| the Journal | the Cult of Saint Cecilia

Weird-ass store front. I can only hope that this particular window display will change once the Silver Spring Phillip's actually opens.

patterns on her Taylor... or perhaps not. In general, she came across as a generic folk girl, perhaps raised on the oldies with a dash of Suzanne Vega - but when she started playing, she really kept me transfixed with a voice that ALMOST fit into that category, but then kept digging its claws into the walls of that box and climbing up out of it.

All in all, a pretty damned good night - Alfred showed up and played with us, and Dan Zimmerman played some bass with us - and I played some bass for Dan Zimmerman - all the back and forth inspired Brennan to decide our show this Saturday should include some form of musical Twister. He's making spinners for


each of us, so that at the beginning of any given tune, he can say "Heather on... guitar. Rob on... bass. Dan on... Zimmy." It'll be pretty awesome. What with Easter break and all, I hope we'll have enough audience members to spin all the spinners.

btw - random note for AOL users - I finally took a peek at the Journal under the horrific compression algorithms that AOL dial-up uses (in order to acheive "higher speeds" the re-compress all the graphics on their way through their browser) and GOOD LORD it makes the pages look awaful. All you AOLies should take a peek at the Journal through Explorer or something instead. You'll have more respect for me in the morning.

Heather's in the back yard, kicking out Ryan Adams tunes. I wonder if there is any future of rob and Heather covers - our musical tastes are SO godawful different. There's a trampoline in the back, tempting me, there are trains passing, noisily... and Heather singing, sultrily. Sigh.

April 8th, 2004.
We returned to the bar of 70's decor... we returned to Polly Esther's. Last night... we went back despite better judgement. Originally, Heather had been planning to go to some poetry slam... being the uncultured wretch that I am, I tend not to enjoy slams (don't really like the competitive culture that surrounds them) and I'd planned to go back to Polly Esther's on my own, just to watch Uncle Chunky play.

Anywho, Heather ended up changing her mind, and we headed out to Rockville together. I think she was kind of horrified.

Anywho, surrounded by strobing lights and airbrushed tie-dyed walls - we hung out at Polly Esther's till 11pm or so, with the (perhaps) 6 other occupants of the bar....

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