I got up at 6:40 am, went to the studio and let loose with my own inadequacy for a good three hours. Sometimes you go to the studio with your best intentions, with visions of Eva Ziesel lopped teapots and you wind up with what, in another country, might pass for an evil gravy boat. Sometimes you try and try and you just wind up with more labia-model ashtrays. And you finish and go to put this thing you've made--another in a series of of teeny dishes that'r only good for keeping earrings in, a thing you almost feel ok with--set it on the drying shelf next to this perfectly round massive bowl that will one day hold a salad that feeds 20, and feel mad at the salad bowl.
If nothing, my pottery work is supplying me with an endless series of bad metaphors for the rest of my life.
The end of the suspense! Max arrived! I met him yesterday and he's a real looker. He did all the great new baby tricks: squeaking, sticking his tongue out, fluttering his blue eyes, tearing you up with his precious smallness.
It's possibly the stupidest dream I've ever had, but I woke up laughing.
I dreamed that I picked up an anthology of Johnny Hart's BC
and it was the funniest thing I had ever read.
I couldn't blv I had never noticed that it was HYSTERICAL.
Johnny Hart is in a fresh grave and BC is not any more or less funny.
I lived on Evanston dorm trash in the other dream and loved it true like it was God's calling for me. Broken stereo components, tie dyed everything and scuffed shoes, rich kid disregards piled so high.
The day is pure static and I owe the DMV a visit.
I think we could all use a little more of The Schla la las. Don't be put off by the uniforms, it's not what you are guessing it's gonna be. Meaning it doesn;t sound like a Sympathy 7" from 1993. Theyz British--it's tasteful!
The world is yours , African "Dope. Click "web radio": get/stay happy.
History lesson part II", this time without Mike Watt or the Pedro punk corndoggery: scroll down for the Big Bang II mix. It's a link born of 2006, but maybe you have been sleeping/ignoring linx because you are into French House now, and not into that old timey Brazilian Party Bounce. A little proto, a little backstory, it gives you a leg up.
The real party / Sweden ain't just about clever cute indie for tender: UMYO mixes that Hot Shit Mixtape, with an "Kryptonite Pussy" megamix within that's wholly untamed.
I went on an errand walk and I ran in Lemos. I swear, he was standing there just like that. He was going my way, so we walked and talked.
The trivia board at the punk bakery finally had a question I knew the answer to, so we stopped in. Answer: 1. Graffiti 2. Being Anonymous. I was right. Recent questions have been stuff like insane minutae about old MRR columnists, bassists in post-Crudos sideproject bands, etc. Meanwhile, most of clientele are very tan ladies in pantsuits ordering tiered cakes for baby showers while talking on an earpiece phone. I doubt any of them know who sang in The Spits either, so I'm not sweating it.
We met this tiny puppy outside the bakery. As we used to say, back before it seemed egregious to do so in light of the war and such, this puppy is KILLING IT.
Lots of art to see on the way home. This is my favorite mural. I used to think it was just some bright school-kid project, but the more I look at it, the more disturbing it is. Only the animals have faces. The people have tapered, handless arms. The lumpy man in the tyrolean hat is the very definition of shadowy figure. He's gonna try to steal that baby.
The Ukrainian orthodox church on Oakley. The bathing dudes getting sprinkled by the pope while they are in the water. Thats what I am guessing. They could be a holy swim team, too.
The city's new campaign to warn residents of the vital part that dog shit plays to the rat's diet features this jaunty figure. He's all "sup." He doesn't care one bit about feces. He's too tired from his long day at the office.
Fiores got a new mural recently with esp. fleshy looking meats. I am obsessed by these meats. And the smile of the deli man.
And the othern thing: rachet it up to the top of your list on Netflix, or get it from the library, but the 1975 documentary about The Vietnam War Hearts & Minds is required viewing. It might as well be about Iraq. It's all terribly depressing because you realize no lesson was learned from Vietnam, or any American war that came before. You really, really have to see it.
Good morning crabface. Listen, first, to my request. Baby Max is coming early. Robin is in labor. Please think good thoughts or send up teeny prayers for Robin and Ian and Max and their doctors for a healthy mama and baby. Max is fat, he should be fine, Robin says.
Secondarily, in this weeks Reader, it's a little music writing from both JR and me. After two years of cajoling, JR got his feets wet with the newsprint. If you want the real gonzo tagteam bonanza, look out for the next Plan B issue column we did. It's about Lou and Craig and reissued Ween albums we hate-- candy-painted in nonsense and battered syntax.
Also, it's still-forming thought, but a few months ago, when the NIN record came out, I read a review where someone called it "more than just a record, it's also a viral marketing campaign (etc. etc)". The idea is that the marketing of the record, which was heavy on fan-participation, made it more real, more special. Because it was duplicitous, rather than overt--which reads, culturally, as subversive and creative. Which frames it as being an artist consideration for the fans, forgetting that fundamentally marketing is marketing-- as if there is real value in being sold to, in having your fandom capitalized on in a way that is more covert somehow constitutes greater opportunity or a deeper experience than just liking the record or band. That the hallmark of a true fan is a willingness to pimp your enthusiasm.
It's not as simple as true expression of fandom being equated with being a sort-of freelance Product Manager, but this other thing, that the marketing is a gift somehow. We have bought something far bigger when we view being willfully complicit in an albums viral marketing campaign as a collapse of distance between artist and audience; that we see the "more than" as positive, progressive, that the "more" begets us greater intimacy--when it's actually the opposite that's true--that an artists' willingness to use their fans is nothing more than a lack of respect for their audience.
1. If you are not keeping up on Peter Margasak's blog here's a post that proves why you should be. School is in every day all day over there. I bet there are 8-10 things you had no idea about right in that one post! Usually, I like the internet best for it's jokes and movie listings, but learning is cool too.
2. Tommie Sunshine Presents Ultra.Rock Remixed has liners penned by Tommie hisself, and offer a reminder of why Chicago is just not the same w/o him here:
- "Finally, the woman on the cover of this CD is my girlfriend and future wife who I am very much in love with. Sorry girls, I'm taken."
- "Technology rules all of our lives and these sparse lyrics, sang repetitively into the ground are a hymn so we remember that one day it will no longer be up to us, it will [be] up to the machines."
- Regarding a Panic at the Disco remix: "I knew I had to remix them and after looking into it found that Pete Wentz from Fall out Boy, who I had already done a remix for, discovered them, so I put my management to task to make it happen. Of course since then they've become superstars as I knew they would be."
- When he compares the singer for Hellogoodbye to Cher and it's unclear whether it's an insult or a compliment.
2+) I'm sure there's 11 or 12 of you out there thinking they do not need the re-issue double disc of Sonic Youth Daydream Nation , but allow me hash this resistance from your mind and lets come to quorum on a few things. The live second disc is like the flexible rubber twin of the record proper. Part of the boundless magic of DN is that it's emotional center is on "slow defrost", it's sang-froid is it's intensity. But on disc deux with "The Sprawl" they play like a swinging party band, just as alive; it's polar to the DN you know by heart. Squishy middles and totally hardcore, wiley and perfect.
Theres things to learn here, too.
HIOQI contributor Andrea "Yay" Wachner has posted a trailer for her film about the time she sent a stripper to impersonate her at her 10 year high school reunion .
Remember those banners from the other week back? I forgot to mention, it was born of our hearts (natch), but it was also this assignment for Learning to Love You More, which, now, is linked on the right. It's a curational art assignment curious world site that Miranda July is involved with.
I updated some links. Rotated some people out, rotated others back in. Like a corn crop.
The Miranda July book is out this week or last. I reviewed it. It'll be in the Reader soonish. Short stories. I think if I had read it in peices, 3-4 chapter splits, I might of enjoyed it more. Now, I really like her work, find tremendous inspiration in her ouevre, but in taking the whole book in one sitting it becomes a compendium of pathetic people doing all manner of sad perversities to each other and themselves in order to get love and attention. Which, maybe you'll like. But that was the reason I put down The Diviners after 63 pages and later sold it. Because if I want my buttons pushed by pie-eyed depravity or be titilated by moral horror, I'll subscribe to In Touch.
Now, on a PMA/ SUMMER OF FRGVNSS note: whats the nice thing you're gonna do today? It has to be a secret or it doesn't count.
Ian Harris is the featured poet on Verse Daily today. I can blv it. He's great. No only does he make great poems, but he also made Max with Robin; Max is about to arrive in about three weeks and I am soooo psyched to meet him.
Weekend fun report from the oldest town in Indiana:
-found out that my great grandparents were in a band together with two of their neighbors, circa 1920. On Saturdays, they'd have a bunch of people over and they'd roll up the rug and people would dance while they played popular songs. He played mandolin and violin and she played piano. My grandma, aged four-ish, hid in a closet that she had accidentally locked herself in, for several hours, and did not holler to be let out, even though the dirty clothes were kept in the closet and it smelled awful, because she loved the music.
-brought a puppy to the nusing home to visit my grandma. All I could think about was the PBS nature show from two weeks ago where they said dogs smell 650 times more intensely than humans, and the nusing home, to my average human nose reeks of general infirmary and stale urine. I imaged what it would be like to smell that smell with infinite intensity and felt terrible for the dog, until I realized that he was super into investigating the nursing home's many smells and all the wheelchaired grandmas were psyched on being petting stations.
-the dogs name is Mikey and he looks like Knut Das Eisbar baby and his bark is so high and squeaky he sounds like a rusty gate hinge when he opens his lap.
-If you can play piano at all, you need to put together a nursing home band with your friends who can half sing and learn "Swinging on Down The Lane", "It had To Be You," "Moon River" and like, 3-4 other songs that are the favorites of all 89 year old people and go play them at whatever nursing home in yr hood that'll have you. Seriously. Imagine you are 70-90, all your friends and most of your family are dead, your mind/arms/left foot are missing and you spend your day startng out a window at traffic and hoping there is a reason to get out of bed other than to use the bathroom. Everyone wants to volunteer to help out kids, because it's a no brainer, but kids are ungrateful and have their whole life ahead of them. Old people have whatever memories they can half remember, and are often times just waiting around to die. If you so much as say hi to lonely old people they will tear up with gratitude. And your thought "Oh fuck, what if this is what my old age is like" is blotted out by the joy of your tiny action that brought joy to someone. SO: You need to start an old timey old people's casual entertainment ensemble that plays soft music. I will do it too. We can compare notes and repretoire. If you don't have a band, just take an animal to visit, and if all you have is a metal band or a political rap band, try and book a show at the parking lot of the VA hospital. Seriously. Summer project, people. This is where the pact comes in. Forget working on your tan and reading a book a month or whatever your noble exercise in me-time was slated to be--it is time to holler at the forgotten, lonely and elderly. Nursing homes are in many ways, terribly frightening to visit. But for now, all you have to do is visit and make it easier on people who have to live there.
-I'm real serious. Put that band together. If you live in Chicago, lets make it happen--I have maracas and a car. Most nursing homes have pianos or organs. We are resourceful people with big hearts who understand that songs you love make life worth living. Think about it. Maybe if you do this, then, one day, when you are 81, someone is going to come and play "Magic Man" or "Jordan, MN" or Gnarls Barkley songs you hate and it will absolutely make your fucking day. C'mon. Do it.
My 36 hours in Gary, IN is out. I wanted to make it 36, but had an asthmatic bronchitis attack that was so epic I had to pull over and thought "This is it. I am going to die here, alone, coughing, in front of the Gary Public Library." and did not get to Jonathan's House of Pancakes for the pancake breakfast. Google it if yr heading through--it's between Miller Beach and Black Cherri strip club (exotic oil wrestling Weds after 9 pm), on/by the 912. They are open til 4 pm daily and are the closest thing a forlorn midwesterner can get to Waffle House. ( Just thinking "Waffle House" makes me wanna go on tour. Other than getting to live in orbit of your home life and having a legit excuse for smelling bad, is there any better reason to go on tour than getting to eat at Waffle House?) Also, Matt took the pictures for the story. Go team! There is a bunch more stuff that I could of put in the story and stuff that got nixxed, but you'll just have to wait for the Gary zine. RailCats season opener is this week, against some weirdly named Canadian team (Halifax Tall Ships? no idea). On Fridays, they have fireworks and Saturdays are giveaways!
Dudes. Philip Sherburne is DJing at Sonoteque tonight. It's like 1400 Chicago, $10, 10 pm ish. I don't remember when I last saw him DJ (that mini sized place in SF, in some pre-two-step haze, dudes in Kangols yelling "bo!bo!bo!" and then they yelled "rewind selecta" and he did and everyone screamed, I remember not knowing how to dance to what he was playing, I had never heard music like it before OR was it in Barcelona playing the microest microhouse and it was 4 a.m., I had a sunburn and had been eating nothing but gelato for three days) but I remember seeing him when I was DJ-ing once; I played "Ante Up" and he screamed "what the fuck is this?!" his face bright as a lightbulb. If I could introduce people to one song for the rest of my life, that* might be it.
(OR: Bad Brains "Pay To Come", Bobby Purify "I'm Your Puppet", Sonic Youth "Silver Rocket", Fleetwood Mac "Dreams", any song off the first two Pretenders records, Maxine Brown "Oh No Not My Baby", Funky 4 + 1 "It's the Joint", Ghostface "Nutmeg", Joni Mitchell "Jungle Line", Neil Young "Cinnamon Girl", Jay Ferguson "Thunder Island", Edwin Birdsong "Cola Bottle Baby", Rhino 39 "Prolixin Stomp, Germs "Lexicon Devil", Josh Wink "Higher State of Conciousness (Tweakin Mix)", Junior Mervin "Police and Thieves" ad infinitum.)
"Perhaps it is this specter that most haunts working men and women: the planned obsolescence of people that is of a piece with the planned obsolescence of the things they make. Or sell. It is perhaps this fear of no longer being needed in a world of needless things that most clearly spells out the unnaturalness, the surreality of much that is called work today."
Good news for people who love Jane Dark. Just this morning I was thinking I needed to re-read his Straw Dogs essay, which, it goes without saying, is a real brainsplitter. I was thinking about if violence against men, in pop and/or in film ever goes unanswered. In some movies where violence against women goes unavenged (Seidl's Dog Days, various Von Trier) I think of it as an act of feminist realism, a comment, but couldn't think of a movie where a man (or his wife/children/pride/car/family farm/homeland/father's pizza place) was harmed and he doesn't harm back with death blow force*. I am not sure if a film like that could get made, even outside of America. Because then you have a theatre full of people watching a movie where the protagonist is not the hero because we identify him as "pussy". And when the hero is foremost a pussy, it's to terrorize us, ie. the fecklessness of Hoffman's character in Straw Dogs, or even, like Patrick Swayze in Ghost--the primary source of tension is that he's powerless to save Demi Moore's life (vagina); he's emasculated and forced to work through the lesser vessel that is Whoopi Goldberg.
(* or at least allow his nemesis to drop off the building ledge/get swept away by a wave/ devoured by an alien predator)
After some research breeze throughs, and some concerted listens of tracks from Discobelle finnabes and some mixrekkids from nouveau mash/remix pros (Atrak por exemplo) I was struck by the amount of clashing-key din, a certain euphony that creates something halting. I don't know the technical name of whats happening, but it's something Nedelle taught me in the two days I played in her band: The key of the singing has to go with the music, or else it sounds wrong. Maybe everyone is just focusing on beats, or perhaps discordance is a scene-massing statement on the war that I am missing, but regardless, the computer makes amateurs out of even the talented. Technology can't be halted and real knowledge need not be availed; it'll be it's own genre soon enough and it hardly matters in the first place.
In the south, some people give guns to their own toddlers as presents. Seriously. I just read about it.
Meanwhile, I feel like Le Grizz gets it--those songs are a lot of the things that I want from music in the summer, and exactly what I want from a downloadable mash-ups: candy.
You know, it's like when yr rappin' heroes, dudes you think might not be capable of particular wrongness, suddenly try and smash your head on the rap-rock, and you can think of no more severe wrongness ofr them to embark on and then you realize well, if this song is the single and it's that bad.
I am finishing off Blue Highways a morsel at a time because I don't want it to end; I've parsed it's 400-odd pages to last five months so far. It's a reading revelation on par with Play It As It Lays, for me. It's a book hard packed with a seventies America still dotted with Gary Indianas--towns bearing the weight of slumping industry--a document of their last gasps before they got steam rolled into Wal-marted exurbs, humped by gentrfication and other fictions of progress. Or, in Gary's case, rotten and forgotten, immune to redevelopment plans and federal millions.
After all that Gary a few weeks ago, I am still up on the idea of me and JR and Burian moving there for a summer, welcome-whomever-else, or take a months long sabbatical, and produce a Gary zine:some languid prose, Burian on history detail, JR on Rail Cats game highlights. Or maybe it'd be a coffee table book. PS: There is, for the buffs among you, at the Gary library, a room thats just a collection of Indiana WPA materials, large and Gary specific. It's called the Indiana Room. Might be my summer hang. Taking the train to Gary with my bike might be my other summer hang. Totally TBA/idea in development.
Meanwhile, back on page 373 of Blue Highways, Least Heat Moon revisits Newport, RI--where he'd been stationed in the Navy 15 years before--it's since been reconditioned and gentrified, plugged with shops where the tattoo parlors used to be:
Where jacktars had walked with the sway of the sea teaches, now coeds from the Seven Sisters waggled their precious butts atop Pappagallos, and permanent press matrons, safe in tummy control Spandex, their triceps swinging in the wind, lugged purses the size of seabags.
I stopped for a beer. The bartender brought a Narragansett. I asked what happened to Thames Street. "Redevelopment for urban blight."
"How did it happen?"
"Navy cut back. Businessmen wanted tourists that would spend more than sailors."
"But the history."
"American history is parking lots."
Watain are bona fide.
1. As I rode up, I saw the guitarist back by the dumpsters, he was doing his hair, pouring water on it and wringing it into a devil lock. It looked like he was pouring it out of a 40, so maybe he styles with OE. Anyhow: The weird part is that he was on his knees. Maybe he has better control that way, or he did not want to get his shoes all wet before he played. The band is in the middle of their "FUCK THE WORLD 2007", so he must be a pro by now. Whatever he was doing--It worked--when he got on stage, he looked dirty and undead and his hair looked slimy, as if he had just come from his grave in the sea. He has thin, thinning hair that goes past his shoulders and scraggles into his spiked arm/shoulder cuffs and a curious beard that is arranged like it boomeranged onto his mug and a coating of exceptionally grody corpse paint on his face. It was terrifying to look at, but I could not stop looking.
2. The singer had on an impossible amount of jewelry on. A whole shoebox worth, chains and spikes and leather and pewter death-affiliated charms. And attached to the microphone was his most serious accoutrement: the collarbone, spine and hip bones of a medium sized animal that the band (this was just how I heard story from Laurent, who heard it from the merch dude, that it was all together, group activity style) hunted and skinned the animal. It's spine was short but it's bones were thick, it did not drape the microphone, but arched out, it's hips were smaller than a mans. I was thinking in was maybe it was a hyena, or the Swedish hyena equivalent.
3. I was the only person at the show wearing a color.
4. There was a very pretty girl, stereotypically euro-gorgeous maybe, standing near us during Angel Corpse, in a home made tube dress made out metal shirts. She had make up on as if to appear as if she had been scratched terribly. Like she'd run through a briar patch or fought with an animal. Loving black metal means obscuring your hotness out of allegiance to the ugliness, per the nature of the genre. It seems strange to me, but it is no difference than the fashions of indie rock signaling stunted youth and a certain insouciance. But Hottie Scratchface was next level in that she wasn't defering to her good looks, her look was one of black metal fealty, above all.
We were talking social as if we had not already hung out for hours the previous day and caughten up on all existing topics, JR and I. He took a smoke break and I breaked with him and did the smoking for him. Outside it was 80 and almost 10 pm and everyone young was skateboarding and biking and tubetopping and staring each other out, a loose mob up and down the sidewalks to the bike-in movies and bars and nouveau emo discos, all that The Crotch profers. We were talking about exercise (to be exact) when a girl swang forward, and excitedly announced it was her birthday, "Thirteetooo" came out of her mouth like a slurp; she was drunk. "I am going to come in soon and buy all the books I want." She named some authors I didn't know. Her boyf., perhaps a wildly anemic 24, poofs in from the ether, and as she wreaths her arms around him, he adds: " And P.G. Wodehouse, too!" Whooda thunk it--the pale kid with the crustache is a Jeeves enthusiast.
Also seen: Tonight was the poetry slam of the at risk youths (heavy business), with it's many poems by mostly teen moms whose writing was about being sad but sturdy under the weight of motherhood, they read with babies on jutted hips or toddlers bing-bonging teeny heads into the back of their legs. After that, there was a DJ, for a quick 15 minutes before everyone had to get back on school busses and bus back; the girls danced and the toddlers waddled. And then as the sub-bass intro for "It's going down" went bum... bum bum, on the three, I saw a girl back it up and drop while front-strapped with a Baby Bjorn with an infant in it. She moved smooth like she was floating, with one hand supporting the babies head as she dipped towards the floor. It was reverent and defiant at once, it was a beautiful thing to see.
If someone told me, anytime from 2004-today, that today, right now, I would be enjoying the fact that (YES, FACT! TOTAL FACT!), that 1/4th of all records I am hearing sound like they wouldn't exist if not for Animal Collective's Sung Tongs, and that I wouldn't mind--I would of been really surprised. But it's true. The jangle trails, the meowing, the fardled art mysteries great and small--it's a feeling I am feeling; it's not difficult to indulge these kids. All of them.
My favorite place in LA is on fire. I used to walk on those dusty slopes with my dad every weekend. My California heart lies beneath the cages of the old zoo. I held a burial service for me & JJ's pet rat, Ratty, in those hills and our neighbors, the dudes in Iceburn whose names I forget, they played the funeral march, all the way up to the top of the hill, on accordians. I have had life and times in those hills and this fire is making me real sad.
Did you ever notice that
is much the same movie as Finding Nemo, if you sub-out "the ocean"
for masculine self-discovery?
The triumvirate of Judd Hirsh/Donald Sutherland/teen Timothy Hutton blowing up the new-emotional, desperate-but-actualizing 70's man & kicking the corpse of the 50's man off of them makes for some great film.
Yo Part Deux: Matt's band with high fash road dog Jeremy Lemos and Rob Lowe, the joining of powers White/Light and Lichens = White/Lichens-- are heading due East all week. Their new record came out on Holy Mountain last month. It's friendly drone, you will probably like it, and it's a special thing to see.
Fri. May 4th - Pittsburgh, PA - CMU *
Sat. May 5th - Rochester, NY - A/V Space *
Sun. May 6th - New Haven, CT - Bar *
Mon. May 7th - Boston, MA - Middle East Upstairs *
Tues. May 8th - New York, NY - Mercury Lounge *
Wed. May 9th - Providence, RI - AS220
Thurs. May 10th - North Adams, MA - Cafe Latino (Mass MOCA)
Friday May 11th - Buffalo???????
Sunday May 13th - Chicago, IL - Empty Bottle (CD RELEASE AND MOTHERS DAY PARTY!)
Yo! Bird Names are playing tonight at Version Fest, and Brilliant Pebbles are tomorrow. Brilliant Pebbles are the band that twice I have referred to as "Soft William" on earlier posts. Which means "Soft William" is a band name up for grabs. I do not know if it's gotten any better since the last other times I went and never actually saw what I came to see, but my thought for you if you plan to go to either show/band is to leave 3 hours later than you are planning to leave, because the bands will not play until 4 hours after whatever the people at the door tell you, or whatever time you would imagine bands start in relation to "doors". If you can refute this, let me know.
Also, I need a roommate starting in June. Email me for details if you are interested.
All I really remember of the dream last night is that I was walking down the street and I saw a man standing on the street with and guitar tied to him and I said "Hey, Can you play "America" by John Fahey?" and he did. Magically, I pulled a guitar off my back and was like "Oh, thats nothing" and started playing it too, but totally shredding in a ZZ Top fashion. I wish this could actually happen. I also suggest someone do a metal style cover of "America", though I guess that would pretty much just be "Breadcrumb Trail" by Slint*. Sorry. Forget I mentioned it.
(* How do you feel about the trapped in the past line-up of the first night of Pitchfork? I know thats what ATP is--the tasteful version of an "'80s Flashback Lunch". But the contemporary underground as we know it is Zombie Of The 90s feasting on our brains as is, stuff like this is a sandbagging of the future, a moonlight bask in the epic familiar. Granted, I have selective nostalgia; Sonic Youth is ok forever, they'd get a pass even if they were reuniting with Bob Bert to cover Guv'ner songs and Lee did all the singing. But, listen, I got a 53 track Sebadoh promo reissue in the mail yesterday . We are now living in the pre-Bubble and Scrape continuum like a hamster habitrail, where your favorite song from 11th grade follows you unto death on a locked groove, a rotten albatross knocking against yr sternum with every step forward, wafting: "Knock Knock, it's Lou." It's like seeing the person who devirginized you on the street fifteen years later and having them wink at you.)
Happy Belated birthday my one and only old school bestest, Britt Lindsay, now 32 and reborn in midwestern fire. I have known her half her life, official, since back when I was a riot girl and she was the Lydia Lunch of the senior class. Bless.