10 August, 2002
Feet's Too Big For Your Shoes

Rather than stay awake 'til the wee hours, I've been crashing out earlier on Thursdays (like two AM instead of three), the day before the radio show. Haven't been doing homework like I should, though. Insteady of gathering all of the venue info, and doing a lot of pre-listening to new releases, I've spent as much time outdoors the day before as possible. Probably, a natural reaction to being incarcerated in my veal fatting pen, and claustrophobic Yuppiedrome for three days. When the sun goes down, it's veggie time. Which make Friday as frenzy. And to think I used to sweat bullets making playlists the day before.

If I made money at this, or there was a huge wellspring of enthusiasm, maybe the fire would burn hotter. Lately, it's been more interesting to think on my feet when I get in the studio... and let the stream-of-conscious thing take over. Even if you make a playlist, songs suggest themselves during the course of the program, companion rhythms pop up, and the momentum takes a direction of its own.

Today... I was just crispy and uninspired. But not freaked. O Muse, Why Has Thou Forsaken Me? 'Cause every body wants dancehall.

I woke up early, trying to escape the buildup to a bad dream. Forbidding monstrosity-of-a-house dream. Knowing that if you ventured inside, deep, guttural wallshaking growls would be the tip of the iceberg.

No thanks. I've had that one too many times, already.

Literally, dragged myself to CVille. Got my last set of prints back, and oozed to the studio.

Waiting there was another letter and a legal document from the prison inmates... in lockdown because they won't cut their dreads. Their new tack to win the battle with the state, getting us to announce a defense fund for their case with the paralegal department. They're trying. Grappling with the system on equal ground, rather than trying to get over on it. Good Luck.

Strange show... heavy on roots music. A set poking at the Vatican (two more priests arrested on pedofilia charges, since yesterday). All in all, two hours to get through. One who noticed, and only calls once a year, was Terry. She seems to know when my heart's not in it... or just has good timing to give me an ego boost. And all she has to do is call.

A voice like Sarah Miles, a kind word... and I'm good for the rest of it. Thank you, Terry.

Mountain Rasta's bredrin, I'll call him Elder, stopped by with my flags that I left at the DJ thing... and an envelope with cash. I got paid for it! And I didn't think they made a dime. This will be donated to a singer's hospital bills.

Afterwards, following some chores... it had to be Vietnamese food. With only a piece of toast and a Slim Jim in my belly, garden rolls sounded mighty good. With a draft Bass. And some grilled beef with rice paper.

Reward enough, for filling the air... with the sound of drum and bass.

Slick Willie and the Contessa stopped by after we got home. With a bottle of his Dad's raisin wine... which sounds lots worse than it tastes. Quite a bit like Port, actually.

And helped ravel my split ends.

Now, a right good seeing-to would be the icing on the cake... but she passed out at eleven. Dang. I'm wide awake. Better be careful with the dreams, this long night.

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