ALL THE THINGS YOU SAID, RUNNING THROUGH MY HEAD

Hahahaha! I just realized that my last post officially qualifies me as one of those online diarists I hate. How damn angsty. I mean, last night’s post, that I could have gotten away with. It had a good metaphor and everything. But today’s entry! It sounds like one of those ultra-sensitive brooding types that live inside their sensitivity bubbles, and every tiny dust mote of stimuli is tragic and painful, and they must instantly share. The world is so far away, and they are so alone. Up next, my fantasies about meeting Morrissey and how he will invite me for tea under the statue of James Dean at Griffiths Park. (And even this will cause me strife, as I don’t like tea very much.)

It reminds me of being in high school and hanging out with Morgan Martin on one of those days where we’d decide to be morbid. We’d sit there with a quote book looking for quotes on horrible things and try to work up a black mood, to see who could reign in morbidity. I ultimately was declared champion when on Christmas he called while I was watching a movie and I got mad. He said, “I just wanted to call you because you’re my friend.” I replied, “Well, I may be your friend…” He filled in the rest, and I was declared king of the dark ones. (This is for all of you who like to protest when I tell you I’m an asshole. See? It’s true!)

Anyway, I am off to a good start on the secret project. I’ve moved to my Starbucks haunt, though, to see if I can really get rolling. I need twelve pages of writing by Monday morning, and I am at one-and-a-half. Move, bitch, get out the way!

Of course, I am stuck in an easy chair with an oompah-loompah table with no plug because the nearest plug is being monopolized by some sumbitch who has to plug in his computer and his phone. How does one say, “Cock” with one’s eyes?

By the way, one of my working albums today is the previously mentioned Massive Attack newie, 100th Window. It is so not the disappointment many critics would have you believe, nor is it the Mezzanine knock-off others have suggested. Sure, there is no masterpiece like “Unfinished Sympathy” or “Teardrop,” but it honestly doesn’t matter. What you get instead is one of the best chill-out records ever made. All the songs are mellow and slow, taking their time to work out and explore their groove. It’s different, but not in a bad way, and though I definitely miss Daddy G’s voice, I certainly have no complaints about what the band has given me. Their first three albums form a complete whole, whereas this one seems to fit in more with the No Protection dub album. Plus, it has Sinead O’Connor on three tracks, and that’s never something to complain about.

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Anyway, I really hunkered down and did my thing. I have plans with my friend Lara Michell (the songwriter quoted at the front of Cut My Hair) tomorrow afternoon, so that was an added incentive to be done. I just really needed to see if I could handle this—and I think I can. I think I did okay. If nothing else, there were some challenges. I found transitions between the different sections to be rather tough, and had to do some problem solving to figure them out. (Sorry I can’t be more specific. It actually would be fun to talk about, but I just can’t.)

But, man, am I beat. There is a comic book show in Portland tomorrow, and Randy Bowen is having a party for all the guests (though among them, I think I only know Devin Grayson), and I am just two tired to go (somewhere, Denny Haynes is weeping with jealousy). Plus, it might not be a good idea to be in public when all the coffee I drank catches up with me. Two cups at home, and then two grande Vanilla skinny Lattes at the ‘bucks. It’s not going to be pleasant when they hit the lower intestine. Yum!

Current Soundtrack: Prince, Parade

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