Saturday, May 21, 2005

Show On Monday!

Monday, May 23rd • 9pm
Velvet Lounge (9th and U St. NWDC)
w/ The Foundry Field Recordings (Columbia, MO) and the Metrosexuals


I've been steeping myself in a lot of movies lately. And driving more than is healthy through traffic that is anything but. I'm surprised at how our tendency in traffic is to speed up when it lightens up. I mean, we know there is going to be a traffic jam ahead too, but the few seconds we shave off will somehow make our lives better. Of course, this results in more than a few more accidents jamming up the road for those behind us.

One of my favorite times is right at that frustrating moment of slowdown, when you go from 40 mph to about 2 mph, and you can see the other people in their cars on the other side of the interstate going through the same thing. We get so accustomed to just seeing bright flashes of paint zip by us in the other direction that we seldom realize it's all just some sort of deranged space age ballet.

That is to say: I don't like to dance. Okay, I'm not one of those guys who won't dance, I am just not what you would categorize as a good dancer. I don't have moves.

Wait a sec, I think I got lost in my own analogy.

Thursday, May 12, 2005

One Is Silver and the Other Gold

Thanks to all who came to our Staccato full band debut. As soon as I can figure out how to get the photos online, I will. Props to our friend Garth Fry for lending his photog skills! Be sure to check out his art show opening this Saturday at the Galaxy Hut.

I am laid up lately with a spring cold/allergies. I love how my voice sounds with this extra layer of soul.

Between the last time I posted and now, I have: traversed multiple time zones; given my sister and brother in law big hugs, met my new neice and hung out with my nephew (look out ladies!) in Germany; driven with a nicely voiced british-accented navigation system my dad and I named "Molly" (or at times, Olga); wandered Amsterdam in search of Anne Frank and Vincent Van Gogh (and not drugs as my brother-in-law's brother was quick to playfully sarcastically nudge nudge wink wink); had said rental car break down, sorta, but then miraculously come back to life in a truck stop somewhere in Belgium at 11pm; took in a nice hike for German Father's Day that ended in 8 men and a dog piling into the back of a beautifully refurbished circa-WWII Mercedes utility truck passing around Bitburger's like they were water while traversing the most pastoral landscape to have ever been seamlessly put back together after a massive global conflict; sung "You Are My Sunshine" to a flight attendant at her goading finding out I play music (note to self: next time someone asks you if you are "hard of hearing" say "yes, I shoot lots of guns"); and, last but not least, given the city of Washington, D.C. one last sloppy french kiss goodbye for the city of Philadelphia.

And so I sit in an apartment at 10:30am on a weekday in my boxers, singing songs in my new sexy sick voice. I've said "see you soon" to one life and "bombs away" (almost) to a new one in this husky, breathy, raspy voice that I hope will stay but I know will not. The promise in leaving so many wonderful and inspiring people behind is the hope of finding more.

All of the sudden I feel like Carrie from Sex and the City. The fact that I know that raises less alarms within myself than I expected.

Mad, weekday love, from 10:30am in boxer briefs,