June 16, 2004


I forgot, Seattle, which is all ghosts, gentrified coffee stores and screech-mo haircuts. Also, again with the coked up crews in the ladies room, doing bumps before our set. We played with the Blood Brothers, who's fanbase is exactly 17 and a half, rail thin and has braces, and for teenagers, are fairly adventurous dressers. Again with the girls up front, and when a pit broke out, I was concerned, as a sweaty drunk in a wife beater started doing the raging bull, the pickin' up change, some macho sombrero hat dance for the first three songs, and he kept plowing into a cabal of chicks, and one solo pitting chick who looked like Roosevelt High's production of Cabaret (post-wilding) ( - sparkley unitard and a derby. No word on tap pants, slats or tap shoes, but all signs point to yes. ) . He was later escorted out of the pit and onto the street, and I was elated.

Another girl in the front row texted message through our entire set. Dude, thats fucking awesome. It's so teenage, it's so punk, it's so committed to not caring or feigning it in, I was like "go on, do it, girl."

Blood Brothers sounded like a high speed dog gang, totally orange alert on the m-i-c. That band has some crazy haircuts. Despite being a fan, and even working with them previously, I feel eleventy-dozen years old watching them play.

After we played, I got to meet Andrea Zollo from Pretty Girls. I get the feeling that everyne who has ever met her wants a peice of her. That her nights in clubs are filled with nervous compliments and then compliments that people don;t realize are total bum outs (because she is mass-talented, because most people are moronic and because she looked like a new wave Liz Taylor up close). I get the feeling. She was a darling lady, old fashion charming and as much inchoate star charm as they let women get away with in the PacNW. I wanted to grab her hand and go on a walk for like 2-4 hours and ask her a lot of questions, and tell her that every article I read written by someone who referred to her as Derek's girlfriend , I called the writer and told them what a bummer it was, and that is not cool and not relevent anyhow and why not Derek is her boyfriend, if you gotta be like that. Did anyone ever refer to Debbie Harry as "Chris Stein's girlfriend"...? (ok, yeah, probably.)

Woke up at 8 am s we were driving through the top-tip of California, golden state death bed: every flag half mast flapping, bowed for the dead Prez, omnificent pictorials of Nance making tender blowfish with her raisin-lipps at the casket on the Exxon newsstands. As ever, Nance's look is tight. As far as I am concerned, Reagan cannot rot fast enough. If I ever have to kiss someone's casket on TV, I am going to lick it instead. Just to be gross.

Posted by Jessica at June 16, 2004 07:27 PM | TrackBack