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Grumpy old Christgau is getting "cushy" in his ivory tower. I stood outside his tower (gargoyles soaked in pigeon shit) in the January heat (68 degrees!) and shouted his name. I wanted to show him my soft New Mexican hands. He didn't respond, though a sweet old lady waddled out to tell me that ole' Robert was good as deaf these days. Brethren! Since we last spoke three feet of snow have fallen on Santa Fe. In preperation for the coming apocalypse Zach has bought two french horns, a flugelhorn from the Czech Republic, a toy drum set, a mandolin worth his weight in gold, a reel to reel tape machine, a blood red accordion, a natty sweater, a blind flea ridden burro (viva!), and a Conch Shell he hollowed out with his bare hands (see picture below).

He is much better, Zach. He is reading Borges and staring at the ceiling, dumfounded by thoughts of infinity in the heart of the endless pinon suburbs of New Mexico. As Zach's hair continues to grow in Beethoven volume, Perrin's hair has shrunk to more civilized dimensions. He is in our kitchen now, flaying a double bass with an ox-hide whip. Jason is selling expensive desserts to the rich and famous. His beauty has stunned even David Hasselholf. "With a toned chest like mine," Hasselfholf whispered in his ear, "you would be irresistable". Natchez is on the internet 24/7 tracking down old friends and accusing them of witchcraft and black magic. Touring you see, takes its toll on the psyche. Paul is back in Santa Fe warning young college girls of his eminent superstardom. Kelly is swallowing resevoirs of beer at Red's Tavern and considering a tour with the Arcade Fire. And Nick, the living embodiment of a Zen Koan? He is building riddims with Zach down in the barrio. As we speak, a trip to SXSW with the full band is in the works. Beirut shall return to the stage! A live oxen shall be sacrificed in the name of all that is illicit and immoral in modern music! May the bull's coal black nostrils quiver in moist terror as the knife is drawn across its throat.
And I... I am on a journey to Armenia with Osip Mandelstam. " "It seemed to me as though I had exchanged my hooflike dusty city shoes for light Moslem slippers".
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11:37 PM
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