2004.04.04 ears

    I am updating zoka.com, which is normally mysterious and counter-intuitive, with a gesture toward, as opposed to a meaningful summary of, the various House of Zoka music projects.

    1. This after planning all morning to paint the front door of my building with a homage to Magritte’s Treachery of Images: Ceci n’est pas une porte cassée. The door glass was broken over a week ago and was boarded up, but no repair seems forthcoming. It’s just a piece of plywood, so it deserves a treatment. Perhaps tonight.
    2. This after putting a nearly-forgotten cover of Mission of Burma’s That’s When I Reach For My Revolver by She Mob out for consideration to, get this, a compilation of women’s punk rock that features women punk rockers covering songs written by men. The editor is not getting many bites. I think it has something to do with women punk rockers having other creative priorities.
    3. This after wondering if there was any audio documentation for Daniel Popsicle on the web and so while a-googling
    4. I find this blog entry that not only describes the Daniel Popsicle experience (as a player or as a listener) perfectly, but had a Mission of Burma previ-link that included an eloquent and insightful reference to Magritte.
    5. And. Plus. A link to Radio Free Blogistan, which is how I got started here.
    6. I must know this person.
    7. Or do I?
    8. Oh. The sun just came out.
    9. Gnomesayin.

Sue Hutchinson Facilitated My Fright

The ink went out of my inkjet right before the check run, when I was trying to print the report now that it had been resized to 19 pages instead of 33 for the fax of the emailed url for the ftp site or, if you had the userid and password, the html which favored, in a teeth gnashing way, IE browsers from wintel machines. Would I accomplish both a/p and a/r and payroll and quarter-end financials? Was that the phone?

Yes, yes, yes, yes, but I could not have known that at the time. However: Yes. It was Sue calling to remind me that we were going to the Parkway and then to 21 Grand. I began to equivocate, recalling that the Parkway movie was being touted as

black blair witch
black blair witch
black blair witch

Twisted! I thought she said Twister! These are two totally different movies!

During the question and answer period after the show, I had the typical sensory overload problem: tingly hands, nausea, and my familiar affliction of instant and irreparable melancholy brought on by seeing people scream relentlessly, hysterically, and, here’s the tricky part, fictively so, like, even if I wanted to help them I couldn’t because…

it’s a fucking movie

No matter. It’s Bob coming over the couch in a latter twin peaks episode, forcing me into wounded silence for a day and a half until I end up sitting on the porch in the fading afternoon light crying and crying and crying.

What’s the matter? Z asks.

The fucking Lynch! I sob. He’s… He’s… amoral!

I was really hurt by David Lynch’s use of subwoofer in lieu of coherent plot. I was really hurt by Constable’s cloud studies. I was really hurt by those Titians showing people getting their old testament heads chopped off. I was really hurt by the scene in Defending Your Life when the toddler cries helpless in his playpen as his parents argue pointlessly and cruelly over his head.

Pi didn’t hurt me. Requiem for a Dream did.

Bjork in Shepherd’s Bush didn’t hurt me. Bjork in Dancer In the Dark did.