On Thursday I received a text informing me that Die Antwoord was having a show at the Gramercy and that I should definitely be there By the time I got home it was 4am; I fell asleep with my finger on my MacBook’s mouse pad just as I was needing to click “confirm” for the tickets.

When I woke up hours later, the show was sold out. After an afternoon spent unsuccessfully trying to score myself a single off Craigslist and reaching out to my limited but semi-connected network of friends in the city, I decided I was better off just standing out front of the venue and trying to buy myself a ticket. I took the train, transferring between the two which doesn’t sound like an accomplishment but I’m still pleased I got there without getting lost. Such was not the case on my way back from the city at 2am, but that’s not a terribly interesting story either.

I strolled up and down the line, half-singing in my own awkward fashion a tune I would like to call, “Does anyone have a ticket? Just one ticket. (One ticket for me.)” While this seemed to amuse the folks in line, the first person to take interest in my future hit was sadly mistaken in thinking I would take him up on his offer: “if you’re willing to offer more than $70.” I appreciate everyone’s just trying to make a buck, but I’m not a die-hard (ooh, easy joke!) fan. Paying more than face value for this show was not going to happen. The poor fanboy could not wrap his head around my laughing at his offer.

“BUT THIS IS DIE ANTWOORD!”

This kid was wearing just a pair of Pink Floyd boxers in the cold along with reproductions of Ninja’s tattoos that someone had none-too-kindly put to skin with a ballpoint pen. Next time he decides to go the distance, I hope he coughs up the extra $5 to get a Sharpie. Nothing looks worse than agitated skin on a ginger.

Bear in mind it’s Halloween weekend when I tell you Conan O’Brien and his hick friend were having a hard time securing a second ticket. They asked what I was willing to pay, informing me they dropped $50 on the one ticket they had. And while I appreciated the offer, I remain a penny-pincher at heart. $30 ticket or bust, my friends. The doors were supposed to open at 8, but 8:30 rolled around and the line of kids was still wound around the corner, freezing their asses off in varying states of dress. I have to keep reminding myself of the nature of this weekend, but to wear only leggings and a crop top in ode to your current favorite trash-rave-hop South Africans on an incredibly brisk night strikes me as fucking retarded.

Cue the appearance of an attractive male in his late 20′s with a banging accent and his two friends (one of which was even more beautiful, albeit a bit short for my taste.) They are in the midst of trying to convince another friend, supposedly a serious Die Antwoord fan, that he needs to bail on hanging out with his girlfriend to come to the show with them. I think we all know the pull of the pussy is stronger than the desire to see some white trash spit some shit on stage, right? Right.

Clearly they took my $30 offer. As it turns out, they all happened to be from South Africa. Over the course of the night I learned many things. Like my pronunciation (Die Ant-word, phonetically) should be changed to “DEE ANT-VERD” and that nobody, nobody would ever make a comment about your mom’s puss being in a fish paste jar in polite company back in Capetown. It’s one of those slang terms the boys had no problem equating to the use of “nigger” and “cunt”. They watched in awe as a mostly-full room full of people sung along with words they clearly didn’t understand. Music does that to people, I guess. I lucked out, getting a full translation for all things said in Afrikaans along with a lot of free Red Bull. Free because I’m a girl and god dammit, I needed the energy after standing in the cold for an hour and a half.

There were a lot of people that had gone all out with their get ups in the crowd, which I raised alternating eyebrows at while secretly envying their fanaticism. My people-watching rocks got off more times than I can count. Of course, getting the back story of the characters on stage, the history of the slang terms they were using and more importantly discovering that jumping around pointlessly in a too-packed crowd toward the front of the venue to something aside from The Unseen is still really, really fun kinda took the cake for me.

To actually break down the show: hooded costumes, decent sound and most importantly: ever bit as amusing in real life as they have been on video (though I would’ve been happier had Diplo made a shirtless appearance).

Many thanks to Neal, Ross and friend #3 for letting me attend the show with them and purchasing me many energy drinks and bottles of water. I hope you enjoy the remaining few weeks of your vacation and work-studies here in the States. Sorry I bailed shortly after we arrived crashed that loft party on the Lower East Side. I know you were all really excited about Karen O being in attendance, but once your younger finger-biting friend started going on about his incredibly large ego and micropenis I realized I was out way past my bedtime.

*****

To read my review of the Die Antwoord show at Gramercy Theatre with two fewer words of questionable origin and more about the actual show, check out The AudioPerv.

Let me start by saying this post does not in any way mean I am going to change what kind of shit I post around here. There’s some history and wit wrapped up in my self-indulgent (and sometimes self-depreciating) posts here. But I do care about blog content leading to accusations of wigger-dom. I mean, am I verging on being one just for posting about rap on my blog? I can’t do anything about the fact that I’m white, but I do enjoy listening to rap or top 40′s clubhop or whatever appropriate music-snob term I should be using. After my hipster asshole summer playlist, it’s not like any of you doubt me when I say I listen to a broad spectrum of music and half of it probably sucks.

Sometimes I wish my IRL friends couldn’t come across my internet stuff, especially here, because they talk too much shit. Case in point:

[My BFF]: You’ve been writing good stuff lately
[Me]: thx, people seem to like it
[My BFF]: It’s the old edgy hilarious girl, and not the wanna be wigger girl :]
[Me]: … i was never a wanna be wigger girl. how dare you!
[My BFF]: You were coming close for awhile.
[Me]: WHAT?
[My BFF]: But you were never quite there :]
[Me]: bullshit. when?
[My BFF]: You wrote about nothing but rap stars petty crap exclusively for a few months, it was absurd. I couldn’t determine if it was to be ironic or something.
[Me]: *pause* ….

What constitutes as wigger-dom, anyway? I’ve jokingly talked about white kids appropriating black culture (re: Wu-Tang, whom I adore) but I don’t think that’s the same. There’s no racial identity crisis going on here, I guess I just don’t like the idea that any particular music sub-culture (i.e. rap music) belongs to one race… or more confusingly, that it’s a bad thing. I love all my nerdy white friends with their trance music collections, can’t they just let me want to embrace Cam’ron and his purple fur get-up?

Natalie Portman’s favorite swear word also happens to come with a “your mom” reference. I am impressed.

If Pharrell and Chris Brown were merged into one person & then dressed like a hipster, I think they’d make a Trey Songz. The other day I said that as much as I love Cam’ron I’m still a Fabolous girl at heart… I retract that statement.

Blue buffalo plaid, Fab? Really?

Nitpicking aside, I love this single. Shoot me.

Some asshole sent me this song and I’ve had it on repeat for the last two days. Then I saw the video and aside from the fact that the filming was super low-budget, I’m an even bigger fan. Except this is another one of those “embedding disabled by request” type of things, so you have to go all the way to YouTube to see it.

All my friends of other ethnicity’s are pretty whitewashed… but I’m still hoping at least one of them thinks of me when they hear this shit.

Justin Beiber & Ellen Page – who happen to be twins, apparently.

Winona Ryder – not a comparison I mind by any means, it’s something I’ve heard more than a few times. I think it’s that we both have the doe in headlights big eyes & pointy little chin combo.

Zooey Deschanel in (500) Days of Summer – I don’t see it, but I can roll with just about anything.

Oh, and let’s not forget about Scarlett Johansson courtesy of some comment on a blog that mentioned me because I’m a creep and called Adam Grandmaison hot on TattooSnob. Now, I don’t see the resemblence but she is pretty hot & married to Ryan Reynolds. Anything that allows me, even momentarily, to pretend I get to have sex with that dude is fucking A-OK by me.

What I’m really saying is that it seems the consensus is that I look like girls with big boobs and/or a 15 year old prepubescent boy. Thanks guys, happy Thursday to you too! No seriously, accuracy of these comparisons in your opinion(s)?

Dear John,

I love your sweater, Merry Christmas.

xoxo,
Julene

Even if you don’t watch the whole thing, at least think about some of the numbers you heard and from which people. Honestly, society doesn’t allow for the average citizen to really come anywhere near to being a nine. Certainly not when you’re holding these average Joe’s to celebrity standards. For example I think most men would rate Megan Fox a nine, if not an easy ten on the attractiveness scale. (Again, this is based only on looks. Because really, nobody could even know anything about your personality based on sight alone.)

The photos on the left are of Megan Fox around 2004, roughly an epic 8. Plastic surgery she has had includes: two nose jobs, lips, Botox on her forehead and around the mouth, and breast implants from an ‘A’ to a large ‘B’. If you want to look at her physical appearance changes that didn’t require surgery she’s also let her eyebrows grow in, got a tan, found a fabulous make up artist (no more freckles!), a new hairstylist and wardrobe team. Don’t get me wrong, bitch is smoking hot–when she’s not talking.

What I’m getting at here is where does that leave the rest of us? How does the average male on the street hold up to the Justin Timberlakes, Brad Pitts and George Clooneys? When that’s what a woman thinks she deserves–another topic for another time, I assure you–how is she possibly going to handle realizing that her high standards will never be met? And guys I’m sorry but odds are you will never fuck a Jessica Alba, Angelina Jolie, or Megan Fox… so why does that seem to be what guys expect?

I can’t even tell you how many people I know that ruin a good thing in the pursuit of someone just like who they already have… except better. Instead of telling you all the painfully obvious reasons why that is foolish (because it won’t change anything) I think a change is in order. People are going to need to start taking the George Carlin approach.

“I have never fucked a 10. Never fucked a 10! But one night, I fucked five 2′s!”

And really, is that so bad?

Okay, first of all props to Rihanna for leaving an abusive situation & then going on TV to tell her fans a carefully-worded account of what happened and why she left Mr. Brown, twice.

I’m curious if The Last Psychiatrist will have anything to say on the matter – he (at least I think they’re a “he”) tends to offer interesting commentary on celebrity behaviors from time to time. But this post isn’t about him – it’s about me feeling like a prick. Let’s not get sidetracked! I took back everything nasty I said about Britney Spears because she makes good stripper music and is generally a hot mess; I take back everything nasty I said about Rihanna because I think she might actually be doing something good through this interview. Domestic abuse hotlines have reported more than a 50% increase in calls, while domestic abuse hotlines targeted at teens are talking about more than a 70% increase since her full interview aired last week.

I don’t post serious stuff here often, and certainly not about smacking some bitches (everyone knows I think most chicks could use a good shaking) but the fact that there are so many people in physically risky relationships–especially at this age–is seriously worrisome to me. So what I’m saying is if you hit a bitch, I hope you wind up in jail. And if you’re letting someone hit you, call the National Domestic Violence Hotline at 1?800?799?SAFE(7233) or TTY 1?800?787?3224.

This female-friendly post brought to you courtesy of a fresh pack of Yasmin. <3

It’s weird because frankly, I don’t care either way. The man was indeed the King of Pop… 25 years ago. In recent years he’d become just another reclusive has-been with questionable habits and a million dollar credit card bill showing up every month. I guess that’s what happens when you decide to live in an amusement park and quit making platinum records.

I’d like to alert you now that my friend David painted this:

And now you can buy it on eBay! He’s donating 15% of the final sale price to the humane society, so I strongly recommend you add this to your wall and help feed some poor defenseless kittehz!