My Basketball Team's Name is Gay Human Bones

Despite being named after an entry in the Beatles' lesser known songbook, I have no musical talent, whatsoever. However, this lack of ability doesn't prevent me from performing a shockingly accurate impersonation of Darius Rucker from Hootie and the Blowfish singing 'Only Wanna Be With You' in the manner in which it was intended to sound. Previously, I have actually been told that I am tone deaf but because of said impairment, I can neither confirm nor deny that statement.

The day labor was induced and I was born, (and it is important to note that I was two weeks late on arrival and any other fetal life conceived by my parents would have clung to the safety of that womb, too, or alternatively, aborted themselves like my two dead 'siblings' before me) the radio was playing in my parent's bedroom while my mother prepared for the momentous occasion at hand: giving birth to a daughter, finally, after two failed pregnancies. The radio was playing not because my parents are music fans, but because my father has been addicted to participating in contests and getting anything for free for as long as my parents have been married, 32 years. With the exception of his love of golf, all of my father's interests are tasteless and low class. When he's not pestering radio stations, he can often be spotted picking through garbage cans, searching for the stelvin caps from 2 litre pop bottles or, urinating in public places.

The disc jockey working on the morning of July 27, 1987, is the culprit I am holding most accountable for setting me up for failure since Day One. Not only did he play 'Michelle' but he followed up with his own asinine commentary and revealed that in his opinion, Michelle was one of the most beautiful names, ever. To top that off, my middle name is Monica, after St. Monica of the esteemed Dead Grandmother Seminary, which means my name is representative of tragedy on multiple levels.

Embarrassment aside, my birth name did instill some deep-seated music appreciation in me and I can say with confidence, I Know What's Good. Case in point, Harlem:

Harlem are a relatively new member to the Matador Records roster. And with the release of Hippies, they have so far managed to not do such a tremendous job of representing the major label to which they are contractually bound. Nearing the end of their completely impromptu set last night, Michael Coomers announced, "buy our records, but more importantly ... where's the party after this?" What I love even more than jangly guitar are musicians who don't take themselves seriously in the slightest and have a good feel for irony. The first time I visited the band's Myspace page and read their 'influences', I was immediately a goner, falling for lines saturated in hubris like this one: "the only band we like is nirvana. the only album we like is nevermind. the only song we like is smells like teen spirit".

For a trio of boys by way of Texas, they're totally infectious and when Coomers, from behind the drumkit, adorned a bedazzled headband, he eerily resembled a stoned Miss Cleo, if she were an adorable white, man. When he took over frontman duty, he was so into his methodical strumming that his eyes began to roll ever so slowly into the back of his head and looked as if he had been Touched By An Angel. I felt that vibe so strongly I had to whip out my pocket-sized notebook and jot my thoughts down furiously (for a reference point, see Crispin Glover/George McFly in Back to the Future).