Ladies, imagine being a Vice writer. Just walking around everywhere with your entitlement and ennui and midlength penis all gently bouncing in step; wearing a male tank top or a waxed mustache or some shit. Imagine having an ironic, retro-sexist dudebro-voice and getting together with a couple of other white guys and some cocaine and making your not-at-all-different voices all sync up as tautly as your nihilistic senses of humor, then snuggling all up together (no homo!) in a big Bushwick loft of partially employed trust-fund kids while something noninformative is happening on the Internet. What a life. I guess there’s the whole “everyone in the world thinks I’m an asshole” thing to deal with, too, but let’s not split hairs here: Vice writers got it pretty fucking made.
God, you mean Vice are actually still publishing these “look at me!” misogynist/offensive/defiantly irrelevant capsule record reviews..? Is it like a running joke or something?
You’d think they’d have thought up something new to do in the eight years or whatever since I picked up my first & last issue.
Still, can keep this as a reminder for the next time I find myself thinking “well, Dead Moon and Ian Svenonius worked with these guys, how bad can they be?”
The new non-branded ‘underground’ type music venue they’ve just opened in London sucks too. I mean, of course it does. Please shady booking agents, pull your acts outta there and maybe we can go and see some groups in places where we might be able to afford beer and actually feel like drinking it. Somewhere with furniture and people who smile and shit like that.
I think I’m getting off the point a bit? Probably time to hit ‘post’.