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* Dancing with myself is how I find my center. My favorite state of being, the cubbyhole with no reigns, living completely inside the music, sensorless but drawn on by the beat. I would make a terrific back-up dancer. A better back-up dancer than television anchorperson. So I dropped off my people at their cribs after dinner and walked to Southpaw, the Rub ‘at is, because it is near to my house and i needed to let go of the grip. PS I think one of you hybrid mash-up dudes should do “Bizarre Love Triangle” with “Nolia Clap,” if that is not too like 29 yrs ago. It would sound hot, the handclaps in BLT are the floater mini-friends of the ones in NC; they’ll work if you screw em. Those are both records DJ Eleven killed, but he did not put them together and I do not know why.
love,
nerdfest.
* Right now my dream job is “person who writes the video summary captions for Blastro.com.” Id est: “Juelz Santana is teaching the class on how to use the mic.” “Ying Yang Twins are popping the champagne with dozens of scantily clad beautiful ladies.” “It’s a gloomy rainy day, but that does not stop Avery from thanking the Lord.” So succinct! So understated! Such gently lilting haikus! I sent them a fan mail.
* Bedtime at 3 am, what with this newfangled writer-all-the-time-style means that not only am I totally going 2-3-4-5-6 or 7-11 days without actually seeing anyone in the flesh, so that when I go to the video store I practically stick my tongue into the video dude’s ear I am so happy to see a person of my age with a vague understanding of my artistic interests, even though he is only talking to me because I am renting Lars von Trier’s medea (and then only purely for research), and because he is so deadeye-obsessed with Miranda July I am afraid to even tell him her blog address–
this sleep-schedule shift also means I get to phone my late-night friends on the westside. Tonight the lucky recipient of my walk-home phone call was my friend Chantelle, a booker at a major venue in Portland, OR; she is basically the den mother of Portland, everyone wants something from her, but somehow she manages to dole out the dates without cracking up, even though people like accost her mid-dinner, hands outstretched and imploring/demanding about the potentiality of their band scoring that much-coveted gig opening for Will Oldham and the Freewheels of Steel. People: pls do not accost Chantelle about your show when she is obviously having dinner at a restaurant with a friend. (At least wait until after the first course.) Let’s talk more about the behind-the-scene unthanked duty of the club booker: she is the one who shouldered the shit when the band Hood’s tour dowry got thefted from the downtown, she is the one who fulfills the hummous and Mineralwasser riders for one-time Captain Beefheart/PJ Harvey guitar techs with OTT guarantees playing Monday night shows, she is the one who, on this particular evening, was scouring for herb; the roots reggae group performing felt they hadn’t been offered enough “hospitality” and straight refused to go on until their herbal neglect was remedied with some of that UNFUCKWITHABLE OREGON KIND. Chantelle’d already offered an eighth of a bag but it had been smoked up, in its entirety, by their horn section. “I have to go,” she giggled, “I have to score some dope.” She called back at like 6 am EST, left a message.