Tuesday, May 31, 2011

Life Tips From Sassy Bitches

Today, I came home from work an hour later then usual. This happened because my parents are away, and as a result I have been forced to negotiate a bus timetable that stubbornly refuses to cater to my whims and/or flight(s) of fancy. I should have been home by 6.45, but I didn't get in until 7.30, because I was reading a magazine at the bus stop, and as a result missed my bus arriving, loading and leaving. When I eventually arrived home, I was too tired and pissed off from my bus mishap to cook anything, so I ate crackers dipped in humus. I ate this until my brother told me that the humus was six days out of date. I panicked momentarily, and then reasoned that there are no immediately perishable ingredients in humus, so I was probably ok, and kept eating it anyway. Sell-by dates are for suckers, right? Wrong. Sell-by dates are not for suckers, they are for people who don't like to be violently ill.



I am not violently ill, but neither am I violently well. Post-humusly, my health is iffy. It's nothing a Rennie won't solve (AsideTop Five Most Delicious Pharmacy Products5. Calpol Senior (Ages 6+)  4. Barley Sugars  3. Calpol Junior (Ages 0-6) 2. Fruit-Flavoured Rennie, 1. Chewable Rubex tablets. Remember Rubex tablets? They were orange-flavoured Vitamin C supplements that made you want to punch a real orange.)

However, I am worried. I am enough of an adult to know that there comes a certain point where you have to realise that you are good at some things, and bad at others. I am good at scrabble. I am also good at analysing literature, remembering song lyrics, and keeping calm during confrontation. I am bad at everything else.

There's no two ways about it: I am bad at life. I don't cook, my hair always looks like it needs a good brush and my handbag is where pens and lipglosses go to explode. My student card has been re-issued to me six times this year. The last house I lived in fell victim to two robberies, one swastika and innumerable ants. The only reason I didn't die of a wasting disease is because I was lucky enough to fall in with the two most maternal dudes you'll ever meet, both of whom took it upon themselves to make sure I was mollycoddled to the extent that it'd make a haemophiliac kitten blush.




Most of the time, I am comfortable with the assumption that this profound uselessness is a passing phase of youth, and that lots of 21-year-olds are shit at life. Aren't they? Here's the thing: I don't have time to keep being crap at life. As I've mentioned previously, I'm moving to London after the summer. If the move goes well, London might be my new house. So, I need some life lessons. Like all my life lessons, they are taken from movies and tv shows.

Piper Perabo in Coyote Ugly



So, you've moved to the big city. Is no-one listening to your mixtape? Does your apartment constantly get robbed? Does your obese father refuse to eat the lean cuisine meals you specifically laid out for him? Well, there's only one thing for it: throw on some leather chaps and dance on a bar. It'll give you loads of self-confidence, earn you enough money to buy a CD writer, and you might even get to meet Leann Rhimes.

Goldie Hawn in Overboard




So. In a bizarre turn of events, it seems you have amnesia, which Kurt Russell appears to be exploiting. As a result, you are raising his children, because you think they're your own, and cleaning his house, because you think that's yours too. But screw it, because when you're Goldie Hawn, you get on with it. The art of Getting On With It is a cornerstone for women of Goldie Hawn's generation, a knack that died with Kurt Russell's attractiveness. These days it's all "Ooh, I'm unhappy" and "This makes me feel bad", but when you're Goldie Hawn, you just do it. And who knows, maybe things will work out anyway.

Patricia Arquette in True Romance



Ir doesn't matter that you're basically the coolest person who has ever lived. Sometimes, men just want to wreck your buzz. Your pimp is giving you and your new husband hassle, and James Gandolfini has  no qualms about beating the absolute tar out of you. But you're strong, and goddamnit, you can take a punch. Actually, you can take repeated punches. To the face.
But screw them. They're not married to a young Christian Slater and having sex every other scene. Let them wreck your buzz, because at the end of the day, you're the one with the suitcase full of cocaine.

Every Contestant Ever in Americas Next Top Model




Keep your chin up. Don't cry at the hairdressers. Be fierce. Don't bitch about your housemates when they're in the next room and you're wearing a mic. And above all, remember this: YOU DIDN'T COME HERE TO MAKE FRIENDS.

Friday, May 27, 2011

Significant Life Strides: When Pestering Pays Off

"You guys want a beer?"

Me and Emmet look at eachother. John Darnielle has just asked us if we want a beer. John Darnielle of The friggin' Mountain Goats has just asked us if we want a Stella Artois. I could go on italicising different parts of that sentence, but I think you get the idea. There is a moment of telepathic conversation between us, and it goes something like this: How in the hell did we swing this one?

Let's dial it back.

There's no limit to how far we could dial this back, really. We could trace it back to the first time I heard a Mountain Goats song, some years ago on an internet forum, or the first time I tore the plastic off their album Tallahasse. We could take it back to as little as two years ago, when Emmet and I first became friends over discussing their seminal hit (I use the term "hit" loosely) The Sunset Tree. But that would be cumbersome, and so let's just bring this to May 22nd, 2011. Or, if you'd prefer a visual:




It is 6pm.

We've been in Dublin since threeish, and it's fair to say we've already had a profitable day. We've browsed Tower Records, and pined over the fact that neither of us work there. We're pretty sure we saw Mike Scott of the Waterboys going into a second-hand bookshop, and we've visited the Disney store to enquire over the availability of baby Pegasus plush toys. (Aside: Remember Pegasus from Hercules? I sure do. Horses in Disney movies are always the best, and Pegasus is my favourite. If anyone decides they have an enormous crush on me and wants to buy me a gift, I highly recommend a Pegasus plush toy. I'm not even the kind of girl who's into plush toys, but I really, really want this one.)





Because neither of us are sure if we know where Whelans is, we endeavour to find it early. I think we expected this to be a much harder task then it turned out to be, because by 6.20, we were outside Whelans. Just as our interest was beginning to drift toward the gourmet burger restaurant next door, we heard something incredible. Something clanging, something imperfect, and something that sounded very, very like two musicians playing the opening chords of Heretic Pride. My knees buckle. We are outside on the street, and the band we've spent our entire friendship obsessing over are mere feet away, soundchecking of all things. I don't think it even occured to us that the Mountain Goats soundchecked. Surely their music just sprang fully formed from them, like foam from the ocean? Apparently not.

We stand outside Whelans and visibly quiver in excitement. "Should we.. go inside?"

We go inside and stand around nervously with our ear to the band room door. The people in the bar are looking at us strangely, and in hindsight I can't possibly blame them, as we looked unfathomably lame. No-one drinking in Whelans seemed to have any idea who was soundchecking on the other side of that door, or the magnanimity of meaning behind it. I had forgotten that while The Mountain Goats enjoy a dedicated, fierce fanbase, to the vast majority of Dubliners they might aswel be nobody. For some reason, this heightens my excitement, like me and Emmet are sitting on a majestic secret.

The majesty of this moment soon passes, however, and we begin to realise what utter gimps we're being. The barman is becoming thoroughly disturbed by our bouts of ecstasy with each chord change coming from the unseen musicians in the other room, and the shame of this creeps on us. We leave Whelans and usher ourselves into the burger place next door. I pick up the menu, and I'm already lost in delicious food options. Ooh. I ponder. Hawaii burger.



I look up to find that Emmet isn't looking at his menu. In fact, hes looking straight ahead in an uncharacteristically steely expression I've only ever seen him use when his diabetes is acting up. I look closely at him and realise that this isn't the diabetes talking. This expression says one thing, and it is "Fuck this."

"Let's get an interview with him."

Obviously, there is no question as to the "him" he is referring to.

"You're.. not serious."

The steely expression prevails.

"You're serious, aren't you?"

"Oh come on. When are we ever going to get a chance to do this again?"

I think. This is The Mountain Goats first performance in Ireland in nine years.

"Nine years?"

"Exactly. I mean, you're a music journalist. I'm a music journalist. We have every right to do this. And I've talked to the label."

This is true. Some weeks ago, Emmet emailed John Darnielle's label, Merge Records, about doing this interview. He received a "Hmm, yes, sounds good. We'll get back to you." Of course, they never got back to him. Still, I thought. We are music journalists... I suppose.

"You're right," I eventually reply "screw this."

We leave the burger place and march back over to Whelans, where we plop ourselves down on some stools and endeavour that we are not leaving this building until we get answers, damnit. In a state of panic, we then realise that we don't have questions. Or paper, or a pen to write them down with. Crap. Signalling the barman, we order some wine, a biro and some receipt paper from his till. Now thoroughly convinced we are degenerates, the barman obliges and backs away slowly. We come up with the best questions we can, and keep our scrap of receipt paper dear to us. This scrap of receipt paper will be meant for great things.




We sidle into the band room (which, bizarrely, is not locked) and stand around, attempting to look like we might belong there. It doesn't work, because we are immediately approached by the sound technician, who looks like a hipster Rob Lowe.

I'm not joking, this is exactly what he looked like
This is the first stumbling block in the plan. Hipsters and Rob Lowe individually tend to have schoolgirly affects on me, a combination of the two is going to be lethal.

"Ohmmm, guys? You're going to have to, ohmm, leave? Bands don't like people, ohm, people watching them soundcheck?"

"We.. we're journalists. We've been talking to Merge? The label?"

We quickly adopt Rob Lowe's way of ending everything with a question. It seems to work, because he looks at us very hard, and tells us he'll check it out, before propelling us outside again.

The next hour and a half plays in my head like an old round of Streets of Rage. We are confronted with barmen, bitchy event managers, and miscellaneous music dudes, all who want to enquire as to the legitimacy of our origin. We name-drop our way through the barrage, picking up stray roast chickens as we go.


We pester, and we nudge, and we stand around doorways. Gradually, we notice that people are avoiding us like the bubonic plague, and that we are easily the most annoying people in a thirty mile radius. We concede that it is time to give up. We gave it our best effort, but it was time to throw in the towel. We go back to the burger place and get a (frankly delicious) Hawaii burger. We stand outside, and reason that the gig is going to be excellent anyway. Which is exactly when a very happy-looking hipster Rob Lowe rounds the corner.

"Guys! I've been looking for you!"

Bring. It. On.



I'm sorry John Darnielle. We stole your time through lies, and I hope you will someday forgive us for it.



If you are interested in reading the ensuing interview you can read it here.

Friday, May 20, 2011

A Conversation Held With My Brother, Some Evenings Ago

"Y'know Car, being critical doesn't automatically make you smart."


Aw, crap.

Tuesday, May 17, 2011

5 Bitches That Be Trippin' Around Leonardo Di Caprio

Have you ever noticed that women can't seem to fall in love with Leonardo Di Caprio without losing their minds completely? I mean, I guess I understand it to a certain extent.

Let's women everywhere remember The Beach for a minute.


Even straight (ahem) men develop fully fledged crushes on him all the time. He is a beautiful creature, and word on the street is if he stretches his hand to the sky a golden eagle lands on it and whispers great mysteries into Leo's ear.

However

While it's fine to worship Leonardo Di Caprio from afar, apparently a major occupational hazard of falling in love with him is going batshit crazy.

5. Kate Winslet in Titanic

Rose, Leo wants you to get on the lifeboat. Billy Zane wants you to get on the lifeboat. So here's a tip: stay on the friggin' life boat. As Tina Fey points out in her autobiography, maybe if you hadn't recklessly leaped from the lifeboat back on to the sinking ship, Leo would have been able to float on that door you selfishly took up with your heaving ginger bosom and you both would have survived.




4. Kate Winslet Again in Revolutionary Road

Oh Kate. I realise that the thought of having a third child with Leonardo Di Caprio, who is occasionally emotionally abusive, is daunting. Such genetic perfection under the responsibility of your womb is a huge pressure. It's intimidating, and no-one blames you for being frightened. But losing your mind, trying to induce a homemade miscarriage, and inendvertedly killing yourself is just not the answer.  




3. Michelle Williams in Shutter Island

I haven't seen this movie, because movies about asylums freak me out. But based on the fact that it's set in an asylum should be enough to confirm that Michelle Williams's mental capacity is crushed under the weight of meeting Leonardo Di Caprio. Anyone who has seen this movie: what happens? Does she catch a glimpse of him shirtless and go all Zelda Fitzgerald?




2. Clare Danes in Romeo + Juliet

Clare Danes, you're usually so sensible. What happened? If this movie wasn't an adaptation of a Shakesperian play, and if Leonardo Di Caprio wasn't in it, things would have worked out much differently. You probably would have gone to art college, have your marriage annulled and dated some Jewish guy doing his thesis on Henry James. But, Leonardo Di Caprio was in the movie, so you had to go crazy and cook up a plot involving a roofie and a priest. A badly communicated plot, might I add. Leonardo Di Caprio was having a perfectly nice time smoking fags and reading magazines in his trailer before that messenger came along.  




1. Marion Cotillard in Inception

It took Leonardo Di Caprio to make Marion Cotillard finally jump off a building, and this is why I will love him forever.

Sunday, May 15, 2011

Your Enemy's Enemy is Your Friend: Your Hero's Sycophant is Not

Sometimes my father comes to me when he is confused. Actually, as a rule, my father's way of dealing with confusion is by consulting someone about it, preferrably someone who he deems as this particular problem being their "area". He will consult my brother for the operation of any device invented after 1970, he will consult my sister on banking and fiscal matters. He will consult my mother on virtually everything else, and he will consult me on things he deems "misc".

Today's misc topic: tattoos.



His story goes like this:

He: "I was in Waterstones today."
Me: "Mmhmm"
He: "And I saw a man with a tattoo on the back of his neck. The tattoo said "X, V, III".
Me: "So, eighteen, presumably?
He: "Yes."

The story hits a wall. There is another puzzled pause as my dad reviews the incident in his head again.

He: "He was buying books. Stacks of them."

This is the part where I generally have to gently remind my dad that people who have tattoos (and piercings, facial hair and hemp clothing, for that matter) are not social misfits who grew up without literacy on people farms in obscure Scandinavian locations. He nods. Everytime I tell him this he tries to get to grips with it, he really does, but he has a simple mind and first became a parent in the Reagen era, so it's not his fault.




Despite this attempt at enlightenment, he is still distressed by his Waterstones outing. He finally breaks.

"But he was in the biography section."

Aha. Now we get to the core of the issue. It wasn't just that Tattoo Guy was buying books, he was buying my Dad's books. As far as my Dad is concerned, the biography section belongs to him. The thought of buying the same Custer biography as this numerically illustrated hippie is unthinkable. The biography section is to Tattoo Guy what the Montgomery bus seating was to Rosa Parks, in that he is welcome to be there until such time as a middle class white dude decides otherwise.




In a way, I can kind of see where my dad is coming from. Sometimes it's very easy to forget that while you're particular set of interests make you the darling egotistical snowflake that all your friends have come to know and begrudgingly accept, other people can have the exact same set of interests and be total assholes.

For me, this has been the hardest thing to accept about University life. College is always advocating itself on its ability to unite people of similar interests, and they do this by forming societies. "Joining a society is the easiest and best way to make friends", the University pamphlet will read. What you don't notice is the fine print, which is "Joining a society is the easiest and best way to make friends with assholes."

I have a few theories on why the vast majority of people involved in a college society is an asshole. Because I am a student, here they are, in bullet point form.

  • Societies get funding from the University, and money for nothing makes people selfish, arrogant and entitled.
  • Societies have elections for positions and jobs that are, let's face it, not real. Events Officer? Yeah, I send group texts to my friends too. Imaginary hierarchy makes people selfish, arrogant and entitled.
  • I don't know if you're aware of this, but sometimes societies use their funding to print their society slogan on hoodies. Hoodies that people then wear. I don't know if there are words to get across the categorical lameness of this.
Ok, I think it's time for me to stop. I can feel myself alienating my tiny readership and its possible societal inclinations. I don't really hate societies, or the people in them, and this is obviously based on independent, unrelated experiences, with independent, unrelatable assholes. But my real point, which I have seriously derailed, is this: I do not think that you can get people together, based on a mutual interest, and expect them to actually like eachother. It's just not how the world works. Once you get past that initial "Wow, you like reading obscure asian pottery? So do I!" part, you're conversational well has completely dried up. This person could like the right things for the wrong reasons, which is worse then liking the wrong things for the right reasons. Or they could just be a terrible human being.

As my father learned with his fellow historical biography lover and as I learned in three years of University, sometimes people are just shit, and there's not enough culture in the Western world to cover that up.

Sunday, May 8, 2011

All My Friends Think I'm Going to Die Alone: A Very Special Birthday Blog.

Yesterday was my birthday.




The day after your birthday is great for awakening your sickening sense of mortality, and the malaise certainly isn't helped when you're nursing a pretty fatal hangover. Add a massive clean-up job to that and you've got a pretty exhausting day. Last night, in celebration of my existence, my parents quite gamely threw me a party, the end result being a wonderful time had by all, and a whole morning of finding finger food in bizarre places. It's not all bad, however. As I cleaned up I managed to uncover all the birthday cards that I was too drunk to read the night before. What I've discovered is this: my friends are much funnier then I am.

A Birthday Card Best Of

"Today is the day you recieve the husband I have selected for you. You will get him at midnight. If this never seems to happen it's cos you're loaded and it's no fault of mine."

By Michelle Cogan


This is me and Michelle. She is very nice, and I thought she didn't like me for the longest time.

Context:

A little while ago, my friend Michelle decided that it was her job to find me a husband. I believe the plan was to assemble a panel of cut-throat judges who would decide the suitors and whittle them down based on their talents, charisma and overall handsomosity. When she decided this course of action, I was initially afraid that she would actually act on it. Thankfully, this has not been the case. Michelle has yet to offer me any candidates for matrimony, although I have a frightening suspicion that one of these days I'm going to open my door to a lobotomized Topman worker down on one knee.

"I promise that I won't try to pimp you out tonight, just because it's your birthday though. You can have tonight off."

By Johnny Horgan

Context:

I should mention that my friend Johnny is in a relationship with my aforementioned friend Michelle. Like all good couples, they get a remarkable amount of joy from seeing people they know get off with eachother, and possibly forming relationships of their own. I don't know what this stems from. Possibly an innate desire to all play backgammon together as old people. Johnny, an outlandish imp at the best of times, likes to pimp me out when he is at his drunkest. Luckily hes not as violent as your average pimp, and instead of slapping me with the back of his hand, he often just sidles up to me in a pub at around one in the morning and says "You see him? You should score him." I never do, but that doesn't seem to subtract from the amount of fun he gets out of it.


This is me at a When Good Pets Go Bad gig. Thats Johnny singing, and generally putting the "imp" in "pimp"


"Dearest Caroline,
May your celebrations be heuristic in the most exciting sense.
Yours in faculty affair jealousy,
Breff"

By Breffney Cogan

Context:
Again, I should explain. Me and Breffney took a class together on the poetry on Edmund Spenser. It was.. riveting, to say the least. I am of course, being sarcastic. It was long, it was boring, it was ridiculously difficult and the only thing that got us through the whole thing was forming an obsession with our lecturer, whose chief passions included paisley shirts, Frank Sinatra and being permanently startled by youth culture. What we also learned about him was that he preferred me to Breffney. This was probably a direct result of him being a regular customer at my workplace, but all the same, Breffney just couldn't handle it. You see, Breffney and I went to secondary school together, and she has a long history of being instantly more likeable then me. She has the advantages of being both funnier then me and more socially adept, and for this I borderline resent her. This one lecturer preferring me to her is a rather large win. One which has occured because I have had, according to her, conducted a "faculty affair" with our lecturer. I should state that this is absolutely not true, and I have not nor do I ever plan to conduct a faculty affair.


This is me and Breffney in a cave. Don't ask.

"No longer the spry 16 year old, you've matured into a fine woman. Your bosom may have started to sag and you're not the temptress you once were, but I love you a million times more. Plus, you're still a solid 8/10."

By David Kiely

Context:

Me and Kiely met when I was fifteen and he was seventeen at a house party. We briefly considered fancying one another, because thats how it is when you're that age and you like the same bands. Bizarrely, we've remained friends ever since. He is one of the funniest people I know, and also the most shallow.


Me and Kiely. Plus my bra strap.


"Ah, the inevitability of time."

By Megan Hayes

Context:

Like many of my friends, Megan Hayes is convinced my dog may secretly be a genius. He is to my household what Grandmother Willow was to Pocahontas, and as we remarked one sunny afternoon "I feel like your dog is very wise. Like hes aware of time, and its inevitable passing." Since then, time and its inevitable passing has been a trending topic for me and Megan.


Forever Young.
"Dearest Nipspaw,
How are you today? This day also happens to be your 21st birthday which shall be lots of fun and full of celebrations that may include old women with handguns."

By Billy Browne

Context:

This actually needs no explanation. This sums up my friend Billy Browne pretty neatly.


Wednesday, May 4, 2011

Indie Rock Musicians It Would Suck to Date

It's around midnight, and I'm sitting inside a McDonalds with my friend Emmet, because we live in Cork, and McDonalds is the only place you can eat after 11.30 without a 60% chance of getting a disease. We're debating over our favourite topic, which is, of course, our mutually bad taste in the opposite sex.

"What you want," Emmet says, impassioned and pointing a McNugget at me accusingly "is to just date some indie rock musician who will write songs on you based on the terrible nicknames you give eachother."

I sink low in my seat. Emmet knows he has hit a nerve, a nerve that closely resembles the truth.

"You High Fidelity whore."


Ah, but we knew this already. My (obsessive?) love of High Fidelity - both the book and the movie - is one that I have treasured for a long, long time. Not least of all because of the words of truth that so frequently stream from the lips of Rob Gordon, Dick and Barry.


As much as everyone (yes, everyone) fantasizes about being the muse of a musician (particularly one that has a PFM rating of 8.8 or over) there are a few notable exceptions to this rule. As such, here are some of the indie rock musicians I would not go out with.
The Guy From Bell X1


Bell X1 are known for two things: their massively catchy guitar pop, and their massively retarded lyrics. Paul Noonan, lead singer of the band, is apparently responsible for this. Having penned such meaningful prose as "you are the chocolate at the end of my cornetto" and "watching a six year old on youtube, playing drums to Billie Jean". I would not care for the romantic attention of Paul Noonan because, well, what would be the point? He'd probably just take whatever we were doing on any given day and then turn it into a song, and he probably wouldn't even bother talking about how pretty or awesome I am.

Probable Song Lyric Outcome: 

"Hey, Remember that time we went to the Aquadome?
We only paid a fiver in cos you had a voucher
It took us two hours to drive from home
Cos its in Kerry and thats far away

But then you forgot your swimming cap
You Forgot Your Swimming Cap
You Forgot Your Swimming Cap
So we couldn't go swimming
Cos You Forgot Your Swimming Cap"

(From the future Bell X1 single, You Forgot Your Swimming Cap)

Stuart Murdoch of Belle & Sebastian



Belle & Sebastian are an amazing band, that I have grown to love only very recently. Stuart Murdoch has written some of the most amazing, intensley personal lyrics I've ever heard, and if you don't believe me, just listen to The State That I Am In or Expectations. Murdoch has a way of worming his way into the female mind and digging out terrible, if artistically enlightening gems from there. If I were to hypothetically date Stuart Murdoch, I'd be terrified of what Stuart Murdoch would do. I'm not an especially complex individual, so I can't imagine he'd have much trouble finding out my greatest insecurities and turning them into fodder for his next album.

Potential Song Lyric Outcome:

Caroline, Caroline
You're so very desperate for approval aren't you?
I read all of your blog posts
Just because you told me to

Caroline, Caroline
Why do you think people want to hear
About your childhood stories
They don't
Because they're boring
And also,
you suck.

Caroline

(From future Belle & Sebastian unreleased B-side Caroline, Caroline)

Morrissey


Oh, Morrissey. We know so very little about you, you gorgeous thing. I imagine a relationship with you would consist of the two of us lying on your living room floor, side by side, in the dark, holding hands. However, I also get the feeling that when we're not doing that you'd be putting out cigarettes on yourself and throwing plates at my head. Maybe if you wrote me something like Cemetry Gates, that would be ok. But I don't think you will, honestly.

Potential Song Lyric Outcome:

Yes, you are a girl
And your hair smells nice
But I've taken a postal service worker
As my foremost vice

We had locked bodies in the shed
While you were inside
Cleaning bits of plate off the ground
Hating me for my crimes

Myyy Criiiiiiiiiiimes!

(From upcoming greatest hit My Crimes)

Noah and The Whale Guy



Noah and The Whale guy is like the Jennifer Aniston of indie rock music: always the bridesmaid, never again to be held by Laura Marling bride. For those of you who aren't aware, Laura Marling was together with this guy when she was about seventeen, and for her he wrote the chirpy breakout single Five Years Time. Well, four years later, she's in the arms of folky bum-fluffian Marcus Mumford and Noah and the Whale guy is allegedly claiming that he is so over it, and that, after all L.I.F.E.G.O.E.S.O.N. Yeah. Right.

Potential Song Lyric Outcome:

He seriously wouldn't even bother.

And One Indie Rock Musician It Would Be Completely Excellent To Date

Well, obviously, there are loads. But today, it's Jeffrey Lewis, based on this song.

Jeffrey Lewis - Don't Be Upset