richard has the best grin on the planet

“The music business is a cruel and shallow trench, a long plastic hallway where thieves and pimps run free, and good men lie like dogs. There is also the negative side.”

-Hunter S. Thompson

I assumed, somewhat foolishly, that when Cansec was over, I’d get to rest, have a space to breathe. Apparently not. I just took a minute to chart out my next few weeks with a calendar in front of me and realized my weekends for the next month have already been assigned.

This weekend I’m going to the Juno‘s for work, bringing David along for his birthday. Next weekend, April 4-5, I’m going over to Victoria. The weekend after that, April 11-12, I’m going to be in Seattle ghosting Norwescon. The weekend after that, April 18-19, I’m again in Victoria with Ray, Nicole, and maybe Wayne to drop in on Esme and Nicholas, who has a gig. Then again the weekend after that, April 25-16, for his next gig, playing strip-club funk at Monty’s, and, even more bizarrely, for the grand opening of the Victoria Lawn Bowling Club, which has apparently been completely taken over by oddball hacker friends who all wanted a shot at the Olympics and free downtown parking.

Given this sort of schedule, I’m not sure when I intend to eventually sleep. Perhaps when I’m dead. Or better, when I’m dancing. Mercy knows I need the exercise, given how erratically/oddly I’ve been eating. First there came the week of meat, then the weekend of ice-cream breakfasts topped with chocolate and raspberry liqueur. Nothing I would ever complain about, though I am beginning to forget what a vegetable looks like, except that now that I’m not continually on my feet, all I want to do is sort of laze around until my break down the door weekends, an option that, though attractive, will simply Not Do. So, given that I work nine to five, and Tuesdays are Secret Film School, who wants to go swimming?

you make me feel so happy, so real. you beautiful moment in my life, as we wrinkle in time, so let’s stretch this thing out

No, I can’t twitter from there. I do not have a mobile phone.

A new comic in The Secret Knots: “On Spam

Morning just wasn’t sporting today. Dinner last night, an improbable feast of only meat, cowboy delivered by sword to each table, led into a punishing bout of intense karaoke that lasted until an unwholesome, head smashing o’clock in the morning. I slept poorly at the hotel in a spare bed on the 19th floor offered by someone who lacks a real name, certain I should have simply tried to stay awake for tradition’s sake, curled up on the 31st floor, quick in a couch, a chatting apostle at the altar of party, until dawn wedged streaky fingers into the surgical gray sky.

Tonight instead, perhaps. Tomorrow almost certainly. Tonight, though, Dragos may have my house keys, but I’m not going back until later, until after I go home and dye my hair, charge my damned camera battery, and cook dinner with David. (It pained me almost physically to be on the rooftop deck of the Wall Center penthouse and not be able to take pictures.) I need rest. I am yawning at my desk, half baked, certain that I have not been eating enough to keep myself cohesive, and my eyes are trying to lock closed when I blink. No matter the addictive charm or ballistic voltage offered by CanSec, I am not quite caught up with myself for unrestricted thrills.

Hacker loses finger in motorcycle accident, replaces it with USB drive.

her vocabulary was as bad as, like, whatever

Twitter: Fake Christopher Walken.

Clicking through ticket after ticket, work is interrupted by cookies and impromptu myths, glad for the heart, subscription hard on the brain. Planning tonight over text messages, chocolate/hazelnut cake Y/N, the a/s/l of bakeries as David hunts on foot, tracking down baked goods downtown as I sit trapped in the office, my company a lemon ginger cup of tea, testing music tracks that have yet to be released, wagers of popularity against winter coats in small sugary solfedge doses.

This week holds so much relative, discriminating promise as to be nigh unbearable. Already microelectronic moments have begun to develop like rosebuds blushing on the tip of my tongue. Wrapped in the untethered joy of feeling inadequate, (like music you want to play so loud you bleed from the eyes), I am caught by a thread of invitation punctuation I am not in control of, confronted with an arsenal of black t-shirts and faked secret societies in shaken hotel rooms stocked with cryptic, cutting edge commentary in twisted acronym languages I only half recognize. It’s glorious. Comfortable and irreversible, like swimming through a seething bath of sweet, primitive nanobots programmed to overwhelm with fuzzy blankets.

“We are All Gonna Die: 100 meters of existence