KjB

From the Dayton “International” Airport, actually. Where the delays are long, but the free internet service is abundant…even if the spacebardoesn’tworkverywellonthis quiosk.

To be an “international” airport, a locaton must, I’d suspect, have direct flights to somewhere other than the contiguous 48, or one of the American satellite offices: Hawaii, Alaska, or Great Britain. I don’t know if maybe you can hop a plane to Saskatchewan from here (and with no spell check, who knows), and that might count for something, but all i know is in all the 20-some times I’ve flown the route between Dayton and the big ATL, I’ve never been on time once. At present, we’re at 60 minutes of delay, and counting. Our friendly AirTran representatives have been on the brink of a rather interesting cat fight for the past 10 minutes, and now one (the over-tan, overweight one with middle-ohio written all over her) has dismissed the other (the finger-waving, dark-eyed one with 80’s tall-stacks bangs) and has stormed behind the big airtran sign, slamming the door behind her. Lovely.

Gonna be a long night.

Don’t let anyone lie to you,

This hurts.

Above, my newest acquisition—in progress, and directly after. An 8-inch long permanant piece of jewelry, courtesy of Craig at Timeless Tattoo. Very nice guy. Very smart guy. Did a fabulous job.

Possibly more pictures later, after Mr. Poe has finished with my camera. (Moustache May must go on.)

I’ll leave the light on.

My first memories are of sly deception.

I’m 3 years old, standing in the garage of my parents’ ranch house with the acre-deep front yard. My father is working on our burnt brown Chevy Vega hatchback. The car we’ll load years of Christmas trees in. The car with the passenger door I’ll slam my thumb in a few years later, the latch locking with my finger inside. The car that will rust to nothing and then be driven away, rattling, by a greasy man in overalls. I’m next to this car, and I’m looking out the garage window to see my mother, long, platinum blonde hair blowing out behind her, riding this royal blue Scwhinn (a glorious 50’s model with whitewall tires and springs under the seat) an acre away on the road. And in my little brain I know that she’s training for a charity ride, she’s coming back in 20 minutes. But my only goal is to make my father believe that I think she’s never coming back. So I cry. And point, and look toward my dad. To his credit, he doesn’t buy it, and laughs and says, “Come on. You know she’s coming back.” And then turns back to what he’s doing. Not another word passes between us.

My second memory is of my little brother coming home from the hospital. I’m 4. My first cousins, all girls, all older, are giggling and chattering about the baby, and keep asking me if I’m excited to have a new little brother. “Do I want to see him,” they ask? And I do, but I lie and say, coolly, “No. I don’t care,” and refuse to open the front door, where I know my mother is sitting on the couch, holding my brother. I say no and insist that we go back to playing, even though I want be there, and to look down at him and touch his tiny hands and ask to hold him more than anything in the world.

(no ending here. or much point.)

Mason’s moustache gets around.

Featuring, (from left to right): Bobby, as “and I would have gotten away with it too, if it weren’t for those meddling kids” guy, Christopher as “the Italian Stallion”, and Jason, as John Candy in the Blues Brothers.

Check out the moustache in its natural habitat here.

Or, at least close. Just, you know, wow. Period.

Mr. wood, Mr. velon and I saw Zero 7 at one of my favorite venues, Earthlink Live, Saturday night. And this sucks for me, but there are truly few words to describe how incredible this concert was, and how much mr. poe will kick himself for hanging out in Nash-vegas once all three of us regale him with recounts of the experience.

To sum up, without gushing too much, First: Earthlink live is probably the best venue in town. Never, never had a bad time there. Decent parking, good crowd control and there’s no bad seats in that place. Blows dank, two-steps from hell holes like the Echo Lounge way, way away.

Secondly, regardless of how much this band might remind you of a knock-off of Air with a bit more soul, you’ve at least got to give them credit for hauling like 8 people across the pond and around the states, and for being able to actually best their album live, on stage. I don’t think any of us said a word through the entire concert. We simply sat with our mouths open and absorbed the harmonies. Even the producer-guy with no rhythmn, doing that eyes-closed, rockin’ OUT, pointy-fingered weirdo dance all over his corner of the stage didn’t ruin it a bit. Fabulous.

The best thing though, was the girl power. The singers. Three of the best female vocalists I’ve ever, ever heard. Visit them

here,

here, and

here.

And for feck’s sake, buy one of their albums or something.