Month: May 2015

My Morning Jacket’s Jim James is an obnoxious fool, sunny Kate Hudson is Dead Inside and I can’t be normal.

Standard

I have zero interest in conducting myself appropriately. I want to tell everyone my problems and I want to hear all of theirs. I’d love to tell you how much your pit bull disgusts me, but I’m too polite. I’ve decided against cutting my frizzy fountain of hair, it’s against my religion to sport black pants and the dirty dishes in my sink mean nothing to me. I always compose a thank you card, rarely miss church and I go to every social event that will have me. I have my own code of etiquette so I suppose it may be argued that I am trapped by a set of standards, but the rules are twisted and I am finally embracing my bona fide weirdness .

Butt JLO, is that all there is?

Butt JLO, is that all there is?

With all my acting up, I’ve lost track of the celebrities. Jennifer Lopez continues to astound everyone with her beauty, awful choice in men and knack for displaying her robust rump. Sarah Jessica Parker may be filming “Sex and The City 3,” the plot centers around vaginal dryness, souffles and hot podiatrists.

Kate Hudson, Dead Inside?

Kate Hudson, Dead Inside?

I am nodding my head to both the new Mumford & Sons album and the new Muse single, Dead Inside.  Kate Hudson’s jilted baby daddy and Muse front man, Matt Bellamy, must have been thinking of her …”On the outside you’re ablaze and alive, but you’re dead inside”. Deceivingly sunny Kate Hudson does suffer from a deadness behind the eyes, or is she perpetually stoned? Anyone that constantly craves to be that effervescent is hiding some serious darkness. Take that from this disturbed former-cheerleader.

Remember when Jim James used to be cool?

Remember when Jim James used to be cool?

I want to ignite a social media battle with my new enemy, My Morning Jacket’s obnoxious and bloated lead singer Jim James. 2003’s It Still Moves and 2006’s Z are high up on my list of favorite albums, but since then, Jim’s ego has grown as large as his hipster beard and his waistline. In the latest issue of Rolling Stone, Jim James cements his reputation as pretentious and professional whiner by reviewing Nick Jonas’ “Chains” with the following mind-blowingly uninformed summation:

Definitive proof that computers have taken over the world. Nothing is real in this artic-tundra frozen landscape of a ringtone-commercial song.

Then, Jim went on to spew this utter nonsense about country music:

 I feel like modern country is deliberately dumbing down the human race. They’re deliberately making people take glory in being uneducated and racist, and it’s just sad. I think it’s absolute mind control.

Jim, you’re so sad. I don’t think that a semester at University of Kentucky qualifies you as being educated and your mediocre new music does not sound a lot different than country. Jim, when you took that nasty stage fall that you can’t stop crying about, did you hit your head? I’ll take my rock stars minus the cooler-than-thou spirit. More Nick Jonas, less Jim James.

Betty, I feel your pain.

Betty, I feel your pain.

Thank you, Betty Draper Francis, for years of confusion, love and frustration. She’s the mother that leaves an impact with her icy stare, style and the back of her hand while rarely cracking her porcelain structure. We watched Betty get frisky with a washing machine, shoot pigeons, gift a smitten young boy with a lock of her hair, weather an unattractive weight gain and slowly kill herself with a steady diet of Virginia Slims. In the end, Betty was right, life’s not fair, but she never promised anyone that it would be. Rest in peace Betty, and may January Jones continue to quietly shine in another role.

I’m gonna wasted-shame a rock star.

Standard

It’s a battle to maintain a blog when chunks of your life keep falling from the cracks in your glass ceiling. I’ve been in the trenches, but spring has sprung and more importantly, there’s been another rock star citing in Rhode Island!

Evan Dando, 1993.
Evan Dando, one of People’s Sexiest Men, 1993.

Warning: Please be advised that I do not judge the following bad behavior, and I understand the hypocrisy of wasted- shaming anyone, but it’s a rock star and they are fair game. It was fair for you to wasted-shame me during my 90s tsunami of questionable choices, especially fair for my behavior at that Afghan Whigs show, hot damn, that one was a doozy! I must do what I must do and the following account of a has-been rocker and his sloppy performance is mean spirited, but true.

in 1994, I found Juliana Hatfield's home phone number and called her. Repeatedly.
in 1994, I found Juliana Hatfield’s home phone number and called her. Repeatedly.

I recently caught the Julian Hatfield Three at the Columbus Theatre in Providence, RI. The show was fun; the band got the memo and played the entire Become What You Are album. Juliana did not disappoint, she was dark and brooding while irresistibly adorable. Little fact about Juliana: She’s from Duxbury, MA. My college roomate was also from Duxbury and I engaged in a little Juliana Hatfield- phone harassment in college. I did this kind of thing a lot on college and high school.

The opening band was Potty Mouth, an uninspiring all-girl band heavily influenced by Nirvana. Okay, maybe they weren’t that bad, but I researched them and they all met at Smith College and I suffer from a syndrome called “Smith College college- envy”. My Sylvia Plath obsession leads me to be wrought with emotions over goofing off in high school and not having a shot in hell of going to Smith College. Anyway, Potty Mouth’s guitarist was pretty and I watched as her sloshed, attractive, older-looking roadie beau helped the band with the heavy lifting. I use the term “boyfriend” just because sloshed-aging-roadie guy was affectionate with this well-educated guitar player.

Supermodels always fare better than rock stars in the post-heroin days.
Supermodels always fare better than rock stars in the post-heroin days.

 

During Juliana’s performance, hot-roadie-guy kept interjecting drunken babble in between songs with an air of authority and reverence. Who was this asshole? Well, it took a moment, but much to my surprise and horror, I realized that this man was Evan Dando of The Lemonheads. You remember him, right? It’s a Shame about Ray, Into your Arms, starring role in Heavy, ex-lover to both Courtney love and Kate Moss, rehab-frequent flyer with a privileged background and a bad attitude? I once LOVED him, he owns all the bad qualities that I am attracted to in a man. He’s still swoon-worthy, but ouch, how the mighty fall hard when they fall.

 

Courtney and I have similar taste in men.
Courtney and I have similar taste in men.

At the end of the show, I wanted to ask Dando for a photograph for my Christmas card, but it was not clear if he was able to stand up properly. He had such a tight grasp on his little lady’s waste that I thought it best not to bother him. I did shake his hand and inform him that I am a fan. He looked startled, wasted and possibly a little embarrassed.

Oh Evan, it’s okay, it’s all good. You’re still beautiful and you’ve still got a way with the ladies. I see that Dando’s recent tour dates have been cancelled due to ill health. Get better Evan; you’re still one of the coolest Massholes I know.

XO