showbusiness

I am playing two shows this week:

Thursday July 21 at the Fix, 811 E. Burnside
Sixes///Runny Dumplings///Inca Ore///Portland Bike Ensemble////Dead/Bird///Sisprum Vish
music starts at dark

Monday July 25 at Dunes
Glass Candy////Danava///Inca Ore
$2

You will like the sounds, I hope I can face the crowd this time.

Meghan and I wish that Stef would come back. Have they started a carnival or a cult in Kansas City? For a couple of months, Chris and Stef and I were inseperable. It started on a spring night, a warm vibrant evening that tricks your mind into thinking the rain won't last another four miserable months. Chris had just started lurking around our house. We stood on the roof as the sun went down and I decided to drink a bottle of Tussin for a cocktail called Evening Cloud. I gulped it and Chris and Stef watched, then we rode our bikes to Disjecta, with Criminy the greasy tiger dog galloping beside us. I can't remember what show it was---Growing maybe? The whole night was bravely hologrammed for me. Was that the midnight that Nate Preston came over and gave us a lecture about DJ Screw? How many months later until James was tipping over in a wheelchair in Clinton Street, with Criminy chasing his ass with soft teeth, to a DJ Screw soundtrack. When did we stomp through the neighborhoods and climb the train bridge and play DJ Screw at normal speed, debunking the mystery, while Criminy whined on the tracks below because he would not climb the bridge---it was too rickety? Criminy and I never got along too well, he would sigh grumpily at the very sight of me, but I saw him in Boston a couple of months ago and we pogoed in tandem and I hugged him around his neck.

It rained straight for about a month of our cult-like activity. We moped on the porch, Malibu Falcon played quiet in the basement every day because that stupid bitch was trying to birth a baby, we had boxes full of half rotten turnips and beet juice on our faces, there were broken teeth from violent kissing, there was a whole neighborhood of decapitated poppies because we creepy crawled into flower gardens at night in order to snap the pods for our tea. We read the Encyclopedia of Serial Killers aloud to each other, and Chris could read 20 pages of Topic of Cancer aloud with out even a tickle and the rain droned on and on and on, and it is from these memories that I know why I quit coffee. One night we found a road-killed opossum and walked from 27th and Clinton to 20th and Morrison to scrape it off the pavement, put it in a plastic bag and walk it back to Clinton Street, as the bag leaked a morbid odor. We buried it in the backyard of RIP for later jewelery, and had to pile wood on the grave spot because all the animals tried to investigate the burial. Soon after, we festooned an abandoned mattress with "FUCK YOU" spraypaint and were dialed by the neighborhood association. But that call took weeks and we basked in those days of damaged value for surrounding properties. A whole new kind of flies were born out of the plastic bag we toted the opossum in; it was so horrific we did not know what to do with it. After a couple of days, Stef put on a top hat and a kitchen glove and put the decay bag into the Willamette Week box next to the K & F coffee shop on Clinton Street. This outraged the entire K & F community, especially the dog-walker woman who wore red tendrily wigs and said to me every time, "You look just like that girl that comes in here sometimes, the one with the big hair."

I miss these people and this letter is a cosmic telegram to bring them back. I finally cleaned out my old Louis Vuitton the other day, not only is my acid not lost, but I found a rock Chris gave me that he mined at the North American gate to hell. Let these friends come back, I won't mind if they are a little more sane.