Bleach Buzz.

The real Bleach Buzz. Boys that I don't know that have a band name that resonates deeply with me. I promise, this band will be one of my first profiled artists when I actually become a writer again. We'll mostly talk about how much bullshit it is we both went for the same phrase in the English language. It definitely doesn't help my cause that I am an aging punk/hardcore lady who regularly falls for younger men, with a deep and unshaking nostalgia for my days of festivaling to all points South and East, just because I could afford the bus ticket and was always curious about [insert beloved music city name here]. Also, their director has the same surname as my favorite pizza family on the entire planet Earth. And they love vacations.

Vacation - BLEACH BUZZ from Cj Giordano on Vimeo.

The Air of Gower

my neighborhood bumps with the din of Tamale Guy (West Coast Edition. He sings a tamale cry: 10am); the horn of a man (men?) who travels the sidewalks on the Southside of Hollywood, carts full of ice? Cream? A slush of sorts?; children screaming/laughing/crying/hop-scotching (I imagine) throughout the morning and afternoon. Post 9pm, it’s the inappropriate ice cream truck, singing its song for no one but adults, needing something very not ice cream. Post 1am, a rave blares from all corners of the block. I never can actually witness the culprits of these sounds; it’s just in the air, from every compass point. Between 4 and 5am, the air sleeps. Then, the sun awakens to blind us all. But I keep my shades open for a reason. Sun awakening me from my restless (sometimes ful) slumber is optimal to any other option.