When I Was Your Man × Bruno Mars Stay × Rihanna (feat. Mikky Ekko)Shut Up × SavagesHoney Bee × Muddy Waters
When two forces as reliably fantastic as Rod y Gab and Red Rocks combine together, you know you are going to get a killer show. Add the Colorado Symphony to create a fuller, richer, more substantial outdoor amphitheater sound and you’ve got yourself one sublime music miracle.I’ve been a fan of Rod y Gab for several years now, and the first time I saw them was in some little standing-only venue which probably wasn’t even sold out. Here we are a few years later and they’re selling out Red Rocks. Good for them. Rod is still a machismo dickhead who won’t let the luminescent Gab sputter out a few heavily accented words in English before trampling over her words with her guitar. His fear that she is just too good, too beautiful, and too respected to stay with his ass is palpable and frankly probably somewhat legitimate. Rod expertly plays guitar, but without Gab’s creative percussive techniques, he would be lucky to be playing open mic nights. Just saying, guys with guitars are a dime a dozen. Dickheads with guitars are a dime per hundred. The couple creates a stringy symbiosis and it’s a credit to them both that they can sustain a personal and professional relationship without imploding. The two Mexican metalheads rapt the sold out crowd for more than two hours. The setlist was a healthy mix of old and new, but it doesn’t really matter what the duo plays. Fans come for the mastery and display of their unique and personalized technique. The concert was taped for broadcast on Mark Cuban’s AXS TV, so if you want to see the show it is available to you. Even better, do what you can to see Rod y Gab in person as nothing compares to the live experience. It was one of the most romantic and magical shows I have ever had the pleasure to attend.
…A brand new jumbo box of Crayola crayons. They come in an expanded package of 96 now! So soft and luscious, and as an adult you won’t have to share with any of them bogarting little kindergarten bitches. You’ve had the Peach for a half an hour and and you’ve worn it to a nub. Geez, I hated children even more when I was a child. …Tantrums. I was at IKEA today marveling at the kids under three maintaining in that soul-suck. I was ready to throw a tantrum after fifteen minutes of that overstimulating warehell. …Macaroni & cheese and/or grilled cheese. I don’t need to add truffles or any of that fancy shit to justify it either. I’ll take onion and tomato on the grilled cheese and a side of onion rings if anyone is taking orders.…Nitrous. I was at the dentist last week and he asked me if I wanted nitrous. I looked at him like he was crazy, “Doc who doesn’t want nitrous?” Pass the mask and crank it up. Give ’em a sob story about your dental phobia and they tend to get extra generous with the dial.
Loyal readers may remember a recent post on the Tickled Pink Airbrush system. I received Tickled Pink as a gift and even though it wasn’t exactly what I wanted, the giver probably meant well. Because I was somewhat disappointed in not receiving exactly what I asked for, the device sat on my shelf unopened for months after the holidays. When I finally broke it out and learned how to use it proficiently, I was impressed with the outcome, but not so much the process. There are several aspects of the Tickled Pink airbrusher that are poorly designed and overall the gadget lacks durability. After a few mere months of use the airbrusher went completely kaput. I don’t mean the tip got clogged – which happens with any airbrusher – I mean the whole fucking compressor died. The kit is covered by warranty, but I’m hardly about to hit up my ex-boyfriend for the necessary purchasing proof to make claims on said warranty. The accompanying makeup is decent for its intended purposes, but the darker colors skew orange. Let me be crystal clear: in no way is Tickled Pink a remotely extraordinary product.
What I originally wanted (and should have just bought for myself) was a high-quality all-purpose airbrusher. Iwata airbrushers are pretty much the gold standard. The Neo is particularly well-suited for makeup application. The compressor and airbrush are sold separately, but assembling the two is painless. What does the Neo have that the Tickled Pink airbrush doesn’t? For one, the cup that holds the product has a lid. When airbrushing your own face with your eyes closed it is easy to spill fluidic makeup everywhere. The makeup isn’t cheap and I go through it rather quickly, so waste just isn’t an option. Overall, the Iwata Neo compressor is sexy, sleek, quiet, and well-made. The airbrusher itself has a healthy-sized gravity-fed vessel, the aforementioned lid, and a nuanced and adjustable spray mechanism. So far, I have been using my remaining Tickled Pink makeup, but when I exhaust that supply I will begin the quest of mixing my very own customized foundation.
The Iwata Neo isn’t cheap, so shop around. Hobby Lobby has these yummy online coupons for 40% off any full-priced item. Coupons can be used on consecutive days or on separate occasions at different stores, so theoretically you could buy the compressor for forty percent off and then do the same with airbrusher, but you didn’t hear it from me.
The sheer volume of performers means Coachella owns the title for superior festival line-up. From the obscure, to the mainstream, to the reunited, Coachella serves up a summer’s worth of concerts in three compact tightly scheduled 12+ hour days across a polo field of stages. Pitchfork hosts a number of specifically well-cultivated acts spaced temporally further apart on three different stages situated relatively close together. Even though Coachella has more musical opportunities, there is no way to see every artist which leads to inevitable disappointments. Know what wasn’t a disappointment? The Breeders playing Last Splash from beginning to end at Pitchfork.
Chicago gets away with unacceptable bullshit (shitty weather, crumbling infrastructure, violence), but the city’s still beloved because of the charm of its people. Chicagoans take no shit, but they aren’t fucking L.A. assholes either. Their midwestern mamas taught ’em right. The crowd peppered the days with “excuse me” and “thank you.” Unlike, Coachella, everyone doesn’t stand thisclose at Pitchfork. Pitchfolks mostly keep a reasonable and respectful distance. In contrast at Coachella, a bitch had her saggy left tit on my shoulder for the entire Foals set. Even the cops were nicer at Pitchfork. In a surprisingly good-natured gesture two cops eye-fucking my friend and I pulled out perpendicularly to block traffic so we could strut the crosswalk unscathed. (Hey Chicagoans – you all walk – stop at the crosswalks. Crossing the street I felt like a fucked-up sequined version of Frogger. G-Sus.)
Don’t fuck with Chicago when it comes to food. We happily feasted on $5 vegan corn dogs and waffle fries from The Chicago Diner stand. I was introduced to the beauty of Jeni’s ice cream at Pitchfork. Pitchfood reigns. Coachella offers the poisonous churro, lukewarm water, and chunder-inducing garlic fries.
Basically, people are eating their own hair at Coachella. Everyone is super fucked-up. An extremely permissive attitude permeates the polo grounds from security to the fans. In comparison, at Pitchfork I was lying in the grass extremely faded on edibles listening to Wire when these annoying kids settled in next to us. One of the girls was one of those narrator-types who wove the word “literally” inappropriately and excessively into every sentence. “My weed is literally in the grass you guys.” Dude responds, “I want to be rolling so hard that I can’t feel my genitals. That’s how bad I want to be be rolling right now.” Obviously, these kids were killing me. As I lay there contemplating this hell of my own making, I heard a stern female voice say, “What’s in the bag?” My heart stopped and I kept my eyes closed. A few beats of silence followed. Then I heard the annoying nasally girl whine, “She literally just took our weed. At least we only have an hour and a half left.” She literally reassured the group. “She’s totally going to smoke it.” Dude replied. I have never seen security take anyone’s weed at any show I have ever attended until I overheard it happen to Chicago’s most annoying hipsters at Pitchfork. I smiled inside at the thought of the security guard blunting up their sack after a hard day’s work corralling doughy bearded white boys around Union Park. I’m not mad at you Sister Security.
Bless your heart Chicago, style has never been your strength. I ask you manboys, what is with the super tight denim cutoffs? This is a very strange not-at-all flattering early 70’s look to resurrect. Newsflash: 99% of all men look like boys in shorts. Shorts are a dignity issue. Dress like a fucking man. Mostly, it was just a vast sea of unoriginality among all genders. Don’t worry, we were an island of freshness as I insisted on teasing my reluctant friend’s hair into a major modern beehive. Coachella breeds its own version of annoying conformity that I wouldn’t at all consider a creative expression unless you consider the art of the coochie cutter the bastard cousin of couture. However, at least the Coochellites try. In Chicago, bitches think khaki shorts constitute a style statement.
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