I finally got around to listening to the mix that Ben sent along with him and Morgan's all InTouch version of Hit it or Quit it (Rob Lowe cover, edition of one), and I was getting on the ramp to take the 2 to Echo Park and Bobby Caldwell's "Open Your Eyes" came on and I thought "No, he did not fucking put this on here." Indeed, he did. I cry when he DJ's this on a slow night at fuckin' Danny's, and alone in the car, I fared no better. After weeks of feeling far from the god in music, far from the emotional tangle and riptide of music and songs, I fell all the way down the well, which feels a bit inconvenient. But if I'm a mess, I'm a mess, so I best play it as it lays, I figure.
After that touch of sobbing on the freeway, I went to see No Age play on a hilltop mansion that is usually just a porn set to play a Nike party (insert "you know you're in LA when" joke here). The soft brownblue valley smog haloed their sweaty faces; Dean was limping on a cane and Randy was sweating Guinness, they had just gotten off a plane from Ireland and came straight there to play. They headlined, so that meant by the time they went on, there were 100 people watching them and 450 shifffaced people waiting for port-o-lets. Everyone was too tan and thin and LA'd out that people watching was nil. I was hoping for a mountain lion to creep up from the manicured brush and eat someones dunks right off their feet. On the way back down in a party shuttle through the canyon curves the girl sitting in front of me projectile vomited an entire afternoon's fruity mix drinks on the back of the driver. When I got out, I noticed she had barf in her long eyelashes. Though that's really what the VIP van is for, is it not?