For Mirth Only

Lyrics Written In Wigfield

By a fictional band called Kill-icide, who were heavily influenced by the Corpse-Metal super group Autopsy Turvy.

“Oh, Dillard, without you I am in a cave,
a cave of despair,
a pocket of air trapped in a mountain of grief.
The avalanche of indifference that you have unleashed
has blocked, has sealed the mouth of this chamber
and entombed me in a blackness of choking denial.
Like an Egyptian mummy by the Nile
Waiting for her archaeologist
To dump his girlfriend
And spread open her sarcophagus
Come raid my treasures.
Love, Carla”

Berlin Wall Party

A big big thanks to Katherine and Ravi, and Christina and Fritz! I think I can finally say I’ve gone from bedroom wannabe to a REAL DEAL amateur dj.

• brought your own speakers? check.
• borrowed a second set of PC speakers from a friend? check.
• played mp3s off your laptop? check.
• mixed with a usb midi controller? check.
• compiled a wholly uninspired list of songs on the theme of the party? check.
• made other wannabe bedroom djs jealous? check.
• faded the chorus out to a silent crowd? check.
• coaxed a few bodies to move to the rhythm – but not enough to spark a “dance party?” check.

With my bases covered, I can set my self-deprecation aside and say, “y’know, out of all my experiences playing out (4 total, 2 complete disasters), it’s never a bad party if your friends show up.”

And to all you professional djs – watch out! I’ll be back in ’09 with cdj-800s and more mp3′s, some possibly ripped from real vinyl!…soon as I get a room with 3 digits of sq footage and decks.

The Doctor Is Sick

Excerpted from The Doctor Is Sick, a novel by my favorite writer:

A medusa, her long coat as shabby and dusty-black as the dog’s, came up to Edwin and asked him to dance.  ‘I shouldn’t really,’ said Edwin.  ‘I should be in hospital really.’  But he was borne off, too much the gentleman, into the jigging crowd.  He looked for Sheila, but he had become separated from her by two new drink-buyers – thin young Guardsmen, blind behind their peaks.  Frantic shoving dancing went on before the golden calf of the juke-box – a man who had taken his teeth out for fun; a woman whose breasts bounced lazily up and down, out of time with the music; a Mediterranean man shaven to the matt blue; a coach-driver in his cap; a genteel woman in a raincoat, tremulous with gin; two flat-chested girls who danced woodenly together, talking German; a middle-aged blonde with a bull-dog’s face – all seemed somehow mixed in one moving mush, like pease pudding.  Edwin and his partner were added to the boil, and the partner, her snake-hairs waving, was vigorous.  Edwin soon found that one of his bedroom slippers had been kicked off.  He danced as though guying a bent-backed old man, looking under feet, under the juke-box, into corners.  It was not to be seen.  He lost the other one and then, still dancing, felt spilt beer soaking his socks.  When the music ended everybody helped.
‘What’s he lost?’
‘It sounded like slippers, but I don’t see how it can be that.’

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