Inifinitely Good

So I survived the death day. With pictures and stories to tell. Besotted stories.

I survived, but in a sort of unwitting homage, I bought a Deathray Davies t-shirt that reads, "If it were up to us, you would all be dead." They opened for the Starlight Mints. As did Dressy Bessy. Starlight Mints news: the girl in the group is pregnant, and they only get better every time I see them.

I almost lost my Lomo. Dropped it on the floor at the Troubadour, but a girl beside me noticed that I had dropped something, and I went down to have a look. Happily. Where was my head? Half-lodged inside a vodka bottle, I suspect. By the time I got home, I nearly forgot why there were all these pictures on my thigh. I didn't draw them. It was just how I was sitting and that there were pens handy, I guess.

So Beulah and Tommy went to see Tesla at the Avalon. They came and met me and Yen at the Abbey after our show. And glasses with spirits in them were raised. And photographs were taken. And synapses stopped firing where others started. It's strange how far away it feels now. Only hours later.

Anyway, it was a weekend. And I lived to call it one. Minus an hour and all.







Too bad I missed Franz Ferdinand when they were in town. I guess triumphs are never without defeat. You can feel my lips undress your eyes. How awesome is that.