Saturday, April 10, 2004

From Stone Reader 

"It's like food, you know, there are some pleasures that simply never run out and books are one of them--in every way, from simply diverting yourself from life, you enter worlds that you couldn't possibly enter in any other way. You feel the pressure of another human soul on the other side of the book, and that makes you feel less alone and less trapped in your body and less isolated; you feel that you are the brother of the author and the two of you are working together. It's a very profound and moving experience, it's almost spiritual."

Endangered poona 

In a speech in 2002, Ashcroft made it clear that the Justice Department intends to try [to prosecute the porn industry]. He said pornography "invades our homes persistently though the mail, phone, VCR, cable TV and the Internet," and has "strewn its victims from coast to coast."

I think it could have been better worded, something along the lines of, "Pornography penetrates our homes, persistently, repeatedly, and in a most forceful manner, through the mail, phone, VCR, cable TV, the Internet," and has "spewed its victims, in thick, ropy arcs, from coast to coast."

And, seriously, how can something invade your VCR? Don't you have to rent, buy, or otherwise consent to stick something into it, or are burglars slithering into homes during normal business hours and leaving a copy of "San Fernando Jones and the Temple of Poon" playing so that responsible, Puritan homeowners are accosted by large dicks in action when they return home? The same goes for telephone and Internet options, aren't those all subscription services? If so, it sounds like you're notified in contract exactly what risks there may be. If you don't want porn assailing your mailbox, cancel your subscriptions.

Well, this all comes to you courtesy of the ongoing (and superbly funded) riot of the right that is the Justice Department under our own apparently robotic John Ashcroft. Currently, a year and a half after Ashcroft assured conservative groups behind closed doors that porn would become a prime target of official interest, the FBI is actually devoting labor to this cause in addition to 32 prosecutors and investigators, all with a multi-million pricetag (thus far).

The comforting detail is that the Justice Department has hired Bruce Taylor to work on this goal, the very man who lost Flynt v. Ohio way back in 1981. He's probably bitter as all hell and itching for vengeance, but ineptitude is rarely lost over the years so I'm not going to get too worried.

The article linked above describes the position held by Lam Nguyen, one of the porn combattants whose official title is 'computer forensic specialist'. His job (seriously, click the link and look at his picture--he looks so happy!) is to sit a a computer and, from 9 to 5, to look at porn. Hey, it's a way to make a living.

But let's go back to Ashcroft and Taylor for a minute, for they are indeed godly men. My favorite is this line about Ashcroft, who, as he is "a religious man," apparently "does not drink alcohol or caffeine, smoke, gamble or dance." Ever seen Footloose? I think they might mean John Lithgow instead of John Ashcroft. Whatever, the preacher always loses (thank god). Taylor is even more interesting. For some reason, his inability to let other people get hard has led to his involvement in over seven hundred anti-obscenity cases since 1970. He's seemingly replaced his masturbatory urge with a litigious one (but you know he still wanks, probably to some hardcore shit). He's been president of the National Law Center for Children and Families, an anti-porn group hiding under an innocuous teary-eyed title, and in a Frontline interview from 2001 (while still presiding) he asserted that "Just about everything on the Internet and almost everything in the video stores and everything in the adult bookstores is still prosecutable illegal obscenity." Yeah, dude, go for it.

Until I have the chance to meet these two while guarding Twisted with my dick out (I don't think they would know what to do with one of those things), I'm simply going to have to provide links to some hearty smut.

What's your flavor? You want bears? How about fetish? Might as well throw in some good old fashioned cum worship while you're at it. Hetero? Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about you.

It all sounds spooky until you read that common sense, long since evaporated out of the federal government, still exists at the individual level. Even in 60-year old Southern ladies:
In 2001, though, one interesting case emerged from St. Charles County, Mo., the heart of Ashcroft's conservative Missouri base. First Amendment lawyer Cambria defended a video store there against state charges that it was renting two obscene videotapes that depicted group sex, anal sex and sex with objects.

Cambria won, convincing a jury of 12 women, all between the ages of 40 and 60, that the tapes had educational value and helped reduce inhibitions. They reached the verdict in less than three hours.

Look, y'all, porn is good. Porn, and the mastubation/intercourse it stimulates, is a way to satiate an urge that, left untamed, breed contempt, anger, violence, and a whole host of other physiologically-defined responses to stress. It doesn't matter how disciplined you are (and remember, monks have the added benefit of being cloistered away from stimuli, but are all still open about masturbating). I love porn. No, I mean it, porn is fantastic. I make my own whenever the opportunity presents itself. I'm thrilled when I find new, intriguing styles, new photographers, good production, etc. Following the lead of Abe at Abstractdynamics, and banking on the $10 billion-a-year industry that porno has become, imagine if in October every porn mag in America endorsed Kerry on the cover and warned that Bush wants to make them illegal...


Friday, April 09, 2004

Blind Chomsky 

Not long ago I watched an interview with linguist Noam Chomsky, a man of staggering intelligence yet questionable common sense, in which he derisively referred to the 18-24 year old group of Americans as the most gullible, dumb citizens the nation has yet seen. Initially, I agreed with him; all things being equal, the population of the United States today, factorially larger than at any (generational) stopgap in our nascent nation's tiny history, does have an increased number of simpletons and apathetics, though I would argue against any contention that the ratio of these folk to the 'concerned' citizens hasn't wavered in the slightest. Hell, I even consider Hoover to have been the first idiot president, far predating George W. When Chomsky continued to expound on this dislike of his, my irritation was born; it's not very tactful to damn those who will carry your burden in an academic guise, but it's quite simply unwise to do it in the name of your own opinion. Chomsky specifically spoke about how this age group, and I'm paraphrasing, seems to get an inordinant amount of its current events news from, now I quote, "late night comedy shows that dress up as news programs."

Sigh. Oh, Noam, you've kicked the chair from beneath your own tenous toe grip. Now the noose shall tighten.

My initial shock wasn't so much that this old codger was irritated at the brashness of the swelling, vocal young population; everyone voices that distaste, and I can only assume its a biological characteristic to wish to avoid change in an old brain whose neuronal connections have long been cast in an unchanging arrangement. Rather, I was shocked that this mind, this supremely analytical mind, not only versed in but responsible for the modern awareness of semantics and language-based communication, could be so easily satisfied with the damnation that dumb kids are dumb because of the Daily Show. Does Chomsky actually find in his studies that people consider such programs news? If so, where is he conducting his studies, in a mall? Listen, if you aim to find out where kids are finding information, ask the ones who actively seek information, not just the kid that leans against the wall at Sbarro all day. There's a sampling issue there, true, but when we're talking about politics, one must recognize that the sampling issue aligns rather well among the portion of the population that votes (at least in my anecdotal awareness of who among my acquaintances vote, seek news, etc.).

In support of the Daily Show, how can one further say that it isn't a valuable tool for the processing of information? Government in a contemporary sense is such a huge, jargon-choked industry (yes, industry--I dare you to assert that we still function as a republic) that, when the average consumer tries to penetrate the skin, s/he is repulsed not only by the glut of impenetrable bullshit (ever tried finding specific information at the White House homepage? Give it a shot) but also the lack of any interested parties who wish to take the time to freely translate information without spinning it into party politics. This is a currency that we must accept, that all information in the political field is tainted, and will forever be tainted, by the Pandora's box of information mediation and market analysis. Get over it, Noam, or get out of the field yourself. Programs like the Daily Show serve to interpret what happens behind the doors closed to the poor I-don't-even-own-dresspants public, and demonstrate how specific policy quanta relate to one's current political alignment.

In greater support, I firmly maintain that anyone who watched/listened to the Rice debacle yesterday needed the benefit of listening to, and watching, the Daily Show's masterful breakdown of the process. Watching Dr. Rice respond to fielded questions, bulking up her responses to eat up the clock like a high-school debate champion, one could almost be softened toward her, calmed by her smooth (and extensive) preparation for questions she knew would be asked. Violent details were generally masked on either side by filler stories about Bush administration successes or historic moments of unpredictable loss. The Daily Show flayed this layer of bullshit away, revealing a scrawny-ass, unstable elephant-man skeleton of sketchy details and oversights, a skeleton whose condition is the responsibility of none other than the administration itself. Thank you, Daily Show, for pointing out that a briefing entitled "Bin Laden intent on attacking within the United States" leaves very little room for misinterpretation and, concurrently, implies that one must be a fucking retard to, indeed, misinterpret it. Thank you, Daily Show, for laughing aloud at the repeated administrative shucking of responsibility on issues of national magnitude. Thank you, Daily Show, for being upset that this bullshit is still going around and around in a permanent loop of utter, surreal insanity. Poke the scab until it gets infected, if that's what it takes, tell the 18-24 year olds who lean to you to keep an ear cupped to the door of our national climate, until we're happy and Chomsky can wither under an administration more fitting for those who shall inherit his mantle of genius.


Thursday, April 08, 2004

They call him The Landscaper 

Because you can, watch this at maximum volume.

Dave Chappelle is a genius, and I love that someone out there agrees with this assertion to the degree that he looped this segment and the accompanying audio track (which is, by the way, perhaps the best use of DJ Assult's "Ass & Titties", ever). If anyone wants the episode from which this was sampled (it includes both the murder of a slaveowner and a compassionately hateful member of the GayKKK), let me know--I've downloaded a copy. If it had been a record I would have worn the grooves down today at work alone.

I almost killed Sister Bernie 

Having worked at Art Outfitters for so long, I came to know the old coot quite well. Bernie is an old-as-earth nun who teaches at Mt. St. Mary in addition to maintaining a bitter relationship with the visual arts in her spare time. When you speak to her, she stares through your face, peering into your weak, godless soul rather than making simple eye contact. Occasionally, she'll snap at you as if you were an unruly student. Once I laughed a deep, from-the-gut laugh within a few feet of her, and it frightened her so badly that she dropped a handful of paint tubes, staring at me while I gathered them up for her as if I'd just spewed out blood and bile.

Yesterday afternoon I was speeding up Fair Park after leaving the gym at UALR, a little tired and sweaty but not necessarily distracted, when I noticed Sister Bernie plodding along the left side of the hill. Arcing left as I crested the hill onto Kavanaugh, I was suddenly confronted by a pair of ladies jogging across the road with an ancient, panting beagle (great spot to cross a road, by the way: just over the crest of a hill at a three-way intersection). Swerving around them as quickly as I could react, I aimed to skirt the opposing lane of traffic, which was empty, when I notcie that Bernie, completely oblivious to the action, has taken a couple of steps out into the road and is continuing to walk toward my still-advancing car. I'd rather kill an old lady than hurt a beagle, so, although I slam the brakes and pound the horn, I keep the car aimed at the nun. Bernie pauses, still unable to portray any sense of surprise, and just waits for me to resume my drive so she can cross the road. I look at the ladies with the dog, and they don't seem to have noticed anything.

If god exists, he must not be Catholic and he must have thought it was a funny encounter, pointing out that I chose to kill the spiritually-satisfied nun rather than the cool old mutt. Smoking a bit a Brady's afterward, I also learned that this god must also sympathize with stoners as, after laughing at Brady for falling for god's old it-rained-in-your-chair-but-nowhere-else trick by sitting down on a rain-soaked patio chair, I grabbed a beer, came back outside, and promptly sat down on a rain-soaked patio chair. We think we should tour churches and religious festivals offering these stoner parables as godly talk meant to inspire and aggrandize the Christian public, but I don't think I could handle the stress of all that imposing ( and generally Janus-like) faith. It might look nice as an activity on graduate school applications ('for-profit non-denominational travelling evangelist and marijuana law reformer'), so I'll think about it. Can I get faith-based funding for that?


Monday, April 05, 2004


I knew I hadn't imagined it. This band gets more interesting every day.


Sunday, April 04, 2004

Où sont tes héros... 

OK, everybody, I've got much to tell and nearly infinite space in which to do it--my only limitation will be my own laziness, but I want to see how far I can drag this out on sheer excitement alone. Here we go.

As some of you know, Megan and I spent the weekend among a blitzkrieg of live music. Blitzkrieg might be a touch too strong (considering we only went to two shows), but throw in multiple pitchers of booze, innumerable bowls, and a few hundred miles of travel and things begin to look more tense (well, mellow-tense). Squeeze all of that into a 48-hour period and you've got yourself a blitzkrieg.

Here was the plan: Friday after work we wanted to hit Whitewater to see Runaway Planet, but we would have to be on our best, most sober behavior as, to get to Dallas to see Air, we'd have to not only drive about six hours, but also stay awake long enough to enjoy the show and then drive back home to avoid the cost of lodgings. Sounds pretty tight, right? Well well, you must not know the two of us.

Friday night found me meeting Megan at the tavern with smoke in hand and a couple of drinks already in my belly (Megan was in a similar state, I presume). I couldn't help it; if you can maintain your composure and not get preposterously excited about a full weekend of music, then you're an asshole.

It was odd to arrive and find a nearly-deserted parking lot. If no one showed up out of circumstance, so be it, we'd get more room and wouldn't have to communicate via one-word mouth-to-ear shouts and obscure hand signals. If no one showed up because they knew something we didn't, well, fuck, that would just be uncool. Prepping up, we see familiar faces and, glad we came on the right night, proceed to find a spot in the quiet-as-church interior.

Megan ordered food and it was brought to us by a beautifully stoned kitchen worker. His pride in the arrangement of his culinary artistry made us blush, so we took a picture of it. Hey, I give artistic credit where credit is due. Here's a portrait of the artist, christlike, save for the oily smudges on his white cotton tee. Soon enough people are skimming me for cigarettes and I finally feel comfortable, at home. One such skimmer turns out to be a musician, one who plays harmonica, and he tells us that he'll be hopping up on stage to play with Runaway Planet later in the evening. At one point I notice this harmonica chap on his hands and knees, desperately scouring the floor for some lost object. "Need some help? What's been lost?," I offered, thinking it was a pen or something, at which point he triumphantly returns to upright, slouching down into his chair while leaning in, "Nah, I just dropped my joint. It fell from behind my ear." Oh, I laugh, and laugh and laugh and laugh (should I offer? is his better than mine?) before I tell Megan the story. My laughing is halted by Megan's serious look. "What's his name?," she asks. I tell her. "Holy shit, you know so-and-so, I think that's her boyfriend. I've gotten something from him before. Small world." Small world, indeed.

Show commences, show rocks. Now, here's the deal. I was telling a friend earlier in the week about this band, namely the detail that their live sets often include reworked versions of older songs, when I'm confronted with the bratty remark that a musical cover is "a weak, sentimental attempt to lasso people into music they'd otherwise never go near." I was stunned, mostly because I knew that, at a Bush concert in 1996, this kid went apeshit when the band played a cover of R.E.M.'s "The One I Love." A cover per se isn't sentimental unless it's requested out of sentiment. Considering I was, what, four when the Thompson Twins' "Hold Me Now" hit the radio, I doubt I can really establish any sort of tearfully referential remembrance of the way things were oh so long ago. A cover, if done well, serves to take a great song out of a genre or type and make it function out of context--it's reworked into a new product, a song from song. Covers work best when someone finds odd things that really shine in a new format, something anachronistic, perhaps, or, better yet, the elevation from a shitty genre to euphonious one (no offense Kim Carnes, but your voice can render a hen sterile if focused properly). If that counts as lassoing, then so be it, 'cause I fucking dig it. While on the subject of covers, one song in particular, "Moving On" I believe, is so rounded that Megan, Dawn, Brady and I have gotten in fights over who wrote it or performed it. Megan was certain it came from R.E.M., but I kept hearing the guitar and being eerily reminded of the Chili Pepper's "Breaking the Girl," and we all grilled ourselves with furrowed brows trying to listen for that hook that would trigger the mnemonic cascade. Well, it turns out it's original, and that just goes to show that neither similarity to nor familiarity with the grand field of popular music can inherently determine a song's quality.

Moving on (ba-dum-bum), I have to say that I'm alittle upset that I didn't take more pictures. The ones I do have are great, specifically the sign I was compelled to make to show the world how retarded Megan can sound. Friday night found Megan at peak performance, and while trying to ask me "how might one turn on the camera so that I can browse through the images," Megan asked this. I choked on beer. Priceless. After eleventeen drinks (who the fuck knows) I forgot my anxiety over bringing my junglist rave stylee to the tavern scene and started dancing. This cool lady kept making me do it, and, I noticed later in a picture taken by Brady, when Dawn and I were doing the bump, we had a cool chaperone. Ladies: he's mine. Doing my best without flashing the shit out of the band, I did come away with a few nice group shots.

Closing out Whitewater (really? we have to get up in how many hours?), I headed with Megan over to Caleb's to cool down. We sat outside for a bit and chatted with the group, until I felt sleep calling. Leaving there (for, ahem, secret reasons), I quickly ascertained that I was a force not to be reckoned with in a moving automobile, so I parked at the bank at 32nd, turned up Depeche Mode's "I Feel You" (on repeat, no less), and crashed until sobriety came back.

Which it did, in spades, as the sun was coming up. I was glad to find that I wasn't hungover as much as I was cramped up from the carnap, and the city was beautiful in its quiet, blushed emptiness. My brother was still awake, wide awake, when I got home, and that can't be a good sign. Alas, I'm no tattler; that's his parole officer's job.

Bed. Oh, glory; sweet, flannel-sheeted bed. Bed with pillows, bed the length of my body. I love you, bed. Oh, shit, is it already nine? Do we really have to leave for Dallas exactly at nine? I'll just wait for Megan to call. Yeah, Megan will call when she's ready. Phone rings, machine picks up: "(hushed and gravelly) Jeeeeeeff. Jeeeeff, wake up. Okay, give me a call when you're up." Ignore. Ignore. Ignore as hard as possible. I do this for at least an hour, but we're both up and dressed by about eleven, and after Caleb made us coffee we were out the door around noon.

The drive down was so good it deserves a made up word: it was humpkeycorn (I've already used "scrumtrilescent"). The sun was out in full force but generally not in our faces, the air was warm enough to still be warm at 70 mph (permitting barefoot driving), and there was virtually no traffic. Over the five hours, we got in plenty of singing along to P.J. Harvey and Radiohead, and, of course, loads of Air. Megan even let me have some Madonna, and we both still know all the words to Sixteen Stone. We stopped at the impossibly large reservoir outside of Dallas and enjoyed the soupy Texas air. It looked like everyone else at the park was on the same page, flying kites, having lunch on the grass, or generally avoiding much of anything (save for a few cartwheels) in the name of pleasant boredom. I really wanted to try the "stars at night, are big and bright..." trick, but I didn't think I'd get quite the reaction that Pee-Wee got. Besides, we weren't technically deep in the heart of Texas.

Moving on into Dallas (after Megan's encounter with a she-urinal), we tried our best to limit the number of double- and triple-backs to make up for missed exits and whatnot. Yo, Dallas: fucking update your street signage. We went to this great, tiny record store, Good Records, to find swank music we can't get at home. Megan nabbed a vinyl copy of "To Bring You My Love" (which I'm listening to as we speak), and I got Nobukaza Takemura's last album. We asked the nice gentleman working the register for advice on cheap eats within walking distance. "You haven't gone to the April Fest yet?", he asked us. We responded with goofy silence, so he continued, "Yeah, two blocks up, the whole street's blocked off and there are dozens of great clubs and restaurants over there. The fair just kicked off yesterday." Total score. It turns out to have been the Beale of Dallas. I immidiately noticed a condom store (which was shockingly lacking in interesting condoms) and a music store, with people working the tuirntables freely, devoted entirely to dance and electronic. My mouth watered, but we only had time to eat, and we chose (wisely) the Cafe Brazil. They have vegetarian dinner crepes. For cheap. Go there. Ask for the nice bald waiter with the tight ass.

After the voluminous meal, we head back to our car at the record store. Megan goes to change clothes inside, while I opt to just drop trou behind the car. Very literally the second my pants are off, the door against which my ass is resting (which I'd failed to notice was a door) swings open and I try my best to look innocent. "Missed the show, folks, heh heh.." They say nothing. They take their shit, get into their car, and drive off as I'm trying not to laugh out loud (nor make eye contact). Even the bikers at the customizing shop/hellpit adjacent are laughing as I zip up. Mad props to those guys for not hurting, robbing, nor embarrassing me while I was half naked in downtown Dallas.

The drive to the venue commences. We have about twenty minutes. We're on the proper freeway after a few minutes, but before I've even noticed any signs Megan points out that we're now going the wrong way. Shit. We take an exit (the same one we'd taken in an earlier, uh, detour) and try to loop back, but we end up pointed in an angry circle around the crowded-as-hell Fair Park Theater (because of a Jerry Seinfeld stint, I later learn) by something akin to a foursquare of "turn left here" signs. Fucking it and making a few speedy illegal, squealing turns (I told ya, I get motivated by art), we're back on 30 West, screaming towards Grand Prarie and the Nokia Live venue. Quickly, however, the road, elevated significantly from the ground, tightens from four lanes to two, without warning, because of construction. There is no center line, nor are the concrete barricades on either side of the road fluorescently marked in any way. Let that sink in a little: Dallas, 75 mph speed limit, no painted lines, no light on the roads, no indication of coming turns or exits. Nothing. I calmly ask Megan to hang on to the bowl until we can find our exit as my hands tighten on the wheel; the blood rushing away from my grip probably made a sound like what one hears when sitting on a leather couch. At one point, Megan tersely warns, "getover, getover, getover," and I do rapidly, nervously, only to see that a wreck had just happened, one care ricocheting from side to side of the cement barrier walls before being arrested by colliding with a van. Neither automobile had hazard lights on, and we see the people, out of the car, desperately looking for a way to get off of the fucking elevated freeway. Within a mile we see a cluster of brake lights ahead, and, a few swift, panicky lane swerves later, we see that there's another wreck, again with no hazard lights, and with people running around madly trying not to die on the road. We hate Texas at this point, at least their highway department. There are no signs to the venue, and, finally kind of getting there, we're accosted by, you guessed it: more construction! The construction is actually blocking the entrance to the road we need to get to our venue, so we just follow the other late cars and make our way (past many policemen) to the actual, Eu-fucking-reka, Nokia Live building... to find that we haven't got enough cash to park.

Finally getting in after sending Megan to the ATM within, I stash my digital in my crotch--the trick works well in that one must keep a hand pocketed to hold onto the heavy camera, so it completely looks like I'm tooling around with my huge, hard cock: no guard will ever bring himself to search that (I take that back: three out of ten guards would potentially search that, assuming an even population distribution among security guards), and Megan pointed out that it probably gave the impression that we'd just been fooling around in the car. Nice heterosexual detail.

We get in and nervously try to figre out how to snag some side by side seats. The venue is gorgeous, a grand open space, but it's pretty empty, not even yet at a quarter capacity. We decide to go sit around my seat, which is only about sixty feet from the stage. Our nervousness wanes as we notice that not many more people are showing up. To top it off, Megan finds some guy just handing out the armbands one needs to have access to the pit area in front of the stage. Score! A couple of guys come to sit on our row, obviously fucked up. They gay(-er) one says to me, "I wanna sit next to YOU guys," so I oblige, and they ask if we'd ever seen Air before. We tell them no, and they let us know that it will be unbelievable. I get giddier. I start to vibrate.

The lights dim, and Megan and I instinctively grab on to the other's arm. We make eye contact, grin toothily, and sit up straighter, quickly bolsetered by the dark to move up to the front row.


I could hear my heart pounding over the sounds of the shrieking crowd. It's so cool to see eight hundred other people totally freaking out over the same thing, and a tingly rush of comfort and warmth comes over me. Predictably, the hair comes down. They start playing and I'm in ecstacies. I'm speechless, silenced by disbelief (and our proximity to the tremendous chains of amplifiers). I manage to stay seated until they play something from Moon Safari, and I drag Megan down to the floor to dance. Jean-Benoit notices the light on my face from the viewfinder of my camera, probably aware that I'm furiously snapping pictures, so I nod at him, sort of an "awww, yeah" with my head, and he offered a smile. Soon I get a little "Sexy Boy" action. It's so amazing I can't fully describe. I am converted fully to the cult of Air as I realize that these two guys are putting on the best fucking show I've ever seen. They're making me a believer, embellishing tracks from their last album, an album I found sub-par, with the equipment available for a high-volume live act, and it's all working! It's my sound system's fault, I wasn't listening closely enough, and it all comes out here so beautifully. They close out the show with that pinnacle of musical talent, with the distillation of sensuality into audio format, The Best Song In The World, "La Femme d'Argent", and, getting into the groove, I lose myself in it, a few glorious moments of that song pumping through my veins, bolstered by the swaying crowd and tremendous decibels, and I am so happy that I just want to fucking curl up on the floor and take it all in, but I don't: I train my eyes on the stage, on the people around me, on my own eyelids, and I think, "This is worth it all, this is worth it all," and I don't know exactly what I mean by 'all,' but I know I'm being genuine, so I just go with it and keep dancing and, in a beautiful gesture, they carry the track out for ten, fifteen minutes, sparkling with additions and improvisations. When it was over, the tiny audience clustered at the stage barrier, pressing in for a sensational applause, making up for our small number. Say goodnight, Air.

Thatlast bit did me in. I'm going to go listen to "Moon Safari"--more later.


This page is powered by Blogger. Isn't yours?