Calling from a Baltimore hotel
Christ on a bike... strange days.
Caught Los Campesinos! at Brixton Windmill on Monday night, another great show. Managed to have a chat to Gareth during the opening set, taking Gillen's name in vain over at the merch stand and basically swapping suggestions for input, both musical and literary. As a result I'm going to be tracking down some more of Tim Hecker's atmospheric electronica, as well as reading football biog Full Time on the flight to New York next weekend. If I've done my job then he may have given the M83 record a spin by now, and if I'm really very good then there's a B. S. Johnson book or two on his Amazon wish list. Really nice guy anyway, good times.
The evening took a speedy downturn on the way home though, when a day of eating little, drinking no water and generally dashing about met the six shots of scotch from the gig. The jumping up and down provided the mixing action, and there may well have been a little tummy bug or off food in there to add some spice. I spent the next forever being violently sick, sweating out every trace of water in my body and, when that was finally over, hallucinating about sinister Russian Trade Unions, ex-girlfriends and other nasty things until about 5 or 6am. Tuesday was basically spent trying not to be in pain, which was a fucking irritating way to spend the only day off of the week.
Then work. Lots of work. It doesn't take a genius to work out how I'm feeling about that at the moment, and once the two-and-a-bit weeks of holiday are done with I think application season will be upon me. I may be doing my best to avoid my birthday this year too, as (Polaroid Press aside) the most noteworthy difference between this year and last year is that I'm homeless.
House-sitting Dad's at the moment, trying to get some things sorted offline and clearing the decks as far as The Polaroid Press goes. My objective is to have no outstanding stories before NYC, to return with a couple of entries and the notes for a long-form piece.
Manhattan, come to me!
P.S. Wrote this before coming in to work. On the way I managed to miss a train by seconds and a bus passed me by despite seeing me flag it down. Cunt. I almost cried on the way to the tube. I really fucking need that holiday.
Caught Los Campesinos! at Brixton Windmill on Monday night, another great show. Managed to have a chat to Gareth during the opening set, taking Gillen's name in vain over at the merch stand and basically swapping suggestions for input, both musical and literary. As a result I'm going to be tracking down some more of Tim Hecker's atmospheric electronica, as well as reading football biog Full Time on the flight to New York next weekend. If I've done my job then he may have given the M83 record a spin by now, and if I'm really very good then there's a B. S. Johnson book or two on his Amazon wish list. Really nice guy anyway, good times.
The evening took a speedy downturn on the way home though, when a day of eating little, drinking no water and generally dashing about met the six shots of scotch from the gig. The jumping up and down provided the mixing action, and there may well have been a little tummy bug or off food in there to add some spice. I spent the next forever being violently sick, sweating out every trace of water in my body and, when that was finally over, hallucinating about sinister Russian Trade Unions, ex-girlfriends and other nasty things until about 5 or 6am. Tuesday was basically spent trying not to be in pain, which was a fucking irritating way to spend the only day off of the week.
Then work. Lots of work. It doesn't take a genius to work out how I'm feeling about that at the moment, and once the two-and-a-bit weeks of holiday are done with I think application season will be upon me. I may be doing my best to avoid my birthday this year too, as (Polaroid Press aside) the most noteworthy difference between this year and last year is that I'm homeless.
House-sitting Dad's at the moment, trying to get some things sorted offline and clearing the decks as far as The Polaroid Press goes. My objective is to have no outstanding stories before NYC, to return with a couple of entries and the notes for a long-form piece.
Manhattan, come to me!
P.S. Wrote this before coming in to work. On the way I managed to miss a train by seconds and a bus passed me by despite seeing me flag it down. Cunt. I almost cried on the way to the tube. I really fucking need that holiday.