Ending 2007 on its first high note

Well, it’s over. Good fucking riddance to 2007, undisputedly the worst year of my life.

I took a few steps backward, many steps to the left and right, and stumbled cluelessly throughout most of the year. Finding a highlight is as difficult as Patrik Elias finding the back of the net. There were some good times (finding Lola, the myriad pill events, writing for Spin), but mostly my life just sunk to depths rivaled only by my very-awkward 5th grade experience. What do they say about all that "fool me twice" bullshit?

But hey, suddenly, stabilization has come swiftly, and hopefully 2008 brings me back to where I was mentally, emotionally and physically in mid-2006 or so. I’m still very blah about everything, and still have Los Angeles in my sights for September (unless my spirits and impression of Boston Hate City improves drastically between now and June). But for the first time in more than a year, I like where my life is heading, even if it still lacks any coherent direction and focus. I guess I have another year to figure all that shit out.

In any event, tonight we celebrate, as '07 goes to heaven, and '08 promises the great. We (the pill) are throwing a dance party at O’Brien’s this evening, because fucked if I saw anything remotely interesting this New Year’s Eve. I’m not staying on the couch like I did last year; talk about a bad omen. As Jarvis Cocker sang so proudly, "dance, drink, and screw, because there’s nothing else to do."

See you in 2008, and thanks for reading Vanyaland. It’s been my best therapy yet. xo

Spin.com AOTD: Tigercity

Another day, another Spin.com Artist of the Day feature. This time around, it's by Brooklyn's Tigercity, no stranger to the Boston scene, and perhaps the modern era's answer to Hall & Oates. Yacht Rock now has original material to work with, and it's fucking aces. This is some smooth shit right here. Check it here.

Last minute birthday gift? (please?)

So if anyone is looking to get me a belated birthday present, look no further. This hideous thing of beauty is only $9.99 on eBay, and straight out of late-'80s Red Hot Chili Peppers video.

I've never bought anything on eBay (or sold, chicken strip seahorse sucka!), so the gift can even just be winning/purchasing it for me, and I'll promptly pay you back.

If I get this, I'll totally wear it backwards and to the side the way the singer in EMF did with his Oakland Athletics hat in the "Unbelievable" video. And I'll pimp my christmas tree Chris Terreri jersey and mack down the street like an unstoppable Lamorielloian soldier on a mission for the ghost of John McMullen.

Spin.com AOTD: Midnight Juggernauts

Midnight Juggernauts are a very cool Australian electro trio who toured the US with Justice earlier this year, and will soon headline their own springtime stateside romp. In the meantime, I wrote about them for Spin.com's Artist of the Day series.

Florida report: Day 2

Christmastime in Florida took on an all new tradition yesterday, as I hit the race track for the first time in my life. They Derby Lanes greyhound races in St. Petersburg have been the highlight of the trip so far, and I only lost about $20 after a few hours of racing. My big wins: $11.50 and $16. What a thrill, and I think I have a new addiction. I’m going to personally bring the Wonderland track back to prominence in Boston. Dog racing is the new coke, and it was certainly more thrilling than spending the night at some random aunt’s house surrounded by cousins I’ve never met before.

It was a fairly ho-hum, and muggy, Christmas Eve, drenched in Jager and Cosmos and pomegranate drinks while awkwardly surrounded by close-knit “relatives,” one of which is in law school in Vermont and kinda resembled Rocky Dennis from “Mask,” and another adorable, young, hopefully of-age cousin that strongly resembled the foreign exchange student from “Better off Dead.” I may or may not have been creepy towards her, I don’t remember. (I spent most of the dinner, augmented by the biggest King Crab legs I’ve ever seen and a full, seven-course seafood meal, trying to figure out what she’d look like sprawled out naked on the Christmas Eve dinner table with an apple stuffed in her mouth and clam shells draped around her still-developing body). Some of the elders kept bringing up politics, especially when the daily tab that pays my bills was brought up, but I wasn’t gonna bite.

Overall, it wasn’t terrible, and these are very friendly, well-meaning people, but once again vodka became my ally in the always-a-struggle familial battle. Then again, back home we spent Xmas Eve at my teeny-bit psychotic aunt’s house, who is now hopped up on meds, and without a husband since he ghosted after learning my dead grandmother didn’t exactly leave the bounty he anticipated. So it beat previous years, and the kids in the room (I hear they are cousins, but without a detailed family tree layed out in front of me, who the fuck knows) were duly impressed by my knowledge of Guitar Hero-creators Harmonix, and how I knew some of the Boston bands included in the game. One “cuz” was all into Freezepop from playing the game, but I declined to tell him about the bathroom shenanigans at the singer’s pill afterparty just, oh, 72 hours earlier. And even kids in Florida know who Bang Camaro is, another sure sign of the apocalypse.

But through it all, I still miss my kitten, and it’s my birthday. More on that to come later on. Maybe once I’m done swimming in the pool. On Christmas. Swimming. It’s still all wrong.

Florida Report: Day 1

So I’m in Florida, you may have heard.

The first day here has been pretty chill, and yesterday’s flight was, thankfully, fairly painless. I got about five hours sleep after Sean Lifestyle’s afterhours, drove down to Quincy to drop Lolabear of at Kristin’s, then trudged north on 93 to fly out of Manch Vegs. Nothing like being hung over with a bunch of ugly snowbird New Hampshire people in an equally ugly airport more than an hour away. My life is a Disney film, it really is.

But to my shock and amazement, the flight flew by, as I started -- and finished -- “The Soiling of Old Glory: The Story of a Photograph that Shocked America” (working title: “Another Book About Boston Racism, This Time Eschewing A Noose in Favor of Clever Usage of the Stars and Stripes”). It’s a book passed on to me last week by the Weekly Dig’s David Day about a photo that ran in the Herald American in 1976, of a white teen attempting to harpoon an American flag-draped flag pole into the chest of a helpless black lawyer caught in a busing protest. Good read (review coming later, maybe when it’s released in March) and even the meek brunette hermaphrodite sitting beside me seemed to be interested as well. Now, I often board Southwest in Group A, race to the back of the plane, saddle up next to the window and pray that the fattest fuck boarding the plane doesn’t plop his ass next to me. (Mind you, I’m in NH, so the odds of a Dunkin Donut-fueled double-man sitting next to me are tripled than when jetting out of Providence, the other SWA hub.)

But things got a bit awkward when I, feeling all inspired-like, decided to tackle Book II. After taking a racial romp through photojournalism history, I pulled out “Money Shot: Wild Days and Lonely Nights Inside the Black Porn Industry,” which shoulda just been called “A Year in the Life of Lexington Steele and his Monster 11-inch Dick.” The hermaph was visibly startled, and it suddenly made me uncomfortable. So I settled on playing Tetris on my pink 1997-model Game Boy. You pick your battles when flying to Florida alongside subjects of Porno for Pyros songs.

My parents have a fake tree, which is fitting, as Christmas in Florida is pretty fucking artificial. But I'm warn, so whatever.


But that was it for ambition. Since I’ve arrived, I’ve done very little, as according to plan. Within 24-hours or so, I’ve watched several movies: the Departed, Rocky IV, Rocky V, Christmas Vacation, the 40-Year Old Virgin, and the overrated feature called The Pats Own the Dolphins. I’ve lounged around and sang Bertie Higgins’ “Key Largo” in my head over and over. I thought I saw the Olsen twins this morning, but it was just two other anorexic hobbit daughters of some other retired parents here at the oh-so-elite Heritage Springs country club clubhouse. I’ve drank way too much Jager and enjoyed a breakfast buffet and two ace home-cooked meals from Momma Dukes. Tastes like Bay Shore in my belly, and I couldn’t ask for more. Not having to do scrum-fuck all day is fantabulous, though waiting for ESPNews to show the Devils-Flames highlights is sawing away at my patience stick.

Tomorrow we’re going to the dog track in St Petersburg, and I will try my bloody hardest to reenact the “Parklife” album cover. Then we’re going to the house of some relative I’ve never heard of, and before I know it I’ll be 29 and heading back to my own personal snow-ridden hell. As Belinda Carlisle once so graciously sang, “leave a light on for me.”

Heading south for winter

I have my birthday dance party tonight at the pill, then I leave bright, early and hungover tomorrow morning for sunny Florida. Get me the hell out of here. See you on the flip.

Best of 2007

Because I'm too lazy to do a separate, more comprehensive Best of 2007 list (and because the year kinda sucked), I'll just reprint my list that was printed in today's Boston Herald, which includes all releases: CDs, DVDs, videos, commercials, whatever. Anything music-related that was "released."

1. Bat For Lashes, video for "What’s a Girl to Do"
Donnie Darko on a bicycle, set to the spookiest single of ’07.
2. Editors, "An End Has a Start" (Epic/Fader)
On this album, a band breaks away from its idols in a meteor shower of sonic haze.
3. Jupiter One, "Countdown" (Cordless/WMG)
Space rock ascends to dizzying heights in this New York band’s single.
4. Wonderful Spells, "The Prophecy of Smarmulous Rex" (self-released)
A sterling EP debut from Boston’s new melody makers.
5. Justice, video/single for "D.A.N.C.E." (Ed Banger/Vice)
Neon T-shirts flash along in this video to one of the year’s best dance singles.
6. A Place to Bury Strangers, "A Place to Bury Strangers" (Killer Pimp/Vacancy)
Avalanches of piercing noise cradle this CD’s infectious pop melodies.
7. "Control" (Rhino)
A movie soundtrack reminder of how music used to be, even with the Killers involved.
8. Feist’s "1234" iPod ad
At 20 seconds, the song’s irresistible; at three minutes, a bit overdone.
9. Okkervil River, "The Stage Names" (Jagjaguwar)
Underrated band making its way to a mainstream breakthrough.
10. "The Brit Box: UK Indie, Shoegaze, and Brit-Pop Gems of the Last Millennium" (Rhino).
A concise four-CD history lesson.

Other releases I’ve enjoyed: The Information’s “Natural Language” EP*, Emergency Music’s “You’ll Be the Death of Us All, Honey”*, Black Rebel Motorcycle Club’s “Baby 81,” Kaiser Chiefs’ “Yours Truly Angry Mob,” the entire Bat for Lashes album, the Blakes EP, and other stuff I’m clearly forgetting. Thank God I didn’t hear that Miley Cyrus song until now. (*: Deemed too close to the pill circle to be included in my published "best of")

Snow Day

In a bedroom chock-full of misery, depression and holiday anxiety, watching Lola marvel at the snow this morning was maybe the best thing I've witnessed all season.

Happy birthday, pops

So my dad turned 60 today, which is kinda strange because he looks like he's in his mid-40s. This also confirms that, yes, I will be turning 30 next year.

Well, my popa-dukes is mad old, but I don't feel bad for him. Right now he's probably wearing shorts, a white polo and a straw hat down in sunny Florida, while I get to spend a half hour digging my car, nay, tauntaun, out of these Hoth-like New England conditions.

Happy birthday Dad, may you playfully choke on your pool-side cocktail, and may your ice cream cake melt prematurely under the non-seasonal Florida sun.

***
And on a side note, I'll be in Florida in just more than 48 hours. I can't say I've ever looked forward to a trip to the Sunshine State quite like this, though I'm dreading being away from my cat for five days. But yay, me and Bill Parcells, headed South for the holidaze.