Going on hour eight of my hangover. Nice job, Griley! Way to double fist Jack-and-Cokes until you're plastered and slobbering! (But man, the Fielding demos sure sounded awesome cranked up to eleven on the way home. Don't worry ma, I wasn't driving.)
Anyway: woke up with a giant hangover this morning and quickly banged out a crappy review of the Paul Frank party. It ended up being completely re-written for this week's upcoming issue, but I thought a few tidbits of my o.g. version might be blog-worthy:
“Roughly 10 Jack-and-Cokes, two girl kisses and one colossal fight with my boyfriend later, I'm happy to report that I'm not only alive, but I'm not even puking! But that's about it. Wolfmother? They were okay; then again, I was on round three (two-by-two) by that point, and my “Woooooooman!” impression had evidently escaped my brain and was leaping out of my mouth every 5.6 seconds. Drunk people can be such shits. Wait.
Anyway: I'd hoped for the Shins, prayed for the Flaming Lips, prepared myself for Beck, but in the end Paul Frank (the company, not the man) went with Wolfmother as their Special Surprise Guest for their annual Christmas party. And that's cool. Personally, I'm not in to them, but what with the kiddie choo-choo train, midgets, photo booth, camel, fake snow, real rain, Hot Dog on a Stick gals and wait-did-I-mention the wee little midgets running around (something had to top the elephants from last year's party) there was still plenty to keep me entertained. And by entertained, I mean wasted. P.S. Who the shit throws a holiday party on a Sunday?
The Shark That Ate My Friend was there, and the Acid Girls were, too. AND DID YOU KNOW that the Acid Girls—a.k.a. DJs Isochronal and Salinger, Avalon's resident Wednesday nighters—have something like 30 gigs lined up for January and February, and only three of them are not in London or France or somewhere else only accessible with a passport? I realize you probably don't care, but you should: Jamie (Iso) and Greg (Salinger) are super nice guys who (unlike your typical Vegas or Sutra wasteoids) have an arsenal of incredible smart, self-made remixes and have long been OC's best-kept secret. Be sure to check them out while you can still afford to.
In conclusion: Jack-and-Cokes=barf (literally, I just ralphed; actual IM transcript from five seconds ago: here comes the puke again. fortunately i'm typing this from the bathroom); Wolfmother=meh; Paul Frank=your friend. And this shit excuse for a live review? =over.”
Did I say tidbits? I meant the whole thing.
ALSO: Save the OC.