My baby and I (as in my other half, not the other kind) have really been run through the freaking meat grinder for the last few months, raked over the proverbial coals, and I recently found myself writing some weird ass tangential Moleskine entry about feeling like we were being shit on from above by those frozen bright blue hunks falling from the airborne toilets in 747's seemingly filled with, as Christian Slater's character Clarence says to new bride Alabama Whirly; "...people who are getting out of here, anywhere but here, where I want to be..." (I grossly paraphrase) We desperately want to get back to California, which is of course where I was born and raised, and he spent a huge chunk of time as well, with the Rubber City Rebels; his proto-punk (his compadres are the Dead Boys, Devo, Pere Ubu, Rocket From The Tombs, etc, and yeah, I'm bragging, he's THE OG Badass punk rocker) and roll band. I don't give a toss at this point whether or not we move to the Bay Area (where I was born, and my father, who rules, and my best friend/non physical twin older brother are. My brother lives in the city (SF) and I'd freaking love the proximity since he's finally super down to play punk/sludge/grind/doom with me and he's one of the most killer guitar players I've ever known. Either there or back to Los Angeles, where Rod and I both have super important people and plenty of opportunities.
Anyway, here's an awkward segue: I'm dying to decorate/paint and fix up my house here in Chapel Hill but it kills because we're going to have to sell it. I'm just as OCD about design of the interior/etc nature as I am of fashion....see?
Anyway, here's an awkward segue: I'm dying to decorate/paint and fix up my house here in Chapel Hill but it kills because we're going to have to sell it. I'm just as OCD about design of the interior/etc nature as I am of fashion....see?
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