We had a pretty good 9/11 party last night, getting hyphy with Jenni, Stevens Seagalll and Devin. I was sippin on some grape drink and Stina let me fondle her weave. Somehow the night went from shaking our dreads into a pretty serious Krug party. We were sitting on the couch listening to "Shut Up I'm Dreaming", silently contemplating the meaning of whatever when I turned to Stina and said, "Question: what's more romantic than a guy telling you to shut up?"
She shook her head and smiled a soft, distant smile. "Nothing."
So, pretty much needless to say, we are suffering from another outbreak of krugfluenza. Ever since he shook his fever (or hangover, I'm not a doctor) sweat on us at the Wolf Parade show, we have been infected. I'm pretty sure there's no cure except more Krug. Unfortunately, neither Sunset Rubdown nor Wolf Parade have deigned to include California in their fall tours. At first I was kind of offended but now that I've had some time to think about it, I understand. After all, it's fire season. Nobody wants to go on tour in a land of flames, especially not a bunch of Canadians who've never seen a fire outside of their own rustic hearths. What do they know of blazes that burn uncontrolled for days and watching the sun rise blood red in an ashy, hateful sky? What do they know about fire? To quote the drunken man I once tried to save from self-immolation in a fire pit on the patio of a local bar, I've been on fire all my life.
When I say krugfluenza, I mean my throat hurts and I haven't really left the house today except to buy kitty litter and pick up my paycheck.
I had a dream last night that might have been a fever dream about the movie theater where I had my first job. I don't remember a lot about the dream except for running around empty theaters and secret passages. A couple years ago I was writing a story about that theater that I should mostly have scrapped except for a few long passages of description of the theater: the theater as it was and is, rundown and shitty, sticky and broken; the secret theater that we knew, the rooms upstairs and behind the screen, the places we wrote our names; the dream theater it symbolized but never lived up to; the theater it wanted to be. It was equal parts gothic castle and strip mall trash. I was thinking about it a lot today. It's a lot like what I was saying about the radio last week, this romanticized vision of pop culture places that used to serve us but they don't anymore. Or just as likely never did. I'm pretty fucking young to make calls like that, but shit if I wouldn't rather watch Turner Classic Movies than drag my ass out to see whatever the shit's out right now.
Which brings me to the one trick pony song of the day, Handsome Furs "The Radio's Hot Sun".
This is easily my favorite track off of Plague Park, because it is kind of unexpected to end an album that is heavily reliant on keyboards and shit by strumming an acoustic guitar and singing a ballad that is as romantic as it is a refutation of those kinds of popular culture places, lifestyles, ideas, whatever that no longer serve us. Or at least that's what I'd say if I felt slightly more confident that I knew what he was talking about.
Fuck it. Let's get a freaking tamale.
ps nothing says "let's get back together" like late night calls from a restricted number.