Thursday, November 02, 2006

Aside & disclaimer:
Hips and Makers by one and only rockchick Kristin Hersh blares to comp for The Church of Pathetic Sonic Profferings.
I think their drummer might be grasping the concept of A Beat (goes on) but the yelling on the mic thing should stop, it is like so contrapuntal and obviously ghetto. It really destroys - on a regular basis - the masquerade that this is crafty urban pioneerism.
The screeching will abate – after several more hours, peppered with occasional prayerful respites.
You see all civic help or interest on such matters flies away as politicoes and police realize the noise emanates from a church, a church of God-fearing, God-screaming Hispanics. Longtime homeowners be damned.
Baited JW,Esq. with questions about his costume of a few days ago.
And the details that followed were up to his impressive party boy standards.
He was a naughty schoolboy, replete with lollipop, knickers, beanie.
In his words he was A la angus young of AC/DC.
He also added a super bonus, obviously knowing this was epinw fodder, informative history of identity-shifts and costume mongering in San Fran.
He then, as the night progressed, according to his report, began to inject the notion of rep/page shenanigans and even used the word cornholing. You fill in the blanks.
Soundtrack shift to Interpol as it's quick becoming more an Interpol kind of night and I've just been contacted to go out and play (again) and an executive decision must be made.
I share now some details dispelling the notion that YT is truly uly Perfect.
Once I had a roomie who brought to the table, so to speak, a vintage microwave. I recall it had a hole in its door and we ironically put a DYMO label on the rift stating something ironic. Maybe it said Run. Or Uh-Oh. I just don't recall. I hated the thing and never used it. Roomie, on the other hand, popped popcorn in it.
So, minding my own business, I was looking for something usefully necessary in Target and chanced upon some microwaves. Somehow Laura sprung to mind and I will not explain. But there I was, suddenly inspecting their shining exteriors, comparing their prices, their respective radioactivity levels. On the toppermost shelf, about fifteen feet up in the air, I noted some real loser klunker microwaves marked down to a mere pittance, $23 to be exact. I found some nice young man and he excavated it and I bought the thing. I am still rather afraid of it. I leave the room when it's on and it's only been on a few times. And one of those times, like today, was a raging fiasco. Working like a madwoman I thought Oh, veggie burger. I cranked the machine up to five minutes, left the room. Maybe four minutes later there was a whiff of smoke. There was the sad, little veggie burger with a big scorch mark at its center. It wasn't quite like Hiroshima, where only the shadows remained. Maybe a few minutes later, but there was a whole lot of scorch on the plate, a whole lot of chokingly pungent smoke. I hate microwaves. Why is it here. They are evil and make me think of chef Harry Kelly who once stated Slow cookin' is good cookin.'
I have one other domestic tale of disorder involving a sweater, a washing machine, and dashed dreams of wearing it that very same night. And subsequent triumph of returning the little potholder of a former sweater and exchanging it for some very ultimate boots.

Onwards to more work.
And then more work.
And then.

Then Love.

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