In Todd We Trust.

Though my parents were strict atheists, every Sunday morning, about 8:30, our tiny house would fill with music. We would drag ourselves out of bed and sit around the coffee table in the living room, as my dad flipped through Todd Rundgren records. "Listen", he would whisper, "to the cord progression on this track". Sometimes it was progressive rock, sometimes it was pop, or dance, or even rap, but it was all Todd. The man taught me a thing or two about versatility. Even the album covers were something to behold; bold colors and bright vinyl and psychedelic imagery. We called Sunday mornings in our home "The Church of Todd", and they were not taken lightly.

Last night, I got a frantic e-mail from my father. My father is not comfortable with the aging process. He is in his early 60's, and often feels like his best years are behind him. This time around, though, there was a hint of pure joy in his e-mail. Rundgren had done a Yahoo Live set. "Todd never ceases to amaze me, how many 67 year olds would release an electric dance music album and dance around the way he was?", he wrote. Todd taught our whole family an important lesson: be yourself, no matter who "yourself" is.

One of my very best friends moved to Portland some time ago. I had been contemplating a summer visit to the city. I stopped by a magazine stand, and was flipping through a Rolling Stone when the cover slid through the flesh on my thumb. I took the bloody magazine to the counter, and sheepishly paid the clerk. When I got home, I flipped through the pages, and came across an article that said that Todd Rundgren would be touring this summer with one of my all-time favorite artists, Dam-Funk. I glared at the wound on my thumb. It was a stigmata, signaling that it was time for my pilgrimage. This is my fourth time seeing Dam-Funk, and my first seeing Todd. I know life will exist after this show, but everything will be different. I guess watching a live Todd show is the holy grail of the Todd fan, like when you're a Christian and you die and Jesus fist-bumps you on the way into heaven.

The second time I met Dam-Funk, I asked him what his favorite Todd song was. He told me that it was a tie between "Hideaway", and "Does Anybody Love You". I nodded in agreement. "But", he continued, taking a long drag from a cigarette, "how do you choose from such genius?".

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Church Of Todd Edition):

 

 

 ~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Pete Rock Hearts CL Smooth Edition):

 

 ~sarah p.

Go Flames, Um, Go? Or Don't. I Don't Care.

I was living a province away last time The Flames were in the playoffs. I distinctly remember reading a newspaper article in the Vancouver Sun about how the downtown high school couldn't use their sports field due to the fact that it was far too saturated in human urine to be considered safe to play. A phone call to my sister confirmed it all; with all of the drunken debauchery and next-level fandom, shit had gotten a wee bit cray in this city since we entered the finals.

Fast forward 11 years, and each morning when I walk out my door to allow Reggie to water all of the local trees for half an hour, I am greeted with a sea of red jerseys. It's a shame that, in 2015,  we have the ability to 3-D print just about everything in the world, and have yet to figure out how to make a jersey flattering on anyone. I suppose I should be excited. I love this city. However, I'm also a salty old broad with exactly zero competitive spirit.

I haven't ever been on a sports team. I don't watch sports. I worry about how the other team must feel when they lose. Probably terrible. I wonder why we can't just all agree that everyone worked really hard, and then go for ice cream together? Sorbeto for those team members that are lactose-intolerant.

I wonder to myself: is it all just an excuse to get wastey on a Tuesday? According to my 9PM walks with Reg, the answer is yes. If you live where I live, you don't even need to watch the news or any sort of sports highlights to know how we played. You can just listen to people screaming off of their balcony. It's either "wooooo", or "booooo". If we lose, girls will still flash their tits, but maybe with a sadder demeanor while they do it.

I guess my biggest question for Flames fans is why everything's got to be so personal. If the Flames lose, people act like the team purposely ate a giant steak dinner right before the game, took a bunch of LSD, and spent all of their ice-time listening to Vinyl Cafe podcasts through tiny invisible headphones just to piss everyone off. The team didn't get together and decide that they really hadn't disappointed their fans enough this season. Nope. Pretty sure they still tried really hard to win.

It's a lonely time to not be a sports fan. I desperately look forward to the day that awkward small-talk with semi-strangers goes back to making sassy quips about the weather. I am excited for the day this can all be over, Stanley Cup or no Stanley Cup. Also, can everyone just stay off of Western Canada High's field this time, and just start peeing on those "Vote For The Wild Rose Party" signs instead?

~sarah p.

Nat Geo's Border Security- Some More Thoughts.

1. Being a Christian rapper does not negate those two times that you sold weed to undercover cops.

2. If your phone is full of pictures of you snorting MDMA, or of you holding three pounds of weed, border security will most definitely ask to scroll through your phone by default. While you're at it, maybe erase as many dick pics as you can. It's the polite thing to do.

3. Apparently, the meat in Asia is far superior to the meat in Canada. This theory is supported by the fact that every single episode involves someone getting off of a flight from Asia with a suitcase full of raw sausage.

4. There are two types of dudes that travel through multiple source countries on the way to their destinations: international playboys, and drug smugglers. It's pretty easy to tell who is who, because there's very few international playboys that wear beat-up Stormrider jackets.

5. Crossing your arms and saying "it's not faaaaaaaair" didn't get you out of seventh grade detention, and it's not going to work here. A sassy just means that a bunch of the border security dudes are going to make fun of you on their lunch break.

~sarah p.

p.s. Original post is here.

Jams Of The Week (Jeep Mix Edition):

  

 ~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Our Vinyl Weighs A Ton Edition):

 

 ~sarah p.

A Few Notes On Personal Care:

*Giving Reggie a bath is the only time that I leave the bathtub significantly filthier than when I climbed in.

*If I spent half as much time on foreign policy as I do trying to keep the zits from taking control of my entire face, I would have hammered out the finer details of world peace ages ago.

*It's allergy season, which means that the old "Benadryl and Whiskey Sour" cocktail will lend itself to at least a few apology e-mails in the near future. Also, you're welcome, Kleenex industry.

* I've never won a trophy in my life, but if picking off old nail-polish in the bath was an Olympic sport, you can be damn sure my shelves would be packed full of them.

*I would never make out with a dude that colored his beard, because it's suspiciously like making out with an upside down troll doll.

*When are we, as a society, going to re-hash our ideas on what is attractive? Like, I think we should see a girl with yellowing teeth and a bit of a belly, and think to ourselves "Dannnng, that bitch probably knows how to party". 

*If I could just figure out how to eat , sleep in, and work from my bathtub, I would be the pruniest motherfucker in the game. 

*According to commercials, I have about a year left before I start peeing involuntary on a regular basis, so I may as well really try to enjoy the dry pants while they last.

*We have cars that park their-damn-selves nowadays, but still haven't figured out a foolproof way to get eyeliner straight? Priorities, people. 

*Here's a hot tip: don't ever buy yourself red soap, unless you want to think you're bleeding out of your ass at least once a shower.

~sarah p.

Jams Of The Week (Jamaica, Jamaica Edition):

~sarah p.

p.s. You know when you like a song so much that you have to be mindful of how much you listen to it, for fear that you may burn yourself out of it too quickly? That top jam is IT.

Jamaica- Round 2.

It was every bit as warm and beautiful and adventurous and scary as the first time we stepped off the plane in Montego Bay last year. We shared barely-cold beers with locals and drew circles around the lush mountains. We swam in the ocean every day, at least twice, and ate jerk so spicy it made tears stream down our faces. A Rastafarian man made us a meal of fresh curried conch that we ate on the street as we passed spliff after spliff back and forth. He tried to talk us into smuggling the conch shell back home as a souvenir. His girlfriend was a Swiss lady that came for a vacation and never left. I understand this mentality better than ever now, I told her as we walked with arms around each other like dearest friends. We fell asleep every night early; I don't sleep well anywhere, but all of the sun and ganj and good vibes, as well as RETV music videos in the background lulled me out on top of the bedsheets every night. Every time I leave this country, I leave tiny pieces of my heart on the beach, and in the jungle, and in the hands of each and every soul that we encountered along the way. Until next time, Jamaica.

~sarah p.