mutual self promotion, in motion!

every once in a while, teeter and i are paid by a third party to do what we do on this site for free, so in other words, every once in a while, mama gets a steak dinner and maybe a baked alaska depending on how successful that "work" is. so, with our eyes on a sweet, sweet flaming prize, teet and i are taking a moment to promote each other's most recent projects with the hope that you a, buy them, b, stop bitching about updates, and c, buy them for friends. read the book while listening to the cd even! after taking them out of a datexedge totebag? one of us! one of us!

the book sb is in, Damage Control: Women on the Therapists, Beauticians, and Trainers Who Navigate Their Bodies - by teet

Hear ye, hear ye, people of the dateXedge micro-empire! This here moment is SB's time to effing shine; the shiniest shine that ever once shined, literary gold, nobody puts baby in a corner style. Lady-dude has used her bananas people skillz and madd heffer wordsmith-ery stylings to score herself a key spot in a rad-zapping new book of essays on beauty, and as such finds herself in the company of many a fancypant lady celeb. Damage Control, published this June by HarperCollins, features works by a double bakers dozen of brilliant women (SB, Minnie Driver, Rose McGowan, pre-teen superauthor Francesca Lia Block, word!) and was edited by the ever-sasstacular Miss Emma Forrest.

No no no, totes double sware, SB and I are not gay, but yes, natch, her essay is all about me (stop! go on!). She changes my name to Kelly and describes the gnarly (GNARLY) bikini waxes I would get back when I was in a relationship that, in her (sadly, very correct) words made me "a shell of my former amazing self." OH MAN. Didja know that my stoops former selfs shell even lead to SB and I breaking up? LIFE WIFOUT HER was 2+ years of SHEER TORCHER (both parties included). Let's not mince words here, I need this lady to live, in a, totes double sware, fully not-gay way.

When she first read me the story this February on her throw-up brown and orange couch, in her otherwise lovely Silverlake apartment, I was all like "Owch! That cuts like a knife!" and then like "Oof! Is that really how I was? Dang!" and then all "OMG, love yr story so bad, am so proud yr gonna be published in a ginormous book, let's got to Vegan House, I'm chubbs and hungary." No matter the aforementioned linguistic genuis style knife cuttery, I knew every word she wrote was f'reals 100% TRUTH; the subtle ache of which a savory seitan club and soy shake could totes help heal.

Ye Olde Villagers of the dxe Shire, consider SB's contribution to this book a gateway to MAJE AWESOME PUBLISHINGS in the very near future. Let us give her a round of e-applause for bringing the sad plight of my formerly broken mind and hairless hoo-ha to the people - through her ever insiteful and hilarious voice from pen to paper or keypad to Microsoft Word or whatever. OMG LOVE THAT LADY SO PROUD GONNA PUKE CAN'T EVEN STAND IT BUY HER BOOK NOW OR FEEL OUR RATH OR HOWEVER IT IS THATCHA SPELL IT. Also, my review is not as funny as hers. Second-rateness in the world of DXE is my cross to bare.

*


teeter's new band, ladybirds, and their debut cd, "regional community theater." - by sb

when teeter and i met back in the 1970s, we were both interns at a major indie label, and while i won't say which one, it wasn't sub pop, was located in downtown nyc right above a giant neon sombrero, and was most famous for releasing ground-breaking chart toppers by acts like the arsonists, the demolition doll rods, and the wisdom of harry. while teet has since burnt her bridge to matador (whoops, that's the name) with a beef supreme-style industrial flame tosser (whoops, referenced idocracy, which nobody has seen), it doesn't really make a difference, because, with or without her months in the mail-out saltmines in exchange for mark eitzel cds, she's already got so many ties to the rock world and has left such a distinct imprint that half of her vocab just got sliced into a book about emo (whoops, forgot the bibliography trevor!).

anywho, after years of doing everything from being an internador, overseeing all manner of merch design/product/sales, and briefly fronting a fake band that allowed her to call some tween girl a cunt in front of thousands of people, teet is now singing for a real band with her friend/former fake band bandmate tyler, and she has equal creative imput for once, and she's even agreed to cover yaz's "only you," which would probably be the song playing as the first dance of our wedding were we not not gay. her new band is called LadybiRdS, crazy capitolization as an homage to aforementioned fake band initials, and their first record is called "regional community theater." it's being released on creep records, and getting reviewed in wired and thrasher and stuff, and since i read wired (while wearing a thrasher sweatshirt) (that i stole from teet in 1999 or something and she should just stop asking about it because statute of stolen goods limitations is totally over it's mine now bitch just SHUT IT), i'm ever so impressed.

and also by the songs! cuz they're all keyboardy and made of computers, and usually i hate that shit and would really just rather listen to that john prine song bonnie raitt sings about wanting to be a rodeo poster and having flies in the kitchen and all sorts of thing that make perfect sense when yr depressed as shit. but even i, who hate those new fangled keyboards and want those fucking kids to get off my goddamned lawn, i think these songs are pretty great, especially the one teeter sings with that guy from motion city soundtrack (to WHAT? that band name bugs me almost as much as the fact "law & order" should be "order & law"-- so annoying!) (that i'm just now hearing isn't on the record anymore, but whatever, wait for the limited edition plexi mp3 or what have you). i even have that song on a mix, which says a lot, because that means i actually want to hear it while stuck in traffic in some godforsaken corner of southern california, or pushing my ass up the santa monica mountain range, or writing an article about nicole richie (which i'm doing right now, i swear, and just in case you didn't know, she swears she's not rexic, so just stop asking already). and the other songs are good, too, and there are some noteworthy duets, and publishing rights sure do make lives complicated.

long story short, after a zillion years of having others snake her qualities in order to get into the spotlight, teet's finally doing it for herself, and i'm ever so proud. and it's so good! better than the wisdom of harry even, if that's possible.

*
MISC PROMOTIONAL JAMBOREE!

Unrelated to us things (dudes that will never be mine, and music from the mid-90's that I can't let go of, primarily) that I am presently obsessed with - in a whole lot less words than SB, cause she's just naturally way wordier than me, if that's even possible, and I gotta go pack for my summer of snowboarding with faux-punk teens at Mt. Hood.

teet:


A) Okkervil River - OMG best band on earth that no one seems to know about, can't be shore why, but totes don't mind. I listen to their album, "Black Sheep Boy" on perma-loop .

2) Lost, Season 2 DVD Box Set - I love Jack Shephard so bad, such a committed dude. My life is empty.


D) OMG. SITTING TWO FEET AWAY FROM BOISES FAVORITE SON - My friend Paulie (he's hystairical) and I went to the Nuerolux recently while I was visiting Boise, Idaho - and ended up sitting mere inches from Doug Martsch, lead singer of one of my all time fave bands, Built to Spill. Not to get all halftard stalker style on my very own self, but, let's not mince words here, BTS has long been a mucho important part of my musical upbringing. Dudes an ultra mega unabashed ginormo-genius. Sitting near him was way aces because I not only got to hear his speaking voice when he ordered a drink (waitress refused to let him pay. Sup, famous!), but I also got to watch him sniffle and blow his nose. The nose blowing made for some exceptional full circle mental connections (dude has a cold!) - as I had seen a giant box of tissues on the dashboard of his car earlier in the day when my friend Carter and I rode our bikes past his house 3 to 16 times in hopes of maybe seeing him, like, mowing his lawn or raking leaves or something.

14) Greg Goulet.


J) Archers of Loaf. Fer Life!


17) The little brown boy from Cannon Beach Bike Shop. He totally fixed my bike bell last week with WD-40 and a hammer. I find myself making up excuses to go there. My life is empty.


sb:

*rescue me
one thing i've come to realize about boston, now that i haven't lived there for 10+ years and have become so homesick for the east coast that i geniunely miss living among a million catholic people who have such a colorful pronounciation of the word fart, is that it is one giant small town. denis leary's "no cure for cancer" came out when i was 14 i think, and even though it's an OTT collection of jokes about shit, smoking, fucking, and basically a best of-/overdone melange of bill hicks' material (i know, i know, but i'm over it), the guy became a local hero. he's still a local hero. so is john raztenberger. and i'm sure "the departed" is going to top the boston film critics' association's best of list again this year, and next year, and on and on until another movie comes out where everybody pronounces it "faht." the ideal would be "jordan's furniture commercial: the movie!" that regional joke? becoming local legend, as we speak.



but, like i said, i'm east coast homesick, even for new york, which i was so fucking burnt out on a year ago. i spent some time there in january, when it's at its greyest and most soul-destroying, and even then, i wrote an open letter to christ their lord, begging him to deliver me to a job somewhere in the five boroughs that'd allow me the ability to afford my own (currently subletted) apartment. i went to better burger, and while waiting for my turkey deliciousness, a tv was showing ny1 and just the sight of pat kiernan made me want to weep. thank god it wasn't gary anthony ramsey, or i probably would've ripped my clothes and thrashed upon the floor. so when i finally gave in to the chorus of people telling me to watch "rescue me" (a chorus of two; emma was soprano, brendan was alto), it was pretty much the greatest thing ever.

not only is the show dripping with nyfd pride/general nyc goodness (cinema village! vesleka! horrible queens! love it!), but everyone on it is from boston. not just denis leary, but lenny clarke, who sounds like the third tappet brother from car talk, and friggin cam neely-- cam neely!-- who actually gets to play hockey and act like the fourth (not-"funny lookin'") hanson brother from slapshot. can manny cameo as a little league coach? can someone set bill weld's townhouse on fire? can there be a gay couple played by the guys who own jordan's furniture?

and oh yeah, the show is really funny, and denis leary pulls a steve coogan in that he's playing himself to his most assholish finest. i could do without the talking to ghosts, but so could denis' character, and i haven't seen season 3 (dvd out june 5th!), so maybe he does, who knows. i also heard that at the end of that season he sort of rapes his wife (!?), which is an upper level of asshole that might be just out of my reach as a viewer, but whatever, i'll cross that bridge when i come to it. maybe it's a test of my loyalty, and if i can overcome this moment in the show, jesus will deliver me back to my rightful home in manhattan, *and* give me a guild job with dental. ah, jesus. the ultimate caltholic local hero.

*bbc's robin hood
due to many factors not really worth hashing out here, my west coast life is hermity beyond my wildest dreams, hermity to the point where it's crossing over from wildest dreams into worst visions of an empty future followed by a slow, solitary decline. in order to numb myself from the stark reality of my own mortality, and the fact that i'm stuck living in a city filled with actors, trees that burst into flame, and the kind of people who cancel veronica mars, i've started watching a lot of tv. a lot. a lot to the point where i watch heroes on purpose (see my feelings about that show here). on the good side, if i weren't relying on my tivo for solid companionship, i never would have started watching robin hood on bbc america, and then i never would've gotten to see a really pretty english guy (like, gross pretty, the kind of dude who could be on east enders after amicably leaving take that and then coupling off with some one-named english celebumess that nobody in this country has ever heard of) trot around through the woods, speaking with some geordie-esque accent so thick that when he talks to his side kick, much, it sounds less like the name of canadian mtv and more like the guy who painted the scream.



said pretty guy and his band of merry men (including-- hello, 00s-- a muslim woman posing as a dude!) have sword fights with bad guys like lilly allen's dad, work with robins "luuv," a totally awesome/normal-pretty maid marion, and generally act so over the top and unabashedly corny that if you're not enjoying yourself you're beyond dead inside (ie, more dead inside than i am). plus this season ended with such finality, like they have no hopes of coming back next season, that the last shot was a freeze frame of robin and his men (and woman) jumping in the air, fists aloft, and it was such delicious cheese that i would've loved to have spread it on an some wheat bread, put a tomato on it, and fried it up for lunch. but they are coming back! and knowing bbc america, that'll probably air sometime in the '10s, but whatever, love this show, and if you've ever liked to watch actors fight, hear funny accents, or think about doing it with the animated fox in disney's robin hood until you realize you can't eff a two dimensional drawing, this is the programme for you.

[a month+ later, i've realized this is like the 10th mention on dxe.com of wanting to have relations with disney's robin hood. this means we are either a, closeted furries, b, broken, c, doomed to die alone, or d, all of the above (minus the furries thing).

*maximo park, "our earthly pleasures"
maybe it's because two of the only people i speak to in LA are english, or because, like all new englanders, i have a real fondness for the mother country (which, for my family, is actually lithuania, but who's counting), or because the pound is just that powerful right now, i don't know, but long story short, i find myself in a one-two punch of anglo-love. not only do i love robin hood, but i also love maximo park, and while one is a show and the other a band, both have fun northern-y accents and are popular in that place across the sea where it's not that hard to be popular since the country is the size of maine.

i liked the first maximo park record, "a certain trigger," but mostly just the song "the coast is always changing," which was a key summer jam last year and which can still push a car dance out of me if the stars are properly alligned. then i dl'd their recent record, "our earthly pleasures," and i think i've been listening to it almost nonstop for at least a coupla months. and i never do that, or at least haven't done that since the days where i wore only band t-shirts, wrote for zines, and generally gave a shit. i wrote a huge review of this record here (shut up, scroll down), but it was mostly an excuse to rant about other shit (kind of a trend, eg, what you're reading right now), and at the time, i merely "liked" this cd, as opposed to now, when i "need it to live." not all the songs are gold, but the first 3 and the last 4 are like platinum dipped in tastidelite set in diamonds filled with unicorn tears.

and, like robin hood, they are kind of fortified with cheese and an accent that turns the word "luck" into "look" like magic, but unlike robin hood, our hero, singer paul smith (whose name i only recently learned, and which i can actually remember thanks to the clothes i can't afford that share his name), is not gross pretty, but bald. or on the way to bald. first record, he had the creepiest, ambulence-chaser-like, hitlery, giuliani x10 x10 combover. and in videos they'd just try to show his face, cuz it's a nice face, but then bam, he steps back and there's this rainbow of all dark brown pulled over his scalp with a little curl at the end for extra ew. somebody, maybe one of the girls from one of his songs that has tortured his poor, combed-over soul, bought him a bowler hat, and it's a huge improvement. then another girl got him one of those army-y hats from 5 years ago that were supposed to be the next trucker hat but didn't really catch on. i think the baseball hat is just from his mom, but long story short, the comb over is now under a vast collection of headwear. maybe by the next record he'll have a buzz cut and i'll actually want to make out with him.

vs


as it stands, pretty much everything but the band's music is negligible to me, because the more i find out about bands, especially english ones, the less i like them. still, they're two for two record wise, which ain't bad, and since both the new qotsa and shellac cds kinda blow (boring and boring, respectively), it looks like me and "our earthly pleasures," or at least the last 4 songs, are on our way to a combover of the heart.

ps: i second okkervil river, esp since i pushed them on teet in the first place, and would like to remind the world that they are originally from new hampshire, and also that new hampshire is the last state in the union without a seatbelt law, and that okkervil river are playing in concord in july, and that i probably can't go but if i did go i wouldn't be stupid enough not to wear my seatbelt, and also that's not that funny but i wanted to bring it full circle. i'm done now.