Dandys Rule, OK?

My Dandy Warhols love fest culminated this weekend after my viewing of the outstanding documentary Dig!, thoroughly cementing both the Brian Jonestown Massacre and the Warhols in my personal rock hero echelon. The viewing took place in my apartment way too late at night; thankfully, due to my rather secluded living quarters, I was able to really enjoy the experience.

I fired up the projector and the rest of the home theater and began the journey. About 15 minutes in, with my favorite songs interwoven with the footage of temper flares and the "rocknroll lifestyle," I busted out the guitar and started playing and singing along, at least to the Dandys songs. It was the ultimate rocking out in your underwear moment, with my silhouette dancing along with the bands across my wall, and indeed, across America and the world.

In any case, it really made me miss playing music with people. Later in the weekend, at a dinner party hosted at my house, one of my guests saw my guitars and my drums and before you know it we were rolling out the 12 bar carpet for some lazy Southern blues. Yeah, we got the blues. You should have seen it. Everyone at the party just started crying. It was so sad.