| the Journal | the Cult of Saint Cecilia

kids need those jobs.

It's a waste.

I don't know. There should be an inherent worth to people - they should be allowed to exist on the merit of their being. They shouldn't have to waste Life to make a Living.

I REALLY wish I could tell Heather "I'm going to take care of you - relax lady" - but I'm worried that I can't.


Enough of that. I'm sitting at College Perk, listening in to conversations and flinching.

January 8th, 2004.
Have arrived at my parents' house, returning from the most... un... un something. One of the most uncomfortable open mic experiences I've ever had.

The Harambe Cafe in Adam's Morgan, Washington DC - Ethiopian food catches me off guard with it's excitement and spongey bread and clenchy finger action.

But the open mic catches me further off guard. It's "hip" and it has a house band that sort of grooves between performers, and it has an MC named "Empress" - and "rob and Heather" and "Dan Zimmerman" felt out of place among the "Mastah Cs" and whatnots and suchnots. I felt badly out of place.

Did I feel too white? Or too old? I'm not sure - but between accents and massive doses of ambient noise, I felt like a parent desparately trying to relate to my child, who's decided the only way to be cool is to speak nothing but Swahili.


I understood nothing.

"Hi, my name's rob!"
"Yo - s'up. Ah'm Tabdoh!"

Oh God - I just... as much as I hate to say it, I feel comfortable at the open mics where Joe comes up and says "Hi, I'm Joe" and Joe has a band called "Joe and the ___________" ... or... "the Joe Band". I'm all about that.

Of course, I have a band called ilyAIMY - but what of it. I just felt like I could never be accepted to this place, no matter how often I came there. It was a different culture.

And the food was sooooo good.

And the band was sooo good.

And I soo couldn't pronounce either their name or anything on the menu.

I'm a failed multi-culturist.

And as I thought of my failure, navigating the DC city streets, homeward bound, the highway slowly becomes familiar, and I remember high school field-trips, and gunshots, and the willow tree that used to sit along Good Luck Road.

And I pull onto Wellington Street, and slow the car around the curve, and pull up in front of my parents' house, it's denuded trees scratching slowly into the 20 degree weather.

The steps are solid and familiar, but the door still doesn't seem normal to me yet, though it was replaced... I don't know HOW many years ago... opening the door

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