Rhymes With Seven Slogan

"It is self-evident that St. Louis affected me more deeply than any other environment has ever done...."

Sun, 31 Mar 2013 22:15:47 -0500

““It is self-evident that St. Louis affected me more deeply than any other environment has ever done. I feel that there is something in having passed one’s childhood beside the big river, which is incommunicable to those people who have not. I consider myself fortunate to have been born here, rather than in Boston, or New York, or London.””

- T.S. Eliot

I'll take a West Coast Winter to remove my splinters.

Sun, 13 Jan 2013 23:18:00 -0600

There are no mountains in Missouri. People kept asking me what I thought of Los Angeles, and that’s all I could say. We’ve got one mountain. It’s more of a hill, if we’re being completely honest, and I’ve never even been there.

So for me to stand on Mulholland with my best friend and stare down at one of the world’s largest cities, all small and twinkly below me… Well, it’s hard not to feel like you’re the queen of the world.

I met Alex Tashman at what I refer to as journalism geek camp. I’ve blogged about that summer and her in the past, but we’ve come a long way from Fourth of July fireworks on the shores of Lake Michigan. Tashman, who was born and raised in L.A., and I bonded when she tripped and knocked a stack of dirty plates on top of me in the cafeteria on the first day, and from that point on, she became my go-to gal, my closest confidante and my best friend.

This girl and I couldn’t have more different backgrounds, and yet, improbably, she understands me better than the people I see everyday. I’ve never had a relationship like this with anyone, be it friend, family or significant other — let alone a friend who lives two time zones away.

I don’t believe in soul mates or anything, but I know I believe in Alex Tashman.

So, when Alex’s mom contacted me about flying out to LA for a few days before Alex’s birthday, I couldn’t get the word “yes” out of my mouth fast enough. The last time I got to give my best friend a hug was in April 2011, when a high school journalism conference brought me to Anaheim and she drove up to see me. It had been more than a year and a half of Skype dates and after-midnight phone calls, and when I walked into her bedroom last month, I thought she was going to drop dead of shock.

After she pulled herself together and was finally able to speak, she showed me a Word doc she had saved on her computer, detailing the multiple places she would take me if I ever came to L.A. It was color coded. Of course.

She kept asking me if there was anything in particular I wanted to do while there, and I told her the truth: It was all so foreign that I’d be happy doing anything. She couldn’t care less about the celebrity culture she grew up in, and she never brings it up, but occasionally she’ll let slip that her mom once dated Nicolas Cage or Harrison Ford told her she was a cute baby in a Starbucks years ago, much to my delight. She grew up in a city where famous roads wind through famous canyons, a far cry from the plains of Missouri. For a girl like me, L.A. was as foreign as Narnia, a mythical place where it was always warm and starlets wearing oversized sunglasses sipped overpriced coffee.

We went to museums and observatories and improv shows, and I celebrated my first Hanukkah. We also ate very, very well. (She took me to strange coffee shops and the best burger places I’d ever been to. That girl knows me well.) But my favorite moment of this trip, the one I’ll keep with me until the day I die? Windows down, driving down the 405 (or the 101… or whatever. The whole time I felt like I was in “The Californians,” that instant-classic SNL sketch from a few months back. “Devan, I said get on the on-ramp to the 405 and GET OUTTA HERE!”).

Alex is one of the few people I know who not only has good taste in modern music, but excellent taste in music, pre-1987 or so. I knew we’d be friends at Cherubs when she played Tom Petty’s “Free Fallin,’” and a girl nearby asked if this was that song by John Mayer. Alex immediately threw her out of the room. So when, we were flipping through her 80’s playlist, stuck in traffic, and The Outfield classic “Your Love” came through her speakers, we looked at each other wordlessly, cranked the volume and shrieked at the top of our lungs (I’d say sang, but it was really more like shrieking), “JOSIE’S ON A VACATION FAR AWAAAY. COME AROUND AND TALK IT OVERRRR.’

I knew, right then, that we understood each other. It had been a year-and-a-half since we had seen each other in person, but she was still my best friend in the entire world.

As I write this, I’m flying home, 30,000 feet above what looks to be Kansas. The clouds are hanging low and the sun’s at our back, so everything below is a dusty blue. And as I post this, I’m curled in bed on a cold Illinois night. It’s good to be back. But all I know for sure is that right now, I miss the mountains of Southern California and a girl who lives there. Love you, Alex.

P.S. Bonus points to anyone who gets the reference to this post’s title. Here’s a hint.

Been listening to nothing but The Fratellis lately. Here’s...

Wed, 28 Nov 2012 18:12:00 -0600

Been listening to nothing but The Fratellis lately.

Here’s some context: For Thanksgiving break, my family broke tradition and came to visit me in Chicago. While I would’ve liked to go home to see my friends (and animals), it was a nice change of pace. We made a small turkey, finally saw the new James Bond movie, walked around Michigan Avenue while it was all lit up for the holidays. All in all one of the best Thanksgivings I’ve had in a while. (Though if you’ve ever tried living in a one-bedroom apartment for five days with your parents and brother, I don’t recommend it.)

I especially had fun spending a few days with my little brother. Well, I say little… He’s 16. And he’s 2 inches taller than me. And I can’t really put him in a headlock anymore. But in my mind, he’s still my baby brother. And I refuse to admit he’s of driving age.

Anyway, through long El rides and lazy Saturday afternoons, Terry and I listened to a lot of music these past few days, and for whatever reason, we found ourselves rocking out to our favorite weird Scottish band. I got hooked on The Fratellis way back in seventh grade when a friend shoved her iPod earbuds at me and said, “You gotta listen to this.” She was right. I, of course, shared them with the person I knew would immediately fall in love with them: Terry.

The Fratellis broke up back in 2009 or so, and my brother and I made a pact years ago that if they were ever to reunite and if they were ever to play a show in the United States, we’re going. Doesn’t matter where or how much or how the hell we’re going to get there, we’re going. So you can imagine our excitement this summer when we learned they had reunited. Now, just waiting on those U.S. tour dates. Until then, we’ll just scour the net for every obscure and only-released-in-Japan B-side, and we’ll sustain ourselves with side projects and solo albums.

And surprisingly, Jon Fratelli’s solo album is totally kickass. It’s definitely the work of a more mature songwriter, so it lacks some of that wild weirdness we fell in love with on “Costello Music,” but there are a couple songs here that make me remember why Jon Fratelli is still the king of knock-‘em-dead hooks. Terry played “Santo Domingo” for me months ago and it’s been stuck in my head since. It’s got a little bit of a gun-slinging, devil-may-care vibe, and I haven’t gotten tired of it yet.

So, until we get those elusive tickets to a non-existent Fratellis show, my brother and I will be listening to every piece of music the Fratellis have ever touched. (Jon’s side project Codeine Velvet Club is also worth a listen.) With brash hooks and crazy singalong choruses in everything they do, what’s not to like?

In St. Louis, we tell jokes on Halloween.

Wed, 31 Oct 2012 22:35:12 -0500

This baffles people from out of town, but it’s a St. Louis custom: you can’t get candy unless you tell a joke. When I was a kid and went trick-or-treating, there were some houses where if they could guess the punchline to your joke, they got to take candy from you. Hardcore.

My go-to joke was always this: Why do seagulls fly over the sea? Because if they flew over the bay, they’d be bagels! Get it? Bay-gulls… Bagels… Yeahhhhh.

I’ve heard some good ones over the years, but nothing tops what my brother just texted me. He declared it the best joke he heard tonight, and I’m tempted to agree:

Why did the girl drop her ice cream? Because she was hit by a bus.

Happy Halloween!

Out of EXTREME curiosity, what happened to said pony?

Mon, 29 Oct 2012 16:20:45 -0500

I believe it’s protocol to offer anything removed from a dog’s stomach back to the owner. I don’t think they wanted the pony back, though… hahaha.

So, my dad’s a vet. There are a lot of benefits and...

Mon, 29 Oct 2012 15:28:49 -0500

So, my dad’s a vet.

There are a lot of benefits and drawbacks to this. On one hand, he’s got tons of wild stories, and I’ve gotten to meet a lot of cool people and animals. (Lions, tigers, and bears… oh my! No, seriously. There’s even a monkey named after my brother.) On the other, it’s a thankless job with terrible hours. Dogs don’t care if it’s Christmas morning and you’re opening presents with your family; to them, that sounds like a fine time to start bleeding from the eyes.

But no matter what? Life with a vet is never boring.

Case in point: Today I received a series of text messages from my father, including the above pictures. A vomiting golden retriever came to his clinic today, and this is what the X-ray showed up. A quick peek into the stomach with an endoscope revealed that, yes, it was a My Little Pony. After a little research, I believe it’s Shining Armor? Long story short, he removed it, and both dog and pony are doing well (although Shining Armor’s looking a little yellow).

He’s pulled a lot of weird things out of animals. There was the cat who ate coins and the corgi who swallowed a small frog statue… Underwear is always popular, particularly lacy thongs, and I don’t know why Barbie shoes are so appealing, but they are. This, however, marks the first My Little Pony.

Like I said, never boring.

"But I am very poorly today and very stupid and hate everybody and everything."

Fri, 19 Oct 2012 13:46:08 -0500

“But I am very poorly today and very stupid and hate everybody and everything.”

- Charles Darwin

Texts from my brother.

Mon, 01 Oct 2012 19:43:22 -0500

Terry: If Christian Bale was at Bargain mart, he'd be Christian Sale.
Me: If Christian Bale was incarcerated, he'd be Christian Jail.
Terry: If Christian Bale was then set free, he'd be Christian Bail.

The best part of my job is that I get to bring my dog Finn to...

Wed, 29 Aug 2012 11:20:00 -0500

The best part of my job is that I get to bring my dog Finn to work. He and I had a lot of fun last Friday, and he fit right into the office environment.

All offices should let you bring a pet to work. Keeps stress and cholesterol levels down, encourages healthy break time… And I met coworkers I didn’t even know existed because they stopped by to meet Finn.

Plus, he’s my best friend, so there’s that.

Why I will not be voting for Todd Akin.

Sun, 19 Aug 2012 17:22:41 -0500

Today, my U.S. representative lost any semblance of respect I might have had for him.

In case you haven’t heard, Todd Akin is currently trying to win a Missouri senate seat. A Republican, he is currently serving as the U.S. state representative for my district. Today, he said in an interview:

“First of all, from what I understand from doctors, (pregnancy from rape) is really rare. If it’s a legitimate rape, the female body has ways to try to shut that whole thing down.”

There is no medical basis for this comment. A study by the American Journal of Obstetricians reported that there are more than 32,000 rape-related pregnancies in the U.S. per year. As a reminder, Akin co-sponsored the 2011 bill trying to redefine rape as “forcible,” discounting forms of drugged rape, statutory rape, or incest.

Akin is challenging Sen. Claire McCaskill, the current incumbent. She released the following statement regarding Akin’s comments:

“It is beyond comprehension that someone can be so ignorant about the emotional and physical trauma brought on by rape. The ideas that Todd Akin has expressed about the serious crime of rape and the impact on its victims are offensive.”

There is so much wrong with Todd Akin. As a Missourian, I have been exposed to some of the hatred and lunacy he has unleashed on this country. I have blogged about him in the past, but let’s rehash why I will not be voting for Todd Akin.

As a daughter, I would see my family’s business struggle under Akin’s plan for health insurance. My family co-owns a small business in Missouri which has seen its health insurance rates drop under Obamacare. Akin plans to cut this and force our rates up once again.

As a friend, I would see my gay friends and family members unnecessarily targeted. Todd Akin has repeatedly tried to constitutionally define marriage as one man and one woman. He has also voted against prohibiting discrimination based on sexual orientation and against punishing anti-gay hate crimes. While attacking an individual’s right to marry is an intensely personal belief (one that I do not agree with), it is absolutely never acceptable for a political leader to prohibit the punishment of hate crimes.

As an individual, I would see my religious liberties stripped from me. Akin is a fervent supporter of “Christian rights,” including teacher-led prayer in public schools. He also co-sponsored a bill “recognizing Christianity’s importance to western civilization.” He has said that “at the heart of liberalism really is a hatred for God and a belief that government should replace God” and that we should use the Bible as a “blueprint” for economic, education and government policies. He also believes God delivered his Republican primary win.

As a young adult, I would see my future devastated. Akin is a supporter of off-shore drilling and encourages drilling in wildlife preserves. He has also fought in Congress to bar the EPA from regulating greenhouse gases while refusing to support alternative energy methods. In addition to attacking our environment, he has compared student loans to a “stage 3 cancer of socialism” and would fight to make it impossible for all but the rich to attend college.

As a woman, I would see my status denigrated to that of a second class citizen. He has voted to block Planned Parenthood centers from providing life-saving cancer screenings. He also believes the morning-after pill causes abortion and should consequently be outlawed. Not only does this show a complete inability to grasp basic biology, but it shows just how much he radically opposes women’s rights.

I cannot in good faith vote for a man with such blatant disregard for women, religious minorities, gays, and students. He is offensive and loves to pontificate about things he has no knowledge of. As a Missourian, I believe that Akin is entirely out of touch with his constituency and would poorly represent his state. A vote for Akin would be wrong both for Missouri and this country.

Yesterday I went to the always-beautiful Castlewood State Park...

Sun, 19 Aug 2012 12:41:49 -0500

Yesterday I went to the always-beautiful Castlewood State Park with my brother and two dogs. For the first time in a while, it’s actually been below 90 degrees, so we took advantage of it and went for a short hike.

"I am and always will be the optimist... The hoper of far-flung hopes and the dreamer of improbable dreams."

Sun, 12 Aug 2012 18:06:40 -0500

If you follow me on Twitter, you know I tweet about Doctor Who a lot. If you see me on the street, you’re probably going to notice my TARDIS bag and matching necklace. If you’ve been in my room, you’ve seen my Van-Gogh-Pandorica poster and the Dalek on my desk (plus multiple seasons on DVD).

And if you know me in real life, you’ve watched me freak out about Doctor Who.

Yeah, I’m one of those people.

I don’t know how to explain it. It just kind of… happened. I didn’t know a thing about it when I started. A picture of David Tennant would occasionally pop up on my Tumblr dashboard or I’d catch a DW namedrop in a magazine, but that was it. It never really clicked — until one late May afternoon. I sat by my open bedroom window with my laptop balanced on my knees, and I pulled up the first season on Netflix.

Plastic people? I thought. You’ve gotta be kidding me. The special effects were in a league of their own; I remember thinking that the original Muppet Show looked better than some of this. So, he’s an alien? But he doesn’t look like an alien. His ears kind of stick out, though. What the hell is going on? Oh my god, it’s bigger on the inside…

For whatever reason, I kept watching.

I learned about the TARDIS and all her quirks and governing rules. I learned about Gallifrey, the shining world of the seven systems, and every strange planet between there and Earth. I learned about the Daleks and the Cybermen and every nightmarish creature that had ever crawled out of hell. And I can’t pinpoint when or where, but I realized something, something I never thought would actually happen.

I cared.

I cared about every human being (or otherwise) that crossed paths with the TARDIS. I cared about these fictional civilizations I would never actually be a part of. And more than anything, I cared for that sad, lonely old man who stole a magic box and ran away.

I believed in this goofy little show and these wonderful, strange characters. I cried like a baby at Bad Wolf Bay and I cried even harder when Ten didn’t want to go. I had nightmares about children in gas masks and stone angels. I started on pre-Millennium Who and fell in love again with Pertwee and Davison and of course, Baker. I had my heart broken more times than I can count, but I know that from here on out, my heart will forever be police box blue.

Watching Doctor Who requires a certain amount of forgiveness. It’s not perfect. It never will be. So, we cope. We pretend episodes like “Love & Monsters” don’t exist, and we pretend we were actually terrified by the special effects of the 70’s. We do this because love is forgiveness, and we love this show with everything we have.

So for now, I’ll just be patient as I let people stare quizzically at my chest and read my T-shirts. They’ll mouth: “Mad man with a… box? What the…?” I’ll tell them it’s a Doctor Who thing and change the subject. They wouldn’t understand if I tried to explain anyway. It sounds too absurd. It is too absurd. It’s a show about a 900-year-old time-traveling alien, but it’s about hope and acceptance and curiosity and love. More than anything, it’s a show about love. So I’ll sit quiet and wait for the 50th anniversary, waiting for Eleven to waltz back into my life with a smile and a bowtie. I’ll sit quiet and try to remember not to blink.

I have a lot of nerve, calling myself a “blogger” and failing to update for such a long time. I’d...

Fri, 10 Aug 2012 18:24:00 -0500

I have a lot of nerve, calling myself a “blogger” and failing to update for such a long time. I’d chalk it up to the lack of interesting things in my life, but if there’s one thing journalism school has taught me, it’s that everyone has a story. I’m just too lazy to find the stories around me.

But now it’s August, and I have so much more free time, so no excuses.

I hate August.

When was I hospitalized for a blood disorder? August. When was the first and only time I got my heart broken by a boy? August. August is when summer dies and the real world kicks in. One hot August night last year, my friend Duncan and I drove home in the dark, shrieking expletives about August out the open sunroof, wind whipping at our hair. It was incredibly liberating.

Alright, this August hasn’t been nearly that bad. Sure, it’s a bit lonely. Many of my high school friends have already returned to college. The few friends I still have around are mostly traveling. I suppose it’s my fault, going to a school that doesn’t start until Sept. 27. On the bright side, while everyone else has returned to college classes and sorority recruitment, I’ll still have my job — so I won’t be totally bored.

Yes, I have spent this summer actually working — grey Calvin Klein dresses, power heels and everything. I feel a bit like Corporate Barbie. But in all honesty, I actually love my job. Five days a week, I commute to downtown STL where I work as a copywriter intern in an in-house advertising agency. I know, I know, I know. And I call myself a journalist. But it’s writing and communicating and all the things I love, AND all of our work revolves around animals, whether it’s pet health or shelter work. Coolest job ever? I think so.

It’s been such a nice taste of the real world. As with any good internship, it’s one thing to read textbooks and think theoretically, and it’s quite another to see (and do!) the actual execution. It’s different from traditional journalism in so many ways, most obviously because we’re usually using words to sell a product, but really, it’s just using words to convey a message as effectively as possible. It’s still just trying to understand people and what’s the best way to communicate with them, whether it’s old-fashioned news or why they should adopt a shelter pet.

I’ve also been impressed with how technologically sophisticated everyone here is. We’re talking Instagram challenges and Pinterest contests. Twitter’s no problem; they’ve been doing that for years. It’s funny — basically everyone in my journalism class went on rampages, like: “I hate Twitter, it’s stupid, why do we have to do it, it’s useless.” Here, there are some people who also hate Twitter, but they do it anyway (and well) because they know it’s important. I feel like my journalism peers (and elders!) need to suck it up and explore new options because they HAVE to, not because they WANT to. Yeah, I’d love to write all my articles on my grandma’s old typewriter, but that’s not practical. We don’t get to dictate how we present news; our audience does.

I’m looking forward to continuing with my internship as all my friends and peers go back to school. The leaves will probably be turning by the time I’m ready to drive back up to Chicago, but I don’t mind. Being “an adult” in St. Louis has made me fall in love with this city all over again. I’ve gone to more concerts and restaurants and places I’d never known existed; I’ve returned to the wonder of thin crust pizza and Cardinals baseball. And each day as I walk out of work, I see the Arch looming against the blue summer sky. There’s something so comforting in that.

So I’ll finish August in the state I love. I’ve still got weekends in the Lake of the Ozarks, I’ve still got Cardinals baseball games, and I’ve still got summer. August has always signified the end, but this year, my school schedule is letting me stretch things out a little longer. And I’m going to enjoy it. Maybe this August won’t be so bad.

I just downloaded Safe Travels and it’s already my album...

Tue, 05 Jun 2012 00:22:42 -0500

I just downloaded Safe Travels and it’s already my album of the summer. Cannot wait to see these guys in St. Louis on July 12.

Things that come up when you Google my name.

Sat, 26 May 2012 14:15:15 -0500

Things that come up when you Google my name.

Passed this graffiti on the sidewalk tonight, had to stop and...

Sat, 19 May 2012 21:07:00 -0500

Passed this graffiti on the sidewalk tonight, had to stop and take a picture. Walk dinos, not bikes.

That open letter was great, and it did help me have a slightly better understanding of this issue. I'm still not completely sure I get every part though. People literally cat calling and wolf whistling- anything where you shout anything sexual a a stranger, all obviously bad- but can I never use a corny pick up line? and I wish I had the courage to tell girls that I think they look pretty, but there's something wrong with something as simple and seemingly innocent as that?

Thu, 10 May 2012 13:58:00 -0500

This is such a nice question, and it addresses a point I should’ve been more clear about: there’s a very important distinction in how it’s said. In my experiences, telling a girl she looks pretty as you smile and say it in a non-menacing way, that’s by all means a compliment. If done right, it can keep a girl smiling for the rest of the day. I think there’s a big difference between telling a girl she looks pretty and commenting on her legs/breast/butt/etc. And corny pickup lines are fine by me as long as they’re not expressed in a lecherous way or particularly explicit! (“How much does a polar bear weigh?” “I don’t know.” “Just enough to break the ice.” Haha! Aren’t I witty? No? Ok.)

That being said, this is all based on my personal experiences. Other girls have other preferences. I’m just throwing in my two cents!

An open letter to the cat callers and wolf whistlers.

Thu, 10 May 2012 12:53:36 -0500

My name is Devan. Rhymes with seven, not Yvonne. I’m 19 years old, and I’m a college student. I study journalism. I’ve played the violin since the fourth grade, and I once played in Carnegie Hall. I have a betta fish named Lyle. One time I rode an escalator with John Cleese. My favorite color is black. I’m allergic to body glitter. I can’t whistle.

I mean, since you’re asking.

Look, I don’t know what to tell you. I’ve been getting cat calls since I was 14. I was cursed/blessed with a body that is unmistakably female, and some men (usually twice my age) feel like it is their right to offer their comments. When I was barely in high school, I would walk down the beach by myself — fully clothed. The construction workers across the street would whistle. I was too embarrassed and scared to shout back, “I’m 14 years old! You’re older than my father!”

I’ve heard them all: “Looking good, sweetheart.” “That shirt looks good on you.” “Hey, come back!” Here’s a personal favorite, shouted from a ski lift overhead: “Hey, do you got a bandaid? ‘Cause I just scraped my knee falling for you. *shouts telephone number* Call me!”

Telephone numbers shouted from ski lifts. Whistles on the beach. Lewd gestures from a passing pick up truck as I walk my dogs. Once in Seattle, I was crossing the street and a man slowed his red car and rolled down the window. I was 16. “Hey there,” he said. “What’s your name?” I kept walking. He followed me in his car. “Can I get a phone number?” he wheedled. “You’re too pretty to be by yourself.” I tried to toss my head and scoff — like “Not a chance, buddy” — but instead I quickened my pace and ducked into a store to lose him. I was terrified.

Barely a month ago, I was at breakfast with my mother. She got up to grab a copy of the New York Times or use the bathroom or something of that sort, and suddenly, our waiter was there at my side. He hovered over my shoulder, and I could feel his breath on my neck as he told me I had beautiful hair and I was far too pretty for this early in the morning. She came back to the table and he left, but for the rest of the time we were there, he was staring from across the room, moving his eyes from my head to my feet and back up again, smiling in an unkind way. I immediately felt like I need a shower.

I was talking to an ex-boyfriend a while ago about self-esteem, and I mentioned that sometimes I have periods of doubt and discomfort about my body. He cited these cat calls as a reason I should have no reason to be ashamed. He meant well, I know, but he doesn’t seem to understand that my self-esteem is not based in how men view me, but in how I view myself. The number of wolf whistles I get is not proportional to my own confidence about my body. If anything, it makes me far more self-conscious and aware of my physical appearance. When a guy on the street says to me, “Hey, cool Star Wars shirt,” that’s a comment on something intangible, something I actively chose to display. When a guy on the street says to me, “Hey, nice rack,” I’m degraded from a human being with emotions and intellect to a physical object. It moves from “this is what’s great about me” to “this is what I can do for you.”

I know that some guys see it as a compliment to comment on a woman’s physical attributes. They say I’m taking it too hard, and I should be flattered. I don’t understand how I should associate discomfort with flattery. If you want to flatter me, smile at me politely. Maybe ask me my name. Don’t reduce me to my cup size.

I’m in college now. I walk everywhere, since I don’t have a car. I work late, so I often walk home alone after midnight. My mother gave me pepper spray. I’ve never had a problem, but I still unconsciously tighten up when I see someone fall into step behind me. I still grip my keys tightly in case I have to use them as I pass that man standing alone in the dark. I have been told to watch my glass of Diet Coke at parties. I have been conditioned to feel unsafe and to view strange men as a potential threat.

And this is heartbreaking. I want to trust people. I want to believe that I can walk down the street without feeling threatened. I want to be able to go to the beach by myself and read without being approached by a Canadian man older than my father asking me if I want to show him the town later tonight (true story… I don’t know which was worse: the grey hair or the Speedo).

But as of now, I can’t. So the next time you feel inclined to tell me how great my ass is looking, I’m just going to say — pardon the language — that while you may not have a dick, you sure know how to act like one.

Love, Devan

One of the most influential children’s authors of all...

Tue, 08 May 2012 11:41:33 -0500

One of the most influential children’s authors of all time. He was strange and wise and wonderful. May he rest in peace.

What Life Sounds Like #19 - “Felony Flats” by Anya...

Sat, 05 May 2012 12:03:15 -0500

What Life Sounds Like #19 - “Felony Flats” by Anya Marina

“Felony Flats” is the title track off Anya Marina’s third album, and I think it’s the best one on the disc. Anya Marina is a breathy singer-songwriter who’s dabbled in acting, comedy, music, you name it. She gained a little bit of traction a few years ago when she was featured on the Twilight: New Moon soundtrack with the fantastic “Satellite Heart.” A flirty, soft version cover of “Whatever You Like” has also been making the rounds. She’s feminine, self-deprecating, and at times snarky. She can float from infectious acoustic anthems to pulsing dance beats. The girl’s got talent.

If there’s one musical quality that can almost guarantee a song a place in my heart, it’s a good build. I’m talking about the songs that start slow, almost silent, building slowly to a crashing zenith of sound. Yeah, that dramatic. “Mariella” by Kate Nash (a previous WLSL entry) is a perfect example.

“Felony Flats” has that quality. She says, “I could tell by your face, I was late” with such delicacy and sadness, but by the end of the song she’s growling, “Come on and get it.” There’s a definite rock ‘n roll vibe, and it’s a song you have to sing along with at the top of your lungs.