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June 14, 2024

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Working Girl Laments! Snowfuck To The Rescue!
By: ChicaLishis

Hahahahahaha. It's not Avon, just me! Chica Lishis! Surprise! I bet you thought it was Avon, didn't you? Just for a minute at least, eh?
Oh dear. Ours is a sad state of affairs out there in Clubland. Kids, our lovely world of indie-rock is getting cleaned up, white-washed, regurgitated and fed back to us in an atmosphere of safety and security. Me and my best girl, Bekki Beautiful, went out the other night for an evening of naughty frivolity and encountered nothing but good, clean fun. A club, all-ages, with no alcohol (damn the Oregon Liquor Control Commission), no smoking (like non-smokers are gonna live forever), hardly a stoned, tweaking/tripping clubgoer to be seen, and rock bands that would make your granny smile and say, "Oh you crazy kids!" with affection and warmth.

What appears to be the problem? When did we turn away from bloody noses and broken bones in the mosh pit to politely standing in front of a band and clapping nicely at the end of each song? Why have we chosen to stop that ultimate form of rebellion against Ma & Pa, lighting-up a substance of choice, in favor of spending a ripe old age on food stamps, smashed into a tiny one-bedroom apartment with, like, a bazillion cats? When did we stop liking music that may have sucked, but was played so loud, and with such sincerity, by such a bunch of dipshit outcast that we couldn't help but throw ourselves off venue balconies just to be a part of the show? Would someone please tell me, what day, exactly, did we, as a sub-culture, actually buy into "Just Say No" to rebellion, to angst, to frustrated rage unleashed every weekend upon each other in sweaty, uncontrollable bursts of psychotic pleasure? (Sigh.) I'm sure I don't know. But I do know that we could maybe bring back the old vices, if we could just market them better.

Yes, we are a society who loves a good marketing job. We hold celebrities in high esteem, when in fact; it is the marketers and publicist who really steal our hearts. Making stars out of old ladies who demonstrate how cool Old Navy Performance Fleece is. Pushing talking Chihuahuas into TV commercials until the animal shelters are filled with these abandoned, yappy, ill-tempered and over bred dogs that, suddenly, a family of four doesn't want anymore 'cause the beast never once said "Yo Quiero Taco Bell." Well, goodness, if they can put that shit over on the American public, I'm sure that, with the help of all three of you who read this column, we can start a new movement that will send this latest wave of purity packing.

So, here's my plan. We make up NEW NAMES for old sins! Huh, what d'ya thinks? Pretty clever, I know. That's why I'm Chica Lishis and you're just... whoever you are. So, start working these into your nightly conversations, and see if you can't bring some white sheep back to the black.

BAD WORDS: Passed Out
Remember when a "passed out" friend use to be the highlight of the night? You would bust out the magic markers, or drag 'em to the nearest tattoo parlor, branding your homie with the sentiment "I Love Barry Manilow"? Or pimp 'em out to the highest bidder for extra drink money? Good times. But now, friends are all like, "I don't want to hang with you anymore. You drink too much, pass out, and then puke in my car."
Who doesn't like nap time? The connotations of nap time pleasures are rooted deep in our psyche beginning with babyhood, when we got to wallow in our own filth and sleep whenever we felt like it, and continuing up to lovely kindergarten where we got our own mats, and after nap time they served us graham crackers and milk. Remember? Yes, "Nap Time" totally rocks. It's just the replacement phrase "Passed Out" needs.
IN A SENTENCE: Nap Time was great. I feel really refreshed. Thanks for making sure I didn't choke on my own vomit. Next time you have Nap Time, I'll do the same for you.

BAD WORD: Cigarette
I think once the Cold War was over, people had to find a new evil to hate. They seemed to have landed on tobacco. Probably because actual air pollution, like carbon monoxide and that horrible fog stuff they spray into the air at dance clubs, are really too much for a person of low to no intelligence to take on. It's much easier to accost a lone smoker on the sidewalk with your righteous indignation, than it is to say... take on the car companies and their exhaust emissions, or deny ravers their God-given right to swirl glow sticks around in the midst of stinky fake fog.
REPLACEMENT: Delicious Cylinder of Happiness
Face it. Smokers are happier folks than non-smokers. Oh sure, odds are they'll die a lot younger, but what's the point being around if you're just gonna be uptight the whole time? Smokers get grouchy; they take a "smoke break" and come back with a new and better attitude. Non-smokers get grouchy; they go kill somebody. IT'S TRUE!
IN A SENTENCE: You appear stressed, Sister Moon. How about a Delicious Cylinder of Happiness?

BAD WORDS: This band is great!
Is it really great? Or did some hottie merch girl just sucker you into buying a t-shirt, and now you don't want to appear a tool to your friends. Let's call it like it is, kids...
REPLACEMENT: This band sucks!
Just because you heard 'em on the radio, doesn't mean their good, and visa versa. Just because you didn't hear them on the radio doesn't mean their good either. Huh? Well, okay, maybe I can help you like this, here are my expert journalist criteria for judging a good band: 1) Are they cute? 2) Did they let me in for free? See how easy it is! Just because a band is getting air-time doesn't necessarily mean they deserve your time too.
IN A SENTENCE: I have to pay to see Creed? This band sucks.

Now, don't confuse "Drunk" with "Passed Out". The former indicates drinking to the black out stage, while the latter denotes full-on unconsciousness. People think, just because you've blacked out, with motor skills still motoring around the joint, that this is a bad thing. But believe me, there are nights I would have way rather forgotten the details, instead of waking up the next morning with a vague sense of shame, scrambling for my clothes, and wondering if this is the apartment of the guy I woke up next to.
REPLACEMENT: Alcoholical
Now, isn't that much nicer? It even has a sing-songy sound to it!
IN A SENTENCE: I had an Alcoholical good time with you last night. Did we sleep together?

Now, get out there and sleaze it up a little, won't you? Things are getting entirely too safe. And don't give me that whiny, "It's about the music, man." Wrong, it's not just about the music; it's about the atmosphere of rebellion that accompanies the greatest bands everywhere they go. The "Fuck you, world. Hope I die before I get old" attitude that makes the little girls scream with lust, and the boys in the pit punch harder and faster. It's the dangerous realization that, "Hey, I might not come home tonight, 'cause the band's gonna be fierce, and whip shit into a frenzy, and somebody could get hurt in the pit, or crushed by the gyrating bodies, or die of an overdose." And THAT my friends, is rock 'n roll.

Just in timberlake to you too,

If you did, by chance, wish to place an Avon order, do give me a jingle! [email protected]

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