This Meandering Missive Brought to You by Red Stripe
I don't think I got the capitalizations above in the proper MLA style. I don't worry about MLA style when I haven't been imbibing. I never say 'imbibing' when I haven't been imbibing. Welcome to my Saturday.
I got home from the show at some time past 1am...and, being quite keen to get my hands dirty, made some bread. I'm not hungry; I just wanted to dig around in dough. It's baking right now, and that orgasmic smell is wafting around my office, warming everything it touches.
Met a new band tonight. Goldrush. We'd grabbed a table along the back wall at Spaceland, and their merch guys were right alongside. It's been a long time since I met such sweet people at a show; we really felt like members of the fold by the time the set was over. Best of all, they're on the same label as one of my favourite bands (The Jealous Sound), and I badly wanna shoot some pretty pictures for those guys. One of the merch girls looked like a beautiful little elf, and it turns out she's filipina - we got to talkin' about jeepneys and water buffalo and the friendship highway.
God, talking about that schtuff always makes me think about the fact that my world has shrunk so far, so fast...the stories keep getting older; I need fresh fodder for my insistence that I'm a global citizen. What if I swum out of this more-complicated-by-the-minute life and went into the foreign service? My gypsy soul bangs that tambourine louder by the month.
Leaving for Maui in exactly one month. It's not the 'dives...it's not Minorca...it's not Santorini...but it's not L.A., either, and that's sayin' something. I will hug a dolphin on this trip, mark my words. And we've all decided that the thanksgiving feast will be at this scrumdiddlyumptious Vietnamese joint on the city side of the island. Fuck turkey. I will ride a horse through the jungle and taste warm rain again.
A friend of mine was sad today, and as I was driving home from the production office and quietly fretting about him, it struck me that we've never shared anything but words - not a hug, not a car, not a joint, not even a city (in tandem, at least). Just syllables, strung up like popcorn garlands between the branches of a sweetly creepy confluence of shared circumstances, contexts, minutiae...but the part of me that decides what to feel doesn't take that into account, and I found myself missing snippets of conversation thinking about him.
For all I know, he's a 1,500-pound grizzly bear.
But then, this is the new world.
OK, I'm pretty indie...trying to find black-market Arctic Monkeys tickets and loving Laura Viers and all that street-cred-enhancing donkey offal...but that Death Cab 'Soul Meets Body' track is so pretty it scratches at my insides.
I was driving through the dreary, dreary shafts of greyed sunlight that came down on Los Angeles today, and I was singing to myself in the car. A guy pulled up in the car next to me, and he was singing the same song. Would have been cute if it were just the radio. It wasn't...I was pulling off my Treo, and I bet it was his iPod. I guess rainy days in Los Angeles drive everybody to the Postal Service for comfort.
My bread smells done. And thusly, I collapse.