:: Tuesday, February 8, 2005 ::
The cars open like oysters, and soft pink people ooze off the seats and into the casino car park. I decided to have my morning coffee in the only place that I've found that features actual sunlight. Inside, at a permanent 10pm, the slot machines are sucking money from seniors who slump over the handlebars of their cherry-red Rascals. They are attached by clear tubing to brushed steel oxygen tanks, and stare with eyes like salmon, indifferent to the bells, the flashing lights, the spinning numbers, the clusters of fruit, the pornographic depictions of boats and jewelry. They are vacationing.
I am working. I'm in between shows, running over my guitar solos, my choices of pedals and pickup positions. Unannounced, underground -- I'm kinda working on something... with somebody. Can't really talk here. But don't let the quiet fool you.
I can say: it's going great. I'm very psyched.
:: mike 2:18 PM [+] ::