Surprised to hear earlier one of the most perfect new Flaming Lips songs on the "new rock alternative" radio station, Wayne's voice warbling amongst the sno-globe flakes coming down as I drove down Main Street from a meatloaf engagement in renovated 50s diner to newspaper office for late late late workings.
(Nearly walked into the diner wearing my bunny ears as I had been working hard at the home orifice and needed to keep these freaking tresses out of the way lest I chop them off like a time-waster at the pass.
So I'm strolling away from car and catch the bunny ears before I hit the door and tossed them onto the front seat. Did wear them into the paper office and my publisher/pal Jamie gave me a withering look which only he can raygun.)
There's so much mundane crap in Music Land and then whoosh, there are the Lips to explode your heart in joy, nearly enough to make you cash in your chips and follow them on the road for a good long while.
Attorney Tom finally called back and there were details bandied about about how & why my car insurance company could – and did – drop me like a nuclear potato. Sometimes, when speaking to Tom, my mind is wandering and I'm realizing that as soon as I hang up the phone all he mapped out for me will evaporate.
Onwards.
Was there fine music in the Middling City this weekend? Well, gosh, not really.
But on AOL assignment I plunged into a new dance club, solo, really fashionably sticking out like a sore thumb with my photog-wothy HH way-green jacket, legal pad in hand and a haughty air of detached critique. But, ultimately, the place won me over and I'm thinking How in HELL do I get members of Janet Reno Fan Club into this joint, what with its $6 cover, lines down the block and inside ignorable yet annoying mall-clad clones. But it's two stories of flash and there's a sideroom all white and luxe.
Worth a spin, I say.
Life, a big tangle of details just waiting for writing. And sipping.