You want to know what is my least favorite thing about the holidays besides the constant droning background noise of Christmas music, the incessant give-me-money charity emails, and the pressure to spend money?
I hate wrapping presents. Mostly because I am terrible wrapper.
Here is the gem that I gave Captain Apollo for his birthday. I didn’t have wrapping paper because I had just finished wrapping a present for my roommate Varenka, which turned out like this:
I gave you a few different angles so you could truly appreciate how beautiful this package is. I seriously do not know how this happened, but I only had the end of the wrapping paper left, so that’s what she got.
I don’t know, internet. It always starts out okay, but then the paper gets all poufy and bend and I panic and just tape everything down.
At least you can’t tell when they’re under the tree.
I mentioned in yesterday’s post that I was going to a punk rock / garage rock / metal show with Captain Apollo.
Well, I did.
Captain Apollo is in a band that plays original punk rock slash garage rock slash rock slash I-don’t-know-what-the-techinical-term-is. Basically, they can be put into a show with a fairly large range of different bands.
The show was in a town about 40 minutes away from us, and the bar was ten minutes outside of that. Basically in a cornfield across from that creepy gas station where people in movies get murdered a lot. You know the one.
We actually passed by it assuming it was a strip club. I can’t even make that up.
Needless to say, the joint was not, upon first glance, somewhere I would frequent. Luckily, I was with a crew of manly men from my hometown, three of whom were wearing leather jackets, so I felt safe enough within a three or four foot radius of any of them. There were definitely some characters in that bar whom I would not have ordinarily wanted within a three or four mile radius of me, but that’s neither here nor there.
And yes, of course I pick this occasion to wear a floral mini skirt and spangly sandals. The girl who wore sweatpants to a fraternity formal once. WHY.
I’m just gonna go for the gusto and tell you that the first band that played was named for two different bodily functions.
Nope. Bloodsnot, actually. An instrumental death metal band named Bloodsnot. Which probably gives you a pretty decent idea of I thought how my night was going to go.
Needless to say, I wouldn’t consider myself a death metal type of person. The “hardest” person I think I listen to on a regular basis is probably Avril Lavigne.
At any rate, Bloodsnot (BloodSnot? Blood Snot? bLoOdSnOt?) starts playing, and almost immediately three or four guys start “dancing”.
I think you could technically consider it dancing, in that they were moving and music happened to be playing. To me, it mostly looked like a group of zombies having a collective seizure.
It basically looked like this:
But in a smaller space and everyone was wearing cutoff teeshirts. EVERYONE.
You can probably imagine by this point I was two Blues down the hatch and had backed myself into a corner with Captain Apollo and the second scariest-looking townie we brought (although, objectively speaking, what’s scarier – a bleached mohawk or a half-dreads, half-shaved head combo?)
However, I have to say, once beer number three kicked in, (oh yes, it was that kind of a night) I sort of enjoyed Bloodsnot’s music. I know this because I apparently (very drunkenly) later told their guitarist that I enjoyed their performance as much as possible without ever wanting to listen to it again.
This is probably why I shouldn’t talk to people. Or go out into public places.
When Apollo’s band went on stage, I switched to whiskey gingers, ended up on the dance floor, and got into trouble with the stage manager for starting a mosh pit. Yes, the tiny half-asian girl started a mosh (well, shoving match, really). Hilariously, the Mohawk Guy got the telling off, but I totally shoved him first. It was very metal. In fact, I was definitely starting to feel pretty metal at this point, you guys. Never mind the fact that Mohawk guy is actually very nice. I felt like shoving somebody. MUAHAHA.
During whiskey ginger number two, a band full of 30-something men wearing wallet chains screamed into microphones and rolled around on the floor while their bassist, who was inexplicably dressed like a pirate-slash-douchebag, roamed around the bar playing next to unassuming patrons. At one point the guitarist accidentally kicked over his mic stand onto the lead singer, who was still lying on the ground.
It was super metal.
I totally danced by myself in the middle of the room while my friends pretended not to know me.
The last band marked whisky ginger number three. I vaguely remember that the lead singer was dressed like a total nerd. Or was one. Either. He did not look very metal, at any rate, and a bunch of girls showed up and started dancing, and that was even less metal.
I think that’s about when I started talking to Bloodsnot about how I really enjoyed their set as much as possible without enjoying it at all, and Captain Apollo decided it was probably time for us to go home.
Except when we did get home, Varenka had accidentally locked me out.
So Captain Apollo (whom you may remember as my bodacious musical accomplice) challenged me to do a blog post today about how fucking awesome apples are, and I’ve had an idea bouncing around in my head for a while to try writing profanity-filled reviews about incredibly mundane things.
I call it a Rude Review. And this is the very first one.
RUDE REVIEW – SHIT GODDAMN I LOVE APPLES.
LOOK AT THIS FRUIT.
You luscious, juicy, perspicacious son of a fruit tree.
Apples are a fucking shit storm of versatility.
You want apples for breakfast? Fruit salad, granola, pancakes, parfait. Boom.
You want apples for lunch? Put some goddamn apple slices into your grilled cheese, player.
You want apples for dinner? That’s unacceptab- OH WAIT, APPLES WORK WITH PORK, CHICKEN, SWEET POTATOES, AND BASICALLY ANYTHING ELSE BECAUSE APPLES ARE THE KING OF THE ORCHARD.
We haven’t even talked about apple fucking pie yet, because that’s low hanging fruit, and I’M MORE CREATIVE THAN THAT.
Apples keep the fucking doctor away. You need to go to the doctor for a checkout? NOPE, ATE A PINK LADY THIS MORNING BITCH. CHECK ME OUT, I’M SWIMMING IN PHYTONUTRIENTS AND POLYPHENOLS.*
FACT – Apples are fucking delicious.
FACT – Apples can be used in every fucking meal of the day.
FACT – Apples are good for you.
FACT – Apples are in the rose family, so basically buying your girl a bushel of apples is the same as buying her a bouquet of expensive-ass roses.
FACT – The apple plant is the most diverse plant in the world, with 2,450 varieties in the U.S. alone. So if you don’t like apples, you’re wrong.
*Just kidding. Apples don’t keep doctors away. That’s hyperbole. Besides, doctors love apples.
I am sick and miserable today, y’all.
And I am going to succumb to being a sick miserable person, because I just worked a 10 hour shift at jobs.
Read this instead and pretend I wrote it today.
Okay, wow, I just read that post and now I feel like a lazy jerk for not writing a full post today.
Jeez, past self, way to be motivating.
Here are some current events and how I feel about them.
Captain Apollo and I are FINALLY starting to record our EP tomorrow. The EP is going to be titled Solidarity and we’ve been talking about it for a really long time now and it’s on my bucket list of things I really want to accomplish in my life which I wrote about yesterday.
(Side note – Captain Apollo is one of like five human beings that read my blog religiously, and today told me he told it was adorable that I had recording a CD on my Career Bucket List and that he was happy to help me fulfill that particular point. At this time I’d like to further reiterate the point that it is not adorable, it is ambitious and career savvy and badass.)
At any rate, I have mixed emotions about this actually happening, now that it’s actually happening tomorrow. Most of those feelings are probably anxiety based, like fear and nausea and panic, akin to what I felt the first time I sang an original out loud in front of real actual people. There is also a fair amount of raw excitement happening, which will likely become more apparent once the actual singing part is over.
I do this thing where the first couple of times I encounter a new scenario, I am confused and anxious and I generally hate it, but then I end up loving that thing. Like the first time I did yoga. Or the first time I toured my alma mater and actually left the tour because I hated it. Or the time that brussel sprouts somehow became my favorite vegetable.
But I digress from the point.
Was there a point?
News update – there was not.
Anyways, one of these days I’m hoping I’m just going to walk up to the mic full of confidence and just crush a set with no anxiety at all, like my idol, Fat Amy.
So I have about twenty minutes to write this blog, internet, and I have zero ideas, so I asked my good friend Captain Apollo to suggest something and he said to talk about meatballs and I told him that was a stupid idea but I have nothing else so I’m going to go with it.
Besides the fact that I have never made meatballs.
Amendment – I made meatballs once and they were terrible. Apparently bison meat is not great for meatballs.
Okay. Let’s try association.
Meatballs. Pasta. Italy. Green pastures. Cows. Milk. Ice cream. Chocolate. Chili. Chicken. Burrito. Beans.
I totally just had a vivid memory of eating beans on buttered toast as a kid. Not toasted toast, but that awful white bread that’s the consistency of a marshmallow and sticks to the roof of your mouth. I used to love that.
Let’s keep going.
Beans. Cans. Can openers. Forks. Sporks. Corn. Vermont. Maple syrup. Theft. Security. Uniforms.
You know, I’ve never actually had to wear a uniform for anything. I have to wear black and white dress for catering, but we provide our own clothes. Does that count?
Count. Dracula. Vampires. Frankenstein. Literature. Jane Austen.
Did you know they are going to put Jane Austen on the new ten pound note? Fun fact.
Fun. Dogs. Happy. Food. Steak. Salad. Bread. Sauce. Pasta. Meatballs.
Captain Apollo wins this round.
Put meat, cheese, eggs, breadcrumbs and spices into a bowl. Combine. Shape into balls. Cook them. Eat with pasta.
Hey internet. I feel like a bag of gross today. I don’t really have anything captivating or poignant to say. I went out with one of my best friends for lunch (Barney Stinson) and we got subs from Wegmans (pro tip – if you ever have the opportunity to get a sub from Wegmans, do it) and I just looked at mine as if I could absorb it into my body simply with the power of my gaze. I ran into Captain Apollo while we were there and he suggested pasta and I thought I was going to keel over and die right there. Mi Madre has been feeling pretty ill as of late as well with some sort of stomach virus, so I think I have whatever she’s got.
So I’m going to tell you about 3 random apps I’ve been digging lately, because this is my blog and I do what I want, and then I’m going to watch Battlestar Galactica with my puppy.
1. If you have a Facebook account (and if you say you don’t you’re either lying or you’re a Cylon agent) check out Bitstrips. It’s this awesome new app that lets you design cartoon characters and make comics featuring your friends and the results are hilariously amazing.
2. Timehop is a free download that links to your Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, etcetera and tells you what you were doing on the same day in past years. I am ADDICTED to Timehop. A year ago I posted this picture to Facebook (it’s from my thesis):
Two years ago I was on a plane headed to Puerto Rico.
Three years ago I was at the doctor’s.
Five years ago I was at a ski race.
3. If you have an iPhone and you don’t have emoji, I just can’t talk to you anymore. Varenka and I have entire conversations in emoticons. It is both impressive and a little sad, like a dog that manages to push all the Thanksgiving leftovers from the kitchen counter to the floor without breaking a dish. Yey, no broken shards of plate in my bare feet. Boo, no Thanksgiving sandwich.
Okay darlings. Imma go cuddle with Pepper now. Peace out.
This is a followup to yesterday’s post, which was written in quite the haphazardly, slapdash fashion. If you haven’t read it yet, I suggest you do that first, to avoid confusion.
…catering headquarters. I was, for obvious reasons, in a bit of a state at that point, and there wasn’t anyone left except for one poor kitchen boy, who took one look at me and got the hell out of my way. I realized I was going to be late for this meeting I had to go to, so I threw things back where they belonged, reparked the stupid, honking big van, and sprinted to my car.
I definitely sped down to the studio. I think if I passed any cops they could probably sense the crazy that was happening in my car, so they got out of my way.
Got to the studio, 5 minutes late. Varenka unlocked the door for me and let me in and I run into the room and sit against the wall.
Do you ever have those moments where you’ve been running around all day and you just stop and sit down and all the sudden all you want to do is go to sleep? That’s kind of what was happening to me, but I’d had three cups of coffee at work (it’s free! Yay!) and so I had exhaustion jitters. I was semi-falling asleep against the wall, but I couldn’t get my hands and feet to stop jerking. It wasn’t so much like I couldn’t sit still as that my extremities were twitching. During this semi-serious conversation about changing your life. We’ve all been there, right?
I’m pretty sure at this point I may actually be dying, but I pick up the packet of paper I’m given and flip through it in an attempt to look like I’m paying any sort of attention. I seriously couldn’t tell you what we talked about if my life depended on it. I think cucumbers were involved? I don’t know.
The meeting ends. Sprint home. Get changed. I actually had time to play through one song before I headed down to the gig. I also realized I hadn’t eaten in about 8 (9? 10?) hours, so I slammed a Lean Cuisine (Santa Fe rice and beans, nummers). Then I realized it was Scarlett O’Hara’s birthday and she told me to look cute and wear heels, so I rechanged into a dramatically less comfortable outfit, ran to my car, and sprinted (sped) downtown.
So I don’t know if I’ve mentioned this before, but I sort-of play in a band aka a duet aka my friend who is in an actual, real band lets me sing with him sometimes. I play the ukulele, because I am a giant cliché. My friend (let’s call him Captain Apollo) basically has to coddle and cosset me into doing this, because I apparently have no problem talking to giant groups of people, but I would rather pull out my toenails than sing in front of people in public places.
Captain Apollo talks me through soundcheck, and we get everything set-up and then I go drink what is rapidly becoming my regular pre-show order of a Labatt Blue and a shot of Jameo.
At this point my friends show up with Scarlett O’Hara, and I realize that I’ve neglected to properly prepare them for the atmosphere that is this bar (let’s call it the Battlestar). So they walk into the Battlestar and they’re all prettied up and Varenka is wearing actual, real live pants which is an extremely rare event for her, and we’ve all got heels on and whatnot, and this is one of those divey-er types of dive bars where the average clientele have knuckle tattoos and you’re almost encouraged to draw obscene things on the wall. It’s bit of a surreal moment, and they’re all looking a bit deer-in-headlightsy, even Rory, who rocks a poker face like no one else I’ve ever met.
However, I have no time to comfort them because just like that Captain Apollo is summoning me to the stage. I play my 7 song set-list, which went pretty okay, and get off the stage, and the girls are raring to get out of the Battlestar, like, yesterday. So we rush out of there.
We wander around for a bit and end up in my least favorite bar in town, which is apparently pretty heated on a Thursday because It Is Bumping.
And that’s when I just lose my head.
I think I’ve done a pretty decent job at explaining how Thursday was just a bit of a shit-show for me thus far. So imagine, if you will, coming fresh from the day I’ve had with barely any time to sit down, let alone take my foot off the gas pedal, and getting immediately thrown into a club packed full of sweaty strangers who are trying to rub up on you and chat you up and buy you drinks. It was not pretty. Varenka and Scarlett ended up getting tequila shots which I did not partake in as I was driving, and they seemed to be immediately okay with the situation. I backed myself up against the wall and clung to my Red Bull vodka for dear life.
I think I lasted about twenty minutes before I had to get out of there, internet. I was about to have a breakdown that would rival any toddler you know. Imagine a five-year old just had to pick up all her toys and eat brussel sprouts for dinner and then her brother gets a bigger slice of cake than she does. That was me. I was tired, uncomfortable, overwhelmed, emotional and I. Just. Couldn’t.
I lit outta there like a race horse on speed, people.
Moral of the story?
There is none.