uhhhh….It’s that guy again…Everybody pretend like we aren’t trying to have a party.” But check it out. In a month or so he’s gonna be the one throwing all the parties and so let’s step it up a notch and just include him this time so that we can have a little fun again. ALRIGHT!
Sunday, October 01, 2006
6166 NE MLK
Oh shit… Listen up industry cronies. Here’s to you with the clink and shatter of the only two champagne flutes I own, you self-loathing sadistic puppy killing fucks. We’ve got it. Need I say more? Well we do and it’s right here in anywhere we want to party USA. I’ve been to shows so good people caught on fire. I’ve seen shit so raw it was equatable to some sick pervert walking two miles into a psycho trigger happy ranchers domain just to slice a good steak off a tipped cow with his fucking Swiss army knife. So let’s say that. Let’s say that was my weekend kids. That was my damn weekend. Except of course Friday when Gemstone and I decided to take it easy with two 32s of High Life, somebody else’s couch and Good Will Hunting. All right…all right. Let it be known that in my opinion Ben Affleck is just the slickest MF dresser in that flick. I really want to start wearing those track suits now.
So Saturday night, am I correct? We had heard about like six different parties one of which was an underpants dance so Gemstone had to actually wear some Chones that night (where he got them I’m wary to ask) we set out on bike and we were going to stop by a dubious tip of 6166 NE MLK…Doesn’t exist as far as we could tell but while we were riding an old Austin acquaintance calls me and says that we just have to go see her friends band (she lives in the bay area) who are playing like 3(?) parties that night. They’re called “The Most” and they’re sooooooo awesome she says in the groupiest of voices, maybe she’s dating one of them I figured. So I’m all: sure, give me dudes number and we’ll go check them out. She says she feels uncomfortable about that and I’m just like whatever then lady. Peace. I hung up the phone. Now finally we hear the sounds all consistent partygoers have come to recognize as “La Fiesta”. We go in via the driveway, lock up the bikes and proceed with the mingle. The first point of interest of course is the kiddy pool full of Hamm’s tall boys and Old German Premium Lager. The next was the birthday girl in the full sky blue spandex replete with red crotch guard and matching cape. Happy birthday Leilani. Thanks for having us. So there’s some kind of Jam going on down in the basement…a rock show if you will. Sounds pretty live from where I’m standing and so we go down. Ever the gentleman Gemstone grabs us seconds and met me in the musty below. The jam was thick yet easy to spread- infectious even. The children were squirming, moving, grooving and ultimately oozing into hip dance jiggles. I risked death to stop one of these rowdy arm-flailing maniacs. “Who is this?” I scream, barely heard over this blind date bastard child of the Violent Femmes and the Rocky Horror Picture Show. A one night stand made in the coke den of god. And holy shit…Are you serious? Well what are the chances? It’s “The Most”. Sorry I hung up on you Lori. Your friend’s band rocks poop from clothed bottoms with the might of 50 bass drums and a standing army 5000 guitar solos strong. But enough blatant flattery. If you missed this party you might go to hell. Next to play was one of my favorite Portland acts straight from the heart of the Dirty Dirty South hails Here Comes a Big Black Cloud. They rocked like a spring break South Padre margarita sorority rape fest crammed car bomb style into an old school Cadillac tank that’s somehow found it’s way onto a huge asteroid, populated by those insane nuclear mutants from the hills have eyes, and barreling on a criminally fast course heading straight toward the unholy destruction of our mother earth. It was a good set. Later that night Gemstone and I completed our Party Bingo cards after “somebody” took a rowdy shit behind a box truck and as we were leaving the scene a crack head sold us a bike for 35 dollars…Now I know, I know. Dubious morality here. But hey ya’ll I’ll do the right thing: Ride that fucker to work everyday and if somebody speaks up I’ll give it back free of gripe. As far as karma goes I believe my bases are covered. Not to mention I did help that fiend get some tail from the crack lady in the passenger seat of their little pick up. Good times.
Oh shit… Listen up industry cronies. Here’s to you with the clink and shatter of the only two champagne flutes I own, you self-loathing sadistic puppy killing fucks. We’ve got it. Need I say more? Well we do and it’s right here in anywhere we want to party USA. I’ve been to shows so good people caught on fire. I’ve seen shit so raw it was equatable to some sick pervert walking two miles into a psycho trigger happy ranchers domain just to slice a good steak off a tipped cow with his fucking Swiss army knife. So let’s say that. Let’s say that was my weekend kids. That was my damn weekend. Except of course Friday when Gemstone and I decided to take it easy with two 32s of High Life, somebody else’s couch and Good Will Hunting. All right…all right. Let it be known that in my opinion Ben Affleck is just the slickest MF dresser in that flick. I really want to start wearing those track suits now.
So Saturday night, am I correct? We had heard about like six different parties one of which was an underpants dance so Gemstone had to actually wear some Chones that night (where he got them I’m wary to ask) we set out on bike and we were going to stop by a dubious tip of 6166 NE MLK…Doesn’t exist as far as we could tell but while we were riding an old Austin acquaintance calls me and says that we just have to go see her friends band (she lives in the bay area) who are playing like 3(?) parties that night. They’re called “The Most” and they’re sooooooo awesome she says in the groupiest of voices, maybe she’s dating one of them I figured. So I’m all: sure, give me dudes number and we’ll go check them out. She says she feels uncomfortable about that and I’m just like whatever then lady. Peace. I hung up the phone. Now finally we hear the sounds all consistent partygoers have come to recognize as “La Fiesta”. We go in via the driveway, lock up the bikes and proceed with the mingle. The first point of interest of course is the kiddy pool full of Hamm’s tall boys and Old German Premium Lager. The next was the birthday girl in the full sky blue spandex replete with red crotch guard and matching cape. Happy birthday Leilani. Thanks for having us. So there’s some kind of Jam going on down in the basement…a rock show if you will. Sounds pretty live from where I’m standing and so we go down. Ever the gentleman Gemstone grabs us seconds and met me in the musty below. The jam was thick yet easy to spread- infectious even. The children were squirming, moving, grooving and ultimately oozing into hip dance jiggles. I risked death to stop one of these rowdy arm-flailing maniacs. “Who is this?” I scream, barely heard over this blind date bastard child of the Violent Femmes and the Rocky Horror Picture Show. A one night stand made in the coke den of god. And holy shit…Are you serious? Well what are the chances? It’s “The Most”. Sorry I hung up on you Lori. Your friend’s band rocks poop from clothed bottoms with the might of 50 bass drums and a standing army 5000 guitar solos strong. But enough blatant flattery. If you missed this party you might go to hell. Next to play was one of my favorite Portland acts straight from the heart of the Dirty Dirty South hails Here Comes a Big Black Cloud. They rocked like a spring break South Padre margarita sorority rape fest crammed car bomb style into an old school Cadillac tank that’s somehow found it’s way onto a huge asteroid, populated by those insane nuclear mutants from the hills have eyes, and barreling on a criminally fast course heading straight toward the unholy destruction of our mother earth. It was a good set. Later that night Gemstone and I completed our Party Bingo cards after “somebody” took a rowdy shit behind a box truck and as we were leaving the scene a crack head sold us a bike for 35 dollars…Now I know, I know. Dubious morality here. But hey ya’ll I’ll do the right thing: Ride that fucker to work everyday and if somebody speaks up I’ll give it back free of gripe. As far as karma goes I believe my bases are covered. Not to mention I did help that fiend get some tail from the crack lady in the passenger seat of their little pick up. Good times.
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