Sweet T-Shirts from MOFO

When I finally dragged myself away from the beach last Thursday, I ended up at a launch party for a new line of shirts at MOFO (Merchants Of Fine Objects) in Cairns. They have a fun little shop on McLeod St., complete with blinking skulls and an array of some locally-designed, in-housescreen-printed shirts. I bought three, and it'll be a fun guessing game as to which ones...

Yes, correct: the Love Bomb shirt, the piano chick shirt, and an older print involving happy dancing monsters on bright yellow T. And yes, they *do* deliver to the States! No more "Broke is the New Black" or that ironic barcode shirt you still think is oh-so ironical...these shirts are metaphysically endowed, on a scholarship from the School of Transcendental Nonthink and awarded grant money from phyllosoftsicle higher-ups. Don't go looking for better. You won't find it. And everyone will be jealous.

Even cooler is the fact that the owner, Sam Tupou is good friends with my sister, whose good friend, and his partner, Ania Ganowicz is responsible for many of these awesome designs, including the piano chick, who happens to be her best friend from Poland. Lovely people + lovely T-shirts = legend.

I also got to hear a bitchin' OZ band called Beware Wolf (be wear word play). Their self-disparaging attitude came off charming and their chops came off badass, especially considering they're still green around the edges. I was pleased to hear some keys alongside screamopop, and it was no surprise that they'd been playing together a while 'cause the drummer was actually watching the axes. They even brought their own fans, including a redhead in Mini Mouse ears. And to date they're the only people who think being from DC is kind of awesome, given our history. For which I wasn't alive. But am aware, very aware, yes indeed. Long live The Cicada Killers!!!

Pause for Vindictiveness

It's like I say about the whole Twilight thing: if there's eye-candy to be had, throw it up on screen and get out of the way, but I'm not so tempted to sit through the reading of a so-called "guilty pleasure" paperback with teenpop hype and zero contribution to adult literary cannon when there is SO much other time-tested classics I haven't even touched (Brothers Karamozov, Beyond Good and Evil, War and Peace, and anything by Henry Miller). I'm sure I would gobble down the thing, cherry and all (no pun intended), but I'd feel emptier after doing so.

I feel similarly about country poprock semi-gods Kings of Leon who have that one song that's just...awful. And here I'm breaking my whole rule, aren't I? If it's tasty and potentially harmless it's not worth demonizing? Okay, but I can still laugh myself stupid at articles like this: KOL Cancel Tour For Unsanitary Conditions.

Favorite line from their twitter: "You may enjoy being shit on but we don’t.

Yeah, what gives? Why would you show up to a KOL concert if you didn't?

Not To Be Missed (Unless You're In Australia)

My extended sabbatical here in Cairns is beyond unreal and bordering on OBE, but I can't help but be dashed to bits that I'm missing a performance of great note back in the States. A very dear friend of mine, Ms. Sarah Rosner was my inspiration to join our high school dance company where I was exposed to modern, hip hop, a little jazz/ballet influence and Indian folk/Bollywood dance styles. Today she's absolutely kicking ass and taking names as the creator of the A.O. Movement Collective company in Brooklyn. And we're all proud as punch to see her name in lights in this issue of Gay City News:

In “90 ways to Wake from drowning,” a new work that will have its debut at Joyce SoHo on July 30 and 31, choreographer Sarah A.O. Rosner and her A.O. Movement Collective communicate a profound hopelessness but also a tenderness — and queerness — that embodies the new American generation.

Hot damn and good onya, Sarah!!

Anyone haunting the area on those dates should be compelled to take part in history.

Fuck You, Jack White.

Dear fucking Jack White,

First of all, why. Just, why. Don't play dumb with me. You know perfectly well what I mean. I mean, how dare you.

1) How dare you be so awesome as to have picked up music as an alternative to seminary school. How dare you be so fucking badass and maintain those altar boy looks? Do you know how bad a good case of the smits can feel?

2) How dare you make music the best of which is like the product of an orgy amongst Blind Willie, Booker T., Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, The Rolling Stones, and the Kinks? How dare you make up relevant, brain-tickling and sense-confounding poetry seemingly on the spot?

3) Where do you get off effortlessly living out the rock star dream of starting and rocking multiple bands with all-star casts of legendary and current musicians, and receive instant, real-time validation from the likes of Rolling Stone who would probably rather just suck you right off rather than waste all that drool on their rankings and articles?

4) How dare you be the wild and sexy brooding artist that crumbles my little heart? And why in God's name would you get married to a gorgeous British model while set afloat on the Amazon river by a freaking shaman after I pledged myself to you as a scrawny thirteen year-old??

5) The theremin. The freaking, theremin.

I am Jack's tortured girl soul.

The Dead Weather's new album Sea of Cowards. Seriously.