*incoherent rant to follow*

Man, I thought Peter Bjorn and John's reign of terror had ceased sometime around early July when ahead-of-the-curve radio stations like 103.1 and clubs like the Echo finally recognized that "Young Folks" had run its course. I was so wrong. Now that mainstream radio is playing it and every TV show that wants to be hip is licensing it and James Frickin' Blunt is covering it, I expect it'll be months before I get that goddamn whistling out of my head.

"Young Folks" offends me on two levels: first, I can't whistle, so it's like the refrain is taunting me. Second, I just found out that the group Peter Bjorn and John isn't made up of two guys (one named Peter Bjorn and the other simply John), but is actually three guys, none of whom ever learned how to use a comma. That sort of thing bugs the shit out of me. Like when Fergie sings "I'm gonna miss you like a child misses their blanket." God help me, I actually sat through that entire song twice because I thought I might have misheard it the first time. But no. Whose blanket, Fergie? Whose fucking blanket?

A new year, a new start?

I'm a bad Jew, I guess, for going to work today, but seeing as this is my first full week at NWE I hope I'm excused.
Anyway, for the first time in sixteen-odd years it's September and I'm not starting school. I don't think I've processed this yet, maybe because the transition to full-time coincided so neatly with the start of the new Pomona semester. And while my summer was far from a vacation, it nonetheless effectively ended the way all my summer vacations have ended for the past five years--with a plane ride from Massachusetts to Southern California.
But--and this is a scary realization--from pretty much this exact point onward, life won't have those neat little pre-cut sections anymore. Up until now, every single memory I've retained has been branded with what grade I was in at the time. Furthermore, every school year and every summer has been a unique, almost self-contained experience--the third grade spent in California, the summer in Scotland, the sophomore year in which I learned to like college, the sixth grade where I suddenly became unpopular and yearned for the fresh start middle school would bring.
So now that I don't have that, will my years start running into each other until it's all just a meaningless blur? With apologies to "Rent", how will I measure, measure a year?
In birthdays, in jobs, in apartments, in boyfriends? In oil changes, in haircuts, in contact lenses? In gym memberships, in gallons of milk, in loads of laundry? In seasons of "24"?
How about love?
(Actually, that part of the song never made sense to me. Isn't love, like, intangible? That would seem to interfere with its effectiveness as a measuring unit.)
Happy Rosh Hashanah.

Requiem for a thing.

My iPod died on Saturday. By means of a carefully delivered whack on the table, I was able to resurrect it just long enough to back up all my songs. But then it went and died again, this time taking its music along with it. After about fifteen system restores, it's now in some kind of vegetative state wherein it acts normal when it isn't plugged in, but freezes up whenever I try to put my music back on it.
This is a problem. I hadn't realized how dependent I'd become on my three-inch-long friend. This morning, for example, a bit of construction on the 134 meant five-odd minutes of bumper-to-bumper traffic. Had my iPod been working, I could have scrolled through thousands of songs and come up with the perfect musical selection--something chill, but still upbeat enough that I wouldn't drift off and hit the car in front of me. Without an iPod, and with a broken car antenna that only lets in Jack FM, my options were thus:

1. Silence
2. "Feel Like Making Love" by Bad Company

Guess what I've had stuck in my head ALL FREAKING DAY?

So now I have to get a new iPod. I feel like I shouldn't, to protest Apple's nasty penchant for designing products that expire right after their warranties do, but, well...when I live without my iPod, I live without love. And that's just not acceptable.

So I guess I should update.

Now that I'm working three jobs, time to myself has become a major commodity. Today was my first day off following a 60-hour work week, and I took the opportunity to sleep in, eat an enormous breakfast, do some laundry and devour my roommate's copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (pretty good despite the lame-ass epilogue, a lot of unanswered questions and some blatant borrowing from Lord of the Rings.)
My third job is at a micro-winery run by a friend of a friend, and it's been fun so far. Business is slow most days, but we do get the occasional customer. I have to say, it's pretty funny watching people taste wine, especially the ones who take it really seriously. The best are the men who bring their wives/dates in for a tasting and attempt to show off their vast wine expertise by questioning us, the staff, about mouth feel and varietals and tannins and such, at which point I just want to say "It's $16 a bottle! Get a grip!" but usually don't.
My own knowledge of wine has increased dramatically over the past two weeks, but that's not saying much--before I took this job, the only "varietals" I knew about were "comes in a box", "two-buck Chuck" and "ooh, let's get that, it has a cute animal on the label."
Oh, and I'm 22 now, and have been feeling simultaneously older than I've ever felt and younger than I've ever felt. It's odd.

Recent good things:

• I hosted my friend Susi, who had a four-day stopover in LA on her way from New York to her home country, Germany. Good times and quality beer.

• I got to pull Russian music for a project that shall go unnamed (confidentiality agreement and all). but that involves Steve Carrell standing in Red Square. Finally, a use for my major!

• In honor of the Simpsons movie, eleven 7-11s have been transformed into Kwik-E-Marts. One of them is down the street from my office. Score one for working in Burbank, the epicenter of the entertainment industry. I didn't take the photo, but trust me, it's all this and more:

In which I meet Adolph Hipster.

The Echo's had some good shows recently. Two Fridays ago it was the Raveonettes--yet another boy-girl indie rock duo, but at least they're not married. Saturday was SoCalled, a Canadian group going for that ever-broadening indie/hip-hop/klezmer demographic. The following Tuesday, the Cold War Kids played a benefit show that had the hipsters lining up around the block. The show was awesome--if I hadn't been able to see it for free I would've lined up and paid the $20 in a heartbeat, I swear. And then last Thursday there were a bunch of bands who all went to the same high school as one of my NWE coworkers. Sadly, the streak ended Saturday thanks to several ironic-techno-spinning DJs. What sticks with me most about that night was a certain patron whose facial hair was so controversial, I couldn't help asking about it.

RACHEL (while wristbanding): Dude, um, what's with the mustache?
GUY WITH HITLER MUSTACHE: What do you mean?
RACHEL: Just...careful how many Jews you offend with that thing, you know?
GIRL CLUTCHING ARM OF GUY WITH HITLER MUSTACHE: (giggles) Oh, it's OK, I'm Jewish!

Now, that mustache would've looked disgusting even if it didn't immediately recall the most reviled dictator/mass murderer of this past century. There are certain guys who intentionally try to camouflage their good looks as much as possible--even if they don't have any to begin with--and this guy (who was also wearing a neon vest and proto-mullet) was definitely one of them. I honestly don't think he was thinking about you-know-who when he inflicted that hideous patch on his upper lip. But it seems to me that even the most ironically repulsive hipster wouldn't have been able to sport the 'stache for more than a few hours before a glance in the mirror--or maybe a Jewish girlfriend--made him come to his senses and break out the Schick Quattro.
So either this guy and his girlfriend are into some seriously kinky role-playing, or they are the two most oblivious people ever to walk this earth. Either way, I'd like to categorically state that Hitler mustaches are just plain Not Okay. Unless you're a cat. But even then it's creepy.

Facing my phobia the hard way...

OK, so anyone who knows me knows that bees freak me out. Well, guess what happens to be located somewhere in the ceiling of my new apartment? That's right. A whole freakin' nest of them. At first I thought the mysterious buzzing sound I heard whenever I went to the bathroom was an electrical problem. No such luck. Yesterday was the first day I was home in the morning; once I noticed the steady stream of bees flying in and out of a spot somewhere above my window, I called the manager, who as it turned out had already hired an exterminator. The exterminator came today, but I'm thinking he did so when the bees were out gathering pollen or whatever it is they do, because now they're all back and they're all pissed. Wouldn't you be if you came home from a normal day at work to find your house destroyed and your children poisoned to death?
What's worse than a bee's nest somewhere in your ceiling? Uh, I don't know, how about a SWARM of FUCKING DISGRUNTLED BEES throwing themselves at your window? Maybe they'll give up and find another place to nest, but I'm guessing they'll bond in the face of today's tragic events, embark on a journey of healing and rebirth, and declare a War on Humans, starting with me. My window really isn't all that thick.