There was a time when I would have believed you.

I may have been less than honest yesterday. There is some more advice worth giving you. This advice is more for my work place carbie counterparts than anyone else, but it bears mentioning nonetheless. Do not eat the pretzels in the vending machine. They are not for you. They are for me. How and why I know this is beside the point. Suffice to say the pretzels, like most things, are there for a reason, and your consumption is not it.

According to this SOURCE, and many others, my Derek and other Big Leaguers will be swinging pink bats on mothers day to raise awareness for Breast Cancer. It is just so sweet it almost brought a tear to my eye, but then I remembered it is not about me, it is about how cute Derek looks swinging a pink bat.

Destroyer last night: The opening bands were a let down. The first band Hudson Bell were by far the best, and by best I mean the least irritating. These boys hail from San Francisco and are obviously fond of Mogwai, but when the rhythm guitarist and singer keeps losing his guitar due to a faulty guitar strap, it is not a good thing when it doesn't effect the music. They had the unison hop down to a science, however, and regardless of how derivative, they have managed to derive an interesting sound.

That can not be said about the second band Psychic Ills. Since they hail from NYC it seems redundant to go into specifics as to why they suck, but I can type fast, and this is a subject I feel strongly about. I am sure someone in this band is among the four or five people that think Gang Gang Dance is the new Hugo Largo, but this is LA, and we do not believe in being artistic for the sake of being boring. With no sense of song structure or melody, it was a pseudo-psychedelic drone of a show that took interesting moments, and turned them into moooooooooments. It was like watching a five year old child that makes someone laugh do the same thing over and over to elicit the same response. After a while it is just embarrassing.

Little can be said about the third opening act Blood On The Wall other than they were obviously channeling the Pixies, but the last time I checked the Pixies weren't dead. They get got some applause for trying.

Destroyer was in a word stunning. Their sound was impeccable, and they played most of the new album. If you haven't picked up Rubies you should really do something nice for yourself. And if you get a chance to see them in person you should try. During the entire set I was lamenting the fact that I could not physically kick myself for the times I could have seen them, but managed to convice myself that television was my oldest and dearest friend.

As for the crowd and the talent. I made a little more effort this time. I did wear a vintage shirt. Vintage YvesSaintLaurent, but vintage nonetheless. It still clashed a bit with the theme. As I was standing in the smoking lounge it hit me like a ton of bad plaid that when these people say vintage they mean Strawberry Shortcake talking Gloria Steinem down from a bad acid trip vintage. I get points for trying. I think. Don't I?

On a separate, but not unrelated note. The whole At The Drive In hair is a bad mother frackin idea. White boys do not look good in afros. White boys do not look interesting in afros. White boys do not look sexy in afros. White boys do not look complicated in afros. I could copy paste and replace that sentence with all manner of adjectives all day and each sentence would adequately reflect my feelings about the At The Drive In hair. Don't do it! It makes me want to strike you!

At work, and luckily I slept in because when I got here I learned that the caca had hit the proverbial fan causing one hell of a shit storm. I won't get into it since I learned it all second hand. But as I gather, accusations were made, names were called, and characters were assailed. It's fun watching lawyers piss in their own sandbox. I'm kinda sad I missed it.

I almost forgot. Vainglorious is my word of the day.