the pink house roof

this is buzz and shawn on the roof of the apartment where buzz and i lived, along with a revolving series of third roommates, for a couple years in San Francisco after we moved out of Mission Records. it was a faded pink building which jim, the landlord, eventually painted a dull gray. we lived between 24th St. and Cesar Chavez at the bottom of Bernal Hill. every so often we'd head up to the roof and have a few beers and enjoy the gorgeous sunsets. i remember once when the building was being repainted we climbed out of our windows and hung out on the scaffolding and drank beers over the sidewalk. buzz still lives there and every week or so, i wish i did too.

i shot these polaroids on an old Square Shooter Polaroid camera that my friend Sam gave me after i gave her an even older Polaroid Land camera with the bellows. those are a little tricky since the batteries they take are no longer made, but i knew an old Chinese guy at Mission Camera on Valencia who could convert it to take AAs. awesome guy too. i hope the place is still there; if so, buy your camera stuff from him.

mojave desert 2003

someone correct the date if i am incorrect. this is film that i obviously really screwed up. either i did something when i loaded it, or something is wrong with my 12-frame film back and it doesn't advance right because you can see how all the frames double-exposed on each other in those crappy triptychs at the top and the bottom. which is kind of a shame because i think some of them might have turned out quite well if i hadn't fucked it up, especially the ones of krishna sitting on the hill like a Buddha. even still, it's probably the closest thing i'll ever do to art.

i went to the Mojave Desert with my friends Krishna, who is from LA, and Emily, who is from Delaware like me. it's kind of a weird story here because i feel like i hooked them up via myspace or something... i somehow introduced them through the Internet and at that time in my life i had factions of friends on both coasts, and i thought with my best efforts, never the twain shall meet. but one night i got drunk and introduced these two; he liked the Fucking Champs and was moving to nyc, she liked the Fucking Champs and lived in nyc. suddenly they were hanging out, going out, she was bringing him to Delaware and meeting other friends from there and the East Coast. people from Newark were meeting people from LA and vice versa. the gates had been breached. my world, i thought, was collapsing in on me. part of my mission, going there with those two, was to break them up.

instead we all got super wasted on a bottle of absinthe kris's ex-girlfriend had brought back for him from Europe. we split a case of Budweiser and spent the night passed out in a shitty motel room in the desert. then we woke up the next day to a blinding sun, horribly hung over, ate greasy breakfast at a greasy diner, and drove out to some place off the highway and took these photos.

i took a few rolls of b/w film too, which i didn't screw up, but i haven't scanned them yet. eventually i will. kris and emily also shot photos that day; maybe if they see this they will show me some.

soccer sundays

andy


bochay


chris kohler


yuri

once upon a time i used to play soccer in Potrero Park at the end of 24th St. when i lived in san francisco. i used to live on 26th and Florida st. i was super broke at the time. i had figured out a way to live off a few bucks a day, buying $1 pasta and $1 tomato sauce (those little Hunts cans) from the store at the corner of 26th and Potrero. i would eat half for lunch and half for dinner. i'd usually go for some mike and ikes and mountain dew late night, or if i had some money i'd buy some beer. when i saved up some cash i'd treat myself to nachos at el farolito on 24th and alabama and eat half for lunch, half for dinner. it was a miserable existence in a beautiful city and a lively neighborhood. if you read my story in Fanzine then you have a pretty good idea of what i was putting myself through. that also spelled the end of my soccer sundays.

i shot these photos before i got super depressed, so this is probably early 2004 or 2003. i think i had a plan to shoot everyone we played with... there was probably 10-15 of us punks running around the park. most of us never played soccer, or if we did, the last time we played was years ago. for me at the time, it was probably 12 years since i played. it was a great time to be outside back then in SF, and i squandered almost all of it away.

i don't know where any of these people are anymore, although we were friends at one time. Andy i think may live in Bay Ridge, brooklyn. at least he did the last time i saw him at the Lock Inn on Grand St. Yuri used to be Andy's girlfriend, but they broke up and maybe she lives overseas now. Bochay was a great guy who, i last heard in 2004, was living on some island off the coast of Vancouver, and you had to take a boat to get there. Chris Kohler was a crazy kid who lived many years ahead of his time. He might still live in San Francisco.

anyhow my plan to shoot photos of all us soccer players didn't pan out. i ran out of money for film, but there's a chance i have more photos hidden somewhere undeveloped. even these i've never seen before i scanned them, so i guess it's okay to be a little nostalgic.

It's a sad and beautiful world

these are just a few of the many photos i shot on US1 (but i think the only ones with the Hassleblad) on the way back to San Francisco from LA for the first time. i think it was 2003. it took about nine hours total, with all the stopping on the sides of roads and navigating the winding, serpentine turns alongside cliffs that drop hundreds of feet. i remember distinctly slamming on the brakes and skidding off toward those cliffs when i saw something amazing, which was pretty much everywhere. when i got back to SF i started to make a habit of driving north or south on the 1 for hours whenever i needed to get out of the city or was having some kind of mental breakdown and just hang out on a cliff and watch the ocean or read a book or whatever. smoke cigarettes. it all seemed to do me a lot of good since i never took any medication for my mental problems, which were probably just as bad as anyone else's.

i remember doing a lot of driving those days, listening to tapes and smoking parliaments. it was a good car i had: 1988 acura integra special edition, with the ridiculous rear spoiler made of solid rubber which made the trunk hatch weigh like 50 pounds. black faded by the sactown sun. bought the car while i was living in sacramento for $300 off a japanese kid who was moving back to japan. it had 3 different size tires when i bought it.

this whole driving/motorist theme will come up a lot in future posts. this is just a start. also, burning and dodging is a lot easier in the darkroom than in photoshop. still trying to get the hang of it.

power up!

while listening to "Cindy Tells Me," i, for some reason, had the desire to bring this blog back to its state of zombie-like life, neither joyously alive nor fully dead. i like to think the blog was in a state of hibernation—not metamorphosis like a caterpillar in which i would emerge stronger and more beautiful and with a new sense of purpose—but rather how i imagine a grizzly bear crawls his miserable way out of the dark, comfortable cave: grumpy, groggy, a little rough around the edges. it's been a long time, a few passwords i had to recall from hazy memory. [also if anyone knows how to forcibly archive all my old posts below this one please let me know...]

this blog will however take a new direction and become mostly a photo blog. for my last birthday my girlfriend got me a new scanner and i've been trying to catalog and archive a ton of old photos, mostly from my time spent in California, from 1999 and 2000 to near the end of 2006. a lot of these photos are just being developed very recently after spending most of their post-camera lives in dark, cold film canisters tucked into a series of about four or five different refrigerators. a lot of the films are damaged in some way, mostly by heat from traveling around with me from house to house over many years and probably being left in a trunk or in the sun somewhere. much of this film that's already developed i've never even seen in positive or in any kind of size that didn't require a loupe and your imagination. i was super broke back then in California, had a bad habit of shoplifting film pretty much every day from the Vons on Mission St., although i had no way (or money) to develop any of the photos until now, when i've slowly gotten off my arse to process and scan them.

of course, the first photo is completely opposite of what i just said—it's a polaroid taken with the new (old) back i got for my Hassleblad this summer.

i'm going to try to update with old photos regularly... or at least once a week for starters... so look around and you might see some old friends you haven't seen or thought about in a long time, sunsets and empty roads and fields, and places we all used to know.

discussion section and respective walls 'o text

my homie por vida melissa from SF wrote me a rather well thought-out response to my previous post. if you didn't see it in the comments, here it is:

I'm having a hard time connecting all of the dots. It would appear that while Nikki Giovanni is our ultimate target, you also are drawing a parallel to your own run-in with a crazy Korean- sort of the "I was there, too" approach. Interesting how in your rant Seung Cho is given some type of validity while Joe is referred to, at the end, as the 'retard'. I'm not quite sure what makes one or the other - maybe you could clarify?

As far as Seung Cho and Nikki Giovanni both writing 'inciteful' poems, I think you're detracting from the chain of events. Certainly Nikki Giovanni is being interviewed all over town- she's far more eloquent than many of the people I've heard coming from VT and she has a degree of understanding that most on the campus don't, being one who worked with Seung Cho not just as his professor in a large room, but also as a tutor (I didn't have any professors willing to tutor me at university-but I digress).

I suppose what I'm trying to hack away at, in the end, are two things; the first being your title and the second being the basis for your title which of course is the comparison between Seung Cho's muddled and very adolescent play and Nikki Giovanni's concise call to black amerikkka during a time of incredible turmoil. In the end Cho decided (on whatever level that he was capable of doing so), to write a manifesto of sorts about himself and his experience with the world around him - a tricky subject matter indeed as it requires the reader to look deep into the text, assume the position of the writer's mind and infer what he wants us to infer.

How is this different from Nikki Giovanni? Well, first it's important to note that you omitted the title of her poem "The True Import of Present Dialogue, Black vs. Negro (For Pepe Who Will Ultimately Judge Our Efforts). The title alone speaks to the time in and context for what Giovanni was writing about- Black people in this stupid ass country still being called 'negroes' and being sent like lambs to fight whitey's war (and there really can be no arguing whether or not Viet Nam was anything other than a white-man's wet dream). In this poem, Giovanni is angry with her fellow black men for their seeming lack of action. She seems to say, 'How could you pick up a gun for the white man, but not for your own community?" She's not inciting her inner rage and calling for an indiscriminate killing of the honky menace, but she is inciting thought.
Seung Cho's plays were, again, sophomoric to be sure, but what Giovanni claimed was frightening wasn't his plays. It was his actions in large groups of people and the ways in which he tried to force his work onto non-accepting students. Nikki Giovanni was published and distinguished and anyone could choose to ignore her work or to read it. According to Giovanni however, Cho wasn't interested in giving people that option which of course amounts to intimidation and coercion.
You or I, dear Louis, would probably laugh a little uncomfortably at the poor sucker trying to ram his poetry down our throats and we might choose not to be intimidated. (But you and I are far superior to the rest of the wasted masses-again I digress).

Perhaps Nikki Giovanni is guilty of not understanding Seung Cho's text. I'd say the media is indeed guilty of shortening both his words and Giovanni's words - simplifying two incredibly complex people and spinning them like plates around our saturated brains.

I'd definitely change the title. Thanks for the read.

love always,

Melissa (Pit Crew, TEAM LOUIE)


my sad response here:
melissa. thanks for the response. as promised in my own response to your comments posted on my blog, i'm writing a rebuttal on yours. as per the title to the email i wrote you, i don't deny that i'm not an asshole, BUT let me clarify a few things before i get more involved here: (1) i don't feel any sympathy for Seung Cho. the dude was an asshole who murdered a bunch of people against whom he seemingly had no vendetta or reason. even if he did, i wouldn't feel bad for him. (2) i don't feel any affinity with him because of he was Asian and was rightfully roasted as a mass murderer by any normal thinking media outlet, nor do i fear any potential racial backlash by other assholes who can't think for themselves. any sort of backlash based on race or nationality, be it 9/11 as a prominent example, or Cho's rampage at Virginia Tech, is ridiculously stupid, and usually a product of other (usually drunk) morons, themselves feeling a twisted, misguided sense of cosmic justice. (3) the title of Giovanni's poem was indeed named on the post i made last night. in fact, i made a point to show the entire poem, sans edits unlike Steve Sailer's post on his blog, which ended with the line we got to show we can kill. i don't think i ever said she was advocating mass murder, but if i did, i would have been mistaken. however, i do believe that in the examples i wrote about, her work would stand out to most every day Americans as more troubling and disconcerting than Cho's ridiculously forced lines a la "Must kill Dick. Dick must die" etc. (4) the title won't change, even though you believe it should. if i were an asshole then, then i should be an asshole now.

the original intent of it all was, as i wrote in my comment to you on my site, to ridicule the alarmist nature to which media has ascribed to Cho's writing. of course, in the light of this discussion, that point was somewhat lost, probably between 3 and 3.15am last night. nikki giovanni is not, you are correct in pointing out, the big problem here. however, the issue i have trouble with is i don't find her to be all that trustworthy of a narrator, so to speak. the same goes for the student who supposedly claimed he knew Cho would be someone who would come in to class and start shooting. like i said in my rant, hindsight is 20/20. by nearly 98% of accounts, including his family, his roommates, his teachers, Cho had no friends. he never spoke to anyone. he was highly limited in classroom or even social discussion. to say that he imposed a massive, intimidating presence in the classroom on other students to me is not believable. as related to what you said yourself, people could choose to read his work or not, believe in it or not, give it a failing grade or a passing one. Giovanni herself is not, to me, a believable character. the facts are i haven't heard anyone made much of an effort beyond offering him $10 to talk, a degrading and condescending act that probably should have gotten the offerer punched in the face.

what i'm not saying is that if he were able to express himself more eloquently, like say how people describe Nikki Giovanni, this whole thing could have been avoided. i'm deliberately not joining in the media frenzy of finger pointing (Old Boy, the signs were all there in the writing etc.). but to some degree i do believe that people like Peter Sotos, Dennis Cooper, and even Bret Easton Ellis, would be a lot scarier to be around if they weren't so articulate and creative. Cho chose his road as a grown man, though possibly a disturbed one. He might have chosen another given a certain set of circumstances, but by all accounts he seemed to want to remain in his own world, and there weren't many attempts to pull him out of it. personally i don't consider recommending he be instated in mental institutions or removed from your classroom particularly helpful.

As i wrote before, Giovanni was right. Maybe she got lucky (or unlucky, as it were). Now she's reaping the fame that comes with being right, stepping up and being a spokesperson for VT and its Future. but i find most of her comments, however eloquent, to be somewhat disingenuous and based on her own 20/20 hindsight. i believe only in her distaste for Cho prior to his rampage, the evidence of which is seething in her comments. Should she be lionized for it? i don't think so.

again. thanks for the discussion and the comments. maybe we should talk about the hearings that involved the supposed heroism of pat tillman/jessica lynch next. you pick.

mkl

ps. the intro with my old roommate was purely anecdotal in the sense that i didn't have the energy or desire to return to him, except let my friends know what fucking douchebag i once lived with.

pps. i didn't know how crazy he actually was when i gave him the acid.

it's okay as long as you're black, i guess... thoughts on nikki giovanni and seung cho

Note: I originally wanted this column to run on my magazine, Fanzine, (actually i wanted my co-editor to write this) but was snaked by other bloggers (notably, Steve Sailer's very good blog]) and writers, due to our own time and work constraints.

Introduction: When i was in my third year at the University of Delaware i had this korean roommate Joe. For whatever reason the school always paired me up with Asians, the previous year being with an over-achieving, slightly older, pretentious pre-med Punjab-Indian roommate named Ramin. Joe was about as annoying as Ramin was, but in a separate way: he was, for one, a chronic masturbator who didn't care if i was trying to sleep in the room we both shared. He also was one of the worst snorers i've ever experienced, which, prior to the chronic masturbation revelation that came in the first few weeks, made me seek out another roommate early on. He also always sang over my Iron Maiden records. he also had a weird habit of looking up Internet porn in the computer labs, printing out the images on the communal printers, and bringing them home. He hated fags, as my friend Chris would jokingly post homoerotic pictures he stole from the Philadelphia City Paper on my front door. But the fucked up thing about Joe was that a few weeks before spring break he stopped going to classes, locked himself in the room we once shared (i moved into the living room after the porn and masturbation, which like poetry [which will become relevant later in some sense] should only be done in one's own room, on one's own time, got too much for me... plus for some reason i had a girlfriend at the time), smoked constantly when we couldn't open the windows (our room was was the 20-something floor of a dorm tower), and started breaking all of his electronics. i could hear him on the other side of his room smashing plastic things and crunching metal, throwing chairs, arguing with a friend of his, whose name i can't remember. i let this go on for several weeks, but not before i gave him some acid i had stashed in the freezer, then, while he was tripping hard, running into his room acting like i was being chased and eaten alive by invisible insects. it was my backhanded way of retribution for all the bullshit i'd put up with.

well, it turns out joe was going textbook paranoid schizophrenic. he told me one morning he wasn't going to school, nor leaving the apartment anymore because people (usually the CIA or FBI) were out to kill him. he smashed our phone which i had drawn a pentagram on months earlier. he broke all his electronics: TV, VCR, stereo; went out and bought new ones, then broke those too. he did manage to hold on to the vcr and tv long enough to rent porn—i know because i watched some of them once. i usually went to sleep with a knife or a fork under my pillow.

One day during spring break i went back to the apartment to grab some records and saw Joe was there. I looked in his room and saw papers, trash, movies, clothes, books, etc. thrown around everywhere—like there had been a fight or a whirlwind in his room. Joe and his friend were lying on the floor looking exhausted, smoking cigarettes. I didn't ask what happened, but a few days later his family started calling my apartment, asking about Joe, how he was, if he was acting strange. I told them about the CIA, his broken electronics, his paranoia. They seemed to know of a history of him acting like this, but, as is the Asian way, didn't divulge much information to the person who had to deal with it every day. A few days later, I came home from class to see all of Joe's shit in the hallway, thrown about like it had been ransacked. At first i was tripping thinking he'd thrown my stuff out too, then i saw a note by my (new) phone in the apartment telling me to call the university police and the RA. Joe had gone totally nuts, thrown all of his shit out, started threatening people in the dorm, and the RA called the cops on him, who hauled him away to the hospital. I called the police—and was immediately freaked out because of all the acid i had in the freezer, but i did a quick check and it was still there. Joe was in the hospital, they told me. His family would take care of it from here. Finally i was free of this douchebag. Chris and I took all the school books of his we could find in the trash and hallway, and sold them back for beer money and got drunk.

A day later he started calling me at the apartment. I'm fine, man, he said. I'm in a safe place, not in a hospital, he said, while clearly i could hear all the blips and beeps and intercom pages so familiar with hospitals. he wanted me to give him the phone number a girl he worked with at the university, some girl he had a crush on who obviously didn't need this bullshit. please, he said. just help me out. get me her number. he gave me her name. i gave him a fake number and never heard from him again.

a rant: By now, everyone has heard about Seung Cho, the 23-year-old kid who slaughtered all those people at Virginia Tech. One might be tempted to think I'm trying to draw some sort of parallel between Joe and Seung Cho, their respective mental states and paranoia—and to some degree i think Joe may have been capable of murder in his schizophrenic episodes, but mostly i think he was more a danger to himself—and i do think most korean women are crazy, but that's another post altogether—but really that's too circumstantial and simplistic. Joe was a fucking retard who lied about his age (he told me he was 23, but after the police hauled him away i found out he was really 31). Seung Cho was a troubled kid, mostly ignored and left to his own destructive—internally, and later, externally—devices. There's been a lot of talk amongst the hype, the pomp and circumstance surrounding the aftermath of his awful rampage in Virginia, about his writings, particularly the plays Richard McBeef and Mr. Brownstone, and how all the signs were there for anyone to glean, that Cho was indeed fucked-up in the head and headed for an outcome such as what came to someone's fruition last week.

If anyone actually sat down and read the plays, however, they'd find an almost comic-book level intensity, the kind of embarrassing scribble any writer would hide long in their 9th grade journal, seething with an anger you can't quite articulate, but boiling over with a forced hand that's obvious and amateur. Yet, writing like this was enough to convince one teacher to fear Cho so much that during her individual studies with him, to establish a code with her assistant to phone the police. It was enough to cause one student to say (after Cho had actually done the act) that Cho "was the kind of person who is going to walk into class one day and start shooting." Well, it turns out he was right. Hindsight is 20/20, as they say.

But what really interests me here about Cho is that he was kicked out of an English class in 2005 by a professor named Nikki Giovanni. Aside from being a well-known poet, popular teacher at VT and one of Oprah's 25 "Living Legends," she has received numerous articles of praise during the shockwave phase after the Cho massacre, as someone who is keeping the Hokie spirit alive in the face of disaster, a heroine who stood up to this menacing student, a bully and a silent intimidator. In an article from itribe]:

It is interesting also to know that Giovanni did cross paths with Cho only once again after she booted him from class.

It happened one day when the platinum-white-haired Giovanni, 63, was walking a path on campus. Several yards ahead she noticed Cho walking the path toward her. And, indicative of this poet’s character, she decided to sustain eye contact with him as they moved closer and passed each other on the path.

Giovanni, a strong person in many ways, including her survival of lung cancer, was determined even in that brief passing moment with Cho that she would not display weakness. Rather, she would display her steely resolve, holding an eagle’s gaze on him without a blink.

“I was not going to look away as if I were afraid,” Giovanni said.

“To me he was a bully, and I had no fear of this child.”

And in the New York Times column, The Lede:
“Once I realized my class was scared, I knew I had to do something,” she told The Washington Post.

So she confronted him about the dark sunglasses and maroon cap he would wear in class and the darker poetry that he would write.

“You can’t do that,” she told him, referring to the “intimidating” poems.

“You can’t make me,” he replied.

“Yeah, I can.”

Her next step was to lobby the department head, Lucinda Roy, writing a letter requesting he leave the class, she told CNN. And she was ready to go all the way.

“I was willing to resign before I would continue with him,” she told CNN. “It was the meanness.”

She sounds like a strong, no-bullshit woman, someone who can hold together the marrow of the VT community after this tragedy(i'm not so cynical to opine that what happened at VT was anything but—32 people is, on a familiar scale if one considers his own family, including all living relatives—aunts, uncles, brothers, cousins, father, mother, 2 sets of grandparents—a complete wash; an annihilation of a whole family), and indeed she has stepped up to fill those needs within a campus that has experienced the worst shooting in U.S. history. She is indeed soaking in the interviews as an early whistle-blower of young Seung Cho's disturbances. She kicked him out her class because he was so intimidating and, apparently, dangerous.

She was right. Cho murdered 32 people, apparently without care or discretion. She's also a horrible hypocrite. In another life, Nikki Giovanni was a well-known and popular Black Power poet, a militant of sorts, who wrote far more "disturbing" texts than Cho. Take some "disturbing" literature written by Cho, from Richard McBeef:

John: "Eat this you giant tree trunk piece of ass!"
Richard: "Ahhhh!"
John: "Fuck you Dad!"

and:

John: "I hate him. Must kill Dick. Must kill Dick. Dick must die. Kill Dick."

Now lets look at Giovanni's poem, The True Import of Present Dialogue, Black vs. Negro (For Peppe Who Will Ultimately Judge Our Efforts):

Nigger
Can you kill
Can you kill
Can a nigger kill
Can a nigger kill a honkie
Can a nigger kill the Man
Can you kill nigger
Huh? nigger can you
kill
Do you know how to draw blood
Can you poison
Can you stab-a-Jew
Can you kill huh? nigger
Can you kill
Can you run a protestant down with your
'68 El Dorado
(that's all they're good for anyway)
Can you kill
Can you piss on a blond head
Can you cut it off
Can you kill
A nigger can die
We ain't got to prove we can die
We got to prove we can kill
They sent us to kill
Japan and Africa
We policed europe
Can you kill
Can you kill a white man
Can you kill the nigger
in you
Can you make your nigger mind
die
Can you kill your nigger mind
And free your black hands to
strangle
Can you kill
Can a nigger kill
Can you shoot straight and
Fire for good measure
Can you splatter their brains in the street
Can you kill them
Can you lure them to bed to kill them
We kill in Viet Nam
for them
We kill for UN & NATO & SEATO & US
And everywhere for all alphabet but
BLACK
Can we learn to kill WHITE for BLACK
Learn to kill niggers
Learn to be Black men

I'm not one to take things without a grain of salt, but to me Giovanni's poem can read far more inciting and hateful than Cho's hackneyed attempts at expressing anger and whatever fucked-up-edness he saw in the world. This poem obviously operates on different levels of understanding—something Cho couldn't seem to do himself. She kicked him out of her class. No one has talked about Seung Cho's inability to articulate himself eloquently and, at least accurately, except his family, who always hoped he would leave his shell, get over his insecurities and shyness, and begin to speak. In the end, Giovanni, who mimicked Tupac Shakur's "Thug Life" tattoo, claims, "I'm not prescient."

There are certain writers who come to mind that, if they weren't so eloquent and articulate, would be very fearsome in person. I would personally be afraid of the following authors if they were not such good writers: Peter Sotos, Dennis Cooper, Dennis Johnson, Brett Easton Ellis, to name a few. Seung Cho went another route. Ultimately, Giovanni was right. Got lucky maybe. But she's also full of shit.

dyke out

Cortney Harding at Freewilliamsburg has been putting up all these music videos lately by all these bands i used to listen to when i was in high school, so i'm snaking him (or her) by putting this one up before he (or she) can. team dresch was one of the rawest bands i heard when i first started listening to (good) music; i think one of my few friends from high school put this song on a mixtape he made for me, along with other stuff i still listen to to this day (shellac, six finger satellite, rodan, the spinanes). personal best is still a really good record, full of musical adjectives i very much dislike using, but feel are mostly appropriate in this case. anyhow, i'll let pitchfork's writers embarrass themselves with that. this video is from last year—i didn't even know they were playing shows, but then again i'm out of the music loop for the most part. and listen to the crowd singing along—i don't think those girls would let me get anywhere near the stage without them getting all fired up and kicking me in the balls. which would suck for them because i'd have to get melissa or heidi to rock their jaws, if they could keep from making out with my assailants. dykes are a horny bunch, as i know.