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life and music bound together to the point of confusion. what is work,
what is jazz, what is cat the dog barking at? purple's a fruit, and james
blood ulmer sure knows how to pick an apple off your momma's cherry tree.
so, um, like, as I was...feeling...straight in 98? you can't handle the
truth. sex mob rules. wouldn't it be good to be in your shoes....even if
it was for just one day. my shoes are very hot, it's so damn hot up here
in our treehouse, the fucking heater keeps pouring steam from the
downstairs radiators and between that and everybody's phone covnersations
in the bottom offices, it creates a certain kind of butt sweat that reminds
me that I have to pick up my laundry after work. but anyway, with 2 dozen
humans working in our tribeca loft, working here is all about the
battlesounds - amy's trying to listen to GBV on her dinky computer system,
glenn's got zappa blaring out of his slightly less dinky computer stereo,
d.bias has his head nodding to dj shadow on his yellow jeep stereo, gratzer
goes with the headphones, but they all have stereo envy because we've got
the biggest and the loudest and between velybelly and his stereo-lab
infected beatstie boy-threadgill swagger comes seth's living testament to
will oldham or margaret's eclectic mix of cheesey 80s love songs (which she
claims is a tape that her video store guy gave her) and my latin
tinge(?)....our world is a getto. so joe, what do you know? dare to keep
kids off drugs...dare to work with us, for us, against us....your life will
never be the same. fuck mtv, this is the real world (save a minor absence
of external color....laten homosexuality lurks within most) check us out,
come by for a snack, or maybe a late night hang at the tap bar with ben
perowsky and friends. I thought about quitting this freak-house the other
day but could never imagine what my life would be like (at least for now)
without this fucking place...life and music bound together to the point of
confusion. I am so confused.
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