cracker sings the blues

(this is an email i got from my best friend from high school last week)

HEY!!
tried callin' you at work, but got yr voicemail (yeah, I'm the fucker who doesn't leave a message -- I hate talkin' to those damn things); just wanted to let you know that I'M MOVING TO NEW ORLEANS behind the sun where the livin' are afraid to bury the dead!!! Just sent my security deposit via overnight mail for a little studio apartment in Metairie (a nice little 'burb only minutes from the Quarter). I hope you will come and visit me sometime; my money situation is a little tight -- not sure when I would be able to come to Boston -- but then again, why would I come to Boston when you can visit me when I'M LIVING IN NEW ORLEANS!!!! WHOOOOOO!!! YEAH BABY!!!!

(sorry, I'm tremendously excited)

Have all kinds of wonderful news I will try to relate as concisely as possible:
Rick and I went busking at the King Biscuit fest in Helena and did really well -- sold out of the CD's I took w/ me (only took ten, tho), had a good crowd diggin' us throughout, got filmed and interviewed by French documentary film crew (doin' a movie on Mississippi Delta Blues). Also been busking in Deep Ellum here in Dallas and doing handsomely there as well, in spite of the fact that it's a terrible place to try and busk (of course definitely bodes well for my potential success in N.O.)...

Benny Smith is suddenly at the helm of a record label!!! He's been living with Jack White of the White Stripes in Detroit... some big record label is giving them an indie label of their own as part of some handsome contractual deal, and yrs truly will get to be a part of it; contemplating putting out a 45 thru them-- hell, if i can make it in N.O. with tips and gigs, I'd rather just do all of my rec'ds with them, bein' as their my friends and rec'd co's are such a thoroughly unscrupulous lot...

anyway, better go now; hope all is well on yr end, drop me a line at this e-address when you get a chance. I miss you and wish you were here.
luv
dooley

a phone call last night

i havent had phone calls like that since college, since sam. i forget he's half-latin amid the day to day business-like turning of knobs, but he apparently was "born to tango."

and i, apparently, am the "dancingest white woman in the delta."

and for the first time, he admitted his similar notions. i missed, by not checking my messages, a flamenco concert, box seats, and a chance to watch him show off. we are both phone-o-phobes. he is going to texas to turn knobs, and will bring me back something, something that will fit in the bomb scanner machine, or a pony. or chili. what kind of boy brings you a pony or chili, or the removable seal from a bottle of oil? what kind of boy says, "would you like fries with that, yo?"

before that i watched boats with my brother, we dressed in our wonder twin suits and drove people off the balcony. before that, dinner with an ex former prior thingamajig and before that, an odd incestuous evening, and more phone calls. and a trip to walden, with too much talk and adoration, but at least 15 minutes of contemplating, alone, in the way you can only when pretending to be an existentialist. you can guess where i stand on that.

marxism for 10th graders

(from sarah vowell)

once a week, the best band kids played with the orchestra. i played the bass drum in orchestra, which meant that i never got to play. my participation ratio was something like seventy-five measures of rest per one big bass wallop. this gave me plenty of time to contemplate the class warfare of the situation. here's what i figured out: orchestra kids wear tuxedos. band kids wear tuxedo t-shirts.

the orchestra kids, with their brown woolens and teutonic last names, had the well-scrubbed, dark blond aura of a hitler youth brigade. these were the sons and daughters of humanities professors. they took german. they played soccer. dumping the fluorescent t-shirts of the band kids into the orchestra each week must have looked like tossing a handful of skittles into a box of swiss chocolates.

but nothing brings kids together like hate. the one thing the band kids and the orchestra kids had in common was a unified disgust for the chorus kids, who were, to us, merely drama geeks with access to four-part harmony. a shy violin player wasnt likely to haunt the halls between classes playing eine kleine nachtmusik and more than a band kid would blare "Land of 1000 Dances" on his tuba more than three inches outside the band room door. but that didnt stop the choir girls from making everyone temporarily forget their locker combinations thanks to an impromptu, uncalled-for burst from Brigadoon.

Andy Heap: chorus.

first fucklist, sad really

almost all of the people on my fucklist right now are both hooked up already, and i haven't actually met them. it's just their natural charm and taste:

booksontape: a _sterling_ jew. orange glasses, and could probably do shaggs inspired improv. mmmmm. (extra points for being a boy with music machines.)
deadpanwalking: knows who tom ford is. feisty, drinks whisky, likes parker posey. roXor.
mittenstein: "I could have schooled him and shown that '(((A-->B)&B)-->A))' is not a logical truth, but I was far too grateful for the food to do that. A truth playa (which is a logically-minded tru playa) knows when it's appropriate not to represent." rowwwwr.
troubler: it's hard not to fall for a dance partner as good as she.
chicacalambre: beautiful pictures, beautiful apartment, it's hard not to imagine myself in sunny buenos aires in a modern lovenest like hers with her fantastic smile. come to think of it, flor has a pretty kick-ass pad as well. and pretty words.
zweibel: old = experienced. woo woo!
clampants: cuz really im just a dj fucker.