July 20, 2005


Amherst, Easthampton, Northampton, Peter Frampton, DJ Framsta: Peace be upon you. Al Burian and I roll up on you tomorrow THATS JULY 20th. 8 pm, Flywheel Arts Collective in Easthampton, $2 gets you in, and you get Sara Jaffe going guitarsome on you too. Special treat, in tribute to yr boys: Al and I are both reading Dinosaur Jr related peices, amongst others.

Right not, I blog atchoo from the deep womb: The Computer Room of Dirt Palace. Dirt Palace feminist Art collective in Olneyville, RI. It is 9000 sq feet of ggggggggggggggggggawesome. The art, the rooms, the lending library, the band room, the screenprinting room, the bike repair room, the pink kicthen that is about 1400 sq feet and one entire wall is pasted up Betty Crocker recipe cards. They have three normal fridges and 3 mini fridges. I am jealous. If I had three mini fridges, I would keep my iced tea in one, triple cream french cheese in the other and the other one would be nothing but Mrs. T's Bloody Mary Mix in 5 oz cans - for when my grandma comes to visit. Anyhow. Shazaam. Best Tour Ever is so best-y right now I am thinking that maybe in my last life, I gave my life while rescuing limbless orphans from a burning building. Or maybe God is doing the positive re-enforcement thing with me, ala biscuits for the puppy when it shits outside instead of on the carpet, for this new thing i have been trying really hard to do, it's called "be nice". It is going ok. I am kind of getting the hang of it... Or maybe it's just things "working out".

Drove outta hell-NY, drove to Providence in almost silence for three hours, no iPod or talking - only convo was this:
me: What are you thinking about?
(two minute pause) Al: Romantic relationships and what I do and do not want from them.
me: That's funny. Me too.
Al: I think that's what most people are thinking about.
(insert 2 hours of silence)

Got to Olneyville. "Load in" to the Dirt Palace, whose doorbell is a big clanging bell, attached to a fire escape of the kitchen, which you ring by pulling a long rope that hangs down. I cannot even tell you in decent words, because I have not been reading books or the New Yorker lately and my vocab is shitriffic, but it's a castle of art gone real. Feminist hand screened wallpaper plastering the bathroom, blue and grey flowers on butcher paper. Leftover giant purple hippo head, 7 feet tall, wallmounted, leftover from FORT THUNDER, stolen from a mini-golf course. Turn of the century shelves, 9 feet high, left from previous use tenants: The Olneyville Public Library. 5 foot by 5 foot holographic NIKE hightop retail-poster that switches between shoes when you walk past. I could list everything for an hour but there would be no justice to it. I took some pictures, but I will ask permission of the Dirt Palace before posting. Bizerk.

Served us vegan dinner, then there wasa thunderstorm and I was afriad no one was showing up, for sure. Then rain stopped and suddenly there were 65 kids in the big hall, sitting on the long church pews and laying on the floor. We spoke at a podium. I read the first peice of fiction I have ever written, tonight, which is a narrative I wrote as George Hamilton, about his divorce from Alanna Stewart in 1975, involving Nudie suits, Louis Malle's gazebo and George Peppard and Lee Marvin in the non existant sherriff movie "The Winds of San Andreas". I was so nervous to read it, but my penpal Mike Taylor stepped in and said "You cannot call it with any Providence audience, but I know yr writing, and you can do it," and put his hand on my shoulder, all serious like a coach. I had just real-life met him four minutes before -- "Don't be scared. You'll make the right choice." I sweated it, but people laughed at the right parts. The buddhists say validation is like... a trick. It's false and extreme, but you know, whatevs on that. Validation does it for me.

Al read, was great as always. Met more penpal types and some bloggersteins and a HIOQI fan visiting from England. Then Mike and some Dirt Palace ladies took us to a house show and I saw two fantastic bands: Puke Attack, who sounded like Borbetmagus and Sexy Pee Story and had a sax and a like, braile reading machine or postage meter as an instrument. Headlining: Men Who Can't Love, who were tonez n dronez and really nice from inside and outside, and should be future stars of Sonic Youth Records roster, or at least a best seller for Fuck It Tapes label. I stood outside and hopped in and out of convos about the floating rib, heirarchal structure being enforced through the applied concept of "renting" and Dez Cadena's hair. Someone gave Al a 40. I took pictures of noisenik dorks doing practicing yoyo tricks, while their friend slept it off on the hood of someone's 'rents shiny black Volvo station wagon.

(PS.Apparently a band called Unicorn Hard-On was playing somewhere else in town, but we missed it. "Unicorn Hard-On plays every night though," says our hosts, dismissive.)

In my fantasy world - a place of VC-like tunnel villages built under my real life - this is what tour is like. Firm handshakes from Full mooned magic.

The last time I was in Providence, it was last year, around my birthday, and I had a nervous breakdown. Not like "OMG, I missed my flight, I am having a nervous breakdown," but as in, I had been standing on the precipise of the deep end, and I swan-dived into the blackwater and went all the way down and touched the pool drain below with both hands. I re-read it last week, in the archives from September. I think I played it all off pretty well, but, I spent the following six weeks in a k-hole, doing little aside from reading The Magus , sobbing and walking my mom's dog for hours a day because it's all I could figure out -- and feeling like, as the song sez: The Unreal Is Here Now, or like Maria in Play It as It Lays ( if I want to glamourize it) - checked the fuck out. But yeah, so here, now, again, in the sunshine of 11 months later... back and dropping the proverbial followup single: Realness in Providence (remix 05) -- the forever-hot all night dancefloor stunner with all sweeping strings and fanfare'd flourishes and tympanic booms. This song, it is a new personal favorite.

Posted by Jessica at July 20, 2005 02:19 AM | TrackBack