Love to love Love

I'm at Del Taco blogging into my notebook. Later I will have an underpaid monkey upload the content into a computer terminal. The reason I am here is not because I was hungry, an earlier cinnamon-flavored Toast-em Pop-up took care of that, no, there was a buy one-get one free coupon in the mail and damn it all to heck if I ain't gonna use it. Now I have finished my burritos there's a hailstorm sweeping the hillside. Surely it's been a month of no precipitation and today's got me trapped in an empty Del Taco. A cool part about getting stuck in here is the gravitas it gives to the US Psychedelic mix I'm listening to. Constructed by my man in Wales, the inestimable Steve Hanson aka Steveski, The Ess, Steve Aitch, there's a sweet sequence involving the 60s LA band Love that makes you think Love is all you ever want or need.

Clarkenator was here a couple weeks back. I'll write more about the great time we had once the accompanying visuals have been processed. In other news, getting giddily beered up the other night allowed me to procure a gay cowboy leather bracelet with a horseshoe pendant from a tea shop in town.

Richard Wright

As I absentmindedly reminded H over the course of several obnoxious emails, I'm researching Richard Wright (1908-1960), America's black Dostoevsky. It's quite fun. I love his work (so grim). For my idea to be anything other than crap, I need to place him in the context of Naturalism, the modernist movement that unflinchingly described bowel movements and root canals with oddly-inspired enthusiasm. The appeal for me then is obvious. The language is superb. Research is amusing too.

Here's a nice bit from Malcolm Cowley: "In their effort to achieve bigness at any cost, the Naturalists were likely to undertake projects that went beyond their physical or imaginative powers, or in which they discovered too late that they weren't
really interested."

More Cowley: "Jack London wrote fifty books in seventeen years. "I have no unfinished stories," London told an interviewer five years before his death. "Invariably I complete everyone I start. If it's good, I sign it and send it out. If it isn't good, I sign it and send it out.""

Wright himself was heavily edited. The work as he intended didn't come out until decades later or long after his death.

Cat in the Snow

I let the cat out in the snow after I got up late. If I didn't let her out, she'd whine and that's real annoying to me. Trouble is there was enough snow out there to bury a cat. I made a percolator of coffee and drank it on the couch reading Trout Fishing in America and worrying about the cat. It took me a long time to read it even though there wasn't a whole lot of it left to read. Every now and then I got up and whistled for the cat. She didn't answer so I went back to reading.

When I finished reading Trout Fishing in America I thought about the books I read this year that weren't school books, thinking that this would keep me from worrying about the cat in the snow.

I read Jonathan Lethem who did the blurb for David's Go-Betweens' book. His Chronic City is fantastic. I read Boomerang by Barry Hannah. A blazing blend of non-fiction and fiction.

A sign of a good book is if you're reading it when you head to the john and you keep reading it after the john and this is one of those. Barry getting mistaken for John Ritter in LA compelled me to write about Three's Company and how that served as my foundation for the life my sister was living in LA. I got real sad when John Ritter died. He was for me what Jack Lemmon, I suspect, was for other people. I aborted the piece in the end, but I may return to it when i have a better idea of it.

Sons and Lovers by DH Lawrence is essential reading for sons and mothers of sons and to a lesser extent, lovers.

Trout Fishing in America by Richard Brautigan cuts loose with sentences of mind-blowing perversity. I often reach for it when I'm having trouble making sentences work they way I want them to. I have a couple groovy titles in progress too and they are Reinhart's Women by Thomas Berger and Never Die by Barry Hannah. Both killer reads.

I worried a lot about the cat being buried in ten inches of snow. I tried leaving the door open a crack in case I didn't hear her miaow but it got too cold.

I went for a walk in my new coat. The walk began with a search party in the backyard that did not yield a cat, not even a miaow. It was a good wet snowy walk in my new coat. I listened to the new Vivian Girls CD that I ordered last night on impulse after I had a few bold whiskies and thought to hell with my bank account. After my walk, I found the cat under the neighbor's boat. She didn't miaow. She even tried to run away from me.

I came home carrying the cat and watched this and nearly cried because I was there.



Now Splendor in the grass is on got to go.

Something I wrote at the bar before my friends showed up

I'm here killing time at Beaver St Brews and Cues, having my first gin and tonic of the year and waiting for the Final Four basketball to start. One of my favorite Pavement albums is Brighten the Corners an irresistible rock album that heralds Spring rather well I'd say and I can see from inside this bar that there's sun going on outside it. Cool. Not only that but I rode my bike here and the weather was ginny. I've opted to listen to my ipod while I wait for my friends to show up. I don't want to say anything else. I had fish for lunch. There I said it. I covered it in chili garlic sauce and baked it in tinfoil for twenty minutes. Then I melted cheese over it and whacked it in a tortilla. Goodbye.

My new coat!

Remember when I said that I had lost the pad to my earphones when I was at the pub back in early March? Well the other day when I was looking for my replacement set, I found the pad that I had thought I had left at the pub in the couch cushion. Still I haven't found what I did with that wily old replacement set. Now they're probably at the pub!

Today I bought an olive green herringbone parka/overcoat that I have had my eye on since Christmas vacation. I've been waiting patiently for it to go on sale and today it was 25% off, which was good enough for me! I paid the kind of price that I wanted to but forget to take into consideration the thirteen dollars of tax I had to pay on top of it. Oh well!

The other day my Mom sent me a bag of nuts and some spare headphones.

Not only that but shortbread cookies and the Fall Peel sessions box set. Who, Nelly! Have ye heard rebellious jukebox? Me neither until the other day and now I am quite familiar with it because I cannot stop playing it.

I took my coat for a walk tonight and part way into it, I smelt something horrid which could only mean one thing: there's a skunk about.

The thing about Flagstaff neighborhoods: they're awfully dark. The reason for this has to do with the stars. An ordination was passed some time ago that limits any light source that could be a hindrance to stargazers. What this means for me on my walk in my new coat is that the chances of me seeing the skunk sneak up and attack and ruin my new coat is not very likely. Don't the stars look pretty though!

Here's a picture of my new coat that survived a skunk attack!

Almost, but not quite

Today would have been perfect had I not lost another headphone pad at the pub. I know I shouldn't have taken them there last night, but I would have lost them some other way, some other time anyway. I go through more of these rubber headphone covers. It actually degrades my quality of life in a sick way when this happens.

It's Spring Break and the weather has gotten really nice for it. It's supposed to be 75 on Tuesday, which is a good excuse for everyone to go outside and get drunk. I wore my straw hat to the supermarket, listening to Hawkwind on my underperforming headphones.

Only a few pages into D.H. Lawrence's Sons and Lovers, but I'm sincerely gagging for more. I will report if these feelings of mine change any time soon. On deck is Mark Twain's Life on the Mississippi, Mcguane's pick for the one book he'd wished he'd written.

Apparently there are black widow spiders living in older homes. The reason I say this is because I haven't seen a spider here, nor any insects whatsoever. Possible reasons for this is one, the house is new-ish; two, a lot of bugs probably can't be bothered getting up to this elevation; and three is that they are just avoiding me, in which case that just makes me feel unwanted. In other news, I heard a woodpecker pecking a tree in our backyard this morning.

I did well at the supermarket spending less than ten dollars on milk and bread and fruit, yogurt and I forget what else. I did a lot better a few days earlier, claiming a bottle of Chivas Regal 18 from a discount shopping trolley. Of course I hadn't planned on buying booze and thus didn't have my passport. The store manager Tim with the silver goatee didn't accept my Australian driver's license but said he would keep the bottle on his desk for when I returned with proof that I was as old as he suspected.

Best Dressed – Adams, Worst – Bigelow, and much more

A lot of JC Penney during the ad breaks, the reliance on their women's line was not encouraging for guys like me who dress exclusively in menswear. Deduct two points.

ABC put the freakishly tall Robin Roberts on the red carpet, making actors such as Mark Ruffalo look freakishly small when she chatted to them.

The Mistress was acutely pithy in her observations:

* gwyneth paltrow is looking like marcia brady circa Hawaii episode.
* Mila Kunis looks like she's had some hooch.
* Marisa Tomei is puffy and menopausal.


A good year for dresses, mostly. Oprah was wearing water wings. Amy Adams looked the most beautiful in a dress that matched her eyes. Kathyrn Bigelow looked like an unshapely man trapped in a Christmas stocking.

The guy who won best director stole part of his speech from the woman who won best foreign film.

Earlobes jangled on Natalie Portman from the weight of her earrings as she collected her well-deserved win for Black Swan. Sitting behind her, Darren Aronofsky's World War I fighter pilot moustache twinkled charismatically.

Scarlet Johannson and Matthew McConaughey have never looked more clapped-out. A guest I had over, Jon felt that he should have at least washed his greasy hair. His wife Emily thought that maybe Scarlet experienced some haggard sex prior to the get-together.

New Hollywood trend identified: British and American men collaborations, they were everywhere yesterday.

“This is hurting my ears,” said I during the Mandy Moore song.

I give this mediocre awards show 10/10

Almond Roca Shoegaze

What can I say, I sat on a bar stool and caught my finger between the cushion and then I sat on my finger and didn't realize it until I started scooting in. I cursed loudly for I had the full weight of my tush on it and Johan whose looking a lot less like Udo Kier these days and more like George Michael circa Faith on account of the well-manicured beard and brown tinted shades he wears at night, was in the stool next to me, his hands up safe, told me to tell the barmaid to give you a free Ouzo shot, but I let it go and I won't hold it against. I'll be back. I like the local Greek grill, hazardous as it may be.

Reading Hemingway's My Old Man and thinking of my young Pappy during sentences evocative of childhood bliss like this one: “He'd ask me questions about things and some of the things I'd say he'd laugh.” The story has to do with corruption at the horse races. Led me to come up with a good lyric for a hard rock band: “they'd just as soon use the horse hooves and hide then keep the horses alive.” I resisted the decadence and abstained from eating Almond Roca last night. It was a Valentine's gift from my Valentine, my Mother. She also sent me some Vaseline intensive dry skin repair because she reads my blog. On Valentine's I listened to this excellent mash-up my good friend Steve from Wales sent me featuring My Bloody Valentine. Having not listened to this band in yonks really sends you into orbit.

Bought Peet's Columbian blend Coffee because that's what they drink in Chronic City. I went to bed at 8.30pm last night, so I could get up early and drink a bunch of it and I have had a large percolator full of it and it's now 10.21am and I'm not totally convinced by it and think I'll go back to bed.

The Waste Land

Fighting a cold, but gonna come out on top, unlike my battle with the Belster over Black Swan, I'll eke a decision there, but it won't be until the eleventh round and the exhumation of Tennessee Williams.

Good Super Bowl last night, my first in twelve years. Alternated between sudafed and Papa John's pizza. Subjected to far too many putrid commercials.

Drank and partied to some pub rock Friday night. I was somewhat flat, but the energy in the room was good. Corwin needed to get out of town the next day and given that I never get out of town I emerged from the hideaway and accompanied him west on 66. First we went to Target to get some masking tape for his new tattoo. I impulsively bought a 12 pack of Irish Spring and a creme cleanser that subsequently turned my face into The Waste Land.

Spare a minute to talk about facial cosmetics? Winter here is cruel to be kind on my skin. I am desperate for lip balm. I tried to do right with this clearance cleanser I got at Target and it is horrendous, no wonder it was on clearance.

We drove to Williams, a first for me and him, less weird for me since he's from Phoenix (he played the boy in Poltergeist). We ate lunch at Jessica's Greek Family Restaurant. I was reminded of Destroyer's Song for America, which we listened to on the way. “Wrote a song for America they told me it was clever, Jessica's on vacation to the dark side of town forever.”

It was just me and him at a booth in the restaurant and some member of Jessica's family that was not Jessica because I asked if she was Jessica and she said no Jessica is in Chicago. We both drank ice tea. I ordered a hot meatloaf sandwich covered in gravy. It was alright, though I can't imagine ever getting a craving for it again. Alright back to T.s. Eliot's She Wolves of the Waste Land.

I love the American low-life

Biking to the campus post office Monday I crashed into a skateboarder. I was listening to Gang of Four on my headphones real loud and didn't know what hit me. I yowled, ejected myself and rolled across the path. He didn't lose his feet and was there to pick me up (but not dust me off). The next morning before my first day of work I opened the fridge and saw a gnat circling my Caesar salad kit and tried to backhand it. Punnet of blueberries exploded across the linoleum. To be safe, I spent the rest of the week listening to Destroyer's new album. My only complaint is that at fifty minutes it's too short! Watched The Asphalt Jungle last night for probably the fifth time. I love the American low-life. His stomach hemorrhaging, Sterling Hayden, pulls his iv out and stumbles from the small town doctor's house and into the night. As the car peals out, the doctor says, “He won't get very far that's for sure. He hasn't got enough blood left in him to keep a chicken alive!”

Mix I made for the greats

(layout by the acclaimed luke fraser)

Been meaning to blog for awhile and determined to do it well. Carla, Jesse, two greats who inspire reasons to live — not that I needed one, but if I did, I would now have one and it's them — are getting married this weekend and I want to see them so bad! I hope the course of events in my life that follows allows this to happen sooner rather than later. If I counted up all the heart-stopping moments I've had with them (The Mother and the Whore, Malkmus, to name but two) then the beat of my heart would never stop, which is essentially the eternal idea.
Have you seen the Angela Carter-esque Black Swan? Well you should, why, because it's good. Barbara Hershey does a great Piper Laurie in Carrie and Natalie Portman does a great Catherine Deneuve in Repulsion. I liked True Grit too, heckuva film and I aspire towards Matt Damon's look.
I'm manning the front desk of Beaver Street Elementary School in case you walk in and see me there in my cranberry hoodie looking bewildered. It's the temporary home of the Liberal Arts Building, while they remove asbestos and install sprinkler heads in the actual building. I was asked to test the water pressure of the drinking fountains the other day and came back with an unnecessarily-descriptive full report.

Year in Reading

I read more than usual this year because I was out of work for most of it. Also, it occurs to me that the paucity of books by women probably has something to do with my inability in understanding them. I'd say the top 17 are among the finest books I've read and it's not until 34 that I start pulling my hair out. In school I read a shitload of Angela Carter, fell in love with her despite her many unnerving qualities. Julian Barnes I learned to despise. Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway is astonishing particularly when there's an expert telling you what you've just read. Carter's Shadowdance and The Infernal Desire Machines of Dr Hoffman are brilliant. I would not hesitate recommending those to anyone, but I would have them brace themselves.

Number in brackets are in order of appreciation. Little blurb on each below.

A Fan's Notes by Fred Exley (8)
Palimpsest by Gore Vidal (23)
Gallatin Canyon by Thomas McGuane (13)
Speak, Memory by Nabokov (24)
Pale Fire by Nabokov (aborted)
Bushwhacked Piano by McGuane
Anna Karenina by Tolstoy (aborted)
Airships by Barry Hannah (9)
Emerald Blue by Gerald Murnane (29)
Gringos by Charles Portis (10)
Robert Lowell by Ian Hamilton (27)
A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore (34)
The Feud by Thomas Berger (12)
Wise Blood by Flannery O Connor (11)
Eustace Chisholm and the Works by James Purdy (5)
Vital Parts by Thomas Berger (1)
Treasure Island by RL Stevenson (32)
Everything that Rises Must Converge by Flannery O Connor (7)
Nobody's Angel by McGuane (31)
Seize the Day by Bellow (35)
A Separate Peace by John Knowles (26)
Nothing but Blue skies by McGuane (19)
Watchmen by Alan Moore (31)
Henderson the Rain King by Saul Bellow (2)
Americana by Don Delillo (37)
The Moviegoer by Walker Percy (21)
Third Policeman by Flann O' Brien (25)
Life of Johnson by Boswell (33)
Glory by Nabokov (36)
Being Invisible by Berger (14)
Going Places by Leonard Michaels (6)
Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler (15)
Bat out of Hell by Barry Hannah (20)
Who is afraid of Teddy Villanova by Thomas Berger (17)
Off to the side by Jim Harrison (24)
Mysteries by Knut Hamsum (13)
Tennis Handsome by Barry Hannah (2)
Best Friends by Berger (28)
Bushwhacked Piano by McGuane
Kangaroo by DH Lawrence (16)
Driving on the Rim by McGuane (18)
Cakes and Ale by Somerset Maugham (30)
Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark (22)


A Fan's Notes by Fred Exley
Not so much a shaggy dog story as a story about a shaggy dog, or a guy whose beard shares the same coloring as a sheepdog. Deserves a place alongside On the Road or whatever the establishment is calling the Great American Novel these days.

Palimpsest by Gore Vidal
Sublime memoir from someone who was in the moment in the 20th century. There's a reason Hollywood makes Forrest Gump instead of Palimpsest: no class.

Gallatin Canyon by Thomas McGuane
McGuane does Chekhov; excellent story collection from a few years back.

Speak, Memory by Nabokov
I recall this memoir is great on memory, but I forget the specifics.

Pale Fire by Nabokov (aborted)
Second attempt and probably last at this irritating ridiculous spectacle.

Bushwhacked Piano by McGuane
I usually reach for the Bushwhacked Piano after a bad reading experience. It's my favorite novel and I read it once a year. This year I read it twice.

Anna Karenina by Tolstoy (aborted)
Only read half due to personal trauma.

Airships by Barry Hannah
I read Barry for the pure pleasures of his wild man prose, or as Thomas McGuane once put it, 'the inventions of his moon-landing English." Short stories. See also Tennis Handsome.

Emerald Blue by Gerald Murnane
Murnane's a bit cerebral and at the time, I was in a mental fog, so the circumstances weren't great, but much to admire here.

Gringos by Charles Portis
Aw, one of my heroes. Once the snow melts I'd like to get down and see True Grit. Mind boggles as to what kind of movie would be made of this. Archaeologist/ bounty hunter in Mexico, not far from the US border, but far enough to be in the jungle surrounded by a ragtag bunch of eccentric ragamuffins: hippies, UFO chasers and others, all likely wanted for something. Did I say it was hilarious?

Robert Lowell by Ian Hamilton
Grueling, but I got through it and well worth the gruel all things considered.

A Gate at the Stairs by Lorrie Moore
Earlier this year, I wrote, “she writes well on grief, but there’s almost an overdose of Lorrie going on here. All the characters make Lorrie Moore jokes even the Arab. It’s like Jerry Seinfeld playing every character on Heroes or something.”

The Feud by Thomas Berger
Slapstick perfection.

Wise Blood by Flannery O Connor
There are scenes in this novel that are more realized in my mind than scenes from forties' noirs.

Eustace Chisholm and the Works by James Purdy
Sticky malevolent hustling in NYC slums, so poetic your heart stops. Really hard to believe Purdy will go there but he does. Angela Carter tries to go there and usually fails miserably. Will I read it a second time? I do not know if I will.

Vital Parts by Berger
Part three of Berger's brilliant Reinhart novels about a lovable/laughable overweight schlub, imagine a cross between Larry David and his friend Jeff. This time out he's embroiled in a cryogenics scheme with a playboy highschool buddy who was, by Reinhart's account, an overwhelming dildo in high school and Reinhart tells it straight, so you believe him. Reinhart needs a break in this life, but even that he might screw up. Cryogenics, really Reinhart? Loaned it to my sister-in-law Pam who enjoyed it for about five seconds.

Treasure Island by RL Stevenson
I liked it, but whatever, I was on an island at the time.

Everything that Rises Must Converge by Flannery O' Connor
Sounds cliched, but without Flannery, American literature would not be what it is. Robert Lowell was convinced she was a saint. She died at my age. This came out posthumously and it's incredible.

Nobody's Angel by McGuane
Fascinates me for not being among his best. Written during a turbulent time in his life.

Seize the Day by Bellow
Disconcertingly stagey, I basically hated it.

A Separate Peace by John Knowles
One tender book. Gore proclaimed it profound on adolescent boy-lust. Just nod your head, kid.

Nothing but Blue Skies by McGuane
Contains my favorite scene in a novel involving cajun spices. And who could forget the barn party?

Watchmen by Alan Moore
Certainly impressive, I suppose.

Henderson the Rain King by Saul Bellow
My two favorite novels of the year concern enormous fat guys.

Americana by Don Delillo
Don should have stopped this after fifty perfect pages. Turns into X Files conspiracy thriller about the secret patterns of the number of holes in things. A pile of horseshit.

The Moviegoer by Walker Percy
Crafted to within an inch of its life and tighter than a Jerry Lawler headlock. This one kind of got the best of me. There's really nothing quite like it however.

Third Policeman by Flann O' Brien
Beyond criticism really. I desperately want to have a porter at the bar with him, but I can't because he's dead (highest compliment).

Life of Johnson by Boswell
I was hoping to read Johnson's dictionary as well as Samuel Johnson is Indignant by Lydia Davis, but I only read the Boswell, which I was so immersed in it at the Rose Garden this summer waiting for Tim to pick me up, I made him wait fifteen minutes, which is horrible, I know. The book is good, but not something to dick your friends over for.

Glory by Nabokov
The eighth chapter I remember being good, the first chapter is a close second. Couldn't tell you what's in-between other than an amusing comment regarding toothpaste and a noirish altercation at drunken gunpoint. This novel is an arrogant disaster.

Being Invisible by Thomas Berger
Very funny. Only flaw really is an excessive use of the word chagrin.

Going Places by Leonard Michaels
I like H's description of Leonard sitting on your chest while you're reading it. That said, it's orgiastic stuff, which possibly makes it even weirder.

Big Sleep by Raymond Chandler
What does one say about this Great L.A. Novel? You don't say anything. You shut your stinking trap.

Who is afraid of Teddy Villanova? by Thomas Berger
A neo-noir from 77 that will never be caught up with. In terms of going whole-hog with miraculous language, this is a tour de force. Angela Carter's Infernal Desire Machines of Dr Hoffman is also one and also a drug novel, which this may be too.

Off to the side by Jim Harrison
Wise memoir. Jim has a ranch on the Arizona/Mexican border, but he does not accept drop-ins. There's an essay on flunking grad school and his aversion to linguistics. I was signed up for linguistics at the time and promptly dropped it. Thanks Jim.

Mysteries by Knut Hamsun
Brilliant variation on the stranger in a small town theme. This fellow wears a yellow suit and exhibits fantastic eccentricities. Recalls original thinkers such as the nihilist in Turgenev's Fathers and Sons, but way weirder.

Tennis Handsome by Barry Hannah
In my workshop we were asked to bring in a piece of fiction. This is what I brought and this is what I said: “What I love most about reading Hannah is you don't know where his next sentence will take you. He uses non sequiturs that have their own weird logic. His prose style is really musical and the compression in his sentences makes even a relatively short novel like this one, quite dense. We were first introduced to The Tennis Handsome in a short story called Return to Return that was included in 1978's Airships. French Edward is the Tennis Handsome, a golden ale locked manchild sculpturally blessed like Michelangelo's David whose immortal grace on the tennis court hypnotizes a nation into a bunch of droolers fixated on the TV. French is the toast, accidental pun, of Vicksburg, Mississippi and there haven't been many of those. We also get French's filthy manager Baby Levaster, Dr. Word, his horny old demented bi-curious coach and Vietnam vet Bobby Smith, but Bobby doesn't appear until later. The Tennis Handsome has a non-linear form, sixteen chapters flashing forward and back over a 40 year-period, taking in a couple of wars, but mainly documenting these bizarre characters orbiting around French Edward.” My teacher kindly informed me afterwards that Barry had once thrown a knife at her head.

Best Friends by Thomas Berger
A cataclysmic turn-of-events to keep you on the edge-of-your-seat and in an entertaining panic, just the way you like to sweat your literary aerobics.

Bushwhacked Piano by McGuane
Reread this for a personal essay I was writing in Lit Studies. As good as ever!

Kangaroo by DH Lawrence
I loved the story of RL Somers' self-administered exile to the obscure coast of New South Wales and his fear of sodomy that restricted him from being “mates” with the homoerotic ex-serviceman of the RSL.

Driving on the Rim by McGuane
"It's been a wonderful life. I wish I understood it." I really need to get in touch with him as his last two books have been about preparing to die and if this is his last novel, then a load-bearing wall I require for my strength will have tumbled. This one has a great scene about serving hot dogs in impromptu fashion.

Cakes and Ale by W. Somerset Maugham
Good, but did I miss something that compelled SJ Perelman to call it one of only two successful comic novels written in his era?

Girls of Slender Means by Muriel Spark
This book was amazing. I can see the influence on Angela Carter, who's a similar tough-minded broad (pardon the slur ladies; it's my forties gumshoe parlance).

Hair and ancients plug

From left: Elizabeth, Kes' Karl, Ancients' Jon and Clare's Dave. As much as I love all these people I am really only posting this photo for Elizabeth's hair. I review Ancients 2 here at the renovated 10th Chaffinch.

A Flaubertian Christmas

Christmas on the ranch was one of the livelier events in recent memory.

Stew donned a kilt with matching tartan tie. This is after a few champagnes and a shower. He wore a buttoned-up shirt from a clothing line produced by country singer George strait. He mentioned this when his rancher neighbor Jason said he got one of his CDs for Christmas. I said they've been giving them away with a minimum purchase of western wear at boot barn, according to an ad I saw. They asked if I got a job there because at Thanksgiving I said I was going to try after I saw a sign on their window that said seasonal help needed, but I never followed it up and that was the end of them inquiring about me getting them discount boots at the Boot Barn, which they had already done previously.

Drinking a wide array of specialty drinks at the ranch added to the fun. Egg nog and kahlua was a good one. Next was a delicious red and white wine concoction with diced apple and orange zest, a sangria kind of doodah. Annah brought a chardonnay from LA in route to Philly that I liked a lot. "It's a good cupcake," she said. I took it as some curious LA parlance when that's the actual name of the winery: Cupcake. Look out for it, if you like a buttery chard.

Jen and Stew's daughters wore matching outfits outshining their Dad. They had a good time on the alligator seesaw that Jen's Mother brought for them.

We listened to the life-changing Orange Juice box set that Stew got for his birthday recently. A jalapeno goat's cheese pre-funk with Jameson's whisky, a Jen party staple - that was good too.

Christmas goose for dinner was tubular. Purple cabbage with garlic and anchovies, how did Stewart do it, we all wondered. Couldn't get the gravy to work, we all had a hand in trying. I, for one, found the flour. I turned to the beautiful Hollywood actress who kindly dished me up and said how historical this meal seemed to be. Like Christmas dinner at the Flaubert's circa 1875. I then looked at her plate and couldn't help but notice how artfully arranged her yams, cabbage, candied walnuts, foie gras and homegrown ham was compared to the chaos she made of my plate. Still I appreciated the dishing up effort even if it was slightly less inspired.

A day of mainly cloud cover for a solar house meant that by six we were lighting candles and losing power. By 6.15 the CD player stopped right before it got to the last song on the XMAS mix I brought over of songs that have nothing to do with Christmas, Corn Chips by the Cannanes, which is too bad. I forgot to mention the orgasmic bread and butter pudding. Make up for it next year.

Holiday book pile

H on what I got him for his birthday and what's next on the pile:

"I just finished the Leonard Michaels collection. The first set of stories made me feel like someone was sitting on my chest and gutturally dictating their descent into hell (Obvious Celine influence with the cadence). Damn you Henry, Phillip & Marjorie! The next set of stories was a Borges/Nabokavian head scratching puns bookended by two of his best short stories. The third section was also tremendous. The over the top Hemingway homage "Tropicana" being a highlight along with the handball one. I wasn't as impressed with the Nachman stories. What impressed me most about Michaels is that each collection sounds like it was written by a different author. I also finished Vital Parts and loved it (Splendor Manwaring buy his parents old house). For Christmas I will be alternating between "Bats Out Of Hell" and Ann Beattie's just released "New Yorker Stories". Seems appropriate. Happy holidays fuck face."

Wanted: cathartic haircut

I'm drinking a hazelnut coffee and contemplating a haircut. I am what is known in this town as a longhair. I'm very nervous last haircut was a sweaty nightmare I couldn't get out of there quick enough. She left my sides uneven and wore a scowl of disgust throughout the graceless procedure. I suppose the lustrousness intimidated her, but why, it's just sui generis atomic particles. Anyhow it was my mistake. Avoid Supercuts with a passionate intensity. I'm going to test out Alleycat Salon this time instead and then I'm going to use my five dollar voucher at Macy's Coffee and finish Driving on the Rim, which is building to a fine conclusion. I would have held out on having a coffee prior to the Macy's experience, but I figured I needed total neuron control in order to elucidate any special trimming technicalities.

Last day of school

A number of hardships accompanied finals week.

I misplaced my keys and dismantled my bedroom. Books and important papers were flung around, pages crumpled from lashings of aggravation. A good hour of fury I subjected myself to when all along the keys were under my assignment on the kitchen table. The next day I couldn't find my blue folder that contained all my notes for my research paper, and took my derangement out on my housemates who I suspected of deliberately disposing of it to watch me squirm. It wasn't until I was on my way to school that it occurred to me that I had done some photocopying at Raven Printing after finding my keys the day before, so I dropped by. Boss Raven happened to be serving a customer, so I used my spare time filling my pockets full of tootsie rolls, compliments of Raven Printing.

Boss would have recognized me because it was my fourth Raven transaction. "What can I do for you?" he said, though I can't promise those were the exact words he used.

"Did someone leave a blue folder here yesterday?"
"Sure did!" he said and went and fetched it out of the lost and found. I was effusively over-the-top in my gratitude. "The lady described to me who it was that had left it and it wasn't the description that I would have used." I didn't know how to take a comment like that, but I was glad to get my blue folder back.

It's snowing heavily and I'm staring at empty stockings hanging from the fireplace and wondering when I will be able to leave the house and fill them when Doris is leaving for Austria by noon tomorrow.

I arose at 6.30am this morning to do yoga but it was already snowing and my shoes didn't have the best grip, so I made a coffee and worked on some revisions for a good solid hour or two, or at least for the 52 song duration of Sebadoh's The Freed Man. Then I walked to campus to return books. On my way home I decided to stop for a biscuit and gravy at the Railway Cafe.

I saw Kelly from class and met her boyfriend. They were trying to find her a thesis for a Shakespeare course she's taking. Best believe that by the end of breakfast they found it. Kelly's from a Scandinavian wing of Minnesota, therefore she's besotted with my Norwegian sweaters. Best believe that!

I looked at my bill and saw that they charged me $3.39 for one biscuit, then remembered that two were $3.99 so I ordered another. The cheerful owner guy looked out the window at the steady-falling snow, then said to the group at the big booth, "48 hours ago I was washing my car. I did the white walls. I had music on..."

I think the biscuits had MSG in them because then I became quite ill. I bought some milk and walked home without an umbrella because it snapped in half as I was passing the Walmart parking lot.

Pithy critique of zany caper

Nick's summary of my second submission for workshop always amused me:

"This is the continuing saga of Peabody, his sister Dolores, and his '78 grape Camaro, who go to Dunbar's hovel to get some things. Peabody is shot by a blowdart by Dunbar, sprayed by a lady skunk. He uncovers Dunbar's cats as pets for apes scheme, and takes a bath in Bloody Mary mix."

Did Anyone Bring Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out?

Mia Schoen, 2010

Feeling New Estate, a Retrospective
Tour Diary, 2004

Tuesday

Trampling the old highway in a gunmetal grey station wagon; heading north to better weather and cleaner air. Fifty-five minutes out of Melbourne — Lou Reed on the box, masturbatory as all get out — we learn Brad Cosier has needs too. "Gotta use the toilet". We pull off at Euroa, a sleepy town that in 1878 got taken for 2,000 pounds by the Ned Kelly Gang. While Brad takes his business elsewhere, we step outside. Joining me are three outright rockers for which denim and velour continually adorn. They are Mia Schoen, Marc Antonio Regueiro-McKelvie and Larry Cervantes Gorman. Along with Brad, they form New Estate, a Melbourne band that brews a recipe of classic rock amenable to modern ideas of melody, distortion, happiness and pain. Last year a debut LP entitled …Considering turned some heads. But now, after 18 months jamming in clubs and with the addition of a Jack Bruce-clone on bass, the heat has intensified. Blinding sonic freakouts melt into urgent psychedelia, while heart-searing rock ballads fade into tender pop moments of the desperate kind — ten new songs poised to trample an already classic debut. Here we find a band more explosive than ever embarking on its first tour of the Eastern States. Three shows line the horizon— one in Sydney tomorrow and two in Brisbane on Saturday. Sure as heck, the band is mad keen on electrifying some interstate barflies. We shall see.

When Brad finally returns, the hop in his step is beatifically re-established. It appears he has visited a canteen of some description because in his arms he cradles snacks. Could he be carrying peaches, one muses hopefully? I snoop on said snacks and lament. There is no fruit on Brad's person.

Back on the road with Lou Reed behaving badly. Behind the wheel, Mia has complete control. Mia likes control, occasionally gets out of it. Mia paints pictures, writes songs, sings them and plays guitar, often in that order. Her latest series of paintings illustrate a new housing estate overtaken by an electrical storm. Mia, it should be noted, has sensitivity to natural energies produced by electrical forces.

"Did anyone bring Get Yer Ya-Ya's Out?" wails Larry, with a mouthful of fruit-flavoured Mentos. A salted wad of silvery hair sits over a sweet, sad face and a smoky moustache. When his request goes unreciprocated, he dispenses a long, dyspeptic moan similar in length to an extraneous Lou Reed guitar solo from 1973. He then regales us with a shaggy reminisce. "I was in the city once with it playing on my headphones. I saw this old woman collapse right in time to it. I don't why, but she did and it was amazing."

"Play this," says Marc Antonio, handing me a CD. It's some 80s guitar band from New Zealand, pilloried by putrid guitars masking ace melodies. It's really great. At our sides, the nature scene — riven ash-coloured from long stretches without rain — perishes. We watch thirsty gum trees sway as we zip by. New South Wales passes under our wheels rather gracefully. We pull into a grey town glutted with grilled chicken shacks. Behind clear plastic door strips, at a plastic table with plastic chairs, we consume a modest coop. A baby blue cotton fleece, worn by the lady who dishes us up, features conjoined teddy bears in a state of gymnastic arousal, working hard on one objective: to form the words W-O-D-O-N-G-A. It reminds us where we are because something has to.

As any major dude will tell you, a rock tour requires ample boozing, so after a day in the car, it's now eight o' clock, we're four hours south of Sydney and certain we've worked up a hearty appetite for piss. We check into a dirtcheap hotel that has it's own bar. Before long, the jugs are going down and livers are giving out. Mia tells us about the time a guitar she got off a private detective was plugged in to an amp at an unearthed house. High-voltage shockwaves electrocuted her clenched frame, finally expelling out her foot. "The last thing I remember is playing these two amazing chords and then feeling the most incredible pain". At the hospital, medical specialists hooked her heart to a monitor, where for the next two hours, she desperately watched the green line twitch, fearful of flatline disturbances. But Mia — think Iris in Taxi Driver had she grown up in a Perth suburb behind a piano, daughter of Dutch lover of Italian autos — never came close to flatlining and today she is more highly charged than ever.

A bad jukebox invariably leads to dismal arguments about inferior rock songs and here it's no different. After far too many, Marc makes a blighted case for AC/DC's Thunderstruck practically ruining everyone's night. We retire upstairs to a TV and while Brad karaokes the weather report in an appalling American accent, Larry pings me in the eye with his shoe. I consider immediate retaliation, but I stumble away instead. Along the wall of the corridor, I take in a series of photographs, all but one being tobacco-toned clips of early town life. The one exception depicts a miner beaming from the mouth of a flesh-coloured cave. I wonder if this miner, at moment of triumph, knew enough to retreat from whence he came, back into the safe confines of a magnificent vagina reconstruction. At some time between 1.30 and 2am, I too reconsidered the womb.

Wednesday

A beam of light shoots through the clouds with such force it resembles the light you're supposed to see when you die. The sky is blinding, the coffee is lousy and Larry scalds his tongue. A whammy bar, paramount to Marc's eruptive approach to the New Estate experience, is collected from a pig-headed chap at the local guitar shop around the same time Mia appears jangling car keys. Not much else is remembered about the road that morning. Did see a stiff wombat on the roadside, arms outstretched, needing a hug. It was just another damning reminder that the road can be harsh and merciless.

"I've got a very good feeling about this trip, guys," says Larry, as we approach Sydney, his tongue on the mend, sky going from white to blue. A moment later, he turns fickle. "I've got such a bad feeling about this trip. We shouldn't have done this. I mean I could be home in bed asleep with my animals". Larry mothers ten cats (Arky, Bella, Captain Milo, Tiger, BJ, Bootsie, Billy, Satan, Lucifer and Beelzebub) and fathers nine rabbits (Larry, Jimmy, Donut, Pepsi, Oscar, Peppy, Marvin, Breznev and Lucy). Larry the rabbit is his pride and joy and half the reason he changed his name from Chris to Larry. Big L hopes to get Little L on Australia's Funniest Home videos because the way Big L tells it, Little L has a repertory for family entertainment that's easily digestible.

Entering Sydney can be an eyeful. Pristine pleasures abound in this icy, glamorous town. After scuttling through a few salubrious enclaves, we find ourselves ascending a Hollywood staircase in a 1930s art deco block overlooking palm-laden Coogee Bay. Inside a well-lighted flat with blue carpet, flavoursome antiques, ocean views and paintings and postcards from Paris on the wall. A provocative blast of sea air promises limitless holiday shenanigans. A recurring visual motif is Mick Jagger or guys who look like Mick plastered all over the living room and kitchen. After carting the gear up (New Estate travels light: three guitars and a snare, amps and drums to be borrowed) and snooping around, the front door swings open and a loud huff is heard. The owner has arrived. She appears monumentally frazzled. Her long dark hair partly disguises her eyes, which are mottled like two malevolent, steaming meatballs. She disappears into the kitchen to fumble around with the margarita mix.

Her name is Annabel Bleach and she has had a difficult day. Annabel is something of a rock and roll institution. She made history in 1984, founding The Cannanes with Mia's husband David Nichols. After one EP, Bored, Angry and Jealous, which earned mad raves ("I'm in love with the girl singer's bittersweet intonations…I'm in love with the goddam WHOLE!" blurted The Legend in Melody Maker, proclaiming it Single of the Year), she went to the beach and never returned. Nevertheless, Annabel made history then and she makes it now, bringing a Rosalind Russell-like flair to the media department at the local government she works.

For a pre-show dinner, we scarf meatballs. Larry and Annabel bond over Woody Allen movies starring Alan Alda. I try to interject but am reprimanded by Annabel's acid tongue. "Goodness, if you are not prepared to listen then don't interrupt. We are talking about Crime and Misdemeanours not Manhattan Murder Mystery." She puts on Goat's Head Soup and stomps around like she's putting a fire out.
"Do you have Some Girls?" Brad asks. Annabel leaps to the task, demonstrating a spryness that belies her congenitally weak ankles. During Miss You, Annabel puts the kybosh on the Stone's tunes. She wants to watch Neighbours instead. She bolts to the kitchen to modify her margarita and misses a crucial snatch of dialogue. "What'd he say?" she barks from the kitchen. "She just said that she doesn't love him as much as he loves himself," replies Mia, as Annabel waltzes back in.
"This margarita is magnificent," Larry says.
"Well don't say I wasn't gracious. I am f*cking gracious!" After another drink, we call a cab, load the gear and traverse. In front of The Gaelic Club, the driver unloads the rear hatch. Like most large carriers, this shuttle van has a wheelchair ramp. "What the heck is that thing for?" asks Marc Antonio, pointing at the ramp.
"It's for wheelchairs," replies the cab driver.
"But then why do we need it, we don't have a wheelchair?" The driver refuses to dignify Marc's question with a response.

The Gaelic Club is a spotless balconied venue with polished floorboards, an unnerving echo and bartenders who serve beer in plastic cups. During soundcheck, Mia blows the amp she borrowed. "I only had it on 4," she pleads. The owner, a hirsute, diminutive chap in a baseball cap, thinks he's Serpico. He shakes his head. For New Estate to play, they will need to use the head liners equipment. "You can ask him," intones Serpico, "but I'm pretty sure he's not going to let you use it. Just make sure you tell him that you blew my amp, so he doesn’t think I am tricking him".

After all that, the band plays and leaves the stage with their panties in a bunch. Meanwhile, the second act rears its scarf-wrapped heads on stage. The singer appears to have stiffness in his lower extremities. "Do you think he has a prosthetic leg?" a concerned Annabel asks sincerely.

At the next table Marc Antonio feels maltreated by those dicks on stage and expresses himself with jittery body language. "Looks like Marc is having a stereotypical bitch at the office," says Annabel.
"Yeah, he'll be fine, once he lets off some steam," says Mia.
"I don't know, Marc doesn't look like the type of person who lets things go," replies Annabel.
"It's like they went to rock school," Marc says looking at the band’s lead singer, who pets his scarf like a ferret as he sings. "They remind me of the Goo Goo Dolls." (a telling description of Sydney’s current music situation).
"Your music makes me want to dance, I can't pay a higher compliment," says Annabel.
"When I hit that drum break on ‘Please Leave’, I knew we were the best band in the world," says Larry.

We return to Annabel's where she receives an epiphany listening to the Velvet Underground's Max's Kansas City. She somehow manages to steer the conversation back to Mick. "I don't always talk about Mick," she instructs.

Thursday

The next morning, Mia and I, under Annabel's tutelage, stroll around splendid Coogee Bay on a sightseeing tour. "Mick brought his children here when they were last on tour. My friend who lives nearby told me". We make it halfway up a hillside when Annabel points down to a shady cove. "That's where I saw a carpet shark. Yeah, the pervert who later showed us his penis was swimming around it." She gulps sea air and sighs reverently. "The coast in winter has such a romantic edge."

On the way back, Mia proves herself an acute observer of nature's delights, spotting two, rare white whales larking about the bay.

Later that day, just before dinner, I produce a bottle of white wine, hoping its 'gentle creamy complexity' will excite our host, but I am mistaken. "Just because it says it's creamy doesn't mean shit because that's not how I discern my palate!"

We eat fishpie; it compliments copious booze. Soon there were just three: Marc, Larry and I. Every one else has retired. We are advised not to watch a DVD collection of New Zealand 80s pop videos, but we disobey these orders, boosting the sound up a few notches (what do you expect, we are feral and our senses have died). Brad ventures out cursing vigorously, but we disobey him too, via a gratuitous roar from Larry's gut. Annabel, who has to work the next day comes out and scolds us. We of course feel rather rude.

Friday

The tension in the air is as thick as a brick. In a very short time, our tale of fun has become a tale of woe, set to test the adhesiveness of friendships. Brad clams up quite severely, limiting his vocabulary to plurals that begin in 'p' and rhyme with 'tricks'. As a peace offering, Marc leaves Annabel his copy of VU's Max's Kansas City. A damn fine host she was. As we catch our last glimpse of Coogee, we could almost hear her chime in that brassy way of hers: "Well don't say I wasn't gracious. I am f*cking gracious!" Mid-afternoon, we’re at the airport checking in. Incredibly, Larry is allowed on board, even though he has no photo I.D. and ably serves as the poster child for dishevelment. Some time later, the aircraft touches down in an uneven fashion. On the warm Brisbane tarmac, we make our way. To curb his anxiety, Marc stuffs a cigarette into his mouth and digs for his lighter with his free hand. Seconds before lighting up, a blonde in a reflective green jacket leaps over some tape and storms up to Marc's face, gesticulating wildly. "Please don't light that! It's like a giant petrol station out here!" Marc shrugs, nonplussed. It's easy to imagine that once she turns her back, Marc lights up, takes a couple hard drags, then flicks the cigarette over his shoulder and walks ahead unmoved while behind him, a trail of fire sends the entire airport up in flames.

We find some accommodation a short distance from where the gigs are at. Opening the door to Room 56, Mia freezes cold. "Oh, I'm sorry, I must have the wrong room," she says to someone or something inside. She fumbles with the lock to Room 57 and then finally rushes in. On bed quivering in horror she takes a few hard breaths, but they don't seem to get where they need to go, so she takes a few more.
“What on earth happened?” asks Brad.
"It was like, there was this guy and his head…well, he was all bandaged up and he was in bed drinking from a straw. Then there was this woman at the door with a handful of pills filling up a glass of water. His eyes were red and he looked really sad. Man it was freaky".
"But how did those keys open the door to that room?" asks Brad.
"I've no idea."
Mia turns her attention to her travel bag and the effort required to rescue its contents after the accidental explosion of a shampoo bottle during flight QA 247. Marc nods in sympathy. "That happened to me once," he says. "But they were curries and pastries."
"Yeah?” asks Larry. “You should have saved them. They could have been kept as souvenirs at Hard Rock Café".

Later Mia, still troubled by the mummy encounter, walks outside for a recovery session on the ferny veranda. We follow her. Joining us is local underground legend Pat Ridgewell. Pat is one of Australia's most mesmerising musical talents. He has delicate, shapely hands that deserve special recognition. He uses them to peel fruit and potatoes and play unorthodox guitar chords for Small World Experience. He is a private, enigmatic person, occasionally wandering into Nietzchean forests on mental treks. He is also an utter joy. We knock back some dry ciders together, before grabbing a meal at a Chinese restaurant in Fortitude Valley. The night ends with a long session at a bar. "Is it real?" squeaks a drunken lass from the sidewalk, yanking Larry's hair through bi-fold windows. “Is it not a toupee?”

Saturday

I wake up clasping Larry, my nose in his leather jacket. It smells approximately like the rabbits he keeps. We get dressed to go shopping for mainly soul records. At the bus stop, a young girl removes a samurai sword from its sheath and looks to her boyfriend for acknowledgment. "Did I do well?" It confirms suspicions that Brisbane glimmers weirdness. On the way back to the hotel, Marc spots a crippled dog hobbling across the road.
"Hey what does that dog have gaffe tape on its leg for?"
"To hold it up," replies Mia.
"What to hold its leg up?" he shrieks.

Back to the hotel for a rest and then into the city by four o' clock to shake some ass, as New Estate rock the afternoon slot at Ric's Café. The band arrive wearing spiky, studded armbands. Marc's bracelet — with its long, metal spikes — are especially worrisome. How he will manage in the bathroom one shudders to think. The band has to play a little quieter for this gig and they deliver a serene set of calm beauty.

After the show, we head straight to The Jubilee Hotel, a 10-minute walk up the road where the tables are shaped like capsules. After delicious fish and chips, we move upstairs. Here we gather around a table on the balcony to drink beer. Here too, a flannel-clad local pretends to throw up on the throng walking to Sonic Youth, who are in town and performing down the road. Then the guy did it for real in the corner of the balcony. Then he sat down and did it in his lap. His friend, who resembled a dreadlocked Gary Oldman, seems to have seen it all before — he yawns into his beer. After assuring us he would not perform, Pat picks up an acoustic guitar and wanders through a lovely set of tunes. Up next, the glorious Pits give us sunny folk rock gripped by dark undercurrents. Led by a lordly little fellow, Peter Pits, exuberantly gay, unassumingly rock, it was like watching Buck Henry front the Velvets, circa ‘69.

The noise New Estate make at the Jubilee Hotel is unearthly loud and the approach is one of musical rebellion. Larry is the engine room and the conductor. As usual, he is operating beyond the clutches of vanity. His belly pops out of his shirt, making it available for audience perusal. He flashes a shit-eating grin to the others like Levon Helm in The Last Waltz. ‘Defences Down’, Larry's falsetto-driven tour de force love ballad, finds him taming his inner Shelly Winters, while Mia and Marc duel Marquee Moon-like guitar elegies. Next Mia sings a devastating rock ballad called New Start that's punctuated by soaring Echo and Bunnymen guitars. Mia has an ear for a tune like no other, and can dash off a gem with stunning caprice. Marc Antonio sings and plays guitar too, except Marc does it like he's got the weight of the world impaled on the neck of his guitar, which most of the time he does. Marc dresses songs about life's ongoing mysteries with blazing rock and roll melodies. During his new one, ‘Wasting Time’, I totally see what Brad would later claim, over a round of rum and cokes, as being Marc's gift, an instrumental prowess that puts him next in line to the throne of Ed Kuepper or Beethoven. The band blows into his tune with messy modern rock elegance, while Marc supplies a weird kind of ferocious country strut that knocks drunks into greater stupors. Brad plucks his bass eagerly, his square-jaw tense, determined, his hair gleaming moodily like a Tasmanian pinot. The Cosier-penned ‘After it's all over’ is an instant soul classic, abetted as it is by a double platinum Reguiero riff. Their next LP is really going to kill. Larry and Marc Antonio swap instruments as the night degenerates into a crazed psych-out. As I watch Larry bang away exuberantly on one meaty chord and howl, time shifts forward and suddenly we're back in Melbourne, and here is Larry, stale from a Brisbane flight, heading to his front door minus his corrective foot insoles. He is hobbling and looking slain.

"He will go to bed in an hour and sleep for five days,” observes Mia from the passenger side window.
"Well does he have to be anywhere anytime soon?" asks her husband.
"Yeah, we're recording on Saturday."
© 2004 Shane Moritz

www.tangents.co.uk

Dream bill

I drank a heady double scotch that left me heady heady heady, which made me think of three bands I'd like to see on a bill sometime, one of which actually exists: Scotch and the double headzonks followed by suave spew, Tut Tut Kyngs headliner. Speaking of bands that are unreal, I was so convinced of this one I checked to see if I was spelling it right: Yahtzee Germany. I think Yazi Germany is better though. This next week is going to be insane.



I'm listening to Nuggets and no it's not becuz of the TUT TUT KYNGS, well maybe it is today, but only because Toby Tut sent me these most amazing photos from their debut performance (that's Toby Tut there with the cobra helmet). Hey how about a set list, T TUT?! Or answer me this, did you cover Chocy Watchband. Check it: