July 15, 2007


It's nearly too quiet to sleep. Cali's house is perched out of a hill and feels like a bird house. I keep thinking the rustle is the coyote run out of Griffith Park by fire, but it's only squirrels nesting in the eucalyptus. No 66 bus announcing it's destination, no fireworks in the school yard, no domestic scenes played out over the sub-bass roar of commercial radio hits. When I tried to nap yesterday, I kept anticipating coyote presence and waking up. I was in the house alone, with only my paranoid Natty Gan fantasies for comfort.

Thoughts on Sonic Youth's Pitchfork appearance: VIP is the place to go to get up close views of PA rigging and not have to be with unpaid fans and plebes. You get to be with the scenesters, the hacks and the half famous as they text, as opposed to the screamers taking phone vids and slurping big gulps of draft. We went out to the crowd to stand by the portapotties with JR who had been hawking ice creams all day. Kim and Thurston were on the jumbotron screens, their images casting neon LED over the field; come The Trilogy, I didn't feel anything at all. O, Bookmark of youth, o jumbotron object, o teenage twilight revivified! The sentiment was stripped by the glare. How do you ride if ancient ain't your look? I love it when Kim groans hard from the guts, like in "Kissibility" when it sounds like Fuck You's national anthem, but whats the point of the perfect replication of. It turns Daydream Nation from record into a play. Or a commercial. Maybe concerts and plays are the same thing and I missed that concept/-memo. I'm not mad, I just want more, differently. Who stole the soul and what was their impetus?

Also, in the LA world, everyone rolls together, everyone is friends, everyone knows everyone and is cool with everyone and they don't hang out in bars. Dave Stone smiles when he talks about Abe Vigoda, like they are his new girl, not a band of post-teens from Chino. I felt like an alien, but I think I was just tired and spent from a day that began with me fishing my phone out of the toilet at Bob Hope International. My germaphobic nightmare--fecal matter finding safe haven in my earpeice. FUGH.

Last night, somewhere around the 20 hours awake mark I turned to a shuffling baby. On the route home, our party met cute with another pack of friendlies in the parking structure at the Hammer museum. It became a hang out and I was ablubber, sitting on the ground debating whether to go ni-ni in a handicapped spot. It was a flashback to being on tour in Japan, when I was sleep sick and everyone was eating fishballs and partying and loving Tokyo with enthusiasm and I spent most night passed out in a fetal curl atop the bass cabinet in the back of the mini-wan. Sometimes, I am a weary traveler; I'm a small person with a sensitive constitution, I don't have reserves to run on. Dave Stone came over and kept me company and we talked about what we have been talking about since our first conversation on Pico Blvd 12 years ago: astrology and romance. He said "Isn't it nice we can talk like this?" and I agreed.

Posted by Jessica at July 15, 2007 10:11 AM | TrackBack