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"My scotch-soaked gearbox tickles me half to death as I shift down to recall the ironic pleasure this photograph, taken backstage at a Don Ho show in 1977, has given me over the years." (first line of the essay I presented on Friday)
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Chuffed to present at our university conference, only wish the Malkmus show wasn't on the same night. This was almost too much of an adrenaline high. Malkmus and co. were drop-dead good. He continues to mine an aesthetic that astounds me. There's no doubt my prose attempts to fuse high style with a nonchalance similarly (in other words: blame him!) Hazardous territory to be sure and one that I struggle to successfully integrate, but it's so much dang fun trying. Corwin gave me a plastic man t-shirt, so I am wearing that. The darling Chaser of Northern Michigan agreed to meet me for dinner tonight. She once sat on Jim Harrison's lap, which is good enough reason to skip the Oscars if there ever was one. Plus everyone is so down on Clooney in the Descendants (Bel, FJG, Bret Easton Ellis), I just can't stand the disagreements any longer. Now if only the local pizzeria were still open. I am told it is closing, which is the darndest crying shame. Still we will try our luck. The food is so fine (the #15 braised pork is incomparable), the ambience is lovely, especially for a Sunday evening, and they have an exquisite hi-fi that routinely plays jazz-rock that is music to my ringing ears.
