Before I do anything, I just want to celebrate the fact that this is the fourth time in a row I have logged onto my blog and found exactly ZERO comments from TrimSpa and co. And now, simply because I've said this, blog spammers from across the universe are aligning for a malicious assault, but that's okay. 'Cause right now, there are ZERO. I just wanted to celebrate that for a moment. Okay, I'm done.
I also want to celebrate that Kim Coletta from DeSoto Records listened in on the Chariots Race performance the other day on WMSE (how many links can I post in a single sentence? hmm...) and was kind enough to request a CD once they're done recording. I don't wanna get all Yoko on your ass, and I don't want to offend anyone (i.e., Kim), but let me just do this one little yelp for joy in the hopes that DeSoto picks up the new album for distribution, because that would be FUCKING HUGE. Oh, and by the way, my boyfriend is fucking amazing (see: "Yoko"). I'm so glad I didn't know he was this cool when we first met, or I never would have had the courage to go up and talk to him that night at the Palomino. Not that "Greg the General Manager from the County Clare" was any less intimidating in my tiny little world. Seriously. You're pretty fucking cool. I'll stop embarassing you now.
See? Here's me. Being Yoko even though I said I didn't want to. The recording session went great, minus one giant computer fuck-up that thank GOD seems okay now. I only wish I'd brought the camera to get pictures of the "Guitar Jihad," which basically consisted of Greg and Brian affixing their headphones to their heads with t-shirts and duct tape. Ali baba ram dass holy holy mackerel hallelujah al-guitar jihad, it was hilarious. Maddie had a great time being completely oblivious to how many punk rock points she is racking up these last few months. And I will be totally happy once I get their songs out of my head. Catchy pop hooks: good for the kids, good for selling records. Bad for Stephanie, whose head is going to explode and leave a giant fucking mess if those little ch-chang-changs don't go away soon. No offense, dear. I love your music. I just would like to hear something else in the mix. A little Frank Black, perhaps? Some Lou Reed? No. It's just BEHR NEHR NEHR, D-BEHR NEHR NEHR, D-BEHR-NEHR-NEHR (break) TING-TING-TING-TING-TING-TING-TING-TING all the live long day (that was "please," by the way. Excellent translation, if I do say so myself). I love it. I really do. It's just that the TING-TING-TING-TINGS are so Fugazi, and I thought for years that Guy Piccioto was the sexiest man alive. And then I met you. And now you're all amazing and wonderful and kind and humble and TING-TING-TING and ch-chang chang and if I don't stop thinking about it, you're going to get mauled tonight, sick or not.
Clean cup, move down. THE PIXIES. I'm not going to get started on how much I love them, how I've waited ten years to see them (wait, how old am I? make that twelve years - yikes), how cute Kim Deal is, how this is my favorite band of all time and there will never, ever be another Pixies in my life, and how much it means to me that Tracey and I are about to have our wildest shared fantasy come true (not only that, but we didn't have to get rich and pay them exorbitant amounts of money to reunite - they did it all by themselves). This is all well-known documented history (see Stephanie's Journals, Vols. 1-30, the covers of which are scratched nearly through the paper with lyrics from "Tame" and "The Sad Punk"). The show Tuesday night was mind-blowing. I really thought that after seeing them in Milwaukee, I wouldn't be as excited about Chicago. The opposite is true. I am even more excited, because at the Aragon, unlike the Milwaukee Theatre, there are no seats, which will finally allow me to jump up and down clapping my hands and beating the shit out of my poor tenderized thighs to the polyrhythmic ecstasy that is The Pixies. I. Love. The Pixies. Monday night will forever be etched into my brain. Seeing my favorite band ever with my best friend of almost fourteen years, the love of her life, and the love of my life. It just doesn't get any better than this.