| the Journal | the Cult of Saint Cecilia

So, anywho, we're sitting a Starbuck's coffee place, abusing the wireless T-mobile hotspot thingie. Not sure what I think about it yet - I've been spoiled by places where it's free, and this is effectively like long-distance, at .10c a minute. It's worth it for the moment, as we kill time before playing Potter's Pub tonight... but... I don't know. I wouldn't have signed up except there was a 24 hours free promotional with it....

Also, can't find my camera cable, so pictures will come later.

Quick notes before uploading?

Brambleberry Tea is kind of gross, but "Reincarnation Tea" is a good name...

Incredible lentil soup... incredible sandwich, from the Olde Towne Wine & Cheese Deli in Fredericksburg... oh GOD.

Beautiful day, beautiful woman. Heather bent me sideways for a kiss in the car, and I have a renewed hatred of seatbelts.

We sooo rock. (Just you know, in general)

Later, we find ourself at Potter's Pub, with the smell of fried foods and Cloves in the air. My head is beginning to hurt from the dim light and lengthy moments of ... nothing. Sitting at an open mic, listening to tuning and the whine of cell phones that haven't been shut off.

For a place that was completely dead at 9pm, at 11pm, we find a formidable audience forming, though since nothing's been ordered but water and some nachos, I don't know HOW this place makes money. Not really my concern, I suppose. I'm more worried about how WE'LL make money.


Got a nice email today from someone who saw us at Orbits last night. Someone who'd gone to the website, who'd been really inspired by what he saw there, and he sort of reminded me that perhaps we're away from our original mission, stuggling just to survive for the moment.

The weather's been colder, and my hands are clumsier. I have string cuts all overmy right hand, which reopen every time I further abuse the tools of my trade.

It's got the potential for being a really, really long night.

January 14th, 2004.
So, it was a really, really long night. And there were some pretty painful moments. People, I mean - in case we need this reinforced out there... are really not at their finest when they're drunk, and by the end of the night, just about everyone at this place was pretty smashed. It just wasn't pretty - the first time I've been in such a stereotypical bar situation in a long time.

But there were shininig moments. A couple of people came forward and were really, really helpful, full of information and advice - we ended up asking from the stage for a place to stay for the night, and though we got lots of offers, there was only one we felt comfortable following up on.

The host for the night, Chelsea, and her partner, Bo. They were beautiful. Bo looks like the kind of guy who was going to have a rough as razors, beaten, blown voice. But he opened his mouth and butterflies came out. Sweet and lilting, he has an incredible range, and I think both Heather and I fell for him immediately.

Chelsea is the younger of the two, nineteen and hauntingly beautiful in an art-school kind of way. She's a nymph, or something, with a contagious smile and energetic voice. We go home with them, spend the night on their couches, learn new bathroom rules (can't flush the toilet more than once every ten minutes), and get licked by their dog.

Heather's gotten more dog-Love in the past 48 hours than she's ever received in her

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