pretty baby, please just get out of the way

deadbeatdancer @ 2011-07-28T15:07:00

2011-07-28T19:08:15Z

i have nowhere else to say this

2011-02-15T05:26:01Z

i just really love the black keys. it's interesting to look back on the way my music taste has evolved over the years. it's gone from the killers and franz ferdinand to the strokes and the black keys.

they just played on conan, and i'm just now growing to realize the attachment that i have to these goofballs. it's only been eight months or so since i became a fan, but watching them on tv, following the whole journey of brothers, seeing them in concert, seeing them win their first grammys....it's been a fantastic time. i don't know what it is, i sort of want to curl up in a ball and cry...it's that "wow, they're going to be gone for a bit now, and i'm really going to miss them."

i think this might actually be the first time that i've loved all members of a band equally. they have the best sense of humor. they work hard. they both cute in a really wrong, weird way. they're both my background on my phone. it's not the looney frontman obsession, i just love patrick carney and dan auerbach. although dan is cute as a button, beard or not...when i'm feeling down, i just think, "hey, dan auerbach made eye contact with me and he gave me the eye smile." it helps.

they're going into the studio in march. they said potentially a new album in the fall. it won't be long, i know...the sweet boys do deserve a break after this whirlwind year that they've had. i hate sounding like the whiney, overly emotional silly bitch...but i love them and i appreciate them and i thank them for being so damn awesome. this is what i live for, so you can't expect me not to experience these sorts of feelings. right?

oh the bittersweet feeling of an era coming to an end. i measure my life in albums.

so, yes. i needed to express this so i could sleep properly. this is one of the many things on my mind, but this seemed more appropriate to share on the internet.

deadbeatdancer @ 2011-02-10T22:11:00

2011-02-11T03:11:08Z

i don't believe in proper punctuation or grammar, i write as my mind thinks, don't break the flow, you know, all that.... plot lines are silly too, i like images and pure emotions
*******

we are sort of simple, he and i, with a one floor house that sprawls over a piece of pale green land - mulch beds, twiggy brown plants waiting for the sign of spring. narrow brick walkway, into the house with native american shades of red, blue, and yellow on the walls, on the fabrics. two smooth ceramic coffee mugs, mismatched breakfast plates from an old couple's yard sale. his great hand, looking so nice everywhere that it lingers - on the back of the spindly, wooden chair as he scoots it in to the table, the legs scuffing the linoleum with the yellow floral design. his hand grabbing his thatched hat that hangs on the coat rack, his whole palm cupping the top of it. the band on his turquoise ring, silver and glinting as the sun blurs through the panes of stained glass on the door.

i feel the way i wanted to feel when i was young, desperate, and wading myself out of the mess i once was - the simplicity than can sometimes be found when someone else is holding you, their hand on the back of your head, pressing you into their shoulder with a tenderness meant for children. he knows the love i missed for so many years and he wants to make it up to me. he knows that he's the only man i've trusted in so many years.

we are far away from all of them. we did not run away - we walked away quietly, with the excitement in our hearts making an internal ruckus that they could not detect, they could not track. our one story house, sprawling on a piece of pale green land and no one knocks, no one calls. no one interrupts us. the hard, rough, soulful hands that do not move away from me, the hazy amber light in the bedroom giving me thrills, his red plaid still on when he helps me undress, the fuzzy softness of flannel brushing on my skin, hands on the knobs of my shoulders, and the cold band of the turquoise ring pressing into me.

i feel the things i wanted so badly before - being loved by a man who can know what's best while we're together in these intimate ways, telling me,"let it slide, mama. let it go until the sun's up, then we'll forget it all over again." we'll forget it all over again. he makes me feel like the lover of an outlaw - he's clyde, i'm bonnie, and when the sun's up we do our wrongs, avoid the shame of our crimes - then we'll love in ways that make that life seem distant and forgettable, seem like characters we play when this is real. this is what we live for -

and he goes for me like a steady rhythm, his hair stuck flat down on the sides of his head. he tells me i love him so well and in all the right ways, he's never gonna want any other woman - no one else fills him up like this. and when the sun comes up, we're still awake, twisted together, real light overpowering the dim amber glow - and there are the deep set dusty blue eyes, the crows feet lightly etched and glistening, that maddening purple skin around his eye sockets that make me want to kiss the bone and treat him sweet.

"baby," i say, "let's sleep, because the sky says it's time to worry again." i wear his flannel shirt and unravel the mess of sheets, and he reaches under the bed for something discarded to throw on, and it is him that seems like the vulnerable one now - the one i need to baby. i hold him to me, his head resting below my collarbone, and i slide my hand down the already-plastered honey ginger hair. i call him honey - once, twice, three times - until i'm babbling and incoherent, knowing i'm right to call him honey, knowing he's good enough to me to call him honey, knowing he loves the way i call him honey.

fail

2010-04-23T23:18:47Z

Today has been really, really terrible. Why?
1) I dreamed that Julian died, and I'm still shaken up by that.
2) I nearly ran out of gas on the way to school, which caused my already raging anxiety to explode.
3) My advisor wasn't in her office when I went to see her, which was the only reason I drove down there.
4) So, I went to photo lab instead, but photo lab was closed when I told it would be open, and it was the last day to make prints. I have an uncompleted portfolio.
5) I thought I left my cell phone at the gas station when I was getting lottery tickets, so I drove back down there. It wasn't there. I came home. It was sitting on the bathroom counter and I hadn't lost it at all.

IDK, I guess it's not all that bad, but all the little things pile up. I guess whenever you have a dream about your favorite musician dying, you should just stay and bed and not live the day out.

deadbeatdancer @ 2010-02-01T12:16:00

2010-02-01T17:15:44Z

i'm pretty sure livejournal is dead and over for me and most of the world.

deadbeatdancer @ 2010-01-11T22:38:00

2010-01-12T03:37:52Z

i feel like i have a lot of things going for me and so many opportunities in my hands

but my personality and my short circuiting brain and my screwed up neurotransmitters make everything impossible.

i hate it...i hate it all.

deadbeatdancer @ 2010-01-01T14:42:00

2010-01-01T19:42:17Z

HEYYYY HAPPY NEW DECADE Y'ALL.

This decade is going to be positively sublime; I can feel it in my bones. That spark of hope and optimism that I have right now is often missing in my soul, and I am so thankful to see something other than impending doom.

OH, and I'm seeing JULIAN. CASABLANCAS (aka, senor el hottie. hehe, idk) in THIRTEEN DAYS!!!! I might catch his second NYC show since I'll be there anyway. Who knows.

Just wanted to check in on this memorable day of our lives. I sincerely hope everyone gets exactly what they want this year and in this decade in general. <333

ciao bellas.

deadbeatdancer @ 2009-12-17T23:52:00

2009-12-18T04:52:50Z

i wish i knew what kind of person that i am, or what kind of person other people think i am. like, what image is there when all my different components are thrown together?

i wonder a lot.

How hard can it be?

2009-11-11T03:51:38Z

Day 03 → Your favourite television programme

My favourite TV programme is...

TOP GEARRRRRRR!!!!!!!

It's amazing. I could watch the reruns on end and never get tired of them. The show is hysterically funny. It's pretty much the only thing that will get a genuine laugh out of me. They make cars interesting. I now find myself recognizing fancy cars, and having the odd ability to ramble off facts and different things about them. It's weird.

And Richard Hammond is l-l-l-lovely. <3

Ciao!

I'm just crazy about Tiffany's.

2009-11-09T23:26:34Z

Day 02 → Your favourite movie

My favourite movie is the beautiful classic, Breakfast at Tiffany's. It's so fun and inspiring. One of my favourite scenes is where Holly talks about her no name cat and how she doesn't feel she belongs anywhere.

Holly: He's all right! Aren't you, cat? Poor cat! Poor slob! Poor slob without a name! The way I see it I haven't got the right to give him one. We don't belong to each other. We just took up one day by the river. I don't want to own anything until I find a place where me and things go together. I'm not sure where that is but I know what it is like. It's like Tiffany's.

Paul: Tiffany's? You mean the jewelry store.

Holly: That's right. I'm just CRAZY about Tiffany's!

I really relate. :) So, if you haven't seen this movie, you really need to. It's a tradition of mine to watch it every year, the day after Christmas. I don't know how that started, but it just did.

Ciao!

bulletproof glass.

2009-11-08T23:54:43Z

From my bb, dustland_thrill .

For one month, post/share:

Day 01 → Your favourite song

Well, my favourite song changes. I have songs that kind of all compile together into what I call "my favourite songs of all time". At this point in time, I'm really digging Julian Casablancas. I doubt I had to say that to make it known, but alas, it is true.

Here we have Glass by Mr. Casablancas. :)

It's just a very nostalgic, bittersweet tune. It gets me every time. The lyrics are beautiful and honest. It's not honest in that, right in your face kind of way. It's poetically honest, but still poignant. I find Julian's ability to pen a striking song without it being too emotionally brash very impressive. The guitar solo further pulls your heartstrings.

The best lyric section?
If you wanna know somebody, might take a quick look at their best friends. Diamonds are hers, the dog is his. You can lie to yourself, but don't lie to me. That's what they want. Dominance and loyalty, romance and security stay behind.

Lovely.

Day 02 → Your favourite movie
Day 03 → Your favourite television programme
Day 04 → Your favourite book
Day 05 → Your favourite quote
Day 06 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 07 → A photo that makes you happy
Day 08 → A photo that makes you angry/sad
Day 09 → A photo you took
Day 10 → A photo of you taken over ten years ago
Day 11 → A photo of you taken recently
Day 12 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 13 → A fictional book
Day 14 → A non-fictional book
Day 15 → A fanfic
Day 16 → A song that makes you cry (or nearly)
Day 17 → An art piece (painting, drawing, sculpture, etc.)
Day 18 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 19 → A talent of yours
Day 20 → A hobby of yours
Day 21 → A recipe
Day 22 → A website
Day 23 → A YouTube video
Day 24 → Whatever tickles your fancy
Day 25 → Your day, in great detail
Day 26 → Your week, in great detail
Day 27 → This month, in great detail
Day 28 → This year, in great detail
Day 29 → Hopes, dreams and plans for the next 365 days
Day 30 → Whatever tickles your fancy

i <3 julian part 93280942

2009-11-06T02:26:42Z

“My dad family’s are from Spain and because of the civil war he had gone to this school in Switzerland, and he loved it, so I was sent there. I was probably the only kid without a trust fund. I was a little bit disgusted by the whole, go to the right school, get your foot in the door vibe — so I just kind of hit the eject button. I left early and studied music at super-cheap colleges.”

This quote just made me fall completely in love with Julian. FFS, where can I find someone like that?

And this quote:

“I always go nuts when people say that life started in Africa,” he tells me at one point. “That doesn’t make any logical sense to me. At all. I mean, sure, maybe some ... six million years ago an ape-type two-legged creature walked in Africa, sure, but ... you know how the East Coast of America was populated ... and then people just stay on coastlines . . .” There are huge pauses while he mentally travels the world. “You can just see how kind of India, China, all that just seemed to, like ... . just looking at people’s faces and populations and ... I’m totally derailing here.”

OMG THE CUTENESS. <3 I need to see him on tour RFN. There is no other way about this. I'm asking for a train ticket to NYC in January and a concert ticket. If he doesn't do a semi-widespread tour, I WILL resort to extreme measures.

I just needed to get that out. Ciaooooo.

meme~

2009-11-04T02:56:03Z

MEME!!!

- Anyone who looks at this entry has to post this meme and their current wallpaper at their LiveJournal.
- Explain in five sentences why you're using that wallpaper!
- Don't change your wallpaper before doing this! The point is to see what you had on!

1. It's Julian Casablancas
2. His nose is perfect and I love looking at it. See how it has the little points above the nostrils? LOVEEEE.
3. Check those big, beautiful lips. Could you imagine? Oh, I could. <3
4. His clothes make him a major BAMF. Sexy sexy hey hey.
5. He's super talented and I am in awe of this man.

JULES 4EVAAAA. And I know my picture doesn't even fit the screen. Ghetto, hai. But I was photoshopping a background, and then photoshop crashed. It was so amazing. I was so proud. Then POOF. :(

Ciao.

deadbeatdancer @ 2009-11-01T22:14:00

2009-11-02T03:21:55Z

i just wanted you you you you you. i want you now, i wanted you then, i want you tomorrow and the next day, and i swear, i'd give you anything. i'd give you everything. i'd give it to you at the drop of a penny, a dime, a hat, a needle, you name it. whatever you drop i will be right there.

but you don't drop things. you just give me hope that you might have a clumsy moment that i can patch up with some words. words words words. i give you word after word after word. i try to make every word perfect for you. that's what my life has been for quite sometime. perfection doesn't help for the first time in my life. i am perfect for you but you don't even care. what can i do to make you care? what can i do? what can i not do?

just tell me, please. please just tell me. i might be selfish and you might be on a completely different level than me, in a completely different world, but why do you make me feel like this? why do you make me feel like hope is an okay thing to have?

hope for you and i is such a deception. once the hope fades, there will be a lot of destruction. what makes me feel even more hopeless is that i would revel in the turmoil of it all. i would revel in absolutely everything, because all i want is you. that's all.

that's too much. so i will try to just forget it all the best i possibly can. which really, is not forgetting at all.

i love you, okay? i just do and i don't know why.

julian casablancas is a god, and i want everyone to know.

2009-11-01T20:28:08Z

I wrote a OFFICIAL review for Julian's album for the ~blog I write for. So, here it is. I'm sending it in tonight, so critique where necessary. :)

Julian Casablancas – “Phrazes for the Young”

Release Date: November 3, 2009

Label: Cult/RCA

8.9

Julian Casablancas. The name is enough, isn’t it? With the Strokes, he has tied two sides of alternative music together – the side that carries the punch of the underground and the side with the pop sensibilities of the mainstream. It’s an odd marriage that would seemingly lead to the loss of that oh-so crucial “indie cred”, but somehow worked out in the end. Well, kind of. With the Strokes on a notably long hiatus, a new album stuck in limbo, and tensions between the bandmates high, (Casablancas said in the November issue of Spin Magazine that being in a band was the best way to ruin a friendship) it’s understandable for anyone to need an escape from reality.

For Julian Casablancas, an escape came with going solo. When the conception of Phrazes For The Young was first announced, Casablancas played it up. The showy album preview was something to marvel over. It was highly sensationalized. If you’d been living under a rock and had no idea who Julian Casablancas was, you’d still be excited. The only thing that could put a damper on the news was one question: “Can Casablancas live up to the hype?”

The product of Casablancas’ vacation from the Strokes is an album that is ever much as inventive as it’s creatively spelled title. It’s not inventive in that, “Oh, look at you doing whatever you can to set yourself apart” way. It’s more of a, “God, you’re a lot more talented than you’ve been letting on” kind of way. We knew that much Casablancas’ talent laid in his ability to write amazingly catchy pop songs. The lead single from Phrazes for the Young, “11^th Dimension”, further displayed that point. However, if you expected an entire record of happy synth blips, cowbell, and lyrics from a second-rate inspirational speaker, you were wrong.

Sure, there are a few light moments. The opening track, “Out Of The Blue” is an upbeat cut with flourishing guitar distortion, layers of drum machines, and some fiery lyrics. Apparently, Julian’s “going to hell in a leather jacket” and he tauntingly declares that “at least I’ll be in another world while you’re pissing on my casket.” Yeah. He’s still got the attitude. A few handclaps and random outbursts of rapping later (see “Left & Right In The Dark”), everything goes a bit serious.

Casablancas puts his raspy, soulful voice to use in “Four Chords of the Apocalypse”, a track with power choruses that are bound to get a cry of “hallelujah” out of someone. “Ludlow St.” takes an unexpected turn from eerie tribal drums to acoustic guitar and honky-tonk keyboards. Julian puts on a faux drawl, and makes country synth pop look appealing for perhaps the first time ever. As he groans about hipsters invading and Indians being forced from their homes, he increasingly sounds like the token old man screaming, “Get off my lawn!” The intense energy builds throughout Phrazes to reach its peak with “River Of Brakelights”. The song moodily grinds and pulses along with prog rock inspired rhythms and a synth breakdown that’s half Mario Bros. and half…well, Julian Casablancas. All goes relatively calm again with the crowning jewel of Phrazes for the Young, “Glass”. The song sways like a lullaby and is embellished with shimmering synth and a beautifully cascading guitar solo. Julian’s vocals reach a striking falsetto that pulls the track along into a heartbreaking end.

The album is impressive, but the true indication of success comes with the answer to a simple question. Does Julian triumph over the hype machine that artists of his stature often are slaughtered by? Yes. He makes the standard verse-chorus song form sound fresh. He seamlessly blends together musical components into his own unique style; the futuristic atmosphere that he crafts still manages to be warm and familiar. His raspy vocals perfectly counterbalance the shiny, precise production. As Julian gets increasingly personal with his lyrical content - the disappointments of childhood and the struggles of love are often touched on - something interesting happens. There is something extra added to his singing that isn’t heard on Strokes records; his robotic voice subtly evokes an array of emotions. It turns out that there is a human under that façade of rock star royalty. Julian is a human, yes, and an understatedly talented one at that. This album finally gives him a chance to shine all on his own. Everything is much better on vacation, isn’t it?

</div>

deadbeatdancer @ 2009-10-28T17:33:00

2009-10-28T21:49:06Z

i have concerns about my future. :|

i want to be a music journalist, right? yeah, i can write pretty well. yeah, i have an ever developing dictionary of music journalism adjectives. yes, i love music...which is a definite prerequisite to writing about music.

it seems like i have everything in check.

but here are the issues:

1) i have severe worries that i don't have the kind of persona that's necessary to be a music journalist.
2) tons of people want to be a music journalist, but who's to say that i'm lucky enough to be the one that gets the job?
3) maybe i just THINK i'm a good writer, when in all reality, i'm crap.
4) do i want to be a music journalist for the right reasons? i mean, i feel like my reasons are valid. i love music and i want to write about it and share it with other people. but also, one of my reasons is that i love musicians. i want to be around them because they are fascinating. well, i think they are. i know they're just ~people and all that blahblahblah, but really, they're crazy talented people. the fact that's one of my reasons for wanting to do this makes me feel like i'm just being shallow and chasing men.
5) uhm, i really don't know if i fit into that whole scene. i don't really do drugs, smoke weed, drink, party, vote for the democratic party, or anything those hipsters do. but then again, i wouldn't mind partying and drinking a tad. drugs and liberalism aren't for me. (sorry if that's offensive, i might be slightly stereotyping.)
6) i love indie music, but i'm not like the most obscure person. i don't get all hyped up over the new fiery furnaces album or call bradford cox god or anything like that. i know of the indiest of the indie bands, but i don't listen regularly. i do the staples of alt rock. i dig the killers, franz ferdinand, interpol, the strokes, kings of leon, muse, ect ect ect.

i'm not really worried about the more obvious things. yes, the journalism industry is crashing and burning. the pay probably isn't the best. but i do see the chance of moving up the ladder of the ~music industry.

egad. i know i have a while, but it does concern me. that's all. ciao.

take me away, see i've got to explain.

2009-10-27T15:51:30Z

i thought i'd take this time to express the fact i'm probably going to fail my statistics exam tomorrow. of course, i said that last exam and ended up getting 100%. but seriously, i keep doing the chapter practice quizzes, and i'm doing awful on them. of course, that happened the last time i was studying.

i'll blame it on technology. :) it's always nice to have something to point the finger at, right?

uh, so what's with me lately? nothing, really. there's been a whole lot of the usual. anxious. angry. sad. bitter. ect. it's not as bad as it used to be, however. at least i know to expect my violent mood swings. if you expect it, it's always much better. it doesn't catch you off guard and completely ruin your day. i'm trying to work through all the mumbo-jumbo my brain conjures up out of nowhere.

it's a bit futile.

hm, what else? OH! the new julian casablancas album is really solid. i must admit that i was worried about phrazes for the young the first time i heard it. the guy who gave me the copy of it has an amazing music taste, and he said he was disappointed by it. that scared me. along with that, there was about three or four tracks that i loved, but the other four were a bit iffy. the album only has eight tracks, but comes in at about 40 minutes long. i feel like that's a lot better of a thing to do than to pack the album full of filler. he's julian casablancas. he needs to come out with a stellar hunk of album.

well, after a handful of listens, i really enjoy all the tracks, minus one that is still growing on me. he got really innovative with this one. it's more of a synth flavoured album, but it still has really interesting guitar in it, a-la the strokes. that's the perfect marriage of music. really angular synth work that's prominent, but doesn't overtake the tone of the guitar. julian takes on a soul/gospel feel with "four chords of the apocalypse". his voice completely goes there. it's strong, it's emotional, it's beautiful. with "ludlow st." he creates a whole new genre of synth country. i've never heard anything like it, but there's a chance i might just be musically ignorant.

my favourite though? "river of brakelights". it is indescribably amazing. it's dark and moody. in my mind, the song is a deep maroon shade, oozing with black. it has a synth breakdown that's half mario brothers and half...well, julian casablancas.

so, in all? get your hands on phrazes for the youth whenever it comes out. and if you find the leaked copy of it like i did, download asap, give it a listen with open ears, and give it at least two plays before you make any judgements.

so, in the light of my first round of julian casablancas obsession, i'm really getting into the strokes. i've loved them for a while, but i'm listening more and appreciating more. it's lovely. i need another band to switch between. :)

that's all for today. ciao bellas.

deadbeatdancer @ 2009-10-18T12:40:00

2009-10-18T16:41:25Z

I'm happy for Alex Kapranos and his new lady, I swear I am.

I SWEAR I AM.

But when she's young and probably only a few years older than me, I AM JEALOUS. I am jealous and I seriously want to...be really immature and cry, or something.

I can only hope that one day I find my own Alex Kapranos and be in the same shoes of that VERY lucky girl. Or maybe I can just have the actual Alex one day. ;)

I just needed to release that. Ciao.

deadbeatdancer @ 2009-10-12T22:08:00

2009-10-13T02:13:30Z

because i am so in love with matt, i guess i should give him his first honorary post. cuts aren't necessary. i'm sure he wouldn't appreciate me hiding his beauty from the world. :)

oh and a bit of cousinly love....

kings of leon!

2009-10-12T20:37:25Z

well, i finally got around to seeing my other favourite band. i've seen the killers four times (they're still part of my top three, even though i don't really listen anymore :|), i've seen franz ferdinand, and now i can say i've seen KINGS OF LEON!!!!

they were stellar. absolutely stellar.

Having one of my bands come to my state just makes me happy, plain and simple. Bands of this magnitude really don't come to Kentucky, but I suppose the fact that Kings of Leon are from Tennessee helped the situation quite a bit. I'd like to think that they felt a bit at home, with us being neighbours and awesomely Southern. Kings of Leon make me proud to be Southern. I've probably said that a million times. But honestly, having these guys that have the accents and are so cool all at once makes me feel not as...jaded toward my culture. I'm embracing it. For me, this gig was all about being what I truly am at essence, and that's a Southern rock n' roll loving girl with a bit of that Southern wild streak in my blood. That might sound ridiculous, but it's so true.

I arrived at Rupp Arena around three, after taking a beautiful scenic drive through the state, rather than taking the interstate. That drive set the mood for what was about to happen. Two hours of farms, barns, horses, and hills really got me into that country state of mind. So, with all that out of the way, I sat in line, in the cold, for what seemed like forever. I had on a leather jacket, motorcycle boots, and a scarf, but that really didn't help much. I shivered the entire time, but I just kept my eyes on the prize.

I decided I needed a bit of warmth, so I went inside Rupp to the food court, where I got a massive thing of Chinese carryout. I'm glad I went in, because I was able to catch a bit of soundcheck. At first I thought it was White Lies checking, but on the way back, it was definitely Kings of Leon. I heard that distinctive Caleb Followill voice. They were doing a song more like their first two albums. It was the twangy guitar, and that honky-tonk kind of beat. I'm so excited for their next album after catching a bit of the song. I adore all their albums, but I think the last one really is missing the rawness of the first two, and even the third album for that matter.

Once I got inside, I ran from the top of the arena, down the stairs to the floor, and landed front row in front of Jared. That was the scariest run I've ever had to do for a gig. Usually, it's outdoors or in a concert hall, but this was stair after stair after stair. If I fell, it would've been bad. Luckily, I have a bit of balance.

Everything went like clockwork, much to my surprise. You know how most gigs go. The opener comes out late, it takes centuries for the roadies to get everything set up for the main band, and then you have to wait another hour for them to come on. This wasn't the case. White Lies came on right at 8:00, on the dot. Let me say that I am a White Lies fan. I'm not a hardcore fan, but I do like their songs. Their show was absolutely solid. I was blown away. The crowd loved every minute of it. Few of them knew the songs, but they jumped and danced right along. The security guards were even mentioning how great they were. White Lies are just a good live band, even better than they sound of the album. If you get the chance to see them, go. Harry, the lead singer/guitarist, is beautiful as a side note. It's worth the trip to just see him.

Then it was time for the Kings. They opened the show with Closer, which was a fantastic opener. Kings of Leon have probably the most fluid set. Everything blends in together nicely, regardless of what album it came off of. The whining guitar intro in Closer has always given me chills, but live? It was crazy. Matt had the guitar held up to his face, and I assume he was playing with his mouth. Maybe his tongue. I have no idea, but I was amazed.

They did all of the songs from Only By The Night, with the exception of 17. I suppose it's common knowledge among alt rock fans that their newest album is more polished, more mainstream, all that jazz. Some people have written Kings of Leon off because of that fact. I was offended by that fact, but now I honestly pity those people. The songs from Only By The Night translate great live. They go to a completely different level. They're raw, unrelenting, and brazenly raucous. I Want You is my favourite track off Only By The Night. It's a down-and-dirty song. They didn't play it delicately. They didn't hold back. They played it just how it should've been. I danced accordlingly. Caleb pantomimed his way through the song. He flexed his muscles, did the "choke and a gag" bit...anything he could do a motion for, he did it. Caleb is an underrated showman. He doesn't move around a lot. When he does move, he struts. The boy's got an attitude. He gives these nasty little snarls. The fact he had a grungy beard going on made it even more fitting. I was so eager to see what he'd do next, because honestly, it was completely and totally sexy.

Since I'm already talking about the band members, I might as well go on about the rest. I was there for Jared at the beginning of the night. I just wanted to see Jared. I knew that he wasn't the most entertaining person in the band, but I didn't care. A song or two into the set, I realised that I did care. Jared was a snooze, and he isn't THAT hot in person. Crazy talk, I know. Accordingly, a song or two into the set I realised that I was there for Matt. Matt's beauty is so underestimated. He was unbelievably sexy and unbelievably rock n' roll. He had a giant fan in front of him that blew his hair back. He basically chain smoked through the whole set. The way the smoke blew and changed colour under light was mesmerizing. The entire set, I kept saying, "My GOD. Look at Matt!" He is fantastic. He is my favourite for the time being. When he'd smile, those dimples would show, and I nearly swooned. Some people in the bleachers were waving at him, and he'd wave back. He starting laughing, and I guess Caleb asked what was so funny. Matt pretended like he was smoking weed. Caleb laughed. It was adorable. Sadly, I couldn't see Mr. Nathan Followill too well. The drums covered his face and Caleb was always in the way. Next time, I'll stand on Matt's side, and get a better glimpse.

Of course the crowd went insane over Sex on Fire and Use Somebody. The boys might complain about their newfound fame and the people who just like Sex on Fire and Use Somebody, but there is definitely a bit of them that enjoy the enthusiasm. Matt and Caleb exchanged the biggest smiles during Use Somebody when the crowd broke out into screams and the iconic "oh-ohhhh-oh"s at the beginning of the song. They were glowing.

But, they were the happiest it seemed during songs like Four Kicks and Taper Jean Girl. As Caleb once said, those songs are "barn-burners". I suppose I kind of got what he meant before the show, but I wanted to know what it'd feel like. I found out. I felt like I was at some thrashing, drunken backwoods concert in...well, a barn. Four Kicks was the highlight of the set for me. It was brilliant. I can't really describe the emotion that came with hearing the song and letting it all loose to it. It was a divinely Southern kind of feeling. It was angry and white trash. Yes, white trash. Their energy was contagious. The harder Matt and Caleb played, the harder I moshed. I've never legitimately moshed before. It's usually just jumping. But this was jumping, hair everywhere, crashing into people and the barrier kind of thing.

Another highlight was Cold Desert. It was heart wrenching. The lyrics are painful to hear. Live, it's worse. Caleb sings like he's nearly reached the end of the line. The pain and suffering that comes through his voice translates straight to your heart. I didn't imagine myself crying at a Kings of Leon concert, but I cried. I looked around, and saw quite a few people wiping the tears from their eyes. It was that moving. It just wasn't over-emotional me. Knocked Up was a standout as well. Even though it's a seven minute song, I never wanted it to end. Caleb let us take over the "woah-woahhh-woah-woah-woah's" in the latter half of the song. Crowd singalongs are truly magical. I've always been amazed with the ability that music has to bring together so many people. For that moment, we were all seeing Kings of Leon, singing a simple little piece of refrain, and feeling the best natural high possible.

Before the show ended, Caleb told us all how much he and the guys love Kentucky. He wore blue just for the event (blue is the colour of the University of Kentucky, by the way). He also said that they were excited to get back home that night. Lexington is so close to Nashville, that they were going to hop on a plane, fly home in under an hour, and sleep in their own beds for a change. Even though I wanted them to stay so I could meet them, I was so happy that they could get back to their homes and their family. I'd rather them get back to Nashville than to see them. Maybe I'll see them next time, after a gig filled with new songs and that same familiar Kings of Leon swagger.

deadbeatdancer @ 2009-10-06T00:34:00

2009-10-06T04:42:37Z

I love Top Gear. I swear to you, this is the ONLY television show I will ever love this much or be so obsessed with. Television is not my thing at all. It must be because they're British, hysterically funny, sarcastic, sharp, witty, addictive, and ect.

It also must be Richard Hammond. I've got it bad. Tell me he's not beautiful.

Yeah, okay. Richard Hammond > David Tennant. For the record. They look alike, but Richard is superior and much more lovely.

The end. Ciao.

deadbeatdancer @ 2009-09-26T21:45:00

2009-09-27T01:50:21Z

i'm working on a franz fan fic. here's what i have. please excuse typos and inaccuracies. i haven't really done too much re-reading yet.

Chapter One

I’d never been to France before, but I figured Montmartre was a good place to begin. It was the fabled village that I’d heard of for many years of my life. If anything, I just wanted to tell someone I’d been to Montmartre. I didn’t care much if I got anything out of the trip. I didn’t want to find myself in some spiritual revelation while contemplating, head deep in nature. I just needed something to do.

On the top of a hill the town sat, scenically overlooking the famed River Seine. That poignant scent of romance and bliss filled the air. I couldn’t put my finger on what that exactly smelled like, but the atmosphere was soaked in a certain kind of perfection that you couldn’t even begin to describe.

Artists slapped paint onto their hand-stretched canvases with their triangular spatulas. Shiny pigeons, the colour of dense smog, walked the rustic streets like they owned them, with the presence and swagger of a mobster. They were spoiled no doubt, as a flock of them picked the remnants of juicy, pink meat off discarded chicken bones.

It was the height of the day when I found myself in my desired location. After spending the morning losing myself in the never-ending hustle and bustle of the center of Paris, I was exhausted. I knew nothing about the metro, I couldn’t say a thing in French, nor could I navigate too well on bicycle with all the distractions and insane drivers that whizzed by me. I could, though, use the map my mother supplied to me before I left home. It was welcoming and soothing to hold in my hands. A map in English was the most certain and familiar thing that I had with me. My own language was the equivalent of a home cooked meal in these foreign streets.

So, my beloved map, my security blanket and lifeline, landed me in this indescribably picturesque town. I decided that my own judgment, however poor it could be sometimes, would suffice for the rest of the day. I tucked the map away in my back pocket. I had to live a little. When in Rome, they say. Well, when in Paris, in this case. My feet were throbbing inside my worn, caramel coloured boots. Alongside that annoyance, the bronze buckles that fastened my shoes clanked and clunked with every step I took. It was time to give my feet and fraying mind a bit of rest.

I found myself sitting on the patio of an open-air café. Nondescript waiters weaved in and out of the closely positioned tables, precariously balancing food and dirty plates on each hand. It was enough of a feat to watch that I was easily entertained while waiting for one of the talented gentlemen to come my way.

A boy slightly older than me shuffled over, and placed a long, rectangular menu in front of me. He said something with his nasally accent, and I politely smiled in return. It was all I could do. He understood my predicament. I held up one finger, in hopes that it was the universal sign for one moment please, and he shuffled off in the other direction. My slight talent at reading and deciphering foreign languages came through at the best possible time. After a few minutes of deductive reasoning and picking words apart for anything that sounded a bit familiar, I was able to find a chicken salad and water on the menu. When the plain-faced waiter came back to my side, I pointed at the items of my desire. He smiled in what I assumed was approval, took the menu, and disappeared back inside the little brown building with the thatched roof.

As I casually nibbled on the brilliantly green salad that shimmered with rosy-coloured vinaigrette dressing, I thought how peculiar the people were. It was peculiar because they didn’t look a bit different from me. I expected for them all to be so overwhelmingly French in appearance. I expected a certain je ne sais quoi that I couldn’t simply have, being an uncool American. But no, other than the fact I couldn’t talk the talk and the fact that I gawked at nearly everything around me, I was as French as the people beside me. I was as French as my baby-faced waiter.

I felt at ease, all of the sudden. I sipped my water and admired the quaint, storybook scenery. The shops that lined the streets had every food I could’ve ever imagined, ranging from the quintessential French fromageries to shops that served sweets and savoury fillings tucked inside flaky pastries. In front of the pastry shop, two small children in their late-fall coats indulgently nibbled on something with generous helpings of strawberry jam on top. Their young mother wiped their sticky faces with a crisp white napkin.

Beside the jubilant, snacking children sat a man that was anything other than nondescript. His shiny, honey blonde hair swooped to one side, brushing again the top of his high cheekbones. His hair covered one lens of his tortoise shell Rayban sunglasses. The sunglasses bothered me. As he sat there in his red plaid shirt and dark blue jeans, I couldn’t tell if was me that he was looking at. His head was fixed in my direction. He didn’t move, he didn’t eat, he didn’t do too much of anything. He just sat, cold and unmoved like a flawless, inhuman mannequin. I nervously darted my eyes somewhere eyes, to something else maybe a bit less unsettling. There were a lot of less unsettling things around me, but there was an issue. I couldn’t seem to tear my eyes away from him for long enough. I squinted at him and cocked my head, hoping to see through those impenetrable shades.

He did me a huge favour. The man gracefully took the glasses off his symmetrical, triangular nose, sat them on the grated wrought iron table. He made himself very clear. Yes, it was me that he was looking at. Yes, there was a man across the narrow street that was examining me like a specimen. If I weren’t so paranoid and skittish, I might’ve enjoyed that fact. But, I was extremely paranoid and skittish. I motioned the very normal and unthreatening waiter over, paid my bill, and power walked down the street.

I felt like I was taking part in a classic Hollywood movie - a chase scene in some film about deceit and espionage. I felt empowered and increasingly clever as I took turns around corners and down back alleys. He wouldn’t find me now. My trail would be cold. He was probably barely out of his chair to come find me by now.

A tinny noise resounded down the cobblestoned brick alley I had retreated to. Every limb on my body froze. A surge of anxiety pulsed through my veins as I slowly turned my head to examine the source of the noise. Being slow and ungainly wouldn’t do me any good if my goal was to escape the culprit, but thankfully, nothing was there for me to run from. A rough looking tabby cat pawed through the trashcan he had just overturned, and hissed at me. He thought I wanted to take his lunch, undoubtedly.

I knew how disconcerting it was to be watched while grabbing a bite to eat, so I let the cat be. I turned to set off around the corner of the shabby brick building. The culprit had caught up with me. In the style of any good film with an unsuspecting, weak female character, I let out my best blood-curdling scream. The man’s warm almond shaped eyes nearly bulged out of his eyes. He cringed and waved his large hands frantically. He wasn’t so bold now. I went around him, and jetted off down the alleyway.

“Uhm, bonjour?” He called after me.

“I don’t speak French,” I called back. I picked my speed up.

“Uhm, hello there?” He said, matching the same reluctant tone he had earlier. He wasn’t French at all. He was English, Scottish…something of that sort. His words were funnily pronounced, the vowels were smooshed in between the consonants. Although it went against everything anyone had ever told me, I stopped for the stranger that had followed me to an alleyway. I stopped, gave him an unapproving glance, crossed my arms, and waited for him to take it away.

“I wanted to tell you I wasn’t completely staring at you. I was just…just, eagerly looking. You looked annoyed.”

“You were staring. I saw you staring!”

The man laughed quietly and awkwardly kicked around a rock with his casual, wingtip shoes. I’d caught him and he knew it. I hope he felt embarrassed now. He certainly looked embarrassed. That chuffed look on his face and that wry, speechless smile made me feel like I had a bit more power in this situation.

“You do know,” he began, “That in Paris, you’re invited to stare.”

I blinked and felt rather dumb in return.

“In Paris, that’s just what you do. In Glasgow, where I live, it’s an invitation to get punched in the face. Here is has other implications.”

“Like?” I asked.

“Well, it could imply a variety of things, really. Maybe I wanted to study the way you ate that salad, or sipped that cold beverage…or maybe I just wanted to look at you.”

“So, which one was it?”

He really didn’t have too much to say after I posed that question to him. The same chuffed look appeared on his face. I was a bit disappointed, really. I imagined him to be a bit more interesting, maybe a bit more captivating…but no. He was just as unthreatening and normal as my waiter, only with an intriguing face. I’d just let him stand there and continue to look affected and think over whatever it was he was thinking over.

“I actually just wanted to look at you,” he said softly.

I’m not sure if it was the shock that came with finding out his man was actually charming, or if it was simply fate, I fell. I fell hard. The heel of my boot caught in a crack in the crumbling alley, and I tumbled backwards, landing straight into a pothole filled with murky water. I could feel the water spreading up my pant legs, beading underneath the fabric on my skin. The water was miserably cold. The tabby cat that hissed by the overturned trashcans sauntered by, and waved its fluffy, dry tail in my face.

He extended a sympathetic smile and a bony hand to me. I grabbed it without any hesitation, and didn’t think anything of falling onto him when a sharp pain pierced my booted ankle. I’d twisted it, for sure. Montmartre was proving to be fabulous.

“Oh no.” I said breathlessly, while grabby his knobby shoulder for support.

“Oh no what? What’ve you done? It’s your ankle, isn’t it? Either that, or you’ve busted your as-“

“No, no, no.” I interrupted. “My map,” I groaned. “Well, and my ankle.”

“Let me see. May I?”

I was head deep in now. There was no point in me trying to deny him. He’d basically stalked me to this location, and now I was practically hanging on him with an injured ankle. My livelihood was essentially relying on the man. He gingerly reached around to my back pocket, and pulled out my map. It was soaked and the ink was bleeding. When he pulled it apart, the creases easily split.

“I don’t think that’s going to do you much good,” he said. He proceeded to nonchalantly toss the sopping piece of paper over his shoulder and into an even bigger pothole. I instinctively lunged forward to save it, but he held me back.

“I need that,” I whined while fighting his strength. “I…needed…that. I can’t get anywhere without that.”

“Just ask for directions.”

“I don’t speak French.”

“Alright,” he considered. “You could ask the concierge at your hotel for a phrasebook. Or do you not have a hotel either?”

“My directions were inside the map,” I said. “I don’t even know what the place is called.”

“You’re screwed, aren’t you? Here you are, no map, no French skills, no known accommodations, no form of transportation...one functioning foot will get you nowhere. You know, I could always…”

I glared at him. I glared right into those hazel eyes just as he had glared at me earlier. If he honestly thought I was going to go with him, he was ridiculous. He was ridiculous for even asking.

“Is that yes?” He asked. “If it’s not a yes, I do understand. There are some high-class weirdoes in France. They’re the kind that stalk around alleyways for unsuspecting women.”

“Like you?” I said through a suppressed laugh.

“I wasn’t stalking you. I was seeking you to apologize.”

I grumbled.

“Can I be a kind citizen or not? You can dispose of me whenever you like.” He said.

I weighed my options once more. He was right. I was screwed. He was actually genuine with his gestures. I was being ridiculous here. If I waited too long, I might find a weirdo of an even higher class than he, and then where would I end up? I’d rather not think about that situation.

“Fine. I give up. We’ll ignore the fact that I have no idea who you are.”

“Alex.” He extended his hand to me again. “It’s very nice to meet you…”

“Lyndsay.”

“Lyndsay,” he said slowly, his Scottish twanged vowels being accentuated more than normal. It was obvious where he was from now. I was ignorant to even confuse that charming, rustic accent for anything else.

He picked me up, with one arm around my back and another arm under my knees. He carried me like an overgrown child through the streets of Montmartre, frazzled and soaked to the bone. People stared.

“You know, they’re staring now not just because they want to. They’re staring because they have a reason to,” he said coyly.

“If I close my eyes, will it all just go away?” I could feel my face burning with embarrassment. My cheeks were surely rosier now than the bundles of fresh cut roses that the florist on the corner was selling. It was surely reaching the tomato shade…the shade of Alex’s shirt. His shirt was soft and flannel. The way it felt on my cheek was comforting. I buried my face into his chest and prayed that he could walk a bit faster.

“Yes, it’ll all disappear,” he said soothingly. I knew he was being smart alec, but it was better to pretend he really meant it.

Chapter Two

“Well, do you like it?”

After driving through the painfully slow Parisian traffic, in my painfully wet clothing, with my painfully throbbing ankle, he brought me to his hotel room. I couldn’t quite answer how I liked the room. I had barely gotten over the beauty of his vintage convertible. It was caramel and chocolate brown, with shiny silver fenders, elegantly swooped lines, and lightly tanned leather seats. I sat in it like it was meant to be in a museum. I sat tall and rigid while Alex slumped back into the seat with an arm out the window and a forearm across the top of the steering wheel. It definitely wasn’t a museum to him.

Once I finished remembering every perfect detail of his luxury car, I moved to every perfect detail of his hotel room. The tall vaulted ceilings were supported with dark, cherry wood. The walls were paneled with the same rich wood. Massive golden-framed mirrors and golden candleholders hung on the panels. The doors seemed to lead to a balcony that over looked a park. The autumn leaves spiraled down, out of my vision, and down to the ground. Although I was still freezing from the puddle mishap, the warmth, richness, and regal comfort alleviated the problem a bit. I couldn’t imagine what the bedroom and bathroom looked like.

“This might be the most impressive thing I’ve ever seen. That’s what I think.”

He walked over from the fireplace, and sat down beside me on the suede sofa. The high sunlight danced through the spotless windows and glared in his face. His skin glowed under the light. He snapped his eyes shut. I slipped his sunglasses off his shirt, where they had been hanging. I carefully slid them on his face, trying not to prod him in the eyelid. His eyelids looked delicate and thin, merely a shade over his eyes. They hadn’t been intended to be a protective layer, it seemed. He smiled.

“It’s fussy. They chose the one hotel in all of Paris that I don’t deserve to be in. Its so rustic and old world that I feel like it shouldn’t be here. I feel like an anachronism.” He rested his head on the back of the sofa, and looked up at the never-ending ceiling through his properly shaded eyes.

“But you like it, don’t you? I can tell you like it.”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah…of course! I do love it. But, eh…you know?”

“You feel like you’re in a museum. A very fussy, pretentious museum,” I said, articulating for him. “That’s how I felt in that car of yours.”

“But I can tell you liked it.”

“I do,” I said simply. “You’re classy a man.”

“You’d be surprised,” he laughed wily, while shaking a finger.

I wondered what he could be. What was Alex? Would it be rude just to ask, “What do you do with your life?” It seemed a bit too forward. The way he poised himself was very much like a horse. He was equine…strong and graceful, even statuesque. He could be a model. He spoke elaborately. He had wit and intellect. He could be a writer, maybe an English professor. Perhaps he was just an international playboy with lots of money that had been in the family for centuries. He was sweetly sinister, though…whatever he was. His vague naughtiness probably tarnished the class I spoke of. I’d just let it go for now.

“Let’s have a look at that ankle while we’re resting. Let me help you.” He picked my legs up from the floor and swung them around onto his lap. The blasted bronze buckle on my boot hit my ankle. I writhed in pain.

“God, Alex! Be careful, please,” I groaned. My left leg was on fire. I buried my face in the sofa cushions this time. They smelled like roasted chestnuts. I liked it here. The scent was hypnotic.

“Relax…relax…relax,” he said. “You women and your unnecessary footwear.” He fiddled around with the plethora of buckles and the oddly positioned zippers, and after nearly five minutes, he managed to get my shoes off without sending another jolt up my leg.

“The left one, right? Let’s have a look at the, uhm…left one.”

“What?” I unburied my face and he grimaced. He took of the sunglasses and inched his face closer and closer to my foot. “Don’t do that! I’m sure it smells awful.” I buried my face again, overcome with embarrassment.

“No, the sight is much worse than the smell.” I kicked him in the side with my uninjured foot. “Just look.”

And it was much worse than it smelled. He was right again. I knew a twisted ankle when I saw one, and this was definitely a twisted ankle. It was a nasty colour and swollen to an inhuman size. It was a wonder that my boot hadn’t split open from all the pressure.

“I think I might be hurt a bit.”

“Just a bit. No need for alarm. I could return you to the street where I picked you up and you’d make it fine,” he deadpanned. He hopped up and dashed into another room.

“You practically BEGGED me to let you pick me up. Don’t make it sound like that,” I shouted at him. “I could’ve said no to you, it just happens I’m in an extremely inconvenient situation.”

“If that’s what you want to tell yourself, by all means, go for it,” he said back, his voice echoing down the hallway accompanied by crashes and rattling. A door shut. He came back into the room holding a plastic bag.

“Take this,” he said, “and these.” He stacked the sofa’s fat pillows under my swollen foot and put the cold pack on top of it.

“Why are there frozen strawberries in there?” I asked.

“I didn’t have enough ice. And…and…you, you just stay there.” He motioned out his words with floaty hand gestures and wiggly fingers. He spoke quickly now, so much that I could hardly understand what he was saying through that thick accent.

I did what he said, and stayed very still. I impatiently waited from him to come back from wherever he was going. I had been hungry for human interaction the second I landed in France. Being cooped up on a plane with disagreeable strangers for hours did me little good. After spending a day in the city without speaking to a single person, I began to feel a bit marginalized. I was glad Alex had decided to stare at me and pursue me. I was actually glad I tripped into a puddle. I would’ve undoubtedly gone insane if I had to spend the rest of my excursion here without speaking to someone.

The shower in the other room started up and I knew it was pointless to lay here and wait on him. I closed my eyes, nuzzled my head back into that comforting, chestnut scented sofa, and decided to wait for him through a nice nap. I hoped his hair would be wet whenever he came out. You can tell a lot about a man when his hair is wet.

Chapter Three

“I had an event to attend. Sorry to leave you. I’ll be back late, if you want to wait on me. -A.”

His slanted handwriting sprawled across a sheet of crisp paper that was headed with the hotel’s emblem. He left the piece of paper sitting on top of a white terry cloth bathrobe that draped across ovular coffee table. I wished he would’ve found me something else to wear before I laid down to nap. I hoisted my self up from the sofa and onto a foot. The suede material was noticeably darker in certain places, and ruffled the wrong way like a wet dog.

I slipped off my cornflower blue t-shirt, struggled with my skinny jeans, nearly fell onto the woolen tartan rug, but managed to get the fluffy robe on. It was damp. It had to have been the robe Alex put on after he got out of the shower. It fit me perfectly though, other than the fact that it was a bit too long. It had to have been Alex’s robe, not just some robe the hotel had given him. It was tailored. I ran my hands over the lux material, and felt the stitching of a monogram over my right breast. In a dark blue thread, in a very bold blocky font, it said “AK”, with a tiny flourish beneath the initials.

My curiosity was just a bit too strong now. What was with this man? The vintage car, the swanky hotel room, the personalized bathrobe? The swelling on my foot had gone down significantly, but I was in no shape to go exploring. That wasn’t going to stop me. I hobbled into Alex’s bedroom, looking for any clue that could give something away.

I went through his suitcases. That told me nothing, other then the fact he had a penchant for plaids, polka dots, western belts, primary colours, and shiny shoes. I rummaged through the spindly-legged nightstand beside his bed. I found receipts to every possible kind of food. Indian, Greek, Italian, Thai, you name it, he’d eaten it. I found a small, worn book with yellowed pages. I couldn’t begin to pronounce the author.

My foot was hurting again. I wobbled into the bathroom and examined the counter. A razor, some odd cologne in an amber-coloured bottle, and a small tube of moisturizer was perfectly aligned behind the sink.

It was like he knew I would be in his room rummaging around. It was like he had hidden away every piece of potentially informing evidence just so he could keep his mysterious little persona under wraps. Who was I, though, to demand to know everything about him? What was it that made me so eager to know his most intimate details? I was no one to want these things.

I treaded across the high pile carpet, and face planted on to his bed. I wiggled my body up to his pillow. On the other side of the bed where I hadn’t bothered to look was a black, dinged up guitar case. I sighed with relief. He could play guitar. I knew some thing solid now.
What were guitarists like? I made a mental list of all the guitarists I had known in my life. The only ones I knew were ones from high school who played in abysmal bands. They thought they were good, but in all reality, they only knew three or four chords. They thought they had a right to act like a rock star when they landed a gig. The gig was usually a birthday party.

Alex couldn’t possibly be like that.

“I see you’re turning in awfully late,” he said, while holding my wet clothes I’d left in the sitting room. Somewhere between me yelping from being startled and yelping from hurting my ankle again, I read the clock. It was nearly three now. I took more than a nap. I opened my mouth to explain why I was sitting on his bed, but the answer to that was probably not what he’d want to hear.

He wore a pair of slim fitting black trousers, a red sweater vest over a white dress shirt and a black tie. He kicked off his shiny shoes and pushed his sleeves up to his elbows. He sat on the edge of the bed with his hands perched on his knees. I stared at him and he stared right back. He bit his bottom lip and quickly looked down at his wriggling toes. Red dress socks restricted them.

“Hasn’t anyone told you that you’re supposed to wear your socks the same colour as your trousers?” I asked.

“I must’ve put on the wrong pants,” he smiled. “Well, are you up for a bit of pillow talk?” His eyes were wide and slightly glazed over. “I’m not drunk. I can already tell what you’re thinking. Just a champagne…or two.”

He propped up a stack of pillows against the headboard and laid back.

“Where’d you go?” I asked, not really caring anymore about what was too bold to question. I was laying in bed with him, after all.

“It was ridiculous. It was a party for the opening of a bottle of water. They had the water on the middle of a lighted pedestal in the center of the room. People just came up and got their photo taken. With the water. And you know what, it tasted like the cheap stuff you buy at the supermarket. H20 is H20.” He scoffed, realized he was making a bit of a scene, and looked thoughtfully down at me once he’d gained composure again.

“You should’ve brought me some of that fantastic water. It’s the least you could do after leaving me here, practically paralyzed…or for not letting me finish my last glass because you insisted on staring.”

“You know, I actually feel bad about all that now, particularly for leaving you here. I guess I could make it up to you.”

“You could,” I nodded. “You could do that by answering this: what kind of guitarist are you?”

“What kind of guitarist am I?” He repeated. “A bloody good one?”

“Everyone who says they’re good are failures by default.”

“I’m not rubbish, I assure you.”

He reached across me, unbuckled the guitar case, and pulled out an acoustic guitar with a flawless finish. The body of the guitar was oversized and the neck was plated with insets of mother of pearl. He wedged the guitar between his thigh and his stomach and began to lazily strum, playing nothing in particular.

“Do you have a request?”

“Something soft, please.”

“Alright,” he muttered. “Soft.”

He began to play something like a lullaby. It was gentle and swaying. The tune was simple, but the way his fingers skillfully skitted up and down the frets made me think that it was far from easy. He was good. No, he was excellent. The melody was hypnotic now. I felt my eyelids falling. I fought to keep them open just to hear another few minutes of his playing.

That wasn’t all Alex could do wonderfully. He sang too. His voice was deep and resonating. It was sultry and syllabic. He sang quietly, but with so much power. I felt the notes pierce through my skin. I felt them in my core. This had to be what Alex was. He was too good at this to be anything else.

I rolled over on the pillow my side of the bed. I didn’t care if he wanted me to sleep beside him or not, I was going to. I wanted him to sing me to sleep. He did just that. As I was entering the weird stage halfway in between consciousness and unconsciousness, I heard him pack the guitar away. He was careful to slip into bed without disturbing me.

“Hey,” he whispered.

“Hmmm?”

“Was I good, yeah?”

“Better,” I mumbled.

“How’s your foot?”

“Better,” I mumbled again.

He clicked the lamp on the nightstand off.

“Goodnight, mon cherie.

Chapter Four

I felt a definite sense of dread. I dreaded getting out of bed, I dreaded the day, I dreaded the days to come. I just dreaded, well, everything. Reality hit me. Reality said that I wouldn’t be sitting in this lap of luxury for very long. Eventually, Alex would kick me back out on my own…back out into that cruel, cruel world. The cruel world where I had nowhere to go, not a single connection, or any ability to make a connection.

I had to be the most positive person to ever exist.

Alex was out on the balcony that overlooked the park. He left the doors open. The bedroom was filled with that scent again. It was the same scent that had engrossed me during my fateful trip to Montmartre. The way that smell played with me was torture, no doubt. It got its clutches around my heart and it just squeezed and squeezed. I wondered if he felt it too. I wondered if it was just my crazy head sabotaging my emotions again.

Alex was very still. I leaned in the doorframe, watching him carefully. He leaned against the railing with a stubby cigarette barely hanging from his fingers. He was a scrawny thing. His ribs and spine were slightly protruding through his creamy, pale skin. My maternal side came through when I noticed the honey coloured hair on his arm was standing straight on end. I stripped a blanket off the bed and wrapped it around me like a luxurious, 700 thread count toga. I hung his house robe around his delicate frame. Alex looked at me with a very moody, melancholy expression.

“Not a morning person?” I harmlessly asked.

He flicked his cigarette, tossed it over the balcony, and watched it fall straight down to the leaf littered blacktop.

“That’s the start of it,” he said as he stalked back into the room.

I had the feeling it was me, and the passive aggressiveness was a tool to keep his annoyance under control. What did I do…what…did I do? I was perfectly nice to Alex yesterday, aside from kicking him in the side and continuously calling him a stalker. He sung me to sleep. He was fine then. Maybe he was just not a morning person, and perhaps it just made him decidedly hateful. Perhaps he didn’t want the house robe back. I never thought to consider maybe that he enjoyed being slightly chilly. It could’ve felt rejuvenating to him. Who knew?

Then I remembered. No…Alex hated being cold. I knew what happened. My brain recalled random pieces of information from last night and patched them all together. That feeling of dread kept growing. I was cold last night. I couldn’t sleep at all. I kept tossing and turning. I woke up Alex in the process. He asked me what was wrong. I told him I was freezing and he said he was freezing too. I remember him telling me to lay closer to him, and I snuggled right in beside him. His bare skin on my back was so warm. His entire body was so warm.

I peeked over my shoulder. Alex had stopped pacing around. He was flipping through the channels now, cursing about how “tele is so rubbish”. He turned the television off, flipped over on his back, and sprawled across the bed like a crucifix.

I’d slept with him, hadn’t I? My memory didn’t extend past him asking me to come closer. What man asked a woman to come closer without having any other intention in mind? In that case, what woman would be able to say no? He was half way drunk and I was so oblivious on the account of my throbbing foot and sheer exhaustion, it was hard telling what exactly we’d gotten into.

“Alex?” I groaned.

“Uhm, oui? That means yes. I need to start your French lessons.”

“Come here or bring me to you,” I said.

“Non. Come on, walk on it. Let’s see how you’re progressing.”

“Alex! Just stop it.” I groaned again. “Did we, uhm…you know, last night?”

He laughed and outstretched his arms to me like he was a parent receiving their newly walking child. “Come to me and I’ll give you the answer.”

I hobbled over with a positively annoyed look on my face. It was a simple question! He was training me like some kind of lap dog. He caught me by the waist when I made it to him. He devilishly raised his eyebrow. I knew what that meant. He didn’t even have to say it now. He thought I was a complete whore, and what could I do to fix that? Nothing. This was the same awkwardness as getting drunk and sleeping with a friend.

“Did we, uhm…you know, last night?” He repeated slowly. “We did numerous things last night. I put strawberries on you, we had pillow talk, I serenaded you…I did everything I could to possibly seduce you, but you didn’t give in to my charm. I’ve failed yet again.”

I pushed him onto his back with all the force I could muster. “I hate you. I hate you. I hate you.”

“Je te deteste, je te deteste, je te deteste,” he said. “Why the sudden spite?”

“You’re just…conniving. Please refresh my memory. What happened?”

“Alright, you’re asking for a recreation now, aren’t you? Lay down again. I’ll be you.”

I laid down in Alex’s spot. His dark blonde hairs were all over everything. They stuck to his pillow, poked out of the sheets, and floated through the air. He laid down, pulled the sheets up to his chin, and rolled over to the side. He mimicked me perfectly.
“I was asleep, having beautiful dreams about…well, beautiful things. I was relishing in relaxation, when suddenly the entire bed begins rocking back and forth. The dream goes terribly wrong. I’m freezing. I open my eyes to see you’ve taken every single blanket and twirled them around your body. I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

I nodded. His hair was in a knotted mess after all his flopping about. His face was red and he was noticeably out of breath.

“You looked ridiculous. I ask you what the problem is, you innocently respond, “Alex, I’m freezing.” I concur for obvious reasons. After I unwrap you from your shell, I ask you to scoot over. I thought if I held you to me, you wouldn’t come close to smothering yourself again.”

He was holding me like he was again. His arms were tightly around me. His chest rose and fell again my back. His heart lightly fluttered. His long legs weaved in with mine.

“An increase in warmth would also occur if we cuddled a bit. That was another incentive that I can’t forget to mention.”

His lips tickled the back of my neck. I shuddered.

“I thought we had sex,” I said.

“Yes, I know you did.”

“I thought you were being bratty towards me because we had sex and you felt incredibly awkward.”

“If that had happened, I wouldn’t have been a brat. I would imagine myself being very nice to you. My sensitive poet side would trump my sarcastic ass side.”

“That’s nice to know.”

I suddenly felt very jealous of the woman who knew Alex’s sensitive poet side. What did he do when he felt himself being overcome by the passions of love? I saw him turning disgustingly chivalrous…things like making breakfast in bed, buying gifts, and coming up with pet names. He’d be past the phase of opening doors for the lady and paying sweet compliments.

“Tomorrow night, my former band is going to be playing a little club downtown. The trumpeter rang me up this morning and begged me to make an appearance. I was in a foul mood because honestly, I really don’t feel the need or desire to. I just don’t like people. I’m a bit shy,” he said, interrupting my thoughts.

I scoffed.

“Yet again, you’d be surprised.”

“Just go. I’m sure your presence would brighten their lives,” I said.

“I’m not doubting that fact, but we had a bit of a falling out. It got nasty towards the end, and we all never made amends.”

“Do you need me for moral support? I’d be glad to go with you. If you want me there...”

He was thrilled with the proposition. “You’d do that for me?”

“Of course. It’s the least I can do. You did save me from destitution, after all.”

“You are brilliant,” he whispered. He was still holding me. His grip had tightened. “You know, tomorrow night can be a test of sorts.”

“Explain…”

“Today and tomorrow, I’m going to give you a bit of schooling. I’ll teach you the ways of the French, or my pathetic interpretations, that is,” he said. “We’ll see how well I’ve taught you. If you succeed, I’ll release you from this cruel captivity.”

Dread came over me again. The dread was paired with that bittersweet smell. Alex swiftly hopped out of bed, the scent swirling behind him.

deadbeatdancer @ 2009-09-24T13:48:00

2009-09-24T18:29:12Z

Last night was absolutely insane. As I sit here, I have a difficult time understanding how any of it happened. If you ever read any post of mine, PLEASE. READ. THIS. ONE.

Okay, this paragraph will just give some follow-up information. Kinsey, Ally, and I decided to hang out after we got out of class. We ate at this Irish pub (which was delicious). This place is beautiful and very rustic. Legit, so to speak. After that, we decided we were going to take a walk down to the Boneyfiddle district, which is where all the antiques are sold. There are so many antique places that it's truly mindblowing. Why did we decide to go down there?

To find an old Ouija board, of course.

Well, we searched and searched to no avail. We said we'd never touch a Ouija board again after all the things that had happened the last few times we used one. Ally's dog Sam died from a series of seizures the last time we used one. We buried that board inside a tree. We truly believe in this stuff. I know many people don't believe in spirits, but if what happened to us last night happened to you, you'd change your mind.

We walk back to the skate shop to hang out for the rest of the evening. Kinsey's boyfriend, Ryan, says that his brother has a Ouija board and we can just take that one. We had plans to go camping Friday evening, but Kinsey says that she wants to use it tonight. Ryan, Kinsey, Ally, and I drive over to Kinsey's place once Ryan gets off work.

We set the board up in the middle of her bedroom, get all our hands on the pointer, and nothing happens. We feel a little dumb because Ryan is skeptical and he thinks that these things are a complete and total sham. We have to prove him wrong. I suggest that we need to go to a different place to pick up a spirit, because we're obviously in a cold place.

Kinsey conveniently remembers that there's an old, 1800's graveyard in the hills behind her house. We take the trek up the brier-covered hill in pursuit of the graveyard. It's completely grown over with weeds and plants, so we set the board up on the closest piece of semi-flat land. We get something right off the bat. The pull on the pointer is weak, but it gets faster and faster. It's getting dark though, and we need to get home. Ally asks it if it will come back to Kinsey's room with us, and the pointer flies to yes.

I know some people say that Ouija boards only work because of you subconscious mind pulling it to whatever answer you want. That might be true in some cases, but it's not in this one. Keep reading, and you'll see why.

We get back to Kinsey's, and ask it a few questions. Apparently the spirit is named Dirk, he died in 1845, he was 23 years old. We asked what he died of, and he said he was murdered. He says he was a man of God. At this point, we think...wow. Murdered? That's sad. We ask it how he was killed, but he doesn't answer. Instead, the spirit asks us a question.

"Why were you crying?"

We didn't know what it was talking about, but then we remembered that Ally was on the phone with her boyfriend before we started, and she got upset. She told the spirit that she was having relationship issues, and he says, "True love never hurts."

Ally just asks, "Does anyone else know about your death?"

He says, "I had a lovely miss. Can I tell you a story?"

We say yes. It turns out that Dirk was in an illicit romance with a woman named Diana. "She was unhappy with her life, but I made her smile," he said. Diana tried to hide the romance from her husband and her family, but it didn't work so well. Dirk wrote her letters, and her husband found them. She wanted to save some face, so she denied her affections for him and said he was harassing her. She was dying of tuberculosis and wanted to leave with a good reputation. Shortly after Diana died, her father killed Dirk.

After this whole story is over, we just stare at each other. This is possibly the most insane thing we've ever heard from contact with a spirit. Ryan is becoming less and less skeptical. He sees that we aren't pulling the board or anything, but he still doesn't know what to think.

The pointer starts moving again. It says, "Ryan, you're safe. This is a house of love."

We really start freaking out, because it knows his name. The spirit then says, "Do you believe?" Ally, Kinsey, and I all say yes. We definitely believe. Ryan doesn't say anything.

Then the pointer spells out, "Listen."

At this point, we don't know if we're supposed to wait from him to spell out something else, or actually listen. We wait. We're terrified. We're all huddled in a circle, linked together from downright fear. Then we hear it.

It's the sound of cracking knuckles that comes from underneath the floorboard. We can feel the vibrations underneath us. We scream. We certainly didn't expect that to happen.

We put our hands back on the board and it spells out, "You're safe," again. The noise happens again, and it's louder. I'm about to have a panic attack. Kinsey is about to pass out. Ally is freaked out, but not quite as much as Kinsey or I. Ryan is in disbelief. I don't want to hear the noise again. I beg them to put it away, but they won't. I hop up on Kinsey's bed and watch from there.

The pointer flies across the board now. It says, "I miss Lyndsay."

I'm shouting, "Nonononono," by now. I don't want this to go on. I don't want it to say my name. I don't want the noises. Ally asks it if it'll stop making the noises if Lyndsay comes back. The pointer spells out, "Sounds give you faith."

It's not going to stop.

I give in, and go back down. We wait. We think he's gone. Then we hear it again...that bone crunching, floor vibrating sound. We scream again, Kinsey and I huddle ourselves behind Ryan, we're sweating like crazy. It asks again, "Do you you believe?"

We scream at Ryan, "Just say yes! Please, just say yes!"

He says yes. The spirit says he won't make anymore noises. The the spirit spells, "KALR play." KALR is the first letter of all our names. We laugh. Then the board spells, "Secrets." He wants to guess our secrets. Kinsey and I are like, "NO. We're stopping here. NO."

The board says, "Ally is a sexual freak." Ally says, "Did you just call me a sexual freak?" The board says, "Yes. Haha." Then we wait to see who's next. None of us are willing. The board says, "Okay. Done," or something to that effect.

Then it gives us all the most poignant pieces of advice. I've never been more perplexed in all my life.
"Lyndsay, he loves you. Always." I cry, obviously distraught from all the day's happenings.
"Ally, don't let him hurt you."
"Kinsey, you must love yourself. Now."
"Ryan, whatever you do, don't let her go."

The pointer wooshes across the "Goodbye" and the bottom of the board, and it's over.

We go to sleep, or attempt to, all of us huddled together in the floor under a mound of blankets. The noises we kept hearing certainly kept us from any substantial sleep.

I, for one, am still speechless.

you're just too good to be true

2009-09-23T03:03:29Z

I LOVE THIS MAN. OH MY GOD, I'M ABOUT TO FLIP OUT FROM FANGIRLY JOY. You fangirls know the feeling. You want to cry, faint, laugh hysterically, and make out with your computer screen all at once.

Keyboard mashing is also appropriate for this feeling: sdjkhflgdjkfdfsafdkgjjjls.

JUST STOP IT OKAY? Ughhhhh. Kapranos.

deadbeatdancer @ 2009-09-22T02:38:00

2009-09-22T02:54:39Z

I feel like an Interpol song. Y'know what I mean? Everything that makes Interpol is me...the need and want for love, lust, something and feeling very jaded while searching and grasping for something.

That explains it. I'm updating from my blackberry. I'm beginning to get blackberry thumb and it makes my finger joints feel frozen and painful to stretch. I need to give technology a rest, but I can't. I have a paper to write that's due Wednesday. I've chosen to discuss Depeche Mode's brazen use of sex and the implications of that in mainstream culture. It should prove to be engaging.

I skipped two classes today, and I don't feel very good about that. Another class was canceled, so I only went to one. Today was decent in the morning. I drank coffee in the afternoon and it was all downhill from there.

So, no more skipping unless it's for a very important gig and no more coffee (other than decaf) no matter how okay I think I feel. I don't like feeling like I'm about to jump out of my skin. At all.

I had a very lovely dream last night. I love the way it felt. It'll all sound silly, but I'm telling it. Alex Kapranos and I were together. He loved me. I could feel that in my dream too. I loved him back, of course. I could feel that too. It's so bittersweet to be in love in a dream. When you wake up you feel perfect. You still feel in love. As the day wears on you feel more and more empty. You're got a hole to feed now, because you are in love with a figment of your imagination. It was so real though...I actually still remember how his hair felt. It was so shiny and golden.

I don't think anything like that can exist for me in real life. Facing that is proving to be difficult, especially when I consider the way I am. I'm going to sleep now. Maybe I'll be given another dream like that. It's a welcome departure from what I normally experience in my dreams and life in general. Ciao bellas.