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Raised by Wolves

Gaki: writing myself Real

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dark epiphany

Hired and wired.

Whew, sorry it's been a while since the last update. I apologize too damn much.

I've downloaded myself back into daylight world, and it's all been a strange and caffeinated haze. Although the Letterman Digital Arts Campus is a lovely storehouse of wonders, one of the most perilous is the abundance of Red Bull, Jolt (in bottles!), and Bawls in the Eating Commons, not to mention a ready supply of free coffee. Having let those demons into my soul, I'm not sure if they're coming back out any time soon.

I'd like to listen to music more often at work; the 8+ hours a day I spend in a darkened cubicle wrestling with electronic constructions would highly benefit by a soundtrack. But it's poor protocol to listen to other music while you're testing. Sound glitches are as necessary to catch as any other error, and often provide a preliminary warning of more significant, less obvious bugs. Nevertheless, it was a nice treat to hang out with Jessica on Monday night (away from the Internet's baleful Eye) over a couple brown-bag beers and catch up on music and life and the spaces between. Since I'd hung out with her last she'd gotten married, moved to London, gotten divorced, shaved a dog, met Billy Corgan, dated a professional bicyclist, and sensually pleased your momma. She still drives like a maniac, and everything she owns is pink.

She lives right by the queertastic Gravy Train, and they make some adorably shrill and obnoxious pop which should properly be played on a pink Hello Kitty TV/DVD player for best effect, but use whatever you've got at hand. We were in a sort of pub-song mood, so we also listened to The Divine Comedy, which is lovely, dark and maudlin. The "Absent Friends" album features, among other charmers, "The Happy Goth," and is certainly worth a listen, and a pint or two as well.

Also, to my complete surprise, I discovered that I really, unreservedly and unironically enjoy Courtney Love's latest, America's Sweetheart. I mean, I take it as a matter of course that any artist I like who survives the ride to superstardom will, eventually, hit you with a faceful of material that's just all about being a celebrity. I'm not calling her a sell-out: she may or may not be, but it's a term that's too often used by people who are completely ignorant as to how it should be applied. An artist draws on the world around them for material, and when you're drowning in fame, writing and singing about it is unavoidable. I don't dislike it. I just don't find it captivating. There's nothing in it for me to identify with. I look for desperation in the key of struggling to be heard, not suffering from being overplayed. America's Sweetheart sheds Celebrity Skin and comes back to glisten with shredded vocals and battlescars, loud and melodic riffing on traditional grunge and rock chords that don't get old to me as long as you perform them like you mean them, and every now and then a sappy/sweet refrain that is unashamed to be pop. It tastes a little like Concrete Blonde. It feels like music, again.

Shout outs to Brittany on her happy 19th. Sorry we couldn't get all those unruly kids to disperse before the cops showed up, but no harm done, and everyone had a good time. Thanks to Claire for introducing me to that really cool donation/free play old-school pinball parlor. My bad, dilated_wound, I did not know pandas couldn't drink whiskey. The bottle was just so bloody appealing looking, for it bears the Ankh, which connects life and death and single malt blends. Well, more for me, I reckon.


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Bless you, you poor battered ninja.

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