after a long day of being swept up by live thin white duke + collected oddities [for the brave:
half-german leering children's program theme, c. '66?], i remembered the scratchy disc was handed over as if no more than a matchbook or napkin, + its sleeve wore an email-scribble....
wound up wandering in a respectable cold snap in the company of a feverish friend + his unfailingly elegant manners. lots of text; did we look like students at a strange school? too many people here, too loud here, follow me. hours later, talking about brigid berlin with ex-mudd club david [who didn't remember walter steding's light-goggles, only someone who made music with sheets of metal]. had a pacifico + despite my protests their disc was replaced with mine--it blew a fuse, beautiful pitch-black--then everyone wanted to walk to the cemetary to be jumped out at by tipsy loiterers hiding behind stones until we realized it could just as well be done at home with the moon no less full for it.
julian wants to interview michael zilkha now; it's funny to be the one strung along by someone else's fervor after months of my own. 'oh, alright.'