Secret Pop

Feb 12, 2004

Potential Orgasm

I went to Spaceland last night to see Seksu Roba, and see them I did. It was a fine set, though too brief for my taste. Any more of that pornographic multimedia backdrop they play, however, and questionable things might have gone on. So perhaps it's for the best. Lun*na Menoh is sexy like whipped cream in your mouth. I can't say more without sounding like a pervert.

Hollywood and Vine

The night before, I went to see Sting at the Pantages with my sister. Front row seats. It was a sit-down crowd, which I suppose I lamented, but when they started dancing, I was embarrassed by most of them. I don't lump myself in with that "adult contemporary" set. I loved the Police, and I adored Sting's solo work for the first few albums. I don't dislike what came after, but it was never as moving to me. Alienation by jazz, maybe. But these days -- and at these prices -- the crowds that come out for a Sting concert are shaking their elderly boob jobs and simultaneously checking their watches to make sure the sitter isn't kept up too late. It's sort of like watching your parents get down. You wish it would stop. But Sting himself was just grand. And Mary J. Blige walked right in front of us on her way out. She's very small. Apparently Christina Applegate and her husband gave my sister the once-over. But I don't blame them. She looked beautiful.

Out of Mind. Out of Sight.

I'm finally getting everything done, tax-wise, but that has been an ordeal. The volume of paper to sort through. Persistent computer hassles. Forlorn trips down a refuse-cluttered memory lane. It's a fine line between feeling triumphant and feeling relieved. But I am glad to be putting that part of things away. I even bought filing boxes that I can label and lid and stack conveniently in my garage.

I've had a lot of words swimming round in my brain. So much so that I have to step out of the bath just when I've settled in because I've got something I should write down or that I know I will forget, no matter how many times I repeat it to myself amongst the bubbles. But it hasn't really been materializing into much. I haven't liked much of what I've written here in a while. I think that I am not happy to just report on what I've been up to or to quote song lyrics. I want to be writing as part of some irresistible chemical reaction. I want it to be changing me, sentence by sentence. But I have never not been accused of expecting too much.

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