tonite in Iowa city midwestern repose, a gaggle of crowded kids and hard rock nite.  playing James Gang cover with Jicks for encore, janet wearing her doggy ears and furry pants trembling under the fan hair swinging like a child playing hopscotch.

     halloween kids dressed as sluts pirates clockwork orange fish dangermouse robot for obama wolves and various star wars wardrobe, in Fargo we saw our friend Buffy and her shaved cats, ridiculous creatures with flat faces and clawless, tonite the fake cobweb stretched across the stage made for a decidedly metal mis en scene, Deathclok or spinal tap, white carcinogenic fluff stuck in my hair

     daytrotter session this afternoon went sly, and crooked recording with Jicks and some of furr live using old crusty instruments and piano forte, grim handling of a villanous group of songs undecidedly about death love and God.  a wacky new york interviewer quoted by me as saying something like 'what the hell's with that god and suicide song?'  what the hell is with that damn song?  quintessential american interviewers are dismayed by lyrical obesity and metaphors like birds exploding from a spruce in sunshine.  classic narrative like us a ship of fools in a white Sprinter now with our sound engineer, Moses, the leader of the children of israel, a mexican like ourselves, indian with headress and tattoos, knives and telling nose.  very thankfull indeed to god and the press and our parents dead or alive, and to those who seem intent on loving us even when we refuse to play sci-fi kid.

     Midlake.  again, like passing lights in the night, the skipping yellow lines trundling past as the world whips by.  Black Sabbath. another new day traveling and ozzy like a silvery pouch of Capri sun, or sunny d, drunk on guitar and death, shit.

e.earley