Tuesday, October 30, 2012


Before we get into the details, I want to show this text I sent to my family today:

First of all, you should know that the band is not called Shitgun Honeymoon. That was a mistake. Autocorrect, why?!

The band is actually called Shotgun Honeymoon. You may remember them from such posts as 
this one. This is the band that Rob has been playing with since before we got married, and they've been collaborating on this EP for the last little while.

Not to brag, but my brilliant and talented and handsome husband did like a buttload of work on this thing. First of all, he helped arrange the songs. B) He played the drums, auxiliary percussion, and sang backing vocals. And finally, he engineered the bugger, then produced, edited, mixed, and mastered it.

Sometimes people are all like, "You guys are so busy! Why you no hang out with us?" And then we're like, because after Rob gets home from working eight hours every day, he sits down and works for a whole bunch more hours. Me? I just probably don't like you. I'd rather sit on my futon without trousers on, watch Dr. Who on my mom's Netflix, and eat peanut butter straight out of the jar. (JK, guys! Poetic license!)

But sometimes, all those working hours turn into something. Something like this Culmination EP, which, if you have $4.95, you can buy right now on iTunes! Or Amazon

Bonus fun facts: my mom plays her viomalin on it, too. She's quite good, you know. 
Also, I sang on two tracks. But you don't have to listen to those if you don't want to.

So, guys! Do us a solid and give these songs a listen. You'll like them, I think. And if you don't, that's OK. It won't hurt our feelings. It's just that we worked really hard on them and our self-esteem is all wrapped up in them. NBD. ;)

Alright, folks! That's if for the shameless plug. Have a wonderful Tuesday and Happy All Hallow's Eve Eve!

Thursday, October 18, 2012

About the time we saw Peter Gabriel.

It's our first date. I'm sitting at a wobbly table across from Rob at the little Mexican restaurant in Hollywood that isn't there anymore and trying to impress him with my encyclopedic music knowledge that is not so encyclopedic. I mean, I know stuff, but I learned most of it from Pop Up Video. Rob is the one who knows all the good bands, the ones I haven't heard about yet because they are only playing on the hipster radio waves that the cool kids hear in their brains. It's 2007, so I'm probably spewing some nonsense about the Cold War Kids (for whom I make no apologies since they are completely incredible) when I hear those oh so familiar bars: Love...I get so lost...sometimes.... Those strains that bring to mind John Cusack and boomboxes for any red-blooded American born between 1970 and 1985.

I don't want to say anything. For all I know, Rob thinks Peter Gabriel is "pedestrian" or some other music critic-y word for "no good." But he must know. He must be reading my mind because he looks in my eyes and says, "I love this song."

One year later, I'm getting my wedding dress fitted at David's Bridal. We're six weeks out from the wedding and my perfect vintage wedding dress doesn't fit because somehow my waist is larger than that of Audrey Hepburn's anorexic cousin. So I'm making do at the chain in Burbank. The eternally patient in-house alterations lady is doing a bang-up job Frankenstein-ing my cheap, mass-produced gown, and I am not superstitious. Rob is back here with me, letting me know that he's totally going to be OK if I bring the hemline up to just under my knees. In Your Eyes starts playing on the adult contemporary satellite station, and we lock eyes in the mirror and smile like a couple of doofy dorkusses.

Two Fridays ago, Rob told me he accidentally won tickets to Peter Gabriel from KCRW. But there were three strikes against us: it was Tuesday, so I was working; my mom was coming into town and we only had two tickets; it was in Santa Barbara. We steeled ourselves for the very real possibility that we might just miss this show. But the stars aligned. Mom was down for it and Craigslist had an extra ticket. Maria was willing to cover me, so I left work early. We made it, and we heard Peter Gabriel sing In Your Eyes for reals. And it wasn't just him we heard. It was me, and Rob, and every other person in that ampitheatre, singing at the top of our John Hughes-loving lungs. And it was magical. Especially when John Cusack came out on the stage and the mega-drunk fella behind us screamed "Eff yeah! Say Anything! Effing John Cusack!!" Classy crowd.

On the way out, I texted my dad to let him know that we saw his childhood best friend, Cameron Crowe, on the stage that night. My dad shot back, "Did you meet him? Did you tell him who you were?"

Not this time, dad. But there will be other Peter Gabriel shows. We'll get our chance.

Wednesday, October 17, 2012

Oh, hai! And some election humor.

Sorry I've been MIA on here for the past several weeks. I've been adjusting to life with no classes. It's bananas. I should have way more time on my hands, but, you know ... Netflix. Anyway, I've been spending all of my time coming up with these sweet election season tag lines for Facebook. Peep these gems:

  • Facebook: Letting you know which of your friends think you're ignorant and uninformed since 2008.
  • Facebook: We tell you who to avoid during election season so you don't have to find out the hard way.
  • Facebook: Where you can watch your friends try to demystify the abortion rights quagmire. Every four years.
  • Facebook: Without us, how would you know not to mention your views on gay rights around your Mother-in-Law?
  • Facebook: Nuanced arguments need not apply.
And last but not least...

  • Facebook: Converting people from one political party to another since ... never.