Firstly, I would like crawl inside of the speaker cones producing this song every time it is played (really anytime any DFA1979 is played) and feel the rattle in my lungs. LOUD NOISES!
Dad's having surgery on Monday. Last Monday he went into congestive heart failure and has been in the hospital ever since awaiting desperately needed bypass consults and such, and now he's finally had them. We've found a doctor willing to perform such risky surgery, and I am thrilled. If you've been sending good thoughts, thank you. If you can manage it, please keep sending them. Until then, I am moving intuitively, no large motions or big gestures, just the necessities. Cass and I found an apartment. I handed in a sixty page manuscript to my advisor. I wake up in the morning, go to work, come home, read, then sleep. Keeping it simple seems to help in times like these.
My feet always forget that my wallet actually enjoys working doubles. Even if closing Sunday night is followed by opening Monday morning. I can do this. I really can. Promise.
Cass and I are finally signing for a summer apartment, hopefully sometime this week. Our living room theme, according to a post-it she left on my laptop last night, will be "gypsy camp". Also, I may or may not be getting a pet python? We'll discuss all this later. In the meantime, my current favorite remix:
Happy, happy manic Monday internet. Swallow some sun into that skin and blush for me baby. I am so tired I must've come out the other side of the feeling.
Spent most of the day hiding in the tree house cave trying to kick a nasty mystery illness. Thankfully, Cass and I had Tegan & Sara DVDs and Seven Brides For Seven Brothers and the library book request system to make us feel in touch with the outside world. The following are my favorite scenes from the day.
We sang along at the top of our lungs so that everyone in the quad could hear us. And then we watched it a second time. And relived our massive crushes on them from middle school. And watched their tour documentary. And. And...
All that I have to say regarding this is that I would very much enjoy attending a barn raising.
Writers ranging from Margaret Atwood to Neil Gaiman give their rules for writers, and more often than not, the advice offered is both hysterical and incisive. Because I cannot do anything without having at least a small part of my brain used up on the ways writers talk to other writers.
1. I am all over the place lately. I mean that quite literally. Last Friday (I'm not sure how it's already been a week), Cass and I made a whim-trip to New Hampshire. Though things didn't go according to plan, we spent a fantastic chunk of time in the Red Arrow eating our way through mountains of fried food and gallons of coffee. College life is not really life, if only because Amherst has no authentic 24 hour diners. And because we refused to give up on the adventure in light of a plan-hiccup, we drove to Durham and spent the night in the de Alba family house. We got cranberry waffles out of the deal in the morning, picked up Liza (who is now probably in Cameroon) and then slowly migrated through the slush to Portsmouth and The Friendly Toast.
I clearly need to take up residence in this particular pile of kitsch. But not simply for the decor.
They also make a mean grilled cheese. There was bacon baked into that bread. And the onion rings are battered in Guinness. So much delicious.
2. So I'm doing this thing where I'm trying to get another job. I'm not sure how well it's working out. I think I have a fairly serious lead, but I could just be deluding myself. Yesterday I sat in the place for the better part of an afternoon doing work and wishing the manager had been in to interview me. Good thing they have adorable metal pots of tea that stay hot for hours. Good thing they let serious people write retrospective essays on their scarred wooden tables.
Is this the face of a girl who hates homework? Well. Not exactly.
Is this the face of a one Charley Pope trying to distract me from said essay? I think yes. Good thing I've written nearly twenty pages and get to turn the damn thing in today with a binder of other serious writing, most of it on feminism in literature or a man cut in half and also playing golf. Free at last! In four hours! YES!
3. I have to make a dance party megamix today, and the only thing I want to put on it is Amanda Blank. She has been rocking my world lately, even if I have been getting better about listening to rock albums again. I'm still having to ease myself out of the pop zone. I think the main issue is that, to crib a line from a Nicole Terez poem, I am a 140 proof superpony. In non-poet-speak, that means I want to dance. I just can't help it.
Cartoon confetti! High school football-style war paint! Also, she sometimes chills down with these guys:
4. I can't write poems lately. I think it might have something to do with my brain and heart being divided between too many locations. I fall in love with buildings. This is becoming an issue.
1. It feels good to be solidly back in action the Western Mass way. My head is still spinning from all the pinball-bouncing around I do on a regular basis. However, now that I am standing in the same state for longer than a few hours at a time, there has been an avalanche of responsibility. (Agh! Who wants that?!)
Clarabelle and I have been slaving away for the better part of today on my retrospective essay (the first three typewritten pages of which can be found above; please excuse excessive typos). It should be easy. For the most part, it is easy. Think about my courses in chronological order. Check. Write about what I learned in said courses. Check. Write about real world experiences and their relevance to class learning, also vice versa. Check. Maintain a plausible through-line pertaining to the learning contract I wrote with myself last fall. Check. The tedious part of this whole process is that it's going to end up being about twenty pages of wind-baggery about my "becoming a writer". Is there some bar mitzvah-type ceremony for this coming-of-age process?? Any way I can get fat checks from distant relatives? No? Cos it seems to me like I am doing an awful lot of "entering a new phase of my life" in this essay. I don't want to get carried away and new-agey with the narrative, but it keeps wandering away from me into touchy-feely territory. I'm not sure if I should just go with it or not.
2. Being a restless spirit, but really because I left my journal in Providence and as a result had no place to record the deep dark secrets rattling around my head, I decided late last night that I was going to move all my furniture before going to sleep. It has worked out quite well. My new desk nook is nothing if not conducive to writing this essay. Except the moment my fingers got tired of typewriter keys, I hopped in bed with my lap top and ended up here. Kind of like how the last time I attempted real work (in this particular case, it was cleaning out the unfinished half of the basement), I ended up on my computer. Although in this case it was a little different, because there were odd costume-type items lying about.
introducing Owen to the Beastie Boys
I had a near-overwhelming inclination to play dress-up last night instead of changing my sheets and organizing my desk after the move, but I restrained myself by mentally arguing that I had nothing interesting to wear. Yeah, right. However, as I told Cassandra when she noted that she had dressed more outrageously than I had the past two days running, I am still recovering from pretending to be normal while in New Jersey. It is going to take at least another week for me to fully retire the real-world-uniform of t-shirts and jeans.
3. I've been taking a chill pill as of late in terms of music. Not that I'm completely divorced from pop radio land as of yet(though I'm not sure I can even call it that, being as I have no access to any radio), but I've been giving my spandex and sequins daydream dance sequences a rest in favor of a heavy dose of mellow-me-out.
Still looking for a rock album that will knock my socks off. I don't know how much longer I can hide in the recesses of my pre-existing iTunes library before going Completely mad, although I'm fairly certain it is analogous to the length of time I can spend continuously typing out this essay until my head spins off into the stratosphere.
1. Saw this video today around lunch time on MTVU while making myself a salad (ground turkey cooked in Sweet Baby Ray's BBQ sauce, sliced strawberries, cheddar cheese, lettuce, bacon ranch dressing; it sounds wacky but tasted heavenly) and decided to adopt it as my new theme song since all I'm doing lately is coasting from city to city, departing and arriving whenever it feels right.
2. This tendency towards drifting has taken me from Amherst to Boston and then down to Providence over the past three days. Those three cities seem to be the triangle of home base, rotating in and out of favor at random intervals. I sat talking with Erick at Coffee Exchange for the better part of this afternoon about the triangle, making plans for art and living spaces, talking shop about poetry and sculpture, discussing the best trees we've met and so on. I've come to realize that what the triangle cities have in common are the types of people that live in them--the kinds I stay up until four in the morning talking to, ones who let me live on their couches or nest in their guest beds whenever need be. Fitz and I spent Wednesday trading stories about beloved books; my sister, her roommate Leanne, and I went to Kartabar on Thayer street for dinner last night and laughed raucously while recounting our New Year's Eves; and then today Erick and I had our afternoon of caffeine and a bunch of pizza at Nice Slice. I feel very good about this triumvirate of beloved locations. Home has turned into a state of happiness that can exist in lots of places, and that's a comfort, especially since I've been concerned about belonging somewhere specific for the past few months. Maybe I can just belong everywhere and have that be alright.
3. I am taking a mini blogging hiatus (probably two or three days-worth) in favor of organizing a few things (read: searching for a new/supplementary form of income, making a reading list, traveling to visit friends, etc.). Thanks in advance for the breathing room. I promise to return well-rested and with oxygen-induced euphoria.
Button put me on the scent of Super Mash Bros., and I have been obsessed since our driving adventure during which we had quite the dance party to a megamixed soundtrack of AWESOME. Maybe something in my brain has shifted, but the past six months have been absolutely saturated in pop, rap, and mash-ups. Somebody please make a rock album I can get down to. I am so bored of listening to the same ones over and over--my ears need fresh input! Even if it's only fresh cos you've got hits laid down over other hits. Mariah Carey singing a hook under a rapper yelling "throw some D's on that bitch"? Priceless. Eminem melded with MGMT?? Necessary. Beastie Boys into A-Ha into Lenny Kravitz, then slap some Nelly over the guitar lick from "What's My Age Again?" and press play. Anybody who lets me listen "Lean Like a Cholo" and the Spice Girls simultaneously has my heart. No question.
Don't even get me started on the politics of piracy--I just wanna dance!
When bored, I often troll the internet for information about my favorite ladies of the moment, be they the girl-crushes of this past summer (when I had seemingly endless time to surf, ogle, and swoon at all my favorites) or the poets I have spent the past four months resuscitating and re-imagining for Spindle. Today, as fruit of this labor, I bring you my Lady Gaga bibliography, compiled over several weeks of active gleaning and countless more of idle internet-wandering.
Though ineligible for Best New Artist at this year's Grammys (pshh, technicalities), no one can argue with the fact that Gaga has had a huge year in terms of record sales alone. 8 millions copies of The Fame sold? Check. Collectable version of The Fame: Monster replete with lock of hair and other completely ludicrous extras? Check. B-sides and remixes enough to compile a dance party playlist the likes of which most artists can only dream of? Just do a general Google search and you are inundated. Kid Cudi's already sampled a stripped down piano performance of Pokerface for his song "Make Her Say", and I'm sure that's only the beginning of such activities.
4. For the gossip queens:
It is safe to say that bloggers are absolutely obsessed with Gaga (ehem, Perez Hilton). And they are probably right to be--every time she leaves the house (typically sans pants) she looks bound for somewhere fabulous, or otherwise ends up doing something scandalous, and usually those two points of interest coincide, creating a meta-gossip-topic of epic proportions. Saucily refuting hermaphrodite rumors? Check. Treating the VMAs as a giant installation space? Check. Meeting the Queen? Check. Is there nothing she won't do?
5. And perhaps most importantly, for the feminists:
While reading her dailies in blog land, Sophia came across this gem on Jezebel, a brief feminist perspective on the Lady's shifting relationship to feminism--initially, she didn't want to call herself that, but it is clearly such a large part of what she does that it should not go unnamed. I've been wanting to write a serious (maybe even ACADEMIC) essay on this phenomenon but have yet to find the time to sit down and so. An artist whose entire life is an on-going cultivation of a persona is tough and tricky work, to say the least, and the endeavor walks a fine line between titillating and alienating (see her thought on this tension here). Some people just cannot be bothered with the spectacle. However, the characters she creates for her music videos celebrate powerful women fighting back against the commodification of their bodies within pop culture--as a performance artist, for she is clearly interested in a lot more than just writing and recording pop songs, she questions the art form she actively participates in so that it may become a more positive space for women (and young girls) it so desperately needs to continue as an industry. I run the risk of getting effusive here, so I'll reign myself in to this final observation: comparisons to Madonna are more than apt (view their SNL face-off here, if you can wade through the field of Andy Samberg's punchlines delivered via lead balloon), because sexual awareness and freedom rank high on the list of issues LG addresses with her music and performance; the celebration of pop culture within a larger critical space is where the genius of both of these women lies.
Regardless of your answers to any of the above questions, she is proving rather impossible to avoid or ignore at this point. Even my dad has opinions on her. It is clear she means something different to every person I've talked to, but what can be agreed upon is that, love her or hate her, she is never boring to watch.
1. I started in on "Ted Hughes Bakes a Cake" last night while in the Cantab audience, somewhere between finishing my knitting and escaping out the back door for a quick smoke. The draft is in a weird place. Ted Hughes is currently attempting to hypnotize the oven. I'm not sure where it will go next. Probably somewhere too serious for the title, though I'm really trying to keep it as light as possible. Everyone who's heard about this project cannot contain their laughter; it comes out through spitting noises, like their mouths are deflating too quick for their lips.
2. I brought the Dickinson persona piece to workshop this afternoon and felt attacked. The majority of people thought it was too harsh an indictment of Amherst. It's defeating to have a poem I thought of as pretty solid knocked down a peg, but I'll probably just cycle it through several drafts tonight and push it through the problems. I'm trying to have a better attitude about editing, mostly as preparation for the thesis-writing I have to do starting in a rough month.
My second piece at workshop was "The Church of Tchaikovsky", a poem I wrote after a prompt my friend Erich gave me a few weeks ago (he asked me my convictions and after I answered, told me I should write about them). It was a really tough poem to get to-- I must have drafted it nearly fifteen times since I started working with the concept. There are at least four or five more poems to mine from free writes surrounding the thing that I turned in today, but the polished piece of it seemed well-received. I was proud; it's not often that I talk about my relationship to religion at all, let alone in my writing, so it was a tough thing to share in a class setting. Compared to reading in on the open mic at the Cantab last night, I'd say that class is far more nerve-wracking than being on stage, even if I am among friends in both cases. The distance probably helps.
3. As is Thursday afternoon tradition, Cass and I watched ANTM and got a little too giddy during the results portion. It was double elimination, which would narrow the playing field from four girls to the final two, a set of circumstances that some people would also see as cause for freaking out. I want to know those people, so that we can all get together and have a fondue-driven support group. Or a fashion blog knitting circle. Or something similar. Being on a campus focused on "social change", sustainability, and recreating the late 80s/early 90s via the Salvation Army bargain bin makes it very easy to deal with what I lovingly refer to my "schlub" days (the ones when I wear jeans instead of some incarnation of my fairly steady uniform of mini dresses and black tights). It also makes it incredibly difficult to not feel like a freak when I am wandering campus in five inch suede platform heels. Fashion and global-mindedness should not be mutually exclusive. Where are the other secret sequin lovers? (From the mouth of Gaga: "I'm just trying to change the world one sequin at a time.") My roommate and I can't be the only ones. Two of my friends saw me walking back from the library in some pair of pumps the other day and had a serious conversation about how they couldn't understand my impetus for such shoes. But then again, this anxiety could be its own entry, and will probably be further explored in later lists.
4. Rob "Ratpack Slim" Sturma featured in Cambridge last night, and I laughed so hard my abs were sore this morning. I'm not sure if it was the Van Halen, or the waltzing, or what-have-you, but I'm glad it happened. He just released a book with Write Bloody. The more I see of the poets in their catalog, the more I want to get all of them in a room and have a semi-trashy cocktail party with many ashtrays and spanakopita. Then, once everyone was properly liquored and trading stories, I would stealthily extract their brains one by one and secret them all into mason jars. So that I could study them. Perhaps to understand why they all find butterfly knives so aesthetically appealing. But mostly because I keep lending out their books and not getting them back from long, intolerable stretches of time.
5. I crave a conference with Sean, a trip to New York, any kind of small vacation to keep me from getting so buried in books and the mad woman-poet lives of the already-dead that I can't crawl my way out. Being back last week was a short breath, followed by a long a serious plunge under water again. I am bad at scuba diving. In fact, I've never done it before. This feels like drowning. I am taking serious advantage of winter break this year. Sophia said she would take me to her synagogue, and her writing spot. And then there's that Gaga concert. Sometimes I wonder how I manage to convince myself of my love for any other city.
First off, proof that I am alive (and in dire need of a haircut...):
And now that that's out of the way, the main event:
I blame Sean completely and totally for this. When Cass and I were driving him home the other day, he made sure that we listened to at least half of I Am...Sasha Fierce, singing along emphatically the entire time. I have just recently begun admitting (mostly on this blog) my undying love for and devotion to female pop vocalists. I cannot stop listening to her - her entire discography (Destiny's Child included) has been on nearly constant rotation since the aforementioned car ride. What can I say? She's a diva. It seems an obvious obsession.
Aside from doing dizzying amounts of work and managing to come down with my first cold of the year at the most inopportune time (my birthday week, though thankfully the big day was spared), I've been spending far too much time holed up in my room watching ANTM with Cass and mentally talking myself through slam strategy (which for me typically means I'm showing off my legs and hoping I don't drop a line mid-poem). The open slam season has graced me with two home venue wins, and hopefully I'll work up the nerve to slam at Cantab this Wednesday.
Until then, I will remain in 23 A, wallowing in illness, attempting to organize all the things I still haven't unpacked fully. Watching music videos for songs that refuse to take themselves seriously. Like this one.
As a postscript, I guess it's fairly obvious that I've become obsessed with any and all reasons for dancing. Not that I wasn't always a closet party girl, but it just doesn't seem to jive properly with the whole librarian thing that I usually have going on. We are all too many things.
Whenever I have a day off from work, I always get very overwhelmed by the space of it. This usually results in me spending at least half of said day in bed, either asleep or pretending to be. But today I resolved to fill every free moment with something that needed to get done, and I'm pretty sure I succeeded. I did three loads of laundry, mailed the first check I've ever written, wrote three poems (much overdue - I was close to losing my lead on the 365 project!), washed a million dishes, cleaned out the refrigerator, changed my sheets, basically got serious about chore time. And I feel great because of it.
This man -
- has been staring at me all day. I guess it's not a typical occurrence for anyone to be home with him all day long, so he must be at least slightly confused. I've been trying to catch him to snuggle for the better part of the night, but in spite of being fat, he is a lot faster than he seems.
Off in academia (yeah, I forgot I was a part of such blustering too...), my schedule for the semester keeps getting turned on its ear, and then its nose, and then its elbow, and so on. A few days ago, one of the professors I'm close with emailed me to invite me to TA a first-year tutorial on inclusive fiction (what a wonderful phrase), and I obviously got very excited. As a close second to writing, I love assisting others in their own writing above most other things. Besides bacon, long highway drives, and finishing novels of course. In corresponding with her about the course and what my responsibilities would be, she inquired about my intentions for scheduling, specifically if I was planning on taking the Div III creative writing research seminar in the fall. I immediately pulled up my iCal and made the according alterations. So much for this being a relaxing last year. Although I'm fairly certain that if I got back to Hampshire and suddenly wasn't busting my ass, I would become very disoriented, if not outright despondent. So I am mentally preparing myself for some serious juggling. I would be lying if I said I wasn't thrilled about this.
Tomorrow is "Day Off: Part 2", and I'm not entirely sure how to spend it after running all of my errands today. The summer is quickly winding down (soon the juggling will commence!), and I'm not sure where exactly it got to. Thankfully, I went swimming for the second time of the season (criminal!!) Wednesday night after Kait and I finished breaking down from a wine tasting we worked together. We bring bathing suits in the car with us always, so we decided that as a remedy to the unbearable humidity we were just going to jump in the ocean. Nevermind that we did not have towels. Such formality has never concerned us before. And that swim was one of the best choices I've ever made. I don't think I've ever felt more refreshed in my life. It was the perfect cap to an otherwise perfect day (I sat in the Gansett laundromat and wrote for hours before work, and one of the owners of the restaurant told me that I had a job there indefinitely if I wanted it). I am a happy camper, to say the least. Now all I need is a giant cup of White Electric coffee and some non-neurotic to snuggle with occasionally and I will be the happiest I could possibly be.
I leave you with the soundtrack to this happiness, my Last.fm Top Ten from the past week.
So during my summer of intensive (albeit sometimes poorly executed) female empowerment, I have been making a serious effort to rediscover girl-power moments from my past. This has involved repeat love affairs with Alanis Morisette's Jagged Little Pill & Liz Phair's Exile in Guyville, repeated viewings of Drop Dead Gorgeous, lots of time spent with Virginia, and as many bonding excursions with Kait as I can manage. But perhaps one of the more important rediscoveries of recent weeks is a little eight-year-old pop album I used to hear a lot in dance class way back in the day.
Kylie Minogue's Fever was called a come-back album, but I was too young when it came out to see it as such. In my mind, it was just the CD I left in my Discman for at least a solid six months (if not considerably longer). I was at an age where sexiness was a quality that had just entered my consciousness, an intangible I was sure I'd one day understand but did not see how or when such an outlandish thing could possibly occur in my own life. This album, aside from being one of the best, most infectiously danceable pop albums I've ever laid ears on, made me feel just a little bit closer to that moment in the timeline of my life. I don't know if it was her deliciously breathy voice or what, but I felt just a little bit bad-ass every time I listened to Fever. Even if I would have been scared to utter the phrase "bad-ass" aloud at the time. It's a bit like the way I felt when I had my fling with Lady Gaga a couple months ago, although things with Kylie seem to have stood the test of time, where as Gaga has yet to prove her longevity to me as of yet. I guess we'll give it another eight years?
My iPod was on shuffle today when I was driving back from buying work clothes for a function tonight, and "In Your Eyes" came blasting through my less than stellar sound system. It took me all the way back to the second story dance studio on Closter Dock, all the while reminding me that I still have a long way to go before I feel as sultry as Kylie sounds on that record. My on-going red lipstick experiment is helping, but Rome was not built in a day. One step, or in this case, one album, at a time.
I ran away to Boston yesterday (and into this morning) and I think the soundtrack warrants documenting:
"Stuck Inside of Mobile With the Memphis Blues Again" Bob Dylan "Hurricane Drunk" Florence and the Machine "New Pony" The Dead Weather "Rebellious Palpitations" Spinnerette "Elizabeth Sways" Sean Hayes "Rainy Day Women #12 and 35" Bob Dyan "Jolene" Ray LaMontagne "Run For Your Life" The Beatles "The Passenger" Iggy Pop
Legitimate update to follow with picture of our porch laziness and discussions of the merits of Asian supermarkets. Also, lots of poet shop talk.
Current music obsessions: stripped down acoustics, real-as-raw-vegetables vocals, night drive playlists DJed by near-strangers. I haven't sung in front of people seriously in such a long time. I'm a little nervous? Especially since this is a cover so many times removed - it was originally a Jackson Browne song that Nico covered, and Tallest Man on Earth is covering her version, and then Erick and I are covering his. Is that so far gone that it's a completely new interpretation? I haven't the slightest clue. Alright. Have to go learn the words, and also run poems to read tonight. Rain, rain, go away - they canceled work, now I get to play.
I have loved Zappos forever, simply because they have a crazy-big selection of footwear paired with free shipping and a fantastic return policy. But when I got this email this morning, my heart melted for them just a little more.
I had asked for a notification when this particular pair of Docs became available in my size again, and under the button to order, there is a list that says, "Here's the deal: 1. A lot of people get these emails. 2. Maple syrup should be its own food group. 3. If the product sells before you buy it, 4. then you can sign up to be notified again. 5. Music is a nice way to end the day." What a way to start my day, smiling like a fool at somebody's whimsical sense of humor.
Until then, hopefully the weather will allow me to work my butt off and make some serious paper. I just opened a savings account when I was back in Jersey, so most of the money that had been lying around in a secret box on my bookshelf is now safely tucked away where I won't be tempted to spend it. Which just means I have to make further stacks so the box won't feel so empty. Also, those boots won't wait forever.
Continuing my obsession as of late with lady-rockers, pop divas, and all the wonderful gems in between, today I am spending my time with Brody Dalle and Alison Mosshart, or the respective bad-ass front-ladies ofSpinnerette and The Dead Weather. I figure, if I am going to have dance parties while I do laundry and clean the stove, I might as well make it count.
Speaking of dance parties, as part of a many-faceted night out with Lily yesterday (that included a show in a UU church complete with Gansetts, falafel, seeing a living SHARK in a bar, etc.), we hit up Tazza, got some Maker's on the rocks and proceeded to dance for about three hours straight. I have not had a night of dancing like that...probably ever. Nicky and DC were just sitting in the corner laughing at us because of how much fun we were having. Boys who are too cool to dance make me giggle - Lily and I kept trying to get them to come join us, and DC did for a bit, but he did not seem to have the stamina to take it as seriously as we were taking it. When I got home I felt so good it was a chore to try to get to sleep. People talk about loving the single life, but at this point I'm not even thinking about whether I am single or not. And if I keep having such good times where the silly will-he-or-won't-he-look-my-way-tonight isn't anywhere near a factor, I will continue to be a more than happy camper. I am happily in love with the slow builds in dance songs when they bring the beat back layer by layer until you get almost dizzy with it, and that is enough for me.
Tonight Chris's band Paper Eagles is playing at Tazza (Lily and I were remarking that we feel like we live there lately) and we're going to have the second installment of our dance party + destruction. There have been rumblings about a ladies-only brunch tomorrow morning/afternoon, so clearly things are only going to continue on in this highly enjoyable vein for as long as we will them to do so.
Ana played a cover of "Kiss With a Fist" last night at .B and I have been obsessed with Florence and the Machine ever since. I think I've listened to Lungs eight or nine times today since waking up and I don't plan on stopping until I meet up with Erick for some adventures before Tazza later on tonight.
So I'm doing this thing lately where I only listen to music sung by women that makes me feel somehow vindicated in my general disdain for any serious thoughts about the male half of mankind at the moment. Lots of Taylor Swift (who I didn't expect to like, but she gave me goosebumps on the bus today), always Lady Gaga, Kaki King (as has been mentioned at least once here), and now Paramore. I will say that I doubted this band, but my crush on Hayley Williams has proven too persuasive to continue to ignore her killer voice and their catchy-as-heck hooks. Just look at her, how could you not be in love?