Last night, I played a small venue in Echo Park. An evening of friends, boozy beer...and inexplicable disrespect. I am convinced that, in a previous life (should I one day choose to believe such things as previous lives exist), I single-handedly massacred the venue owner's ancestry. I apologize if this was the case. However, in this hanging drool known as "current existence", I have done nothing to this person, except wail about sad and bad. Please no be mean to me. Sigh. I really did enjoy the music that came out of all of us last night. The 3 a.m. Monte Cristo afterwards was equally as delicious.
Today, Killsonic will swallow the Los Angeles Metro Red Line up and spit it back out with black blood. My my my, how my toes wiggle in fuck-yesness. A historic genocide of sensibilities will come crashing down upon the beautiful Saturday L.A. people. How is it that I get to be a part of this? Dear God in the Mighty Hearts of Men: thank you for this spiraling red (and black) carpet you have laid out for us!
Afterwards, I perform solo-ish at a loft run by artist Tommy Mose Abbott. I secretly covet Mr. Abbott's hair style.
Rattle Rattle is 16 songs strong right now. The most recent one is entitled "Happy Bones". It's a toe-tapper with satirical ambitions. I was just telling Leah "Daddy" Harmon last night that I really detest being "political". However, I would be severely untrue to myself if I did not write about the things that sink hooks into me. "Happy Bones" is obviously not so happy. Rattle Rattle, as a whole, will be as happy as a double amputation.
I'm off to the gym. I want to hold you with the strongest arms, and feed you all my gooey charms. Thanks for reading, and for being alive.
Love,
Dorian
