Tonight is the annual po(o)p music festival downtown when "musicians" and "singers" take the stage for truncated, lip-synchful "sets." There is always a parade of bands that I've never heard of, not listening ever to the station which produces this event. Why, you might ask, do I cover this fiesta?
Because there are going to be 13,000 or so shrieking fans of the station there and more who could not make it and who the fuck am I to say their coolwhip-topped, spandex-sporting stars aren't worth documentation in the middling city's alternative weekly?
Plus I get to see several of my boy colleagues backstage and that's always pleasant.
Last night I had a few cocktails with a bevy of musicians and one of them, a bass player no less, asked what I ever did with that goat head.
I told him it's in my freezer and only now am I remembering how he knew about the goat head: I was leaving the Arabian Food Mart with a double-bagged goat head around my arm and saw him on the street. I must have excitedly told him about my gift from the store, after I was brought into their Witkin-esque walkin cooler full of animal carnage and wreckage (a much earlier blogpost from when I was writing a story on international food joints).
Like the cow heart before it, it rests in the freezer, awaiting a thaw and visit into the photo studio.