Penelope Cruz has huge tatas

Sunday afternoon I took in a matinee, alone. I was on a date with myself in Princeton. Being single again means dating myself, which I’ve always enjoyed. The day began with a nice drive, during which I blasted random Stevie Nicks songs while trying to sing along but realizing that I didn’t really know the words. Parked in the section of Princeton that’s kind of ghetto (who knew?), and walked over to the Record Exchange. The great thing about going on a date with yourself is that you can flip through CDs for a hours, without anyone clamoring in your ear about being bored/hungry/tired.

When did the Record Exchange change hands from a hipster haven to a mecca for trashy people? There were so many trailer-park dwellers and biker types types I felt like I was in Bizarro Princeton Record Exchange. Plus there was a random farter who seemed to be following me throughout the store. I couldn’t escape the stench of this person’s ass, try as I might.

My lesbian taste in music reared its head as I handed over plastic to pay for a Lilith Fair double CD, 10,000 Maniacs Unplugged, and an ’80s compilation CD. All that for just under $11.

Tuckered out from my shopping excursion, and wondering how much money I had left, I sat on a bench in front of the theatre and balanced my checkbook. Dios mio. I am leaking money like I actually have some to blow.  Stop me.  Please.

Back to Volver. Did you know Penelope Cruz had tig old bitties? It was news to me. If you see Volver, you’ll be treated to a variety of birds-eye-view shots of her breasts.

Good movie. I’d forgotten how campy Almodovar’s style is. I was surprised during the first reaction shot, when the melodramatic music swelled in the background. But the actual plot will hold your attention, even if the melodrama slightly annoys you. I think Volver means “to come back.” The movie is about women coming back from different things–bad marriages, sexual abuse, death, madness, the list goes on. It’s kind of a phoenix story, as the different women find ways to rise from the ashes.

In one scene, Penelope Cruz sings a song that somehow brought me to tears. I’m not sure if that was her voice or not, but its lilting sadness broke my heart.

After that I worked out, baked some corn muffins that tasted like shit, made myself a martini, and watched Breakfast at Tiffany’s. I think I’m going to stop eating and cut my hair short so I can become the black Audrey Hepburn.

Remember when…

…you liked SWV? Maybe you didn’t. I did. Back in the day, when I was still in my R&B phase, I loved those girls. This morning, driving to work, I found myself chillin’ Sisters With Voices style, singing like a high school girl with a crush. I can still bust out a mean version of “Weak,” and I’d forgotten how much fun the Michael Jackson sample from “Right here/Human nature” was. Shit was so good I busted out the wop (what a stupid sance). The drive ended with a little bit of “I’m so into you,” and “Downtown.” I remember listening to that when I was still a virgin and thinking it was the best. song. ever.

’06: feel good music

Check out my top 10 CDs of ’06 post at Phillyist HERE.

Six degrees, baby

No, this post isn’t yet another television post (though I do love that show). It’s me inviting you to check out something I wrote for Phillyist, regarding iPod ADHD and six degrees of separation between songs. Check me out here. And then comment, comment, comment on that salmon colored site!

Architecture in Helsinki

Australia’s Architecture in Helsinki is my new obsession. Along with Takka Takka, they opened for Clap Your Hands Say Yeah at the Troc on Saturday night. And they stole the show.

Though Takka Takka were interesting musically, and quite energetic, I really didn’t dig the lead singer’s voice. If the band took on a different singer, I’d consider buying the album.

Then came AIH. It’s a huge ensemble band, with members who switch places and roles for each song. The drummer becomes the trombone player, who becomes the keyboard player, who taps on the cowbell. There was lots of cowbell to be had, enough for everyone. I daresay they brought some funk to all the indie madness, but when I bought both albums I was dismayed to hear that the funk had been eschewed for a cutesy effect. I still dig them, but the live performance was much more dynamic than the CD.

CYHSY heeded my subliminal message and played all of my favorite songs within the first half our of their show. So I left. The guy in the striped shirt who was playing guitar and keyboard seemed bored and/or angry. He spent a lot of time glaring at the other guy who played guitar and keyboard, most likely because that guy seemed so drunk/high that he might’ve tipped over at any moment.

Following AIH, CYHSY came off as a bunch of dudes who were totally into themselves and didn’t have to earn the audience’s love. And I guess when you’re playing to a sold out show, it’s easy to feel that way. But in my group of friends, the opening band poached CYHSY’s fans.

Tastes like chicken

I threw up a little when I read this article. Especially the part when Alicia Keys says:

“I was just talking to Bono the other day, and he was like, “Are you doing shows?”

That vomit? It was green and tasted oddly of jealousy.

How Cat Power gave Rogue 2 blue balls

This summer, Rogue 2 and I were fortunate enough to see Cat Power perform at the Trocadero. Ladies, if you ever wanted to clock the exact moment a guy’s balls turn blue from wanting someone so badly but not being able to have her, take Rogue 2 to see Chan Marshall strum her guitar. It was like watching a man with a wifflle bat in his pants.

I think everyone fell a little bit in love that night, ladies included. She was just so damned pretty and her voice was haunting yet powerful. It was like watching a formerly caged animal prowl the stage. She even alluded to her caged self, that cage being alcohol and drug abuse. And I must admit, it was funny watching Rogue 2′s baseball bat shrivel up into his stomach as the show drew to a close.

Check out today’s Times article on Cat Power. Then try to see her for yourself.

Rogue 2 can’t see

Have you ever rocked out so hard that you went blind? I have. As of right now, I can’t see a fucking thing. I can barely sit down and gather my thoughts–everything is swirling and all I see are bright, florescent colors. This, my friends, is what happens when you go see the trinity of Rye Coalition, Priestess, and Nashville Pussy at a small bar where drinks are cheap, attitude is high, and the music is LOUD LOUD LOUD.

What can I say about Rye Coalition? Their latest album, aptly titled “Curses” and produced by Dave Grohl, slays, but somehow no one even knows it came out. The bands labels actually promote these days will never cease to amaze me. Anyways, these guys from Jersey absolutely KILL live….they’re catchy, heavy, and the chicks love them. Sign on the dotted line, fucker. Priestess, for me, was the big surprise of the night. I heard their record and was mildly impressed, but live these guys bring it more hardcore than Raj’s mom in What’s Happening. Homeboy plays leads like no one’s business, and their punk/metal hybrid was enough to make me simultaneously hold my ears and almost cream my pants. Thankfully, Nashville Pussy came out and finished me off by dropping a rock bomb of southern fried punk rock goodness right on top of everyone’s ass. What is it about chicks that rock out like that? I don’t know, but gooooooooood daaaaaaaaaaamn.

Anyways, it’s almost noon and I still feel drunk from last night. Sure, it’s helpful to know the bartender and be surrounded by friends, but shit, I didn’t think I’d feel like this. I never thought that a rock show could turn a person blind, but hey, here I am, hoping that I’m hitting the right keys as I type this passage. Look at me, today’s my day off. Get me a cane, I need to find my way down to the fridge to grab another cold one. Happy weekend, fool.

THEY SHALL CALL IT PITGINA

What exactly would you call this labia-like slit in Beyonce’s armpit? After much thought, I’ve decided on Pitgina. Because Vagpit sounded a little too weird. I don’t know whether to take her to a doctor or see if my dildo will fit in there.

If you think you have a better name, please comment. Rogue2, before you get mad about this post, remember you always crap on the ones you love. Ring the alarm, fool.

Photo from Bossip, my new favorite blog.

Rogue 2 is an insensitive prick

Tonight at 9, CBS will air Dave Navarro’s music-based reality show, Rockstar: Supernova. It’s sure to be a one-hour emotional symphony of anger, frustration, disbelief, and perhaps even hope. For the deaf, dumb, and blind, that is.

It’s been well over a year since Jane’s Addiction devastated music fans with its ho-hum, ridiculously overwrought album Strays. This time back then I was at Lollapalooza, soaking in the sounds of Jurassic 5, Audioslave, and Incubus waiting to see a glimpse of Perry, Dave, and the rest of my fallen heros. About the disaster I wrote:

It was completely surreal to be at such a shitty festival drinking copious amounts of alcohol, only to return to the real world to find that a kind of Armageddon had taken place in amphitheatres across the country and Dave Navarro was impotent and unable/unwilling to give his fans the rock music that they desperately needed.

A year later, a lot of us feel the same way. Aside from banging Carmen Electra and making even MORE of an ass out of himself in his new shitty band The Panic Channel, Dave Navarro has yet to redeem himself for his trangressions over these past 10+ years. His reputation is still completely trashed, and on the radio this morning, I heard that he’s currently dating porn star Jenna Jameson. We all know that absolutely no one will care once his penis is condemned.

To me, this was never an issue of respect. It’s a class issue. Though I wouldn’t go as far as everyone else criticizing his music, I say wholeheartedly that Dave “Where’s my shirt?” Navarro barely gives a shit about his fans. And when he does care, it’s only for the moments that the cameras are on.

Let’s tune in tonight at 9. Give some focused negativity to our washed up rock stars and bear witness to the tragedy that happened once Perry Farrell got a clue.

On Sept. 15th, 2006, almost 3000 Americans’ ears were slaughtered by musical terrorists, i.e. The Panic Channel.

Since then, more than half that number resold oNE at record stores. I encourage the rest of you who were suckered into buying that lame piece of crap to do the same.