Itunes write up

I got this idea from someone else’s post but whenever I tried to reblog it it kept linking back to theirs so I’m just making another post.

How Many Songs: 1180

Sort By Song Title
First Song: About As Helpful As You Can Be Without Being Any Help At All- Dan Mangan

Last Song: 2000 Light Years From Home- The Rolling Stones

Sort By Time

Shortest Song: Stranded- Red Hot Chili Peppers
Longest Song: Joey- Bob Dylan

Sort By Artist
First Artist: AC/DC
Last Artist: The Yardbirds

Sort By Album
First Album: Accelerate- REM

Last Album: Voodoo Child: The Jimi Hendrix Collection- Jimi Hendrix

Death: 6
Life: 31

Love: 53
Hate: 1
You: 123
Sex: 1


KID KOALA: Moon River

Super Moon this weekend, guys.


JACKSON 5: I Want You Back (Acapella)

Actually only remotely less jarring than when I stumbled on a clean version of Straight Outta Compton without prior perusal. Now passing along the discomfort to you. You’re welcome.

I spoke with Courtney Barnett and gosh, if I was lukewarm on her before… sigh. On her frank songwriting and deliver:

“I just try to do what comes naturally,” Barnett says. “I let the words roll out of my mouth, and I play whatever matches that on guitar. The minute I start thinking about it, it becomes contrived.”

Peep the whole story o'er at Creative Loafing. Maybe I’ll see you at her show next week at The Loft?

02.20.15 // pore strip people

Earlier this week, I volunteered to help my manfriend clean his rather unfortunate kitchen. While balls-deep in Butthole Surfers, cheap malbec, and on my second steel wool, he innocently asked, “Is this…OK with you?” I think, since cleaning is traditionally not the most party time task we get to experience in life, he thought surely I was cursing him under my breath. But…guys, I’m kind of a pervert.

Caroline accidentally named it about a month ago when we were kicking it with bourbon and Kevin on my couch. I’m not sure how it came up, but I was trying to recall an OxiClean commercial—you know, those ones from the ‘90s when that bearded dude crouches next to a sickly-looking light brown bathtub and is all,“YO WATCH THIS,” and when you do, you see him swipe a perfect white scar, cutting through the scuzz. “HOLY FUCK,” 8-year-old me thought. Caroline nodded knowingly as I detailed all of this. “Oh yeah,” she said. “Biore pore strip people. I’m one of those, too." 


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Have I ever told y’all about my girl gang? My girl gang is a six-piece group of wholly gifted, wholly diverse writers. We’re all women, yeah, but that part doesn’t seem important—save the alliterative possibilities. Anyway, we’ve been meeting monthly for a good minute now and this afternoon, for April’s meeting, we’re fucking off to the woods in North Georgia. We’re renting a cabin (with wifi, we’re not idiots) and a hot tub (clearly) and checking out as soon as we check in.

I have deadlines for tangible, real, assigned pieces, yes—but this trip isn’t about those (although clearly I will deal with those today and Sunday night because I have to). This trip is going to be a dope opportunity to bounce ideas off this group of writers I admire and respect greatly. It’s about teasing out the delicate shellac shell of a thing and possibly filling it up and casing it to become something.

I proposed a social media diet to the group for the retreat. It was not met with a lot of warmth, so I might be going in solo on it. I feel like that aspect is important to preserve but easy to ignore—the whole being present thing. Not to get all zen and annoying on y’all, but I feel like so often trips like these secretly exist as a really super opportunity to boost your Instagram feed’s legitimacy, a chance to FOMO the fuck outta people scrolling back home or in line at the bank or something else mundane. And to indulge in these little impulses is kind of missing the point completely? Right? I don’t know. We’ll see how that part goes.

We leave just after my Bustle shift ends. MV will come grab me, I’ll squeeze Kevin adieu for a weekend with Fun Uncle Jim, and we’ll be off with fresh notebooks and some pinot noir I recently jarred up. I’m stoked.

Good morning.

CASSANDRA JENKINS: Wild World feat. Delicate Steve

My day was warm and mellow and unrushed. (Sure, I got to enjoy my first experience on the receiving end of a kill fee, but so it goes. On the flip-side, I developed a super dope sandwich I plan to repeat often in the future [toasted sourdough with garlicky hummus, sprouts, spinach, kosher salt, and a hearty spritz of lemon juice].) Hope yours was, too.

This cover is gorgeous. Good night.


STEVE GUNN: Wildwood

I went to a WASP-y high school and attending youth group was a fairly popular, non-geeky Thing To Do — especially at Killearn Methodist or Wildwood Presbyterian. 

I grew up Catholic, my family frequenting early Sunday mass within the stained glass Blessed Sacrament structure. But I tried out the protestant youth group with their PowerPoint presentations and acoustic guitar. It was very different from the rigid, pious practice that had become a beloved habit — Wildwood and Killearn’s lighting felt too bright and I couldn’t get excited about peanut butter-eating contests.

I was slipping away from Christianity in my early-/mid-teens but I was still trying to find some sort of footing in any of the three churches. I was trying to feel something, to believe.

It didn’t stick, but you can never fault someone for trying to believe in something — religion, love, magic. It’s worth trying.