Hi Pop Rocks!
I have lost two posts and had the computer crash, so apparently this is not the time to blog you.
But I am here in Minneapolis and have much to tell. It has to do with Jim Walsh, First Avenue, Lucinda Williams, a whiskey and coke, and some ice.
It also has to do with writing the same song twice, inside-out, because you are obsessed-stalking in love.
Last night I discovered Lucinda Williams. I mean, really discovered her. We have a lot of talking to do about this. I know I'm sooper way late with this one, but whatever. I'm a late-bloomer. So sue me. (All you'll get is a bunch of Hello Kitty purses.)
Last night I discovered her.
I also rediscovered my magnetic rock-club home, First Avenue. In L.A., I often visit First Avenue in my dreams. In those dreams, I can fly off the second-floor railings and over the crowd. I am one of the ghosts that haunts the club. And it is haunted; you can feel it.
Did you ever think, maybe some ghosts are the souls of alive people, lost or traveling in their dreams?
First Avenue is full of ghosts. Real ghosts. And also memory-ghosts from my wasted youth. At First Avenue, I met my first boyfriend. After we broke up, we also reunited at First Avenue. It was a mistake. But that's how boring Pavement was that night.
I blame Pavement for pretty much everything.
Once I sang with a rock band at First Avenue. It felt completely foreign and weirdly natural. Like falling in love.
In First Avenue's Seventh St. Entry (minirock club), I reunited with the long-lost L.A.girl Tracy Spuehler, after 20 years. (And on July 20 she will play the Entry!)
I cried there once, the first time I heard the song "Scar Tissue." The Red Hot Chili Peppers were performing songs before Californication came out. Flea was really unhappy and he kept confessing how he was fucking up forgetting stuff. In my review I went, "Aw, Flea." I felt like I knew him or something. I wanted to tell him that it was OK.
But as I said, now is not the time to blog.
I have a Minneapolis out there to hug and French kiss. Can you French kiss a city? I think you can. You can breathe it down into your lungs, and then it becomes part of your blood.
Love,
me
I have lost two posts and had the computer crash, so apparently this is not the time to blog you.
But I am here in Minneapolis and have much to tell. It has to do with Jim Walsh, First Avenue, Lucinda Williams, a whiskey and coke, and some ice.
It also has to do with writing the same song twice, inside-out, because you are obsessed-stalking in love.
Last night I discovered Lucinda Williams. I mean, really discovered her. We have a lot of talking to do about this. I know I'm sooper way late with this one, but whatever. I'm a late-bloomer. So sue me. (All you'll get is a bunch of Hello Kitty purses.)
Last night I discovered her.
I also rediscovered my magnetic rock-club home, First Avenue. In L.A., I often visit First Avenue in my dreams. In those dreams, I can fly off the second-floor railings and over the crowd. I am one of the ghosts that haunts the club. And it is haunted; you can feel it.
Did you ever think, maybe some ghosts are the souls of alive people, lost or traveling in their dreams?
First Avenue is full of ghosts. Real ghosts. And also memory-ghosts from my wasted youth. At First Avenue, I met my first boyfriend. After we broke up, we also reunited at First Avenue. It was a mistake. But that's how boring Pavement was that night.
I blame Pavement for pretty much everything.
Once I sang with a rock band at First Avenue. It felt completely foreign and weirdly natural. Like falling in love.
In First Avenue's Seventh St. Entry (minirock club), I reunited with the long-lost L.A.girl Tracy Spuehler, after 20 years. (And on July 20 she will play the Entry!)
I cried there once, the first time I heard the song "Scar Tissue." The Red Hot Chili Peppers were performing songs before Californication came out. Flea was really unhappy and he kept confessing how he was fucking up forgetting stuff. In my review I went, "Aw, Flea." I felt like I knew him or something. I wanted to tell him that it was OK.
But as I said, now is not the time to blog.
I have a Minneapolis out there to hug and French kiss. Can you French kiss a city? I think you can. You can breathe it down into your lungs, and then it becomes part of your blood.
Love,
me
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