And the night wears on, watching the progress bar in Dreamweaver competing with the sci-fi pulp of Demolition Man. Poor Sylvestor can’t handle the beauty of cyber-transmission of erotic imagery with Sandra Bullock.
“You are a savage creature John Spartan, and I wish you to leave my domicile RIGHT now.”
Ah, she’s Lovely when she’s angry and interrupted mid-silicon orgasm.
I’m borrowing a Mara’s laptop – which is finally getting the website uploaded, piece by piece. 4500 fucking files, all meandering their way slowly up to some server somewhere in California. I don’t know what’s taking so long, I think all the bits and bytes are hanging out somewhere en route, arguing with one another, perhaps having a wild rampant row over whether or not THEY believe that Sylvester Stallone could knit a whole sweater in just one night.
A nice sweater.
We headed out to College Perk tonight, tried out a new song at the open mic. A woman sang a song I haven’t heard since the Audrey Years – one of the tunes that slapped me in the face with angst and beauty and heart-stinging Love when I first encountered her playing acoustic guitar in the courtyard of the dorms back in school.
Beyond that, it was a night of tension and heat, humidity and headaches and interpersonal distress.
But the important stuff? I got my new phone in the mail. We’re playing a gig tomorrow in Fells Point, and all sorts of data seems to be getting transmitted slowly but surely to where I bloody well want it.
