Thursday, August 28, 2008

Ham on Rye

I've lot of news from the pony express mail bag today and a pretty serious rant. It'll be like a news sandwich, good news/bad news/good news, no dijon.

Last night, Megan and I decided to make it official. We're going to go down to the courthouse! To buy the name next week (after we both get paid, duh) and turn this shit into a media empire, of course. It's not like we're getting married or anything. That would be gay.

It is mind-blowing to both of us what has happened in the last two months with this project and it is really satisfying to sprawl out in a booth in Churchill's and think "hey, maybe this is something we don't totally suck at." Here is my Mariah Carey moment, if we didn't have the support of our readers and friends and everyone who has pushed their dignity aside to plug us, we'd still just be a bunch of frumpy bitches dicking around on the internet. I mean, we still are, but we are a bunch of frumpy bitches with fans dicking around on the internet.

With all of that out of the way, I feel like it's time to address the unofficial Pony Girl Club mission statement. In our myspace's "about me" section Megan hits the nail on the head when she says "we are trying to find an honest language to talk about music in ways that are useful," because that is the entire reason we began this fuckery. I got so sick of bands I liked not getting enough attention because the writers over at other certain weblications were too busy swordfighting with their friends' bands (not the cool kind like in an epic battle, rather the kind where two straight dudes touch weenies) or certain bands being plugged because their label happens to bring in a great deal of ad revenue for another certain publication. I know what it's like to run a publication that is controlled by ad revenue and it sucks. Our main interest is (surprisingly, not Spencer Krug) bringing our readers stuff that we would want to know about a band without the bullshit of playing nice because so and so might pull their ads if we shit talk a band. The first promise I made myself when we started this blog was that I wasn't going to do favors for friends because that takes the honesty out of my writing and my credibility will exponentially decay. I like most of my friends' bands, although some of them include ultra-offensive hip-hop side projects or fake speed metal bands that I cringe at and look the other way, but unless you put out an album or play a show, you probably won't make it onto the site. We're never short on actual news, we're just short on time. Basically, I'm not going to write some sugar-spun feature about your shit just because you grew a fucking beard or I think your guitarist has a pretty bad case of the cute with a touch of the hot because it's not fair. You know what else? Sometimes I just don't like stuff. Okay, most of the time I just don't like stuff. I'm gonna be honest about it, because that's the only language we speak here at the Pony Girl Club.

For the tangy rye crust of this news sandwich, I'd like to officially welcome Dr. Bubastis as the newest Pony Girl. You may remember him ripping me a new one when I said the Refused were influential a while back, or more recently his Jeff Lewis style freakout about most of the venues in San Diego. The Doctor is not a freelance gynecologist like my other doctorly friends, but is rather fiendish in nature and sports a handlebar mustache. We're afraid he might tie us to the train tracks one of these days, coattails flapping in the wind. We tried to make a video of us hazing him into the ways of the Pony Girl but he and his mustache wanted to stay faceless. It's easier to be a mysterious villain that way. I can give you a rough recap of what happened though. We started out the day by demanding that the doctor procure a flat-bed tow truck so we can put two chaise lounges on the back and drink mimosas in our lolita sunglasses and bathing suits while he drives us by the beach. I like the beach, but I hate sand. It worked perfectly that way. Next, we strapped him to a chair and put on that headgear from A Clockwork Orange that peels your eyes open with tiny metal spider legs and made him watch all the Spencer Krug videos on youtube. Currently he alternates between being in love with Spencer and thinking he actually is The Krug. It's a little weird. We prefer when he thinks he is Spencer, personally.

Megan here, and I must concur that the Doctor is much more pleasant on those occasions when he believes himself to be the Krug. Last time he tuned my autoharp and gathered wildflowers and arranged them in the sitting room. Usually he lurks in the darkness, occasionally twisting his mustache and laughing maniacally.

Next in our day of hazing, we had a drinking contest with the Doctor but we didn't tell him that we were doing shots of water while he was doing shots of rumplemintz (sorry doc!). Next, we lined up all our female friends and had him run the gauntlet a few times while we hit him with pillows. Then we curled his eyelashes. We made him eat a jar of jalapenos and wash it down with a couple Arrogant Bastards, then we drove him around listening to Mariah Carey (and us singing along at top volume) until he puked on one of our ex-boyfriend's lawns. I think now he's ready to be a ponygirl.

in ponies you will always trust,

'stina and megan elizabeth

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