In times of stress, we all have our vices we turn to. Mine include Snyder’s of Hanover Honey Mustard and Onion Pretzel bites (the “crack pretzels”), oversized flannel shirts I tend to wear on a daily basis, expensive cappuccinos from Think Coffee, watching The Graduate, and Fleetwood Mac. Yes, that’s right. Most people associate Fleetwood Mac with flowy skirts and that classic rock station the grocery store likes to play. And yes, some of their later stuff is a little bit of an epic fail. But 1977’s Rumours is a perfect piece of blues-inflected rock and roll wonder. Come on, any album where everyone in the band is writing about everyone else in the band’s failed relationships is bound to have some good stuff on it.
you see your gypsy....
A few nights ago I headed over to Scandinavia House with my friend Emilia of Beyond Bedford fame for a night of new music videos from northern lands (for the record, Emilia is the one with the Scandinavian blood). Sandwiched somewhere between videos from indie-rock names like Peter Bjorn & John, El Perro Del Mar, and The Raveonettes was the following fine, fine example of awesome.
“Love Messages From Overseas”–LEONCIE
This is Leoncie. She is from Iceland. She is an Indian Princess. She plays all of her own instruments. She directs her own (fantastically cheesy) music videos. According to her YouTube page, her music is a “lovely range of Aggressive and yet Sensual Melodies that touch your soul.” Other fine titles in her repertoire include “Love in a Pub,” “Sex Crazy Cop,” and “Man! Let’s Have Fun.” The best part about all of this is that she is completely serious. No touch of irony whatsoever. She is who she is, tight sparkly spandex and all, and she celebrates it with gusto.
And what was the only video that got a thunderous round of applause at Scandinavia House? No, not the critically lauded indie darlings. Yes, it was Leoncie.
she's icy and spicy.
I recommend “Sex Crazy Cop” if only for its refrain of “ooooh, cheap sex.”
See more of Leoncie’s talent at her YouTube page.
Approximately a week and a half ago, the most devastating thing that can happen to an Internet addict (like yours truly) happened: my three year old white Macbook (her given name was Lolita) died. Yes. My Lolita. Complete hard drive failure. There was nothing my good friend on the Apple Care line could do about it, no matter how I let my sobs ring through the phone line. I was going to have to surrender my lovely piece of technology to the fine folks of Apple Computer, where they’d perform the computer equivalent of a quadruple bypass on it, replacing the old hard drive with a shiny, spanking new one.
Now, this normally would not be a big deal if you are a reasonably intelligent person who takes the reasonably intelligent step of periodically backing up everything on your computer. Me? I am not reasonably intelligent. I barely had anything backed up, save my gazillions of photos I took when I was in Europe last semester. And I only stuck those on CDs because my mother naggingly insisted so. I tempted the Computer Gods, my silly immortal twentysomething voice taunting them with a “no way are you going to make MY lovely Macbook crash.” Looks like they had the last laugh.
So what did I lose? A lifetime’s worth of old “This American Life” episodes, a hell of a lot of music files, my extensive collection of photographs of the different angles of Chrissy Hynde’s haircut for reference when I eventually bob my hair, just about every document I’ve written in my three years at NYU, a French New Wave style film I made with some friends in Prague after a few too many Pilsner Urquells, a bootleg copy of “Vicky Cristina Barcelona,” and countless other digital wonders.
The lesson here is, please, back up your computer’s contents. Seriously. Do it. Do it for my sake. Do it for your sake. Do it for your unborn babies’ sake. Your computer can (and probably will) crash.
And now, to drown your sorrows, I present you with a fine clip from one of my favorite movie musicals, because nothing goes together like self-pity, whining, and Liza Minnelli:
I’ve been on spring break for the past week. The parts of it that I haven’t spent road tripping through the greater Boston area or curled up in the library working on assignments have been devoted solely to the languorous task of watching some enjoyably cheesy YouTube videos of 1970s superstars in their prime.
My personal favorite? Charo. What would my late night “The Love Boat” marathons be without her sequins, Spanish accent, and trademark “cuchi-cuchi”? She’s unabashedly ridiculous, and that is something to admire. Her sparkly effervescence is on display in the music video for her 1977 single “Dance A Little Bit Closer” from her album entitled (you guessed it) “Cuchi-Cuchi.”
Now I wish I’d spent my break doing “The Hustle” down a Las Vegas street.