Saturday, November 26, 2005


I woke up before the sun had come up this morning, just long enough to stumble sore out of bed to take my contacts out before crashing back under the blankets. Keeping my eyes closed so that the paper-dry lenses wouldn't fall out before I got to the saline bottle, I began walking the unconsciously memorized path from bedside to bedroom door. I kept my hand a little out in front of me waiting to collide with the light switch, but instead I smacked my forehead pretty solidly against a scalding hot radiator feed pipe. On the way down to the floor, I also managed to swipe about forty books off of the bookshelf. Lying there in the dark, bare assed on the frigid concrete as sheets of paper continued to slide off of the shelf, I noted that I'd been following the mental map of my house back in Gravel Ridge, not (any of the ones)from DC. This afternoon, trying desperately to focus on getting this silly healthcare paper written before Tuesday, all I can think about is that red whelp tracing an irritated slash across my forehead, the dumbness of basement living for someone at 6' (I'd say that pipe stands at about 5'8"), and just how much I miss windows. Then I saw this picture that Brad took at a Hogs game and really, really wanted to go kick it in the backyard lounge swing on Creekwood Drive.

If only they were holding hands


Wednesday, November 23, 2005

Oh, thank you, DFA 

It's just what I wanted. For a limited time, iTunes (which is the devil) and DFA (whose webstore is also selling) are offering the DFA Holiday Mix 2005, clocking in at just under 50 minutes, for ninety-nine cents.

Many thanks to Tyler for the heads up.

Good shit for the long, cold walk downtown.

Soap opera 

Man, when a shitty day gets flung in your general direction, a good laugh at some impressive work is the soundest medicine. Nerve currently has a piece of an analysis of Days of our Lives. Dig this monster:

All the other arts and news shows worry about being real, but life isn't. It is fantastical and amazing. Everyone should take more acid. And everyone should be millionaires. And have more sex under disturbing circumstances, just for character.

Journalism put to a nice, functional purpose.


Sunday, November 20, 2005

"This song matches my scarf" 

I got a ride home, but it was so cold and unusual outside that I didn't go inside. I had my headphones in my pocket, was still burning hot and sweating from a few hours dancing for free; taking a walk was a given. Since I finally got internet access at home yesterday, I've found two albums that fit the mood perfectly: elliott smith's posthumous last release ("Twilight" from the label) and Kaki King's already-a-coupla-years-old "Everybody Loves You." That woman and her bare hands pound the guitar like a damned xylophone. Or a kettledrum. Her website is actually kind of fun, great design and samples to boot (I recommend listening to the snip of "Playing with Pink Noise" to get a good idea of what lady can do; "Ingots" is even better).

Winter is cold and grey and coated in roadsalt, but it comes with a nice soundtrack.

Driving home from seeing Air in Dallas with Megan, April 2003


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