Those of you who live somewhere between Winston-Salem’s two Targets know that I’m a big fan of Jeffrey Dean Foster, a North Carolina musician who’s worked hard for every scratch on his guitar case, for every crumpled receipt from every small town gas station. If you’ve been lucky enough to catch him onstage this year (which could’ve been anywhere from Nashville to Chapel Hill to under the worn Amoco sign at The Garage downtown), then you totally understand why: because he plays the kind of music that can break your heart and/or buckle your knees all before the first chorus. Jeff has just announced that he has a new Mitch Easter-produced record (yes, that Mitch Easter of R.E.M. fame) coming out in November and he’s launched a Kickstarter campaign to help defray some of the costs of recording, mastering and manufacturing it.
Clicking this link and contributing a few bucks will get you an advance digital copy of the new album, which is astonishingly good. It sounds like the kind of classic rock that played on the radio when cereal boxes had real prizes, when a Springsteen iron-on was the coolest thing going, when you’d gladly sweat on the hot vinyl of your front seat if it meant hearing the rest of *that* song. Jeff writes *that* kind of song. They aren’t the kind of songs that will save your life; they’re the ones that remind you why life’s worth saving. And who couldn’t use a little more of that?
Spotify, you made my Monday (because my vinyl isn’t here yet!)
My hot upstairs neighbor has gotten a puppy. I give it another 48 hours before I blurt out something stupid in the elevator, like “SO ARE YOU GETTING NEUTERED I MEAN THE DOG IS THE DOG GETTING NEUTERED, NOT YOU, YOU LOOK PRETTY VIRILE, NOT THAT I CAN TELL BY STARING DIRECTLY AT YOUR CARGO SHORTS LIKE THIS BUT I BET YOURE DOING OK DOWN THERE OK WELL THIS IS MY FLOOR GOTTA GO JUMP OUT MY WINDOW NOW”
Sooooo how was your weekend?
I’m doing my first-ever Olympic weightlifting competition tomorrow. This is pretty much how I expect it to go.
Up Up Down Down Left Right Left Right B A Start
Man goes to doctor. Says he’s depressed. Says life seems harsh and cruel. Says he feels all alone in a threatening world where what lies ahead is vague and uncertain. Doctor says ‘Treatment is simple. Great clown Pagliacci is in town tonight. Go and see him. That should pick you up.
Man bursts into tears. Says ‘But Doctor…
I am Pagliacci.’
Him: Your first weightlifting competition is like the first time you had sex: there’s all kinds of excitement and build-up, but then it’s just kind of a letdown.
Me: Wait, how is that different from every time I’ve had sex?
I know. I KNOW. But as far as late-80s Top 40 pop goes, this is a pretty solid Side One.
I’m glad my weightlifting singlet was packaged in a bag from Amazon Fashion, like if I accessorize it right it’ll somehow look flattering. (It will not look flattering.)
Seeing Liverpool in Charlotte last night was pretty great, although I’m disappointed that I wasn’t allowed to hand out orange slices and juice boxes at halftime.
I just thumbed through the stack of records beside the turntable in my kitchen and found a Lucky Charms marshmallow stuck to the side of Iggy Pop’s face. This tells you everything you need to know about me.
I’ve never held a newborn baby but I have used an iPhone without a case, so I totally get it. (at Carilion Roanoke Memorial Hospital)