suavely deranged

And if y'all don't know whom this lovely chanteuse is, Rush out and buy her new CD, A Fine Mess. It's 9.99 at HMV. Although I have to admit that I like her debut, Don't Look Away, better. Yep, bought that one, too. On Amazon.com. .Ca kinda blows dog.

And yes, I bought the T-shirt. Although I wish it had the tour dates, as that's always been my preference. Loved the tour bus, too.

 

First, the bad news:

 

- I've been revisited by the ghosts of acne past. Apparently I'm not the armor plated motherfucker (Casualties of War was on TV the other night: Sean Penn is fucking AWESOME) I thought I was. Oh well, fake it 'til you make it. It did, however, seriously hamper my Mr. Happy Go Lucky-type vibe tonight..

 

- I was dismayed to arrive at 7:30 for what I thought was a 9 p.m. show, only to discover that the doors OPENED at 9 and the divine Ms. Voegele (the exception to my hard and fast rule about womenfolks whose first names begin with ''K'') wouldn't even take the stage until 11:05. All this after I'd shelled 5.25 for parking. When did they start charging to park downtown after 6 p.m., anyway? Cocksuckers. At least the club (which I'd never been to and likely never again will) was maybe 10 minutes drive from Stately Deranged Manor. Even though I somehow fucked up the easy to follow directions provided me by Yahoo Maps. Fortuitously, I was somehow able to find a nearby Starbucks in which to grab me a Venti Vanilla Soy Milk Latte. I know, what are the odds? Unfortunately, said establishment was in the process of closing.

And so was the All-You-Can-Eat Sushi (I have a nasty habit of getting banned from such establishments, being of the hollow leg persuasion and all) place across the street from wherefore I parked. At least I was able to hit the infamous M.T. Tucker's, site of many a Free Birthday Prime Rib Dinner in years past, for a chicken dinner complete with salad bar and bread service.

 

- Ms. Voegele only played for a little over an hour and didn't play either I Get it or Who You Are Without Me. Not What Might've Been, either.

 

On a completely unrelated note:

- Daygame is totally where it's at. The club is too loud, chicks are too easily distracted, and you can't fucking smoke in them anymore. Which is a completely different rant. Skim the archives for a recap.

 

- Heath Ledger. River Phoenix. Will Ferrell.

Which of these is not like the other (said in an annoying singsongy voice)?

And so not for the reason you might think. But if you've arrived at the same rather obvious conclusion that I have, we seriously need to talk.

 

- I tried really really hard to like True Blood. I wanted to like True Blood. I still like Anna Paquin. Even got to see her Naked in the second season premiere I caught last night. Still didn't like the show. Still Like Ms. Paquin, however.

 

- All of your problems can be solved by my penis.

 

And, without further ado, the Good:

- Kate Voegele is the hot, cool chick that you likely followed around (orbited, as it were) at some point in your life. Yeah, me too. And yet, I somehow get the sense that she's not really aware of how amazing she truly is. Yeah, I know, this is totally reading like a fan letter. Fucking sue me. And the fact that she doesn't seem to have acquired a jaded Rock Star-type vibe yet is also quite refreshing. She's totally the kind of chick you'd like to hang out with.

And she can totally fucking wail. I, and this is rare, appreciate her music even more after seeing her live. Small venue. Acoustic set. Unobstructed sight line. Well, okay, being 6'6'', I damn near always have an unobstructed view. I wasn't close enough to determine whether or not she, in fact, smells like feet (if you're not familiar with this One Tree Hill reference, I simply throw up my hands in despair; she seems quite like her character, Mia, on the show), but I kinda doubt it. I would, however, be more than willing to find out.

 

- I'm pretty sure I was the only one there that didn't bring his camera. Nope, don't own a cellphone, having a soul and all. I kinda wish I'd taken my camera. Although I felt badly for the folks what watched the entire show through the lens of their cameras.

 

- I've now seen as many concerts this year in the city wherefor I, you know, live as I have in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada. This should likely trouble me. Doesn't.

 

- I'm quite grateful that Ms. Voegele graced our fair city with her presence and can't wait until she comes back in the fall. Nope, doesn't matter at all whom she's touring with, I'll be there.

 

- A very very target rich environment was had by all. Let's just say that there were many more women than men thereabouts. Sadly, I was unable to take advantage. See above. Oh well, I was there for the music. Big fan.

 

- Opening with One Way Or Another and closing with Only Foolin' Myself (a personal fave for horrible in-car karaoke, which I naturally performed in the car on my merry way home), before performing an encore of an excellent cover of Leonard Cohen's Hallelujah, Ms. Voegele's set was tight. She had and was fun, still seems to enjoy performing her songs, and seemed genuinely glad to be in Calgary for the first time. I had a great time, even though I stood near the back, looking like a bouncer, so as not to block anyone's view. Sadly, I'm like that. But don't tell anybody, because I know where most of you live.

And did I mention that she's kinda fine? Moves quite well, too. I'm proud to call her one of the many folks I'll never meet whom has sent me a My Space Friend Request and been accepted. Not so subtle hint. Facebook, too.

And I really enjoy the term Facebook Fling for some reason. Again, hint hint.

 

In conclusion, if y'all weren't there, fuck ya.

I joke. Mostly.

 

Last chance, check her out on My Space (where she was discovered) or Facebook. I'm off to add one of her songs to mine own My Space page. Be good and be safe.

I never thought I'd see this unholy day. Let's just say my innocence, such as it is, has been shattered.

 

Archie has married Veronica.

 

Poor, poor Betty Cooper.

 

She'll be pulling train in a week.

Jughead. Reggie. Moose. Hot Dog. Taking on all, shall we say, comers.

Hell hath no fury (or wanton sexuality and questionable morality) like a woman scorned.

 

Sorry, I got all misty-eyed there for a minute. Where was I?

Ah, yes...

 

Chuck. Midge. Good ol' Dilton. Professor Flutesnoot.

I mean, seriously, just look at his nose. He can satisfy at least 2 women at oncet.

 

But I digress.

I do that.

 

The important things to take from this are:

Archie is not, contrary to popular belief, fucking Mr. Weatherbee.

God (or whoever) bless Rebound Girls.

 

And Facebook Flings.

Namaste.

To drop some The Monkees on y'all. What? You can't spend all your time listening to whatever it is you kids are listening to these days. I, personally, am enjoying me the vocal stylings of one Anna Nalick at the moment. The one gift my pseudo-wife imparted upon me in our brief time together was a love for the work of Ms. Nalick.

 

So, after a somewhat restless respite this p.m., I realized that in one week from today I will be a) 37 and 2) in fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada. And yes, I AM taking up a collection so I can enjoy me a week of Dionysian debauchery and excess. Nope, don't even remotely think it'll bring wisdom, but whatever. Sunday I intend to enjoy me an interracial 3-way, and your donations are more than welcome.

 

I've decided that, in this time of zero creativity and the height of the remake (although I'm quite looking forward to the remake of Star Trek next week), a revisiting of What Women Want is more than in order. HOWEVER, that Napoleon Dynamite chump needs to be in the Mel Gibson role. Then we'll see.

 

My boss has me convinced. Miss Piggy started this whole Swine Flu business. Fucking whore. Poor poor Kermit, he just wants to be loved. Punk ass bitch.

 

Yesterday, after being in charge over a day with no phone service, a repair folk what only made things worse, and a backed up toilet in one of the customers washroom, Karma decided to alleviate my woes. I was given the pleasure of helping out a guy with stubs for arms when he couldn't reach into his (pants) pocket for his cigarettes. Perfect ending to a fucked up day, I felt like a Saigon whore.

Now, don't get me wrong, the look of 'get away from me, you're creepy' I laid on this poor bastard wasn't because of the fact he had no arms. It was because I wasn't feeling especially like reaching into another man's pants pocket for anything. At least nobody witnessed my shame. Which I have now shared with both of y'all.

 

I've had to explain to friends:

What, exactly (with slides and in powerpoint) a MILF is.

That the same Morrissey (who I will see in concert one day, dammit) he despised was, in fact, the lead singer of The Smiths, whom he so enjoyed. And no, that didn't make either of us gay.

That we're all alone. It's just a question of when and if we realize it before it's too late.

 

Enjoy what remains of your weekend. Keep those donations coming. Rumor has it that Lindsay Lohan is into guys again (and or vice versa), so my little corner of the world is a bit brighter today. Maybe I'll run into her in LV. Perhaps at the Palms. And I'll treat her to a viewing of the new Star Trek flick.

Because that's who and what I am. Namaste.