Child caviar

Gang Wizard played in Portland in May in the basement of Daniel’s old house. When we played, there was so much scent and heat trafficked, and every square of me was commanded by hands and I had a secret thought, “I don’t know if I can go on...” because I felt like that July when I was in Girl Scouts, when I was 8 years old, I was standing before a tombstone, paying tribute to veterans in a ceremony. Each girl was assigned a grave and we were instructed to stand still and hold flowers, but the sun was burning me and suddenly and dramatically, I wilted and fell to the grass. When Gang Wizard played, I thought I could collapse from heat and spirits, but I went on and I think James clutched my wrist and I suddenly recovered. After the show, we were outside and Ryan gave me mushrooms in appreciation. In my excitement, I ate the mushrooms immediately, at 2 am, dry and gagging. By 4, as the group started to snooze at Meghan’s house, I knew I was in trouble. I had a case of seismic affectation and the fear was worming in me. But Meghan stayed awake with me and at dawn we went to the porch for a cigarette. We were in slips and I was wrapped in my Old West sleeping bag. I was not suprised to see two fashionable fops clicking their heeled boots up Ankeney at that hour, sallowed from a little cocaine and laughing in their buttons and black. These two men were such an incredible sight to me at that moment, sashaying unfettered at that hour. In Oakland, those men would have been robbed for their purses and teeth and pushed into a gutter with broken glass and dentures. But in Portland, they could let their nuts hang in any sissy minute. I yelled to them, “Johnny!” it was just a guess, but I was right. “What? Whose calling me?” one of them said back. This was very funny, that one of them was called Johnny, it was just a hunch. I called his name again from the porch and when he responded again, I started walking toward him, probably appearing to be only wearing a sleeping bag. “Johnny!” I mewed and he said, “Yeah?” Because these mushrooms were not the kind that give you jewels on the tounge for these kinds of moments, I did not know what to say next and I said, “Oh, wrong
Johnny.” This is also very funny, because in Portland there are probably 10 to 15 Johnnies who would be traipsing jaundiced and leathery at 6 am, looking like repears under pollen-weeped trees. Johnny looked confused and put his palm through his pomade and shook his head and finally said, “Man. Man. Man. You’re really tripping me out!”
I have never fainted in Portland. I fainted once on a rooftop in Mexico. Courtney and I were in Zhiuatanejo and we trolled for weed for a couple of days before we found it in a street market. We swapped pesos for weed that was probably cured with the aid of DEET in front of a Catholic church that shone with conquistador elegance. Just after the exchange, a pickup truck full of cops with semi-automatic rifles growled by. Later that night, while his family slept, we went to the roof to sample the score. I hit the joint a couple of times and felt the fear start to unlock me and I became liquid enough to say, “I’m dying!” as I puddled and fainted. I woke to Courtney and his dad reviving me, in a moment of recusciatioin that was one of my life’s most ecstatic moments. Another time I fainted, I was on a porch in East Lansing, on mushrooms, with friends and suddenly my stomach was stabbed by an invisible blow that felt mortal. I put my head on Courtney’s shoulder and whispered into his flannel shirt, “I think I am dying,” and then spiraled off, to the fear and confusion of the gathered friends. They put me on Brian’s bed where I coldly sweated for hours. This was frightening but no terrible loss because the whole trip was being dominated by a man who refused to steer the conversation anywhere except to his elaborate and excruciating ski fantasies. “Imagine you are in a lodge right now, warming your toes, knowing that you will be able to get out and ski at any moment you want to!” he said, while I tried to discourage his blathering with my reptillian manners. He was not discouraged. Outside of the Paradox, just a couple of hours after my Johnny montage on the Gang Wizard tour, I saw one of the people I had tripped with that night six years ago. Now he lives in San Diego. I hadn’t seen him since probably that night and I never though we would intersect again.
Vice Magazine called Gang Wizard "children" in their latest issue. Rob Enbom must fly up to Portland as soon as possible. I lost a hit of acid in my Louis Vuitton purse. Tonight I must go dancing. A spider will rebuild his web in this spot as soon as I move. I worked a job today. I want an acorn filled with caviar for dinner. I drank coffee today for the first time in a long time and I feel like a lunatic. I wish I could walkie-talkie to Thurston cause I want him to come over and take a nap with me. My Ariel Pink fetish is alive again. One of the happiest moments in 2005: Smoking weed with Ariel in the front seats of his van in Massacuetsessesese parked on a field overlooking a stage where Animal Collective was playing a 20-minute encore to a couple hundred newly feral college students. I need more adventures but I am also sick of suitcases.