Thing of the Week: Lucky Leif and the Longships, The Girl with the Paul McCartney Tattoo, The Best TGIF Dog

LJ'S THING OF THE WEEK: Lucky Leif and the Longships by Robert Calvert 

Lucky Leif and the Longships by Robert Calvert (who is the singer from Hawkwind) is a concept album produced by Brian Eno about what America might have been like if it were colonized by Vikings. A BRIAN ENO-PRODUCED CONCEPT ALBUM ABOUT VIKINGS FROM THE LEAD SINGER OF HAWKWIND?!?!?! Are you kidding me?!? That shit has my name written all over it. It's the exact sort of thing I would love- and I do! 

Lucky Leif sounds like Something/Anything? by Todd Rundgren mixed with Sides 5 & 6 of Sandinista! by the Clash mixed with that very tidy waterfall of shimmering light that only Brian Eno knows how to make guitars sound like. Last night I was stoned and cleaning my room and listened to Here Come The Warm Jets followed by Let It Be and got really into imagining what Let It Be would have sounded like if Brian Eno produced it. Probably awesome! Anyway, that's an aside. (But definitely one worth thinking about.)

My favorite song on Lucky Leif is called "Magical Potion." It sounds like "Blank Frank" by Brian Eno on Percoset on a beach, and also on Quaaludes. Mr. Calvert's pronunciation of the word "California" is very thrilling to me. My second-favorite song on Lucky Leif is called "The Lay of the Surfers," and guess what??? It's a Beach Boys pastiche!!! There are few things in this world I love more than a good Beach Boys pastiche; I seriously don't relate to any/all musicians who ever made a record that doesn't have a Beach Boys pastiche on it. Like, get it together, fun-haters. "The Lay of the Surfers" might be my second-fav Beach Boys pastiche EVER, after "Back in the USSR" (obvs). It says the words "watery grave"! "We're gonna rock it to our watery grave," to be exact. Cool sentence. Then there's this really embarrassing "Barbara Ann"/"barbarian" pun part that makes me want to kill myself/is so awesome. 

The last track is called "Cricket Lovely Reggae", a title that would bring ample charm and intrigue to any mix CD tracklist, in my opinion. It's about becoming a cricket star, and it's a reggae song. "A cricket star is something to be," sings Robert Calvert, and it's definitely the weirdest "Working Class Hero" reference to ever have existed.

LIZ'S THING OF THE WEEK: The Paul McCartney Tattoo On The Right Arm Of The Rad Girl I Met At Native Foods On Tuesday

Tuesday was my last day of my UCLA class with my amazing teacher and afterward I went to Native Foods for a Sesame Kale Macro Bowl, which looks like this. I was wearing my Paul McCartney shirt and the girl waiting on me told me how she loved my shirt and loves Paul McCartney and how she's met Paul McCartney twice, and one of those times he signed her arm and then she got a tattoo of his autograph. So we cutely bugged out a while about our mutual Paul love and I asked if I could take a picture of her tattoo and she said sure and I Instagram'd it and everyone loved it so much. And then the girl found me on Instagram! And commented on my pic and it was adorable. Then I went to her Etsy page and now I want this necklace and also this Ringo pic. And this morning I listened to the bonus tracks on the 2012 remaster of Ram and stared happily at that picture of Paul at right above and named it "A Paul for Fall," and everything was fun and sparkling and perfect and good. Paul McCartney is my thing every week, but especially this one.

  

JEN'S THING OF THE WEEK: THE BEST TGIF DOG EVER

Joan got a job! A good & cool one, even! We were out having some celebratory prosecco-on-tap when this overwhelmingly adorable dog was spotted. Joan has a new Dog of the Day blog so she introduced herself to Maisey  (the dog). Then she took the best TGIF dog photo ever. It’s perfect - I can’t get over it. TGIF Maisey.

LAURA JANE'S QUITTING SMOKING JOURNALS: Week Whatevs/Forevs

BY LAURA JANE (ILLUSTRATION BY JEN)

(Archives: Week 1, Week 2, Week 3, Week 4)

I quit smoking one week ago yesterday. It's true that cold turkey's the only way to go- if you really want to quit smoking, you'll be too fed up with smoking to fuck around with quitting smoking aids. If you want to quit smoking, there's nothing you can do to stop yourself. It's really cool and easy. 

Two weeks ago, I fell off my "cutting down" wagon, and it was terrible. I hated the cigarettes I hated myself for smoking more than I've ever hated anything in my life. I cried so much that week. I smoked and cried. 

Last Tuesday, I showed up to therapy and said "Today I only want to talk about smoking" and so we did. Forty minutes into the session my therapist asked me why I always insist on drawing a black line straight across the painting of my life and I started to cry and I'm crying again just thinking about it. She asked me why I was crying and I told her "Because I don't want to do that anymore." She told me to quit smoking that afternoon and I told her there was no chance that would happen but when I walked outside I pulled out the pack of Marlboro 100s Liz had sent me and there was only one left. I lit up and thought about how the rest of my day would unfold and since I was now out of cigarettes started wondering when and where I could fit in buying a new pack, and then I thought, "Am I really going to go and buy another fucking pack of fucking Belmonts?" and I realized that I couldn't. That was the moment.

The last cigarette I ever smoked was a Marlboro, in the rain, wearing leopard-print- so that's cute. While I smoked it I tried to remember why I'd once thought I loved this but all I could focus on was "This is nothing" and tossed it away- I didn't even smoke it down to the quick. I started crying tears of joy and bought myself an iced latte and breakfast sandwich to celebrate. Hours passed and I started feeling weird- nicotine withdrawal- but I toughed it out. I looked forward to the withdrawal period passing so that I could go back to being my normal self again, my normal self only even BETTER because she wouldn't smoke then!!! That's me today. I woke up the second morning and the withdrawal symptoms were so vicious I thought I might vomit but I got through it. Work was crazy-busy that night and it distracted me and by the time I got home I was in the clear. It stopped being hard. 

I had my first really difficult day a couple days ago, on my sixth day- I was feeling anxiety about a number of things and it made me think I WANT TO SMOKE A CIGARETTE NOW, since I'm used to lighting a cigarette anytime I ever feel anxiety about anything. But then I thought of all the times in my life I've smoked to alleviate anxiety and asked myself if a cigarette had ever really fixed it, and the answer, of course, was "Of course not." 

My dad told me that when he quit smoking he kept a full pack of cigarettes on his bookshelf and derived strength from his being able to ignore them. My therapist told me to stick a twenty dollar bill in a jar every couple days so I can watch all the money I'm not spending on my own death and chemicals add up and then treat myself to a facial or whatever. I thought about maybe doing both of those things but the thing that became mine happened on its own- I've left my shitty old tin Canada flag ashtray out on the white plastic table on my patio. Every time I come and go I look at that empty ashtray and think about the shame I used to feel every time I noticed how fast I filled it up. Now there's no cigarette butts in it ever, because I don't smoke cigarettes. 

I really have nothing else to say about this. Before bed I sit outside and feel the air and hear a song. When I walk down the street instead of hunching into my cigarette I look at the clouds and the buildings. I hate smoking and I hate cigarettes; I quit smoking because I smoked until I hated smoking and then I quit. The Allen Carr book didn't work for me and neither did cutting down and I didn't take Zyban and I never had a patch or chewed Nicorette or smoked an e-cigarette. If you want to quit smoking, you'll quit smoking, and if  you don't want to quit smoking, don't force yourself. It'll either happen or never happen and that's your story. This was mine, and this is how it went for me, and now I'm bored of writing about it. 

An image of a bed on Storychord by me

I have an illustration in the current issue of Storychord, alongside a sad, dark, lovely, touching and gross story by Juli Min and a song by Ruin/Renewal. Check it out, please! I also recommend checking out Juli Min’s beautiful photo blog. That is all!

PS if you somehow still haven’t read Liz & Laura Jane’s Storychord stories, you should.

xo Jen

FUCK YEAH LIMITED EDITION RITTER SPORT

(BY LAURA JANE) 

I LOVE RITTER SPORT! Always have, always will, and deeply.

I'm not sure how you are supposed to pluralize "Ritter Sport"- do you keep it as Ritter Sport (like moose), or do you make it Ritter Sports? I am also curious as to why the word "sport" is in the name of a chocolate bar. I just typed "sport" into a German to English translation website, hoping that maybe "sport" is German for "chocolate" and it would all come into perfect focus for me, but as it turns out, "sport" in German means "sport." "Chocolate" in German is shokolade, so there's a cool new thing about Germany we all learned today. 

Anyway, Ritter Sport(s) is(/are) the best food in the world. My favorite flavor is "milk chocolate with butter biscuit," and next-best I like the extra dark chocolate, and then the white chocolate with whole hazelnuts, which tastes like something you should spend $7 on at a patisserie. No, I'm underselling it- $9. 

Another cool Ritter fact: the other day I had a Ritter Sport in my bag and every time I reached into my bag for my phone I thought my Ritter Sport was my phone. I guess nothing is really cool about that but I think the size and shape and weight of both iPhones and Ritter Sports are very appealing sizes and shapes and weights. I was just about to type the sentence "They're so sleek and firm" but then I really creeped myself out with that one so forget it. Nothing is sleek, nothing is firm. I'm weird. 

There's a store by my house called Village Market that has the most extensive selection of Ritter Sport I've ever encountered. Last summer they started selling these really lovely pastel springtime limited edition Ritter Sports and I got super into the Bourbon Vanille which tasted like apricot pudding and Gone With The Wind. I'd go to Village Market like once a week to buy them but the fucked part is that last summer I lived a twenty-five minute walk from where I live now, so I was going dare I say insanely far out of my way to get my cutesy Ritter Sport fix. They also had this white chocolate coconut flavor with crunchy rice bits that burned your teeth off and it was worth it. 

(PS At the same time as I'm writing this blog post I'm reading a website called "Jim's Chocolate Mission" where my new pal Jim reviews every Limited Edition Ritter Sport ever made including a bunch of too-wacky-for-North-America yogurt flavs and also this Amarena Kirsch thing that I'm now obsessed with in my head.)

Last winter Village Market started selling these Ritter Sport "Winter-Kreations" and I fell head over heels for the "Vanillekipferl" flavor, which is called "Vanilla Crescent Cookie" in boring English. It tasted like eating gold, the flaky gold prospectors used to pan for in the olden days, or the moon. Like the moon's surface had been packed into a wall of milk chocolate by the magical innovators who work for Ritter Sport.

The coolest part about Vanillekipferl is that I was pretty much the only person in Toronto who bought them, so Village Market was left with so much overstock that they had to mark them way the hell down and by February my Vanillekipferl cost a mere NINETY-NINE CENTS apiece. Which is when I started eating them for breakfast.

Yesterday I was at Village Market buying a boring Green & Blacks Hazelnut Currant when I noticed a big display of MILK CHOCOLATE WITH STRAWBERRY CREME RITTER SPORT. They are meant to increase breast cancer awareness so holla at that. Strawberry's my favorite forever so obvs I put my dumb "healthy chocolate" away and excitedly skipped up to the counter grasping my adorable pink candy all sparkly-eyed. "I knew you would like!" said the Village Market lady. It's nice that the Village Market lady knows me as "the girl who buys up all our Limited Edition Ritter Sport" and probably also as "the girl who buys a can of Diet Coke every day." I feel very understood by her. 

I ate my Strawberry Creme Ritter Sport in the basement of my work last night. Usually the way I eat at work is I'll have some trail mix or chocolate or whatever and then every time I have to run downstairs I'll just eat a few bites so I'm never too hungry or too full. But I couldn't do that with my strawberry Ritter- it was just too good. It tasted like a strawberry ice cream sundae and I didn't care if it was a chaotic Saturday at a packed restaurant and there were things upstairs I desperately needed to be doing. I sat on the floor and savored every bite of my strawberry Ritter and it was glorious. They are the best of the best and I will buy them all until they're gone.

Thing of the Week: "Here Come The Warm Jets", Afternoon Rose & Raspberry Tarts, Pflaumen Kuchen

LJ'S THING OF THE WEEK: "Here Come The Warm Jets" by Brian Eno

I want to wear this poncho over jean shorts and Beatle boots sitting out by a campfire around the end of October drinking a Jack Daniels & Apollinaris and eating a plate of red snapper over brown rice boringly but perfectly seasoned with salt & pepper and a squeeze of lemon. My only companion would be a big old scrappy goldenrod dog and I'd be listening to "Here Come The Warm Jets" by Brian Eno- not the whole album, just the song. 

The first two Brian Eno albums always sound so perfect at the beginning of September. Right now my three favorite songs from those two records are the ones that have the least words- "On Some Faraway Beach," "Here Come The Warm Jets," and "Taking Tiger Mountain by Strategy." They all sound so peaceful and like blankets. My favorite part of "Here Come The Warm Jets" is when he sings the words "nowhere to be" over and over again; it sounds like such a wonderful nowhere, like my campfire.

LIZ'S THING OF THE WEEK: Afternoon Rose & Raspberry Tarts

(pix from here and here)

This is Figaro Cafe; it's on Vermont Ave in Los Feliz. It was on an episode of Mad Men last season, the scene where Sally bad-assed-ly orders coffee and Megan's redhead friend is her usual useless self. One time my friend Hallie was eating outside and James Franco was at the next table, sitting by himself and reading The Bible, and he told her bacon smelled good. Anyway, in the middle of the afternoon last Friday I took a little break from work and went to Skylight Books and bought Swamplandia! and then walked down to Figaro to get myself a blueberry financier. It was a gorgeously hot and sunshiney day and there were all these people sitting at the sidewalk tables, drinking cold wine and iced tea and eating croque monsieur and pomme frites and reading books and gabbing with their friends and generally being beautiful and wonderful. I was so envious! I wanted so badly to get myself a glass of rose and a raspberry tart (as seen in the bottom left corner of that photo at right), sit at an outside table and read my book and not work and be beautiful and wonderful too. Before I went freelance, I thought freelancing meant I'd get to spend so many weekday hours lazing around cafes and eating good food and not working, not a care in the world. The reality of it is that I work about 87 times more than I ever did when I slumped around an office all damn day, but I swear someday soon I'm gonna get to go to Figaro at 3:30 on a Friday afternoon and just chill with my raspberries and "see how the other half lives." I hope James Franco will be there. Maybe I'll get a lemon macaroon too.

JEN'S THING OF THE WEEK: Pflaumen Kuchen & Seltzer with Lemon

I like to make a Pflaumen Kuchen every summer and I made one at midnight last Saturday. That’s plum cake if you don’t speak German (I don’t speak German). It’s really delicious and basically, to me, an excellent coffee cake with bright magenta/purple plums on it. It’s a perfect breakfast cake. There it is on the right with a variety of other vegan cakes. I’ve also been really into seltzer this week. REALLY. With lemon, thank you.

Every Summer's An Endless Summer With Sonic Youth's 'Experimental Jet Set, Trash And No Star'

WORDS BY ELIZABETH BARKER/DRAWING BY JEN MAY

When they're not being joyless bitches, Sonic Youth are my favorite sensuists. At their best, you can feel their songs all over: they've got texture and temperature and color, so much color, and the colors are always changing. I see Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star in black and white like in the band photos in the artwork, but I also see it in cotton-candy-pink and cotton-candy-blue and dusky-purple and electric-green, all of which are colors from summer.

Experimental Jet Set, Trash and No Star came out in springtime but to me it's a summer record, it sounds like summertime really late at night, like hot thick air under a big black sky with minimal moon but gobs of stars. I listened to it a bunch over the past week and pretended summer's not ending, and it was mostly effective. Here are all the songs:

"WINNER'S BLUES." Okay let's get one thing straight: I'm going to shit-talk the hell out of Thurston Moore all over this post, but the truth of it all is that Thurston's existence has been an entirely positive influence on my development as a human being, and I love him. He's a too-tall redhead boy from way down in Florida, he's this kid, he's a total romantic. "Winner's Blues" is Thurston rolling up the sleeves of his flannel and letting his hair fall in his face and playing you a tiny little lullably on his acoustic guitar: such a sweetly backward way to start off a record.

"BULL IN THE HEATHER." Yesterday I drove from UCLA to my house in Echo Park, which is a really long way and the best part is the strip of Sunset in Bel Air that curves and zooms just like a racetrack. At the edge of Los Feliz and Silver Lake I was stuck at a red light and I fixed my hair (shook it out and redid my bun) and "Bull in the Heather" came on and it felt really right. A few weeks ago at a vintage store in my neighborhood I got a miniskirt that my friend Hallie said looks like "upholstery, in a good way," and I was wearing that plus the Rolling Stones shirt I bought in Argentina (it reads: "Los Rolling Stones"), plus cowboy boots and my heart-shaped sunglasses -- it was a perfect "singing along to 'Bull in the Heather' in the car" outfit. "Bull in the Heather" is fun to sing along to, as long as you don't sing it the way Kim sings it, all breathy and provocative or whatever the fuck. I like to sing it in the same voice Marisa Tomei used when she was hosting Saturday Night Live in 1994 and in one skit played Lisa Marie Presley and kept saying "YUM YUM, GIMME SOME" to Michael Jackson (Tim Meadows) as a prelude to making out -- i.e., deep in a dumb, slightly robotic, mock-sexy sort of way, which I find to be really fun take on Kim Gordon.

"STARFIELD ROAD." "Starfield Road" is one of those songs that will never not be exciting: it gives me the same goosebumps it did when I was 16. When I hear "Starfield Road" and I'm running, it makes me run faster and faster. When "Starfield Road" comes and I'm not running, all I want in the world is to be running. It makes me feel like I could run a million miles per hour.

Also, Kim's jumping here is so inspiring to me:




"SKINK." In my life a few guys have told me they think "Skink" is sexy. I guess I think it's sexy too, and I'm not going to let the possibility that Kim Gordon meant it to be a parody of sexy get in the way of my basking in its sexiness. It sounds like middle-of-the-afternoon, middle-of-the-summer, post-nap sex in a room with the shades pulled down and no AC. It's murky and humid, lazy in a wild way. I like how she sings "Ooh...I love...you!", not because it's sexy but because it sounds like she's sneezing. That's a really original approach to "seductive vocal delivery."

"SCREAMING SKULL." Freshman year of college I had these sky-blue Converse All-Stars that I laced with rainbow laces like I was some big weird hippie. One day my boyfriend wrote the word "Society?" on the toe of the left shoe, as a reference to "Screaming Skull," and I was so stoked: I was seventeen and I'd been waiting forever to have a boyfriend who'd write Sonic Youth words on the toes of Chuck Taylors. So then I went home for the weekend and my dad's third wife checked out my shoes and told me how cool it was that I'd gone away to college and begun questioning society and chosen to express my newly expanded social consciousness so frankly, right there on my sneakers. And I was all, "Oh, yeah, true," but really I was like, "Eww, do you think I'm twelve and just read Catcher in the Rye for the first time? What the hell, lady?" Seriously, imagine if my idea of questioning society were as rudimentary as writing the word "society" on my shoe and then putting a question mark after it? What a fucking bonehead I'd be. My head is so much better than that.

11 Solo Beatles Songs We'd Rather Die Than Live Without

"EVERY NIGHT" BY PAUL (LJ)

Paul is my favorite solo Beatle and McCartney is my favorite solo Paul. I love it because it’s shy. It reminds me of a little boy. 
        You could hear that McCartney is Paul’s first solo album even if you didn’t know it- it feels tentative, like he’s not completely sure if it’s what he’s supposed to be doing, like maybe he’s afraid he’s being bad by doing it. McCartney-Paul reminds me of a little boy climbing a forbidden fence and panicking halfway up, darting his head around to make sure no one’s watching. It sounds like an eight-year-old was given the homework assignment “Write a Paul McCartney album,” and now is standing in front of a classroom about to present it to his peers. He is wearing grey wool shorts and scratching the side of his shin with the heel of his brogue. He’s very nervous to sing, but when he finally opens his mouth, “Every Night” falls out. 
        I love McCartney for its imperfection; its scratchiness is becoming to Paul. It’s made of yarn and gluestick-stained construction paper, matchsticks, ribbon roses, pressed dry daisies- it’s a scrapbook. It’s a plaid patchwork scrapbook a little kid made, little Paul. I love every song on McCartney (except “Kreen-Akrore,” but who loves “Kreen-Akrore”? Probably only Paul, I bet), but I’ve chosen “Every Night” to be my McCartney flag-bearer because it’s the saddest, and sad Paul is my favorite.
         “Every Night” reminds you that Paul McCartney is an actual human; I usually think of him as more of a creature, an angel or an elf. But he’s not! He’s blood and bone, the Beatles broke up, he’s bumming hard, and he wrote “Every Night” about it. It makes you imagine poor sad-Paul schlumping around his cute farm in a bathrobe, letting his personal hygiene fall to shit, eating cereal and letting milk dribble down his gross black beard, being a jerk to Linda but not even that big of a jerk. My favorite’s when he sings Every day I lean a lamppost, I’m wasting my time- I can see him so clearly, Paul the lamppost-leaner: he’s wearing an overcoat and it’s overcast, his hair and eyes are black as coal against his pale face and hands, as if you turned his contrast way up.
        “Every Night”’s not the Northern lights, and it’s not the stars in the sky. It’s a sweet and simple song about sadness, and even though the sadness he’s describing is brought upon by dazzling and extreme circumstances that nobody who wasn’t a member of the band The Beatles could ever relate to, he does such a wonderful job of putting it in layman’s terms. He’s so careful about it, and it’s sweet of him. I think it’s really important to Paul McCartney that none of us ever listen to his songs and feel like our lives are lame compared to his, and I love that about Paul, the respect he has for his audience. I love Paul. Paul! What a wonderful thing that happened for the world, our getting Paul McCartney.

"ODE TO A KOALA BEAR" BY PAUL (LIZ)

When I'm six, my dad makes me a tape that's mostly Disney songs: "Oo-De-Lally" from Robin Hood, "Bibbidi Bobbidi Boo" from Cinderella, a disco version of the Mickey Mouse Club theme, that Fox and the Hound song about best friends, which makes me want to cry sometimes, because The Fox and the Hound was so sad! I'm so heartbroken for the fox and the hound; I wish I could make a movie where they get to be together forever.

          On the second side of the tape, after all the Disney stuff, there’s a song called “Say Say Say” by Paul McCartney and Michael Jackson, whose video I've seen before on MTV. In "Say Say Say" Paul and Michael and Paul's wife Linda ride around the countryside, selling their magic potion that’s not really magic -- it's fake! They’re hucksters. But it's all right because they do good things too, like visit orphanages and put on magic shows for the kids. My favorite part's when they're in some ramshackle hotel and Paul and Michael are shaving and singing and Linda's watching them from the bed, laughing and playing her guitar. After that they go to a bar and shoot pool and Michael chases after a girl with feathers in her hair but it's weird because I think that girl is his sister. Then they dress up like clowns and do more magic tricks onstage in a music hall and Linda plays piano and her dress is very sexy and all the men go "Ooooh…" when she takes her coat off and lets it fall to the floor. They dance together, Paul and Michael, and Paul's playing the banjo and bobbing his neck like a silly chicken and then he changes his costume again, puts on a robe and a turban like Punjab in Annie. Then Paul sets a big garbage can on fire and Linda yells "Fire!" and they all run out of the building and Michael's sister runs after them and Paul gives her a bunch of flowers. And Paul and Linda and Michael all ride off in the back of their truck, into the sunset, Paul and Linda holding hands. It's so cool and romantic, their wild life together.

One day after my dad makes me the tape with Disney songs and "Say Say Say," we take the bus to Strawberries downtown to look at records. I'm flipping through the 45s and I find one for "Say Say Say" and there's another song on the B side and I ask my dad to buy it for me.

         "But you already have that song," my dad says.

         "But there's another song on the back!" I whine and shout, shoving the record up toward his face. I'm anxious and adamant and so curious about the B-side, which is a song called "Ode to a Koala Bear." I've never heard a song about a koala before -- I didn't even know koalas were something you could sing about.

         So my dad buys me the 45 and we get back on the bus and he brings me home to where my mom and I live. In my bedroom I slide the 45 out of its sleeve and play "Say Say Say" and sit on my canopy bed and dance my shoulders around just like I'm Linda. I play it a few more times before I flip the record over, to the song about the koala. 

        "Ode to a Koala Bear" sounds old-fashioned, like a song you'd hear in a movie where teenagers hang out in diners and drink milkshakes and the girls wear short-sleeved fuzzy sweaters and saddle shoes. Paul seems sad and happy at the same time, like he loves the koala bear so much -- maybe too much. The song makes me sad and happy too, hurts my heart like at the end of The Fox and the Hound even though there's nothing bad happening at all: it's just Paul being sweet, sweeter than ever, sweeter than the piece of pink chocolate that's always the last left in the Russell Stover's box when the good candy’s all gone on Christmas afternoon. That's the sweetest thing I can think of, that pink chocolate I usually end up spitting out after gnawing a while and letting the milky pinkness sink into my tongue and turn my stomach queasy. Paul’s making my stomach a little queasy now too but I like it, I like my throat feeling full like I might have to cry just from listening to a song.

          It's my first time feeling that way and I'll end up feeling it at least a million more times, but never as pure or pink as with Paul and the koala.