Thursday, January 27, 2005
Running wild and looking pretty
Optimistically, anyway; after a sweet evening with NyQuil and the third season of 'Sex and the City,' I feel vastly improved in comparison to the previous several days. No more unintentional psychedelica, it would seem, though I'm suspiciously making this assertion (as I'm quite aware of the peaks and valleys of immune function).
My new classes all seem intriguing enough this term, now that I've been to all of them, so I feel comfortable in abandoning all abject motivation for them to focus on more interesting things, like the local music circuit! Aside from my S.i.t.C.-induced earworm, "Hot Child in the City", I also have taken note of some of the more interesting acts that will be making an appearance in D.C. in the coming months, refreshingly cleansing the palette after what has proven to be a morbidly disappointing couple of months of stale talent.
First of all, anyone who's anyone among my readership of three will squeal like a schoolgirl as I invite them to come with me this April to the Black Cat to see, goodness, the Kills! A dream come true for this Jeff, this is! I hope their posturing doesn't turn out to be bland and overpracticed, I'd be much more interested in some absurdly pessimistic lovers having it out on stage. Also of note, the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players are coming in a couple of months, and, though the ticketing site doesn't have info on availability or prices (which I find odd), Bill Frisell will be playing at the Library of Congress Coolidge Auditorium. Ratatat, who I missed at the Black Cat back in October, are thankfully coming back through.
Other things also interest me:Ash, Shonen Knife, French Kicks, Ambulance, Ltd., VHS or BETA, Ulrich Schnauss, Wrens, etc., but I'm only willing to pay moneyto go to those if fun company goes along.
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My new classes all seem intriguing enough this term, now that I've been to all of them, so I feel comfortable in abandoning all abject motivation for them to focus on more interesting things, like the local music circuit! Aside from my S.i.t.C.-induced earworm, "Hot Child in the City", I also have taken note of some of the more interesting acts that will be making an appearance in D.C. in the coming months, refreshingly cleansing the palette after what has proven to be a morbidly disappointing couple of months of stale talent.
First of all, anyone who's anyone among my readership of three will squeal like a schoolgirl as I invite them to come with me this April to the Black Cat to see, goodness, the Kills! A dream come true for this Jeff, this is! I hope their posturing doesn't turn out to be bland and overpracticed, I'd be much more interested in some absurdly pessimistic lovers having it out on stage. Also of note, the Trachtenburg Family Slideshow Players are coming in a couple of months, and, though the ticketing site doesn't have info on availability or prices (which I find odd), Bill Frisell will be playing at the Library of Congress Coolidge Auditorium. Ratatat, who I missed at the Black Cat back in October, are thankfully coming back through.
Other things also interest me:Ash, Shonen Knife, French Kicks, Ambulance, Ltd., VHS or BETA, Ulrich Schnauss, Wrens, etc., but I'm only willing to pay moneyto go to those if fun company goes along.
Wednesday, January 26, 2005
Psychedelically ill
When I was quite young and would come down with something more serious than a cold, occasionally I would have a terrifying recurrent nightmare with enough regularity that, then as now, having the same nightmare quite clearly signalled the arrival of something nastily infectious.
I vividly recall the horror and panic that this sleep-bound vision in its earliest, least-describable forms would instill. I would wake up in a terror, sweaty andincoherent, rambling about how loud it got or how big it was or some other superlative. Employing the fiercest of my descriptive abilities, I can still only muster a simplistic summary: things would begin absolutely empty, a silent, unending void, rent asunder by a sudden, terrific fullness in every imaginable aspect, chaotic and fast and, above all, frighteningly loud (I credit my fondness for Lovecraft and Craven to childhood shit like this). As I grew older the dream acquired new elements, eventually maturing into something of a nuclear attack scenario where my friends and I are occupied by some task in my front yard when a low rumble catches our attention in time to witness a monolithic screaming rocket hurtle over us, low enough to send us to our knees, covering our ears from the volume (I credit this particular twist to having grow up in the shadow of a military facility).
For a few days I've felt under the weather, aching and sleepy, but not so seriously that I felt compromised. I went to bed quite early last night with a mind to resting away my pains, only to be shaken awake, sobbing, sweating and disoriented at about four in the morning, having just been in my garage, tinkering with things as my parents and their friends watched television indoors, until a neighbor pointed out the roiling bubble of fire clear over the horizon at the military base--as everyone walked out curiously to watch, it happened, a big blast sending visible arcs of flame out at an incredible speed, struggling over the rumble to shout inaudible "I love you"s to my mom and dad.
Jesus. I abandoned my abstention from over the counter medication and, as soon as I felt well enough to stand, walked with trouble to the bathroom, definitively downing a brimming capful of NyQuil.
Waking another few hours later with a devilish headache and absolutely drenched with sweat, I inched to the computer, just at the end of the bed, to see if I could locate the telephone number for student health services. When I looked at the screen, it was as if the bits of text were hilariously evading my field of vision, the black lines and dots dissolving into a gaudy RGB swirl in the periphery, and I wondered if I hadn't somehow eaten acid instead of NyQuil earlier.
Needless to say, I never made it to the clinic today, and, as I type here in my bathrobe and sunglasses (monitors, even at the lowest settings, are remarkably bright) I apologize for my extended absence. Now to the Gatorade and bedsheets.
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I vividly recall the horror and panic that this sleep-bound vision in its earliest, least-describable forms would instill. I would wake up in a terror, sweaty andincoherent, rambling about how loud it got or how big it was or some other superlative. Employing the fiercest of my descriptive abilities, I can still only muster a simplistic summary: things would begin absolutely empty, a silent, unending void, rent asunder by a sudden, terrific fullness in every imaginable aspect, chaotic and fast and, above all, frighteningly loud (I credit my fondness for Lovecraft and Craven to childhood shit like this). As I grew older the dream acquired new elements, eventually maturing into something of a nuclear attack scenario where my friends and I are occupied by some task in my front yard when a low rumble catches our attention in time to witness a monolithic screaming rocket hurtle over us, low enough to send us to our knees, covering our ears from the volume (I credit this particular twist to having grow up in the shadow of a military facility).
For a few days I've felt under the weather, aching and sleepy, but not so seriously that I felt compromised. I went to bed quite early last night with a mind to resting away my pains, only to be shaken awake, sobbing, sweating and disoriented at about four in the morning, having just been in my garage, tinkering with things as my parents and their friends watched television indoors, until a neighbor pointed out the roiling bubble of fire clear over the horizon at the military base--as everyone walked out curiously to watch, it happened, a big blast sending visible arcs of flame out at an incredible speed, struggling over the rumble to shout inaudible "I love you"s to my mom and dad.
Jesus. I abandoned my abstention from over the counter medication and, as soon as I felt well enough to stand, walked with trouble to the bathroom, definitively downing a brimming capful of NyQuil.
Waking another few hours later with a devilish headache and absolutely drenched with sweat, I inched to the computer, just at the end of the bed, to see if I could locate the telephone number for student health services. When I looked at the screen, it was as if the bits of text were hilariously evading my field of vision, the black lines and dots dissolving into a gaudy RGB swirl in the periphery, and I wondered if I hadn't somehow eaten acid instead of NyQuil earlier.
Needless to say, I never made it to the clinic today, and, as I type here in my bathrobe and sunglasses (monitors, even at the lowest settings, are remarkably bright) I apologize for my extended absence. Now to the Gatorade and bedsheets.
