My kind's your kind

Dear friends,

1. It is June 1st 2006 which means I must prattle on about bittersweet good news via someone else's train

When Contributor Bryan informed his public that Rocket From the Tombs was reuniting and playing shows, I was simultaneously excited and saddened because my favorite of the RFTT boys, Peter Laughner, is no more and him not singing Ain't it Fun well...just ain't fun. Even when The Dead Boys do it (and I like their version - see last post below) it lacks the nihilistic quality that Laughner brought to the song. The Dead Boys not nihilistic enough? Yeah, yeah, I know. But those boys...they're trying, you see. And Laughner...he doesn't try, he just does. Which is why his boozy, foggy ferociousness has nothing to do with looking bad ass (which is admittedly important in ye olde rock 'n' roll) and everything to do with this is the only thing I can do without failing and yet, I still fail. Watch me fail. Splat.

For a beautiful piece on Laughner, his artistry and eventual demise go find Psychotic Reactions and Carburetor Dung by Lester Bangs and read Bang's remembrance of his fallen friend.

As for recorded output, good freakin' luck. I've been trying to get this for years. The only person I know who owns it is Contributor Jared and his copy is covered in tzatziki sauce or something. The standout for me on the album is definitely Laughner's gorgeously ragged, saxophoned?/violined? (honestly, I can't even tell, it sounds like it was recorded into tin cans) version of Richard Thompson's Cavalry Cross. Laughner doesn't try to do it like the hebridian pagan hallucination original. Instead he gives us his own unique American translation. Cavalry Cross is like Powell and Pressburger's The Red Shoes in song form in that it explores what happens when creativity makes everything in your life take second place to what you need to fuel your art, namely DRAAAMA! Either in emotional or pharmaceutical form. Laughner wants to make this painfully clear in his rendition. You can almost picture him pirouetting onto the train tracks as he unfurls the great winding solo that closes the song.

I should clarify that this is not about being a ghoulish admirer of self-destruction - if it were I would be able to listen to the copy of Down in Albion I got for X-mas. It's about admiring an honesty that's not pretty but demands your attention.

2. It is June 1st 2006 which means there are zombies

Draculazombieusa, East Coast Annex is gonna jog in place and croon at a zombie movie fundraiser TONIGHT at The Delancey. Tickets are $8. We go on at 11PM and it will be like a gym workout only with more ladies in short black skirts doing the robot.

3. It is June 1st 2006 which means we tried but there was nothing we could do

Several years ago today, myself & The Monkey (previously known as the Bat*) agreed to be "more than friends" and did the most absurd, awesome, sweet romantic comedy stumble into coupledom that I've ever witnessed, let alone participated in. For that we have several things to blame, some of which are: Radiohead tickets we didn't get (which is a theme as it turns out), a look right in the eye over eggs, Contributors Tina & Alex for their silent witnessing, Teenage Snake** rehearsal and a solid guarantee. In the time I've been with him, I have discovered that my boy is made of crackers, (to paraphrase another) someone who encourages the eating of ice cream, quite the closet comedian (SHARK!), an excellent traveling partner in music dorkitude (Day trip to Liverpool? Why not!?!) and owner of quite an impressive power move. In the time he's spent with me he's discovered that I meow when hungry, sing along to everything, lose my metrocard, keys and brain daily, harbor not so secret fantasies of chloroforming him and taking him to Paris and enjoy making out like a teenager to the song below just like every other enamored fool.



I'm so glad we threw caution to the wind, mon ami. I could go on and on about how you're so great and I love you. I reserve a weekend of your time in the near future for proper celebration. Pick the city and I promise, no chloroform.

Love, D

* A high school nickname. No, I don't get it either. Bats suck noisily at fruit, hang upside down, have frantic two second coupling and emit high pitched squeaks. Luckily, there's none of that at my house. Okay, fine. Sometimes there's squeaking but usually that's me, in response to cute baby animal programming.

** Teenage Snake is the make believe band I sing with when trashed. Hey! My friends are musicians. Don't front, you'd do the same if you were surrounded by talent.