Katie & Milo's Retrocade Dinner Evening

Its important for us to remember that the 1950's were anything but the clean, commercial steam pressed, wholesome decade as it was prjected to be. Racism stayed common throughout the decade, street gangs gave the posers of today a run for their bandanas, and communism burned everyone in Hollywood at the paranoid schizophrenic stake. But through it all, we managed to kick back with a nice casserole dish, an episode of Father Knows Best, wear pearls while we cleaned the house, and slept soundly in our double beds by 8:30 PM.
While those standards may not have played fit at Katiebug and Milo's party, rest assured the guests arrived in full gee golly whiz.
Katie, Milo, and myself congregated at their precious little cabin house, just on the border where Portland meets Beaverton. Until 7:00 it was business before pleasure, or in Milo's way of doing things ethical scratch-its and cuddling. Careful M, you may be the gambling type but Bingo is not your game.

An hour before the guests arrived, the kitchen was in full market crash sweep. Katie peeled apples to my left, while Milo OCD'ed the dishes to my right. And through my middle stood I, making my signartue veggie casserole. The dish best used as my weapon to win a man's heart. But since Jesus couldnt attend, I held back on the crushed aphrodisacs. ;)
By seven the party commenced. Jessica a.k.a. "Mille," arrived in a petite Minnie Mouse number, while Katie's former employer arrived in the Arthur Miller role. Since Marylin was nowhere to be found, I placed my character in the signature waif role. Hi-ho captain.

My camera was my eye for the night. My lenses folding from technicolor to black and white. An array of food was bedazzled in front of us. Cocktail weenies and velveeta cheese sent our throats a gagging, while my casserole was the tip toppitty. Katie's chocolate dissentary pudding went beyond delicious expectations, and no one would touch the giant fruitcup centerpiece. As I juggled water, wine, and Tang, my arms twirled the skirt hems of a few leading ladies.
And you know it wouldnt be the 50's without a nice piece of juicy gossip to exchange between neighbors. While everyone was shone around the house by the party's leading golden couple, your very own Cereal Man was out of the veranda. A ciggarette clasped between my lips with a firm Bette Davis clutch. Though it may not have been kosher to incorporate a cell phone into the 1950's swag, my fingers were in full swish at the text clicks aimed at the last temptation...
Ciao,
Cereal Man.

Post California Dreamin

Good day, bloggers. Cereal Man here. Back for more, and back for good. Its time we caught up on everything that's taken place in the Rose City, since my return.

What is there to say about California? The Katy Perry wind, the shrimp and crab melt sandwiches, the Disneyland age regression, the infamous party in Santa Barbara, Aunt Nyvon and cousin Jessica, Grandma's house, gym workouts, alas, only a dream brought to life by borrowed money and subtle apologies.

Only 24 hours later after my landing at PDX airport on the 12 of Aug., the grim 13th brought us once again to Cinema 21. Where took place the infamous one year anniversary of Tommy Wiseau's, "The Room." Though Mr. Wiseau himself was nowhere to be see, the night brought back the trio of, "Johnny's"  Mr. Ian Coleman of Rick Moranis look alike fame, and a new Room virgin plucked fresh from the fruit by my very own self. This virgin and I, Ernest of the Brenden's, took root at MELT for some Margaritas/Bloody Mary's, and a fatal faux chocolate cake shot. Tsk tsk, Melt bartender. As George Bush says, "Fool me once, shame on me. Fool me twice, uh.....I wont get fooled again." Ernest and I took our place in line, right at the front of the door and only directly behind the Johnny trio. Upon entry we sat in the front row, with Ian Moranis, the Johnny's, and the spoons.

Jump to a few weeks later fast forwarding themselves to right about, last Tuesday. The ole Southern Belle Tonya, had some old tricks up her sleeve.Since my return Tonya and I have frequented the Oregon Zoo, a sweaty expedition involving blurry picture snaps of the animals running away from us, and an incredible bat exhibit.
The Silverado, which involved Margaritas, a bouncer who claimed to be so distracted by my looks he ran smack dab into an amazon woman and her drink, and a stripper who was the very definition of cute as a button. As I looked over at the decayed chicken hawk sugar daddy who kept him on a leash, I had never been more tempted to pull a Taxi Driver and save his Jodi Foster ass.
And of course, the endless nights of True Blood and Dexter marathons. Equipped with fried okra, bud light 40's, reciting craigslist men seeking men ads at 4 in the morning, VH1 block party musicfests, and bunny petting.

My dear Harryhausen, God help him, has become an official US Army soldier. His ship sails at March's dawn, and so till then we'll have to frequent his appearances so he will have chance to leave his invincible mark in the Portland Bowl.
Ryan 1 has plowed the train straight past wreck and right on till scrap heap purgatory. Our sources reported him seen outside CC Slaughters restaurant, (an establishment he was well known for distasting) only after being reported via facebook that he was moving to Phoenix. And who may or may not have been making the move to become a porn star. Whatever the case Portland bloggers, it looks like it'll still be awhile before we've expunged the Portland fingerprints of Ryan 1.
Ragin Megan has found a new man, yet what he lacks in homosexual courtesy, he makes up for in a fine physique and Calvin Klein face.
Noah Hoah has gone A wall, responding to the occasional text with a fierce cat growl.
Theo has gone from elusive cherub boy, to refreshingly still beautiful yet humanely unlike Ryan 1, man of the hour.

Some new have friends have joined the cereal bowl amongst the seasoned flakes and nut clusters:

Shawnshine: A pocket gay who knows just as much about Doctor Who as he does about being a cutiepie.

Katiebug: With the Grace of Grace Kelly and the non stick Pam wit of Pam Beasley from, "The Office,"
Katie has won it all. An adorable house, an income of stability, and a passionate man to share her casserole dishes with.

Sarah Spurlock: Cousin to Morgan Spurlock of Super Size Me fame, this party girl can drink for thirty days and still have the meek softness that makes her such a delight to track the clubbing scene with.

and Ernest of the Brendan's. Who just may give dear Theo a run for Man of the Year.

And finally bloggers, Ernie Boy has been found! His return came with the sad realization of the dearly departed, Bobo Lesop. His dear cat, who will live in our hearts as well as our laps as long as their are black kitties roaming the cat scratch fever scene. Our reunion was made on the grounds of what is sure to become the party of the year. Jump to NE Alberta, on the nine year anniversary of the terrorist attacks, where SPOTTED: "Suspicious Death's Party." Where the guests are required to dress as their favorite suspicious death. Can you feel the reincarnated creativity brewing bloggers? I was dressed as a modest Bruce Lee, while Ernie Boy was dressed to perfection as little Jonbennet Ramsey. The guests included Hitler, Brian Jones, Jim Morrison, Jayne Mansfield, Richie Valens, the colony of Roanoke, and alas the Twin Towers. Courtesy of Ajah and man company. It isn't everyday you can say you danced with Jonbennet, rubbed Morrison's belly, drank Jones's Kool Aid, and dodged the Twin Towers. Oh yes, and kissed Jesus. Oh, did I leave him out? Yes bloggers, Jesus Christ attended the party. And while I hold back the confession of my sins, lets just say Ive drank the wine and I'm not finished. ;)

So that's everything you've missed. My hands applaud the carpel tunnel ache at the paragraphs I have formed. My drive has been ignited. I feel as though I have said it in pages upon mountains of pages that I-AM-BACK. But its just not enough. I could sit here and type it more, but I must get ready to scamper along to Sonic Kayla's house for some business arrangements.

So until next time bloggers, this is Cereal Man, draining the bowl.

<3

"If everybody loved each other, the world would be a better place to live." ~ Tommy Wiseau.

CerealMan Returns

Hello....Portland bloggers. Are you getting chills at the mere mention of a newly reported post by the infamous CerealMan? No? Well I'm not surprised considering my followers are in total of 3. But you see, that is precisely why I have come back.

Picture it: July 2010. On the brink of making another giant leap into that large sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles. Fantasy glazed my eyes over in a powerful Katy Perry sweep. I was ready to give up my going nowhere career as Portland's Gossip Boy columnist and LEAVE Portland! And don't think I came to my senses and realized how much I needed to fight. Oh no dear bloggers, as much as I'd like that to be the case, I was in fact ready to give up. Jump ship to California, give up even more independence, and start a life of an even bigger nothing. If not for select demons plotting their wicked deeds in the city of angels, I may have not come back. But I did. Yet even so each passing day was a continuation of what was before. Cant work, cant earn, cant.....LIVE. Yet through it all things began happening again. Things that required a voice. And the only one who could bring that voice to pitch was myself. And I am back. For good. For now. Forever.

Tomorrow will begin once again the Cereal Man's reign over Portland. I will catch you up on all that has taken place since the great leap of July. And on Saturday, there will be a fresh, hot of the Portland Mercury press, blog involving Katy Bug's Annual 50'S dinner party. What's that hipsters? Do I sound pretentious? GOOD.

Bust out the crazy spoons dear bloggers, breakfast has once again become the most important meal of the day.

Till tomorrow, xoxo
CerealMan.

...and the rest. Here on Cereal Island. PART II

Part Deux of yesterday's blog. Is typed with a heavy hand. All in good time, lovelies. All in good time. Though I'm sure at this moment you're skipping these next paragraphs in order to find your name, read what title your given, and move on. Still, I must continue speaking on my behalf.

Yesterday was an homage to the characters who have made appearances in the Portland blog. The party guests, the supporting players, etc. They are what build a strong story arc to my entries. Without them I'm afraid you would be left with nothing but a mashochistic mind with pessimisstic sentences forming sadistic paragraphs. It is a bit ironic that I'm facing lonliness and abandonment issues when I am writing with such praise on the droogies of mine. Though, not all of them are very nice, I'm well aware. But what would our life's adventure be without its healthy share of villains?

What I'm getting at bloggers is that, I use to hold these people in such high regard, and some, more or less most of them I still do. Yet in about 23 hours I will be on a plane headed for Long Beach, CA. And I think should I bother coming back? Have I invested so much emotional attachment to this city of Portland that I've blinded myself as to other oppurtunities elsewhere could hold? In spite of what you may have heard, Portland is NOT the nicest and friendliest city. A chance to leave all of it behind. The people who've hurt me, the ones who have dissapointed me, the jobs I've lost, the unemployment plauge, I dont look at it as running away so much as I see it as a prison break.

I'm beginning to ramble so I'm moving on. The titles, and one last paragrapgh for closure.

Cereal Man's Portland Bowl Prizes:

Ernie Boy: Humane Homo

Tonya Belle: Southern Comfort

Ragin Megan: Contemporary Fag Hag

Scotty Hotty: Thorn in Lion's paw

Sonic Kayla: No Wave DJ of life

Jazibee: Rriot Butch killer.

Brent Davis: Man Child.

Olivia: Hispter Creamer.

Ryan 1: Energy Rapist.

Little R.: Texas T.

Boy Wonder: Spare smoke.

Harryhausen: Gresham gatekepper.

Heather Phinney: Untarnished Blasphemy.

Noah Hoah: Venus Mars cowboy cowgirl.

Baby Troy: Hand that rocks the cradle.

Vivica Valentine: Texas Chainsaw Masscara.

Ajah Asia: Fetish Squid.

Miky: Berry muffin.

Raijah Royale: Blushed stone.

Nathan Hoover: Bohemian Storyteller.

Ryan Marquez: Geek extrordonare.

Alice Wonderland: Lotus ciggarette blossom.

And there you have 'em. The superstars that never were. The products of my Warhol factory that never had their 15 minutes, let alone 5. It doesnt nessecarily break my heart that within three months my blog has failed to garner an audience without me pushing certain blog entries onto people's facebook page. I've had some good times. Which is almost unacheivable at this stage in life. And just think...if I choose to come back all the fresh stories that will take place. The comedy, the romance, the deaths. But have I decided that I'm coming back? I havent even decided if I'm going to continue blogging while I'm in California.

Whichever way the servings are proportioned, the parties over. The champaignes gone stale, the cereal's past it's expiration date. Milk spoiled. Prizes recalled for Made in China posion issues.

So long, Portland. If I find nothing beyond the state line, I guess I'll be put back in your clutch.

There's just got to be...

and the rest...here on the Cereal Island. PART I

Hello bloggers. It has come to my attention that there are many guests on the party list who have not yet made an appearance on the Portland Bowl blog. And considering that I am leaving to California for two days for an indefinite amount of time, I figured it was only right that they be given their fair chance at being the prize in the box, all together, all at the same time.
Now, you may have also noticed that this blog is a two part er. That is because in the upcoming sequel to this blog, I am planning an entire blog dedicated to those friends, young and old, those who have made appearances and those who are about to. This blog will have my friends presented with titles most deserving to them. So that they may live on as my characters in this ever growing soggy mess of the cereal bowl.
Now enough vague detail about where this is actually headed...let's get on with the honorable mentions.

Now let's see, so far we have mentioned:

Ernie Boy. My only gay friend. The only one I can trust, share my most intimate thoughts with, and NOT castrate after I've found out that he shared a drunken kiss with one my crushes. That's magic. And that's what best friends are made of. There certainly is magic about Ernie Boy. Let's just hope he hasn't run away from me for good.

Tonya Belle: Good 'ole South Carolina pudding pie. Apart from being my night in felony flats savior, she has become synonymiswith hit HBO and Showtime programs such as Oz, Dexter, and True Blood. As well as a healthy dose of homemade cosmos and grits. Her mascot, is a bunny rabbit named Bella. Who is the nicest, sweetest, rabbit I've ever had the pleasure of petting. Her on again off again friend Tracy provides a healthy dose of violent humor. All and all, you're always guaranteed a wild, yet pleasantly down to earth time, at Tonya's place.

Ragin Megan: We've been friends since high school. She was there for me during my dreaded Holden Caufield senior year. She was there, though not necessarily to my enthusiasm, for me when I faced eviction from not just my apartment, but Portland as well. She has accompanied me downtown when it was necessary and when it was desired. Her on again off again boyfriend Ryan provides sexy eye candy which makes for a voyeuristic bonus.

Scotty Hotty: The deadly sexy barista at your local NW 21st CoffeeTime. He's been serving my dirty chais for well over a year now and somehow they always seem to taste more mediocre than before. Yet its not his coffee making skills I'm after if you get my drip brew. Scotty Hotty falls in between the lines of obvious, visible lust and attraction, and the line of cowardice, and humility. You just cannot bring yourself to take that step that goes beyond friendly coffee house friendship. He remains, an untouchable.

Sonic Kayla: A Montana transport, the two of us met on a triple digit summer day. In which, SPOTTED: Thurston Moore. On the day of his concert at the Roseland, makes an appearance at Jackpot Records. Where eager fans gathered for autographs and nervous pleas of photo ops. Our love for Sonic Youth was inseparable. And soon we were discussing the void of Portland hipsters between passionate romantics...such as ourselves.

Jazibee: Another High School antique. Jazibee, since graduation, has embraced the rriot girl movement. A scholar for woman studies, every trip we take is a guaranteed Bikini Kill fest. When it comes to fun bubbly, yet aggressively, not one to let her guard down, CHICKS to hangout with downtown, she is the cream of the cream corned can.

Brent Davis: He was my unmentionable friend who accompanied me on the night of Daniel Clowes' Powell's showing. Not sure why he was an unmentionable, considering hes perhaps the oldest high school relic, as well as the sole person who was responsible for bringing me to Voodoo Doughnuts, way way back in late '06. While Brent's questionable homophobia and violent protests of trash cinema are a bit grating, theres no doubt that Brent will always be there. Through the hard times and the destructible times. He's as dependable as the immortal Mr. Burns.

Olivia: Shes a hipster.

Ryan 1: What is there to say about Ryan 1 without telikinetically opening a vein? It could be his unparalleled beauty, his unbridled sense of spiritual anarchy, or the discombobulated sense of form you're left with after meeting him for the first time. Making you fear your next meeting. Whatever the case may be bloggers, the devil should he exist, tempts us in forms that are most pleasing to the eye. And I can only feel that Ryan 1 is the golden delicious apple that lies in waiting.

Little R. and Boy Wonder: The two of them certainly go hand in hand, so it only right that they be mentioned alongside each other. The two were found spotted at a bike hospital show, deep in NE Portland, the night after Thanksgiving. What made me gravitate towards them is still a mystery. Maybe it was my drunken Pabst smear mouth, or perhaps my teasing sense of humor calling them out on their: Edward and Bella thing. But since then, the two R's, Robin and Rachael, have been a dynamic duo of good company and laughs. In between split sandwiches and stuffed hasbrowns, Little R. has shined her golden mane deep into my chakras providing an excellent drain. Where as Boy Wonder has remained ever the dependable with a cigarette, a car, a beautiful art piece for a Birthday gift.Theres only one candidate each for the Mr. and Mrs. Oregon title. Who do you think has my vote?

And there you go. All the ones who made appearances. And now its time to honor or those, who without this entry, may never have a chance of showing up again:

Harryhausen: Another high school relic, second to Brent, Harryhausen and I have developed a steady history of cult films, downtown ventures, and bomb shelters to escape parental abuse and cabin fever. With his steady minor girlfriend Kyla, his funny orientation questionable and god willing brother Bryce, his loving mother Someones in the kitchen with Dinah, and his wonder pug puppy Vinnie, Harryhausen could have his own sitcom. Only as a spin off show from MY show of course.

Heather Phinney: A golden calf idol of spiritual enlightenment, Heather recently made the move to Pittsburgh for an indefinite amount of time. Aside from her goddess like ingenuity her mark was forever placed on my life by none other than her boy loving black cat, Tiny. With her came Ken Volok. Artist and Greg ARaki extraordinaire. Let's hope that this goddess doesn't cement herself in the Mt Olympus kingdom of Pittsburgh.

Noah Hoah: What happens when you've been with a friend whose experienced being BOTH sexxes? Untarnished friendship gold. Noah Hoah, the artist formerly known as Courtney Kappertz, has been my suicidal therapy, my coffee drinking buddy, my taxes consultant, my inspiration for action figure collecting, my best present and Birthday cake giving, friend. After mentioning all that I feel like I really haven't done my part in equaling the friendship. The only promise I can make to dear Noah Hoah, is that when I'm rich and famous, he will have a shower of wealth whose faucet will be in my hands. :)

Baby Troy: Sexy baker with a super power way of lovin.

Vivica Valentine: The only drag queen to gain my trust.

Raijah Royale: Nordstrom pretty lady.

Ryan Marquez: Geek extraordinaire.

Alice Wonderland: Pregnant beautiful Asian girl who makes you unashamed to read, "Twilight."

Nathan Hoover: Storytelling leader of the Bohemian walking tours.

Ajah Asia: Goddess of the water squids, and fetish wear.

Miky Solaris: Futuristic dancer for Jabba the Hut/ Blueberry muffin stand in on the Strawberry Shortcake show.

And if I'm forgetting anyone else which I'm sure I am, but, I'm afraid, I have Simpson's episodes to attend to, that is why Bill Gates invented the edit button.

Now...be sureand catch Part 2 of the infamous two parter blog. In which my party guests will be awarded with the blogger brand.
Until next time Portlanders, as always, keep your guard up.
And your cereal dry.

The Rules of Bret Easton Ellis's Attraction

Morning gorgeous. Cereal Man here. Waking up to a delightful morning where the future of the day holds plenty of sun and plenty of booze.
But skip back to approximately fifteen hours ago, and I was under the cold, sarcastic glow of Bret Easton Ellis. A master of storytelling who through his character's narration exposes the darkness and corruption of the Ronald Regan Era. The era of: "Greed is Good." And whose books have been transformed into mediocre Roger Avery snuff films which the Y generation have seemed to harshly tit suck as some of their favorite movies. American Psycho anyone?
JUMP 2: Powell's books. Arriving on my lonesome, two and a half hours before book signage, and riding on the wings of an extra $2.80 I got from Buffalo Exchange; After trying to sell a closet full of clothes, in which they only took one hanger. I recombobulated at the Gold Room coffee shop with a chai and my library copy of the oral history on The Simpson's. At six, always believing to be 90 mins early rather then 30 mins, I marched up to the Pearl Room.
I took a seat directly on the right side of the room. This was so that when it came time to sign books, all I had to do was get up, jump over, and I would immediately be one of the first in line. Boredom set in, and eventually aggression when some gay (clearly over homified man) sat right next to me. His exact words were, "I'm going to sit next to you. Someone has to, might as well be me." Aside from the abundance of hidden messages in that statement I was not about to let some hair product with latex allergies take charge with me and the empty seats. I eventually digressed however. When we got to talking, rather politely, about tattoos and the amazing Golden Girls shirt he wore. He tried to sass me a couple of times, but I didn't hug him or flirt with him, so as not to feel pathetically rejected. Even though I would rather walk through hell wearing a gasoline G-string than sleep with that fag.
And speaking of unforgivable rainbow fucks, who should make his way into the reading but good ole, I'm going to stop calling you once we finally have sex, GALEN. I don't think he saw me, and lucky for me he sat in the far back left, and when it came time for book signing must have been in the far back of the line. Bloggers, little boys like that, do not deserve to have their balls.
And finally, what was the last showcase in a circus of asshole freaks, was the green striped tea drinking bitch from Tiny's. (See May blog) I took delight in the fact that she had to stand. ha ha.
Finally Bret arrived. He read briefly from Imperial Bedrooms, which was nice since he understood that anyone remotely famous should really just do Q&A's and book signings. During the Q&A he came off as sarcastic, yet cold. I was almost afraid to ask my question of, Why does bisexuality seem to be a reoccurring trait throughout some of his characters. And while he at first responded with what I guess is his registered trademark of cold sarcasm, he gave a real, satisfactory answer. Involving closeted bisexuality in the 1980s media, and a fan who thanked him for coming to grips with his bisexuality.
I journeyed to Powell's as someone who has read only two Bret Easton Ellis books. The Rules of Attraction and Less than Zero. I barely remember Less Than Zero, because I barely got through it. It was written in that blah blah blah style. Which some authors, (new and upcoming especially) try to experiment with. Perhaps to be fresh, hip, new, original. When all their being is pretentious, confusing, and all around bombastic. You may say what reason did I have to be there as a minimal Bret Easton Ellis fan. Well, believe it or not hipster executioners, one book can make a huge difference. Which brings us to Rules of Attraction.
I had read it once before, before I realized that it was one of the most important books (in my life) that I had read. I didn't really like it that much. I found some of the character narratives to be interesting, in that stylish way of Generation X pre nineties alternative R.E.M. way. But others were just melodramatic and boring. It wasn't until Late fall of 2008. When an experience I had with a man had left me so cut open, angry, and hateful. Probably hateful enough to kill if I was, say, an AMERICAN Psycho. that I inadvertently picked up the book again and started re reading. Be it that I grew up more in between the seven month period between reads, or that the evils of man gave a clearer, darker, masochistic eye. But the book finally made sense. It said to me that love is hopeless because it is never mutual. While this message may be negative dear bloggers, it didn't stop me from feeling somewhat better about my situation. It was an outlet that didn't fix the problem, but exposed it in a way that was masochistically satisfying.
And THAT, is why I travelled far and wide to meet MR. Ellis. I got to share my story with him, which is always something I always try to do when I'm meeting someone I've admired. To me there is always a deep intimate satisfaction when you share with an artist the one moment that made you fall in love with their work. And though he may come off as intimidating during the Q&A, please note, he is quite nice, almost lovable, during the book signing.
To Christopher, best wishes, Bret Easton Ellis.

CoCo Rosie: NO?! NO?! Say it aint SO! SO!

My hands can barely locate the letter keys to form what I am about to say. According to the Portland Mercury, (full of shit as they may be) Coco Rosie is a widely disliked band. From Pitchfork's rating system to Spin magazine's zero star rating of (what is my favorite album of theirs) "Noah's Ark."
The Mercury attempts to figure out why they are so disliked by not just the media, but by the indie mainstream audience. (Even though, the general public is barely mentioned in this article which makes me wonder if the staff writer is writing off on his own opinion.) They mention the fact that the Coco Rosie sisters, Sierra and Bianca Casady, are privileged and well endowed by their parent's, and the Mercury thankfully did not fail to mention that the same issue has been branded upon Vampire Weekend. They then bring up the slight possibility that it is because they are women. It sounds old fashioned, (to state an understatement) but could it be true?
Finally, the last argument the staff writer makes is that their music is just no good. Which after re-reading the paragraph several times, I think the writer is both going off on his own opinion, while also giving a slight review of the new album which he clearly does not like.
Now, in trying to find the balance between seeing the point and expressing my personal view, one must be careful not to appear biased, as well as angry that one person does not like the same band as you. I guess what makes me the most frustrated is that successful magazine labels such as Spin and Pitchfork are unable to recognize such unique and talented artists. I mean, a zero star rating from Spin magazine? This is a magazine that prides itself from being disconnected from the mainstream pop world. (Whether or not they think The Strokes is a great band)
I remember the first time I ever heard Coco Rosie was in the trailer for Bruce La Bruce's gay zombie film: "Otto; Or up with dead people." It was the song: "Bear hides and Buffalo." The song instantly brought to mind so many of my favorite things. Tim Burton art, Edward Gorey stories, 1950's horror movie specials, Gothic cemeteries, and to see it synced to a gloriously creepy trailer for a gay zombie film made it one of the best film trailers of the year. That song just happened to be on what was to become my favorite Coco Rosie album, "Noah's Ark. Which is an album that is like a journey beginning on the pink back drop of their album cover art and ending on a beautiful eye opening wake from a long and nightmarishly beautiful dream.
It is my personal opinion, that in a world in which indie music has become commercialized, and repetitive within so many up and coming bands that all sound like Death Cab for Cutie imitation robots, Coco Rosie stands alone and apart. Their sound is balanced between fantasy and reality. Heavenly and hell bound. Vocal art and performance art.
Want to voice your opinion? Pour the coco Rosie cereal into bowl and grab your spoons.
This ones for them..