O Face

Gotta Be Honest

I chuckled at this. Spiders on drugs!

Free Energy, Free Energy, Great Video

I really love this video of the song "Free Energy" by the Philly band, Free Energy. I love the exuberance and just downright good vibes. There are a few of my buddies featured in it as well, which makes it feel like I'm flipping through a photo album.




I want all of my Shmitten Kitten events to have the same feel as this; rad kids having a rad time. Speaking of rad times, I deejayed happy hour at Johnny Brenda's on Friday and I had an amazing time. I did an indie set, a Motown set, a rock 'n' roll set, and then finished with more of a dance party set and people LOVED IT! The waitress even told me that her customers were complimenting my music to her. That made me feel amazing.

It's also fun because I get to meet a ton of guys. I had one guy buy me a drink and a few come up to me to ask what I was playing. One guy asked for my card, too. Being a deejay rules. 

I can see why people love it. It's such a quick fix, like a sugar high. I can't wait to do it again. I'm gonna deejay at the Troc on Monday, April 26th and then I'm gonna deejay brunch at Dos Segundos on May 8th. Weeeeeeeee!

Jurrasic Park + Michael J. Fox = LOL

DQ Should Watch Their Back

LOL

See?

Sidekicks do it better:

On Loving Alfred Brendel: An Imagined Affair

At first, I thought it'd be hard with you being a '60s pianist and me being, well, a blogger in 2010. But, I gave you a shot. 

I'd watch you perform at Carnegie Hall, transfixed by your skill. Up on the stage, under the lights, you were consumed by the music. Your shoulders relaxed as you channeled the notes effortlessly.

When you'd hit your last note, I'd clap harder than anyone else. My necklace would bounce on my chest as I enthusiastically applauded. You winked at me from the stage and my chest swelled with pride. 

We'd go to cocktail parties together. I'd chat up your friends, cracking them up with jokes and stories. It was so effortless to charm people who were close to you. If they were close to you, I'd want them close to me too. We'd make eye contact from across the room. You'd beam.

When we got back to your place, you'd kick off your shoes and unbutton your shirt. You'd collapse on your black leather couch like an armful of books. I'd slip off my heels and slide next to you. I'd run my fingers through your hair and say, "Let's just go to bed, honey." You'd kiss my ear and inhale my perfume deeply and I'd feel like I was home.

Sundays we'd be lazy and you'd make me breakfast. I'd watch you salt the potatoes and flip the eggs. You wouldn't even notice until you did then you'd ask what I was looking at and I'd say nothing. Our little life meant everything to me.

But, then your career started to take off and you were gone for longer stretches of time. I'd be impatient, increasingly frustrated that I had to share you with the rest of the world.

When you came back from Austria, I knew something was amiss. Your eyes didn't sparkle to see me. Your face seemed heavier. I prepared for the worst.

I threw a glass at your head when you said her name was Natasha. It all landed like a bomb. You left and I collapsed. I crumpled. I deflated. I was totally shattered at the news. 

I threw everything out that was associated with you and our time together. I marched outside and tossed it on the curb. I couldn't stand the thought of anything that reminded me of you and everything reminded me of you. The only thing I couldn't bear to part with were your records. I buried them in a paper bag in my closet under heavy piles of sweaters and blankets.

It'd be years before I could listen to you play again. I unearthed the records. I examined the covers and ran my fingers over your lips. Your face was there as if frozen in time. I put the record on. Your record. Proof that you existed because sometimes I wasn't sure.

I sat on the floor and closed my eyes. The notes danced around my head. I pictured you playing them and it wasn't a sad thing anymore; it was comforting.

And those hands. Those hands that used to zip up my dress, that used to trace my name on my back with a fingernail, that used to cup my face when you'd say, "Just stop talking and kiss me, you silly girl," well, they're gone now. I miss them, But, I can still hear them. And that's something, right?

Gave The Ol' Blog A Little Facelift

It's like Heidi Montag; a few nips and tweaks here and there. It feels like I gave Cupcake Brigade a haircut or something. Hmmmm. 

Never Forget Gangsta Natalie Portman

I remember stomping around drunk in Rittenhouse Park singing this with some buddies a few summers ago. It's still funny.