Last night shooting ended with former Hüsker Du drummer Grant Hart warbling away on a guitar, his post-junkied teeth somehow still hanging on for dear life. His theme was scars (misunderstood by a Middling City listener as SARS) and at intervals he invited audience members to come up and share a scar to request a song. I was excited to show off one of several, attached to interesting stories, and had decided upon the deep right shin scar I got while shooting KMFDM and falling on a broken bottle and, standing on a barstool for a better angle, glanced down at the same time the sound guy stage right did and discovered I had bled all over my beloved soft doc marten boots acquired in Portland ME. A pool of blood, a piece of glass in my leg. I finished shooting (of freakin' course) and went to the front door where they took a shitty old tshirt and made a tourniquet of sorts. Well, I was going to share this story but by the time it could have been my turn I decided that I found Grant Hart supremely tedious. Enough, I said, and strolled back to discuss matters with others who had drifted away. The Neighbors, palsamine, sounded really great last night. Grant Hart might learn a thing or two about peppiness and delivery (and oral hygiene!) from these four.
Philip Glass's night in the spotlight actually rocked and I'm thinking of acquiring the piece performed last night, Symphony No. 3. Followed by a Q&A with PG seated front and center inviting any type of questions but that he'd probably do best answering music questions. Hardy Har, guess the comic twinge is in the Glass genes. For those of you not in the cognosenti, PG is Ira Glass's (swoooooon) uncle.
I am floating in writerly hell. Is my story too late? Will my editrix pal ever contact me? Will writing ever be an easy feat? Am I dyslexic? Am I a prognosticator? Am I a protagonist? A procrastinator? A pro-choicer?
Don't know (4x), Yes (4x).