I promised a Joan Jett solo jumpsuit post, New Year's Eve is the perfect time because I have great memories of 1984 MTV Rockin' New Year's Eve. It was a slumber party but I can't remember if it was my friend Nancy or my friend Kris who was there. I'm pretty sure my friend Stacey was there. We were too young to go out for NYE, but we wished we were out doing something exciting. Joan Jett was on and at some point we noticed she missed a spot when she shaved her armpits. We all wished we were older, sipping champagne, out for the big party, and with a cute date. We didn't know yet that pizza and girlfriend sleep over was way better than any of those things. The near future would bring me boring NYE at St. Andrews Hall with Goober and the Peas and lots of dashed high hopes. Staying up late with Joan Jett is the one that sticks in my mind.
In terms of the jumpsuit, she's got fringe leather, she's got 80s puffy sleeves. Joan Jett, you rock the the jumpsuit with the big boys.
Last night I dreamed of headless kangaroos. What? This morning I woke up with Midnight OilBeds Are Burning stuck in my head.
That got me thinking of songs that were constantly played on the radio. I think the worst ever must have been summer of 1984 or 1985 when Rock Master Scott & the Dynamic Three were on every radio station in metro-Detroit all the time. I remember going down to see the 4th of July fireworks and that song was pouring out the windows of every car, drunk people were singing it, and when we parked it was echoing in the parking garage.
I've listened to a lot of both in the past 24 hours and I can easily say that. I dusted off my TNT album from the late-1990s and found some forgotten favorites though. I still like Swung from the Gutters and had forgotten all about it.
(Tortoise performing Swung From The Gutters live at the Firebird in St. Louis, MO on September 29, 2009 posted by snivelttam)
Disappointingly, both of the live versions I found on Youtube sound little like the recorded version. My favorite element of the song -- a kind of repetitive yet mounting beat "doo doo doo .... doo doo doo ....doo doo dooo" is absent. Did they forget to bring that machine on the road with them? If I were a recording gadget geek I'd be better able to hear, understand and explain the differences. I just know that I am hearing chaos but not the string of sounds that holds the song together on my CD.
Lala only has a 30 second clip but it is a "good part."
But honestly, there's no competition: Tina Turner still kicks Tortoise Ass 99 times out of 100. Swung from the Gutters is going back into my regular rotation and I'm going to see what they've been up to in the last dozen years. I've changed, I wonder how they have.
There are scenes, There are blues There are boots, There are shoes There are Turks, There are fools There are Rockers, They're in schools There was you, Then there was you
I jumped in. I am the official owner of an online dating profile. This mostly just makes me feel queasy. Not in the excited before a big event way but in the "I ate too many marshmallows and I wish I hadn't" way.
I'm finding two things very interesting in this so far brief experience.
1. Most of the men in my age range who state strong interest in music and list musical preferences mention a lot more modern, ambient, avant garde and electronic stuff that would never come right to my mind if I talked about bands I love. Some of it I know, some of it is okay in small doses, some of it I like, and lots of it makes me fear I would be living in Tron if we hit it off and shacked up.
I've known and loved recording and electronic toy dorks before (and thank god for that or who would swap out my stereo tubes when they blow!) but I feel a bit worried that there will be some sort of pop quiz about what keyboard is being used for the tinkle at minute 12:53 of Shoegaze Reptoid Zap! by DJ RJ (aka Ubu Boi).
Do these guys secretly still listen to Metallica and Hank Williams too but want to put forward their hip, young intellectual side? Will my fondness for acoustic guitar, outrageous lead singers,and words date me and doom me?
2. One of the questions this particular site asks is "What do you love that everyone else hates?" My answer is Styx. This seems to be the low hanging fruit of my profile that men use as an opening and it is fascinating. I know from experience talking with with people in pubs that Styx does not go over well and there is no convincing a hater. The only other artist that comes close to this in terms or universal knowing and loathing is Grace Slick.
I can't imagine sending a message that reads: StyNx sux! *wink*
Now that makes a girl feel special. At least I know they've read the words and didn't just look at the pictures ....off now to listen to Taking Tiger Mountain (by Strategy). I love Brian Eno and wonder if he earns me some weirdy music points even if he is an old timer.
I'm not sure how many times I've seen It's a Wonderful Life but 23 seems a good guess. I also don't remember the first few times I saw it but I think I might have been young enough not to fully get it or teenage enough to be jaded. So I'm going to generously give myself three viewings when I might not have bawled as soon as Mr. Gower boxes young George's ears. And then continued to cry on and off through the rest of the movie.
I usually make it dry eyed that far. That's right after cute little Mary and cute little Violet sigh over George and right before we finally see Jimmy Stewart when he gets a suitcase we know he'll never use. And usually, once I get to my favorite scene -- "She's just about to close up the library!" -- I am okay for the rest of the movie. Frustrated ambitions provoking more tears than heart-warming generosity and the love of an entire town.
But this year Jimmy Stewart kicked my butt from the first view of Bedford Falls right down to ZuZu and that tinkly bell. I give up.
Plan for the day: listen to as many of the "Best Albums of 2009" as suggested by the WFUV staff, finish addressing my New Year 2010 cards, finish making chicken noodle soup for sick friend H. who is arriving sometime after 6 tonight, bake banana spice bread, make chocolate fig challah treats, get BBQ ribs and mac 'n cheese ready to go for lunch tomorrow.
In the course of doing my Tomorrow is Long Time compare-a-thon I've come across something, someone, too amazing to bury in a long list of cover artists. I'd listened to a dozen covers at Lala already when I clicked the play button on a guy named Michel Montecrossa. I knew this was something different so I decided to hunt down a website. Wow, Wow!
I'm convinced my iPod can read my mind. (Yeah, I'm back on this, maybe I should finish that dumb story over this long holiday weekend.)
I don't know exactly how the shuffle algorithm works, my guess is that it gives weight to artists/songs that are frequently listened to. Maybe songs that I skip get a negative weight to them. Beyond all that though, I think it knows me.
I was just listening to Living for the City by Stevie Wonder and thinking about how my friend B.'s band used to cover that song. And how B. liked to sing that the legs beneath sister's short skirt were pretty rather than sturdy.
Next song up? A recording of I Dreamed I Saw St. Augustine/Too Far Gone/Tomorrow is a Long, Long Time that my friend B. made in college. It was not his band, just him so the iPod didn't see two artists who did Living in the City and pulled a different song by the second artist.
I need to do a research project on the Shuffle. Luckily, a quick Google search of "ipod shuffle algorithm" reveals a whole slew of sites by math and computer science dorks who know a lot more about this stuff than me. They all seem more interested in randomness and whether all songs will be played before one song will be played twice. I have not seen anything yet about the development over time of human-iPod hive mind communication though. I'm going to send my iPod mental hints to load the Odetta, Nick Drake and Elvis covers of Tomorrow is a Long Time. I love the Rod Stewart and feel a "compare-athon" coming on. According to Wikipedia there are also covers by Harry Belafonte, Nickel Creek, Dion, Chris Hillman, Ian and Sylvia, Joan Baez,The Kingston Trio,Sandy Denny, Danielle Howle, The Silkie, Nationalteatern, Rosalie Sorrels, Judy Collins, Dream City Film Club, and The Black Family.
I'm doing one of my favorite things this morning, it's probably not high on the list for many people though. I've got the Jewel Autumn Harvest Aladdin tea pot full of green tea; a big stack of pots, pans and dishes from last night's holiday dinner with my friend C.; my apron; my purple rubber gloves; and the iPod set to shuffle. I'm going to dive into kitchen clean up after a great dinner and a big mess.
Shuffle has been good for me so far - Christmas Eve started off with The Golden eel (!) by Ween and then launched into Powderfinger.
I haven't put a lot of thought into it but in the back of my mind I guess I figured that when the time came, I'd want to be cremated. It seems neater, less gross. I don't especially care what happens to my body after I die but the idea of decomposing in a satin lined box is kind of yucky.
Cremation called to mind the funeral pyre. I like that. Not to mention, I have the cremated remains of the best cat in the world, Creamy Dave, in a bottle. I happened to have a roommate who worked at a vet's office when Creamy Dave met his untimely demise. I don't show them to just anyone and realize it is kind of weird, but they are not gross at all. Kind of interesting actually.
But on the way to work today, I read and article about the enormous amount of gas and energy required to run a crematorium and the amount of pollutants belched out in the process. Some new process, called "resomation" is big with the green crowd. As far as I can tell, "resomation" is a made up word to avoid how revolting this process is. It involves a chamber and boiling chemicals and, while I like to do my part for the planet, it gives me the heebie jeebies. I don't think I could ask my loved ones to do that for me. Bleh.
To try to exorcise those heebie jeebies and in keeping with my Progressive Rock train of thought the past week, I think I need some Kansas.
I love that video. The hair, the furrowed brow, those awful blonde bangs, the high school prom ruffled shirts. Seeing that makes me mad all over that, when my mom fell in love with that song and bought the tickets to see Kansas at Pine Knob in 1978, she took my sister instead of me. I also would have loved to see the looks on both of their faces as they sat surrounded by 1978 pot smoking Kansas fans. Unfortunately, I don't have that memory. I went to Barry Manilow that summer instead.
Two things reminded me of my 8th grade teacher today: Prisoner Cell Block H and Satisfaction.
Miss M. used to be Sister Mary M. and was bat-shit crazy. She was built like a prison warden and looked a bit like Lou Costello. She also seemed to have a thousand tiny teeth but that is neither here nor there. Rumor had it that she was a tortured and closeted Catholic lesbian who had an unconsummated wish that the friend and roommate she frequently talked about was her lover. I have no clue what was really going on inside but there was definitely something twisted up and festering. She was obsessed with Rock 'n Roll, hell, Satan and sex and spent a lot of time talking about it to 13 and 14 year old kids
On one of the first days in Religion class she had written on the board: FRENCH KISSING. She made us define it for her and told us how we should never, ever do this outside of marriage because it simulated the sex act.
Four years earlier, when my sister was in her class, Miss M. told her that both of our parents were going to hell. Actually, just my Dad was going for sure. Mom could still avoid it if she didn't get married again. I'm pretty sure Mom was going to have to spend extra time in Purgatory though since she must have done something wrong to make her drug hooked husband cheat and leave his family.
Miss M. was a music lover. She was the choir teacher and, when I was in 8th grade, coordinated the effort to have our entire class sing "On Eagles Wings" at the funeral of a girl who had graduated the year before. The girl had been brutally bludgeoned to death in her home, was disfigured and in an open casket. The choir sat up front and I can still see the curly blond wig in my mind's eye and that horrible song gives me the willies.
Miss M. was also in charge of re-writing the lyrics to songs that we sang on special occasions. Our class song was Journey's Open Arms. The opening line was:
Walking beside you Into this school Feeling your hand pressed in mind.
I wish I could remember the rest but all that comes to mind is the line: I'm nearly grown now ready for life
Another song, written to welcome a new priest to our school after the prior one went to rehab (again a rumor) was sung to the tune of Hey Look Me Over and had a refrain:
Father Gucci* You're. The. One!
Miss M. was also a music hater. We listened to a 2-second clip of Stairway to Heaven over and over again. She heard the name Satan in the background, I only heard Peanuts parents talking. I've always been bad at making out lyrics though. This was 1982-1983 and the Ozzy/bat/satanic ritual hysteria was at its peak. We sure heard about it and heaven help the poor kid who doodled a Black Sabbath or Ozzy logo on a folder.
Miss M. really had it in for the Rolling Stones. She demanded to know if we knew who they were talking about when they said "Please allow me to introduce myself?" It never seemed very mysterious to me but she seemed to think our young minds were being tricked into hearing about Satan. She told us that the lyrics to Satisfaction were changed by censors and the song originally used the phrase "I can't get no sex reaction." I remember thinking the censors did us a big favor and "sex reaction" was a pretty unsexy phrase.
At the time, I wasn't particularly interested in any of those bands and thought she was behind the times. I was far more interested in Billy Squier and Van Halen. A year or so later, when my musical tastes changed (or maybe just my friends), I still did not gravitate toward these bands. Instead, the world of U2 and Frankie Goes to Hollywood and New Order started to call.
By the time I came back around to the Rolling Stones, Black Sabbath and Led Zeppelin, I wasn't very impressionable or likely to be sucked into a Black Mass. I had thousands of better reasons to love the music than rebelling against Miss M. and all that I'd heard, but I'm not going to feel too bad if part of it is the spirit of rock 'n roll rebellion.
*Name rhymed to protect the real (if not the innocent) and maintain the poetry and flow of the lyric.
Yesterday, after a late night out drinking red wine and talking with my friend B. about Progressive Rock and David Mamet, I had a red wine hangover. I didn't have a headache or stomach ache or any of the usual symptoms, but I was unable to drag myself out of bed or away from my Netflix on demand feature. I watched 14 hours of Monarch of the Glen. Today, I took a long walk to try to shake off the bedsores and break the connection to bad BBC.
While I was out, something rare and pretty great happened.
A beat up Ford pickup rolled to a stop next to me with Bringin'on The Heartbreak blaring out the poorly sealed windows. The driver took advantage of the red light to take his hands off of 10 and 2, play drums on the steering wheel, headbang, and sing out proud.
I realized I don't hear much Def Leppard coming out of cars these days and I don't see many beat up trucks either. My liberal, green, tree hugger self likes that so many old gas guzzlers are off the road. They've been replaced with cleaner and more efficient models. But my eyeballs really miss old cars, not "classic" cars but just plain old cars. Cars that don't all look the same and don't are not painted taupe or moss. I wish someone would invent a super cheap way to drop spiffy new engines and working parts into cool older cars.
The skin tight, high waisted, red satin pants in this video are also rare and pretty great.
Last night I was reminded of the song that got away and entered the ranks of "haunting" music for me. About a dozen years ago, my friend C. and I were running errands on a hot Denver day. It was too far past lunch time when we pulled into the parking lot of a thrift store on the other side of town from home. I was crabby and I'm pretty sure he was too, although he was always more reserved with his crabby than I am. If the DJ told us who the pianist was we had not been paying attention but out of the car speakers came the most amazing performance ever of Beethoven's Moonlight Sonata. The first movement was slow and still and seemed to soothe the heat for a few minutes. We didn't say anything when we pulled into the parking spot but C. didn't turn off the radio and neither of us made a move to open our doors.
We just sat there and listened.
I eventually purchased a Horowitz recording and enjoy it often. Last night though, I listened to several more on Youtube and think that maybe the Daniel Barenboim is closer to how I remember it. I'm going to spend some time looking through this Classical Music Blog entry too. Most of it is over my head, but I am interested in the reviews and Top 10. At this point, I don't expect to ever find that version and don't really want to. That version has been layered with memory and enhanced in my mind. It is fun to think about and long for though.
I just finished writing a letter to K., who was my best friend circa 1983-1985ish. I had not talked to her for 25 years until the magic of Facebook came along and now we are catching up.
A side effect of this reunion is having Welcome to the Pleasuredome flashbacks.
(Francis Guinan, Patrick Andrews and Tracy Letts in American Buffalo photo by Michael Brosilow)
I've been letting American Buffalo rattle around in my head for the past few days before writing. I loved the play and didn't realize when reading it how funny some of the lines can be. The set design in this production is amazing; I had a seat in the center, second row and it was hard not to wander up and rummage around inside the drawers and bins and cabinets. I also never noticed how much of an offstage but always present figure Ruthie is. As prominent in the group as Fletch.
What was hard for me to deal with was the undercurrent of stupidity in the characters that was sometimes played for laughs. They were dim-witted rather than downtrodden. I've always read them as small-time guys with "big" plans that are not even very big. "Big" plans they'll never be able to carry out. They're cast offs like the stuff in the shop.
Losers. Yes. Pathetic. Yes. But not oafs or morons.
Bobby was the most blatant but Teach was the hardest for me. I have a very specific image in my head of what Teach looks like and it's neither Al Pacino nor Dustin Hoffman. I can picture everything from his side burns (70s but not silly) to his boots (cowboy but not too flashy.) His jacket is a rust or burgundy leather car coat. He is lean and lanky with dark hair. He's manipulative and not as smart as he thinks, but not stupid either. He's cunning and makes things up on the spot with a vague plan to deal with things when they come up.
The way that Tracy Letts played him really messed with those expectations. That's good because I listened carefully and re-read the play when I got home. I also Netflixed the Dustin Hoffman movie to watch again, but it arrived in two-pieces so I'll have to wait a bit longer. I'm trying to be open minded but when it comes down to it, I don't like Teach played as a baffoon or looking like a schlubby Dr. Johnny Fever who is always hiking up his polyester pants. That undermines some of the brilliant Mamet dialogue. Maybe it is an interesting foil for it but I'm not feeling that right now.
This is, however, no criticism of Dr. Johnny Fever. I loved WKRP in Cincinnati (although at the time I remember thinking Bailey was not only prettier than Jennifer but the same person as Mrs. Kotter) and wish it was available on DVD with the original music.
Another favorite piece of jewelery has bitten the dust. The red ring I bought on my trip to Japan must have fallen out of a pocket or something. I wore the ring last Friday for the big photo shoot and I know I had it on when I went out for beer and pizza after. I have not been able to find it since. I have a bad habit of getting really fidgetty in jewelery and taking it off. I think that while I was out, I slipped it off and into my coat pocket or into my book bag where it later fell out. In the photos I took later Friday night, I no longer have the ring on.
R.I.P. red ring. Say hello to black onyx ring and Pentax K-1000 if you happen to see them. I know this is pretty small scale but I am really, really tired of this feeling of loss and disappointment. I'm ready to find something or win something for a change of pace.
Since I've been called out for not providing an actual picture of the eel cookies, here they are. I don't know how to post an image in a comment so I'm making a special post for it.
Also, I've decided that the word "eel" looks funny when capitalized.
Eel.
From now on, no matter where it is in a sentence or title, I'm going all lower case.
I should also come clean and admit that I did NOT eat the eel pie last night after Mamet. I was feeling all snuggly and warm and ready for bed and I made hot chocolate. I knew my friend P. would be distressed at the thought of me mixing seafood and dairy, so I put the snack on hold.
I got my first Christmas gift of the season today. My friend A., who lives in Hamamatsu, sent me Unagi Pie, a local delicacy that I have been mocking for years. There are two things you need to know about Unagi Pie.
1. Pie = cookie/cracker type thing. I can live with that. 2. Unagi = Eel. That's harder to swallow.
According to the box, these are "Snacks for nights." The box shows what at first appears to be one man bending over while another prepares to spank him. On closer examination it is two men fishing for eel.
I spent a few weeks traveling in Japan and ate a fair amount of eel, crunchy, little pink eel with purple eyes. Before that, I associated eel with Gunter Grass' Tin Drum. More specifically, with Volker Schlondorff's film scene of the eels writhing in the horse head. I've also spent plenty of time in dive Polish bars where there are pickled eggs and eel behind the bar. Big, fatty, oily eel. In Japan, I stayed at a monastery for a few days where they proudly served something called "mountain vegetable" for breakfast. Closer examination revealed tiny little eyeballs on my vegetable, or maybe I was just paranoid by that time. I ate everything except those horrible bright pink, sour balls served as a side at every meal.
So I'm game. I think it's crazy to make eel pie instead of Key Lime pie or eel cookies instead of chocolate-ginger cookies but I'll try this Unagi Pie; I'll snack on it at night. My friend A. can't scare me. I've decided that Friday night, when I get home from seeing American Buffalo, is the perfect night for eel pie with a shot of vodka to wash it down. There Stands the Glass seems like the right soundtrack for this event.
I'm finally over listening to the Tragic Mulatto albums all the way through everyday; I get by with just a daily dose of Man with a Tan. I've noticed that I am having more and more cravings for another band and another song though and it is directly related to the Tragic Mulatto crazy tuba sound.
The song I keep thinking about is Tom Waits' Singapore and the band is Chicago "circus punk marching band" Mucca Pazza.
(video by EriniChristinewho has a lot of beautiful concert footage!)
I saw Mucca Pazza for the first time at Lollapalooza 2006. Other than Raconteurs cover of Crazy, the Mucca Pazza show was by far the highlight of the whole festival. Yay, local band! It is so much fun to go see them in a bar too, no matter how much of a hole-in-the-wall place it is, they find a way to march through the crowd. I don't think I want to meet the person who can go to one of their shows and not have a good time.
Their shows remind me of the best part of the Thanksgiving parade in Detroit, the high school marching bands. Some are boring with traditional songs and straight ahead marching but a couple are incredible. I can't remember if it was Cass Tech or Osbourne HS during the 80s but one of them was amazing and funky and had some great dance moves too. Dance moves with tubas! The only difference is that instead of going to the parade at an ungodly hour of the morning and standing around in the bitter cold the Mucca Pazza shows always start much later than I'd like in really hot and crowded bars.
I have a million things to do tonight; dishes to wash, a roast to roast, a letter to my friend K. to write, a thank you not to my friend E. to send, and a Secret Santa gift to assemble. I'm even suppose to be thinking about what it is I am looking for in a man so that I can talk about it tomorrow afternoon with the nice therapist lady who is helping me unpack what is (if this blog is any indication) my overstuffed baggage.
So I put the stereo on shuffle and was moving through my chores with Sunny Day Real Estate, Ben Harper, Said Mrad, Humble Pie, The Beach Boys, The Time, The The, and Lucinda Williams without pause when, all of a sudden, I was sucked over to the stereo, listened for a minute, and found myself getting teary.
I *love* this song.
I can't give my heart to Bob Dylan the way I do to Neil Young, I have reservations. Too much of my connection with Bob happens in my head instead of in my heart, ears and gut .... Most of the Time. And then something like this comes on.
I've heard many of versions of this but this one is the only one I like. Although I have not heard the Donovan version so I can't be too hasty. The Martin Carthy version is too impersonal sounding for me and most versions sound too new-age bookstore, Celtic, buy-it-for-your-SCA friends crappy. I can't even stand listening through the Joan Baez version--though that is my reaction to most Joan Baez.
I have the day off work and I am going to get professional photographs taken. This is part of my Christmas gift for my mom (it will be the first time since 1987) and will allow me to take back mantle space from all those crooked-teeth,runny nosed grandkids who have taken over! For a long time, I kept pace with the siblings: school photos, senior picture, graduation. But the adult photo opportunities seem to have passed me by. The siblings provided wedding, baby's first Christmas, and family portrait updates but I've become trapped for all time in a soft lighting, blue feather boa photo from senior year.
The choice was to either provide a grandchild or go get a studio photo. In some ways the grandchild option would be less traumatic; I'm okay looking in real life but I'm not photogenic. Of course I could not get a haircut scheduled until yesterday, so my bangs are a bit too short and crazy looking today. I really did try to make this picture nice, I went on no less than three shopping trips to find some outfits but came back empty handed. (I did, however, see a few JUMPSUITS at Macy's.) I even went to a make-up lesson on Wednesday night in the hopes of putting on a better face today. But today, instead of putting on a smokey eye or even running up to Walgreens to get volumizing mascara instead of the lengthening mascara I currently own and don't really need, I am sitting her freshly scrubbed and thinking about Duran Duran.
I have not done that much since 1984/85 but I've listened to it quite a bit this week and even walked down memory lane with my old friend K. about a defunct, Detroit area, Duran Duran wanna-be band called Second Self. I had forgotten how weird the videos for Girls on Film and Hungry Like the Wolf are. A big wide, Simon Le Bon headband could solve my crazy bangs problem or I wonder how my mom would feel about a portrait of me, mostly naked, caked with mud and decorated with zig zag yellow face paint? I bet that kind of photo could generate a bit of online date interest ....
I am more excited about some music tonight than I have been in a long time. For several years I have been hoping to get my hands of listenable versions of some out of print albums put out by Alternative Tentacles.
In the mid-90s, I had a sometimes housemate named T. in both Detroit and Denver. T. was an interesting guy in many ways. I never had any idea what was going on in his head and his only answer (ever) to the question "What do you want to do?" was "A hitter." And yet we had a lot of fun times and, from that phase of my life, he is almost the only friend of whom I have pure good memories.
One of the long lasting results of knowing T. is my love of the band Tragic Mulatto. He had homemade cassette tapes of both Chartreuse Toulouse and Hot Man Pussy and, when he was laid up for weeks and weeks on end at his dad's house recovering from blood clots in his legs, I ordered him "official" copies of the entire Tragic Mulatto catalog. A decade ago, Alternative Tentacles still had the albums and cassettes in stock. But they've never made a CD and I haven't found digital files either. So I have been living without "Scabs on Lori's Arms," "Debbie," "Stinking Corpse Lily," "Man with a Tan," "Hardcore Bigot Scum Get Stabbed" and "She's a Ho." Not to mention a great cover of Slade's "I Don't Mind." The cover of "Whole Lotta Love" is great for about 2.5 out of the 6 minutes. I don't love woman screeches though or meandering punk rock instrumental so the rest of it bugs me.
I was thinking about my friend T. today (he had long, flowing, blonde hair like David Lee Roth and used to use that Mane and Tale conditioner on it)and decided to check again for some online Tragic Mulatto. Success! Someone named Egnu Cledge has a blog called Victorian Squid and uses it to talk about and share music instead of blab on about jumpsuits.
