"The Management needs better management."

I'm slowly re-immersing myself back into the social scene since returning from the pristine rolling mountains of Northern Vermont, at the VSC, where socializing consists mostly of getting drunk and high around a bonfire night after night while asking one another to be honest and true, and wondering out loud if hard partying would even be appropriate in the untouched, peaceable kingdom. Now that I'm back, however, I'd like to get my groove back and into some serious partying.

This is why I declined the invitation to a barn party at the Sheep Farm in Windsor last night because it sounded much too similar to the nights in Vermont and I need a change of pace for sure. Instead I went with Ross to see The Management at Wesleyan University's famous Eclectic House where I thought the chances of meeting cute strangers on a dancefloor would be more likely, and silent moments of boozy introspection would be unlikely.

Ross, his friend Chino, and I met up with Eclectic resident Fareed at around 10:50 in time to see Bear Hands play the opening set, which was predictably good, fun, rock 'n' roll without pretension- and a guy banging a tambourine and a morocco together with great rambunctious affect.
Their set was followed by a few songs by Chairlift (pictured) which got off to a rocky start, full of self-doubt, bad sound mixing, and a synthesizer buzzing so loud I just about could feel my internals wanting to liquefy and homogenize. By the end of their set, however, Chairlift proved to be the favorite performance of the evening; Ross, Chino, and I were won over completely by singer Caroline's facile and beautiful voice, reminiscent of Melanie Safka or even Regina Spektor. She was accompanied by pared down synth-pop compositions that had the artificial yet satisfying warmth that only a Casio can evoke. Ross bought their E.P. which I agreed was a worthwhile purchase, I'm listening to it right now, and its like listening to a pretty girl sing along to the Mark Mothersbaugh tunes that Steve Zissou pipes into his helmet at one point during a deep-sea diving mission. It has the same heartfelt quirk and unexpected loveliness.

I would have left satisfied and contented after seeing Chairlift, but we stayed to watch The Management headline, which proved to be a big mistake. After it took them one whole hour to set up and do a sound check, they didn't start playing until 1:50 at which point the crowd was restless, bored, and wondering why they had ever made such a big deal about this band. Admittedly, all I wanted to hear was "Kids" - their only hit - but the guys came up short. They played three really bad songs, like unconvincing classic rock performed by a group of fucked-up collegiates hoping to take it to the next level, if they could just get it together this one time.

They didn't get it together, which was kind of hilarious because we were at Wesleyan amidst one of the hippest student bodies in the country. It became clear by the start of the final song that the audience was ready and willing to embrace The Management's piss-poor performance and enjoy the irony of bad indie rock and use it as an excuse to mosh mockingly and in self-effacement. I almost forgot to mention that The Management were filming for a music video, and asked that everybody come dressed up as if the show was a Halloween party just minutes after the apocalypse. It didn't matter, since I doubt if anyone will want to watch it, even if they manage to get the damn thing made.

Mark Twain's Babies' Mama's House party

My best girl Alice moved out of my house and into her new place across the street from Mark Twain's house, to what is known as "Mark Twain's Babies' Mama's House." She posted the following invite earlier today and I shook my fists in a furious rage because I cannot be there (see post below; "So Long, Suckers"):

moved out of oxford. hey dad.
officially throwing a BIRTHDAY party on Friday, September 21st around 10pm.
no debbie downers allowed, i.e. that girl that talks shit at every social gathering in Hartford and goes out with Shane. please stay home and drink your own whiskey, thanks.
anygay:
Friday.
September 21st.
Dance Party Nation.
10/10:30.
Sexy Teen Attitudes.
TONS AND TONS of birthday gifts.
Girls, please wear push-up bras. Boys, please don't be homotextuals.
Stephanie Necel will be there, flying all the way in from R.Kelly's underpants.

334 Farmington Ave. (yep)
Apartment 1A
come through the back (layyyydeeeez)

New Haven Saturday night.


Seahorses, fuhevah

-ICEMAN LETTUCE

So Long, Suckers.

It's peak foliage season and I'm leaving today for scenic Northern Vermont where I'll be living for the next month, here. I'm going to do some heavy painting, I might do some mild hallucinogenics, and I'm going to brush up on some recent, pertinent art theory. There probably won't be many posts for the next month because I don't know what kind of partying exists in Vermont, but I imagine someone is getting funky in Burlington, and actually come to think of it his name is Manu Sachdeva.

I am disappointed that I'll miss the Blow Up party being resurrected and redone by Dennis and Prorock this month in New Haven. When it was in Danbury the quality of partying was of such a high caliber that I almost forgot to bitch about the treacherous drive to Danbury. Now I'm happy to see them in New Haven at Cafe Nine on State Street, on September 22nd. Ultra-mod Prorock mostly spun underground hip-shit hits from the 60s and 80s and the kids in Danbury were dancing and wanted it with reckless violent and sexual abandon. And yet at the same time, I felt like dressing for Blow Up required at least a little research and planning, since comfort and practicality were absolute sins. Everyone gave two shits and were out to impress. Even that dipshit from Starbucks exhibited a real fashion p.o.v. Finally, I'm so glad to see this party back on the scene, since its founders are such talented lads, and hopefully when I return another edition will be ready.