Below is an airtight case for why I am deserving of your ticket. But since the Felice Brothers are fairly awesome, and the accompanying demand undoubtedly pretty high, you’ve probably gotten a lot of these, so I’ll do you the favor of a condensed version, in case you don’t have time to read the whole thing. Basically, if you don’t want me to suffer a fate of extreme envy, coitus interruptus, boredom, blind masturbation, and general dejectedness, you’d be doing the right thing by hooking me up with that ticket.
Read on for more details and answers to your specific questions…
About me: I was born a poor black child…
No, not really. I’m a boring Caucasian, though I’ve passed for Peruvian, Egyptian, and even, somehow, Cambodian. I live in DC, edit a newspaper, and sometimes draw archetypal sketches while on drugs. I enjoy playing music, listening to music, feeling music, and moving to music, but I hate tasting music. (See below for more on my culinary preferences.)
I used to get a lot of free tickets to shows when I lived with the arts editor of the City Paper. Now I get my tickets through essay contests, mostly.
Why I like the Felice Brothers: Cause they enhance sexual performance
It was a dark and stormy night — dark because all nights are, and stormy because I was in Berlin, where it rained nearly every day during my two-month visit. I was in my bedroom with a girl I’d been seeing. We’d introduced each other to a fair amount of music: I’d shared a lot of alt-country with her, since the genre hasn’t really made inroads into Germany yet; she shared some crappy Europop with me, as well as the Dylan album “Planet Waves.” But I’d made the mistake of telling her that I’d recorded some songs with a few friends in their basement, and so of course she wanted to hear them. At this point, we were partially undressed, and I had some sense of the impending danger, but I went ahead and double-clicked the track at the top of the iTunes playlist with a few of our songs.
After about three seconds of listening, the disrobing resumed, and then the lovemaking commenced. It was the first time, to the best of my recollection, that I’d boned to the sound of my own voice/guitar-playing/harp-blowing/drumming. And it was very, very distracting. I tried hard to keep my mind on the task at hand, but I kept noticing mistakes we’d made and nice little guitar fills by my friend…. I could feel that I was overcompensating by wearing a look of intense (probably comical) concentration on my face. Eventually, when the music got around to Wilco’s “Via Chicago,” and everyone starting pounding his instrument at random during that weird entropy section, I lost it completely and had to give up.
BUT: I recall very clearly that the track during which I performed best was “Frankie’s Gun!” It’s attached for your listening pleasure. Please note that the recording quality is poor, and that I’m playing drums, which I do not actually play.
Why I deserve the ticket: Cause all the cool kids have ‘em
So, that track I gave you? All the other guys playing on it are going to the show. Seriously. I don’t know how I missed out. But don’t make me sit at home alone on Friday night, listening to “Adventures of the Felice Brothers Vol. 1,” masturbating in the dark, and waiting for the tears to come.
My favorite food: Spaghetti-Eis
My dad’s from Munich, and when I was a kid, we went there most summers to visit my grandparents. There was this cafe called Cafe Venezia (now closed) where my brother and I loved to hang out. Every time, we’d order Spaghetti-Eis, which translates roughly to spaghetti ice cream. They’d squeeze vanilla ice cream through a spaghetti maker and then top it with red fruit sauce and white chocolate shavings. I’d probably find it disgusting now, but back then it seemed pretty awesome.
If I could meet anyone in the world, it would be: YOU
On Friday night, ticket in hand. Pretty please with some red fruit sauce and white chocolate shavings on top?
(Taken from Washington City Paper)