P R O T E C T ME, The Strange Boys and Mika MIKo-The Smell, 6/29/09

I really like to push my gas tank to the razor's fucking edge. It's like I refuse to admit to myself that I WILL be using more than $8.50 worth of gas in the coming week. Or maybe I think that someone else will end up throwing duckets on the petrol. Whatever my thought process is, I really hate to break a Jackson at the gas station.

This being said, I set out for The Smell last night with only fumes and moxy to see me downtown. I took a right onto Silverlake Blvd, left onto the 101, pumping strong to the 110S interchange and put, put, put, I run out of fucking gas before I reached 3rd street.

The fumes had expired but the moxy kicked in, I coasted onto third, down the hill toward Beaudry coming to a cock-eyed stop in the parking lot made famous by the presence of Kike's "authentico" tacos and dogs.

Assuring the good people of Kike's that I would return, i set out, on foot, toward the 2nd street tunnel and the warmth and comfort of The Smell.

By the time I hit the alley Strange Boys was mid-set. I was bummed to miss it but soon re-stoked by one of the most fun Mika Miko sets in a hella long time.

"I danced to THREE songs and was soaking wet by the end of Mika Miko's set"-Raul Perez

no shit!

I then had to deal with the stalled whip, driving around with birthday boy Chris Zacher trying to find a gas station that sold fucking cans. When we finally do it's like this super-complicated gas can with all sorts of bells and whistles and levers and locks. You had to have earned a fucking 2-year degree to operate the thing.
Stopped at Sunset and Alvarado and broke the cycle, put in like $14.00. Off into the night bumping my newly acquired tape from P R O T E C T M E.

I got this too:

It's Strange Boys, Strange Boys and Girls Club on In The Red Records. This is only mildly noteworthy because it was the second In The Red album I had bought that day as I had JUST picked up The Oh Sees, HELP at Amoeba:



In The Red; Come to think of it sorta relates to the car scenario. Funny how that works.

back on the pedal

Dear Friends,

Please don't be so worried about me. I'm not doing anything that you wouldn't find reprehensible. I'm not placing anything anywhere that you wouldn't be hard-pressed to locate and once you found it wonder if the excruciating search was worth the closure.

Please don't worry about me. I'm just fine.

Summer Shoes

June Gloom has come and gone. The sunshine is here for an extended stay. While this is disagreeable to my ginger complexion, it's quite conducive to copping kicks. I may even fuck around and wear a baseball cap.


I copped these these at Marc by Marc Jacobs. They have an embroidery detail depicting a shroom on the upper, making it the second mushroom tip rocking below my knee.


FLORAL PRINT HIGH TOPS!! These kicks are retarded but so am I, another Marc X Marc creation.

Butt, Dick, AND Pussy

Barbie Bitch and long-time friend of The Cunt, Quentin has a new blog. It promises to spread the cheeks of the LA scene like never before, no homo. I thought you should know.


Our blogs may be at odds, but we heart each other, big time

a long drive home

and before I quite reached home a stopped and did something I haven't done in many years, since I lived in the desert. I pulled into 7-11, took a 32oz cup filled it half way Dr.Pepper and filled the rest with Mexico's favorite rice beverage; horchata.

That's right, horchata -pepper. or whorechata due to the bastardly nature from which thine hydrib hath sprung.

Works Every Time: The Make Out party, Fool's Gold and Abe Vigoda at the Colt 45 Party 06/06/09

(no photos because Vivi STILL has my camera...UGH!)

I think the unanimous decision is that Three of Clubs sucks for shows. It sounded bad and it was sectioned off into two lounges, which caused the show side of the bar to be packed tighter than an astro van full of Mexicans.

It was a Vice/Colt .45 party and was touted to have free tall boys, which it did for like 2 seconds. Maybe Billy D. Williams is a Black Jew, because those cocksuckers showed up with a six-pack. All you heard all night was, Sorry, we’re all out, try the other bar.” You know the other bar doesn’t have any, asshole!

Broken malt liquor promise aside, Thee Make Out Party was the first band to play. I was a virgin and I was pretty stoked. The garagey-power pop quartet played sweet songs about love, drugs and bubblegum. They wore the appearance of the kids who hung out beneath the bleachers in High School, eager to pontificate over Sabbath or The Stooges, Raw Power.

TMP finished strong and the room filled gypsies in anticipation of a Fool’s Gold performance. I don’t even know if these dudes were even singing in English but they were def, def getting down. My big Cousin, Luis, was there with some of his sorted friends. I overheard one of his homeboys say, “That fucking white boy GETS DOWN on that guitar, he OWNS that shit.” quite excitedly. This performance also marked the second in a week’s time that I bore witness to a dude that wasn’t scared to drop his primary instrument and toot a flute. The first time was Brittany’s Mexican wedding band leader, this time it was one of two Fool’s Gold sax players. Although, this time there was no drunken wedding crowd violently insisting that the band “play more Steppenwolf.”

As the air cleared of that funky waft that only a talented jam band could fill a room with, it was time for Abe. Michael was wearing a jacket I made, Juan was drinking a martini, and David was drunkenly celebrating a birthday and who the fuck is the white boy on drums. Jesus Christ, I need to get to The Smell more. I took my customary position aside Raul and Abe began with a pre-Skeleton crowd favorite and it began to degenerate from there. I was pelted with several beer cans, Juan’s guitar broke and I experienced the staple black-guy-in-the mosh-pit. There is always a non-punk black guy in the pit taking a sort of science experience approach to our not-so-sacred dance ritual. After being hit in the nose, not once but twice by the life-size Billy D. cardboard cut-out the set ended with Juan flat on his stomach (yummy) and David banging his bass on the low ceilings of The Three of Clubs. The white boy drummer gets 2 thumbs up, BTW.

This concludes the most racist show review I’ve ever written.