There is no doubt in my mind that I should be sleeping right now.
Some days are just filled with a combination of bizarre humanity though, and you can't shut the light out even if the switch was flipped. I can't hit the pillow until I have exorcized every last shred of demon, and sometimes there are no demons keeping me awake- but because I have been blessed with Sleep Paralysis, I fight hitting the pillow because of the demons who await me there.
I worked a pastry shift tonight.
After baking, prepping and making:
pear and huckleberry crisps
cheese and chive biscuits
buttermilk breakfast biscuits
individual cheesecakes
cinnamon ice cream
croissants
lemongrass creme brulees
passionfruit sorbet
and banana cashew muffins
I scrubbed 5 years of nicotine like stains from the ceiling.
Then I used a wire brush to scrub the grout on the tile floor. I scrubbed so hard that there were sparks.
I listened to Exodus, 80's hair metal, Modeselektor, Devin Townsend, Nile and the Laughing Hyenas.
A waste case of a room service attendant asked me if I was a lesbian, asked me out after work, told me I would be a good housewife and touched my face in a kind of price for a redbull. He is from Syria. He drinks vodka. He insists he would never kill anyone while drunk driving because he is a pro, and thinks that women shouldn't really involve themselves in issues of what men find pleasurable.
Then there was the photograph that the line cook pulled out of a pastry cook book for me.
A girl in her 20's, standing, wrists secured by hanging leather cuffs, naked, with a circle of clothespins encompassing her nipples, stomach and labia. A sous chef and the pastry chef had apparently enjoyed her together. She used to work there. These two men flirt with me out of boredom everyday, and while each one of them would argue that I am nothing like that girl-if I were to bring up the photo at all... That's not the fucking point.
I was looking forward to coming home and spending some love time with my man, only to discover that my younger brother was visiting.
He thought Kate Winslet looked at him and spoke to him during the Oscars. Literally. I drove him home. Even though I scheduled a day off from work to take him to the Mental Health intake facility to get him on meds for his schizophrenia, now he does not want to go... because he is paranoid.. and you have no idea what that means for a person who is living the nightmare he lives. He is tortured by his own mind and will never have peace. I could tell him that I would do anything for him, and what he hears is that I have arranged for several men from secret agencies to record his every thought and kill his family if he so much as mentions a single one of his thoughts. He's a brilliant boy, suffering in a war that only men have been capable of depicting in art. Fiction is his terror and he cannot process reality.
I know what work holds tomorrow, and I don't have the patience for the immaturity. I hit a wall tonight while busting my ass amidst a motley crew of people who see tomorrow as another chance to get off.. and I have fucking had it with man.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Shake, Rover, Shake!
I've been in the new store two days now and here is the low down.
On the surface, those people are creepy nice. It's like the movie Coraline. When the girl first is introduced to her “other” parents through the small door in her weird new house, she is amazed at how nice and accommodating they are; but eventually she realizes what they are up to, and by then it is almost too late.
Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, but seriously now, in my entire life I have never shaken so many hands in so short a time. It's like I was just elected president of the store. Like I'm their first black president, like the last one was some sort of reactionary extremist hick that no one approved of anymore, and that I represented some sort of hope for their future.
Of course I know better than that. The scheming has to be taking place beneath the pretty surface - all covered in lotus petals and languishing frogs and salamanders.
Beyond the personnel differences that come with the new store, the building itself is like a football field. It is, without exaggerating, about 75 to 80 yards wide, a single floor, and fairly busy. That is to say, the store is about twice as busy as my old one; so while their sales may not be where they want them to be (and unless you work for Wal Mart, whose are?), they still do a brisk business.
Worst of all, the attached Starbucks (yes, them again) doesn't allow for a half-off discount like the one in my old store. This is due to the Starbucks at my new place being an actual bona fide 'bucks and not a B&N cafe licensed to sell Starbucks products.
I don't have many luxuries in my life, so cheap(er) coffee would be a nice one.
Oh well, guess I'll bring a coffee maker to the store and go that route. Actually, as it is, someone already has one up there but it's one of those two cup jobs, and god knows I spill about three cups on my pants a day, so that's no good.
Now, I gotta tell you about this.
Why is it that people spend so long in a workspace and yet somehow never seem to notice the snowdrift of dust and debris that piles up in the absence of taking two seconds to sweep the shit up? Then, there's the reams of dated paperwork clogging counters, file cabinets, and clipboards, not a sheet of which is useful or timely.
How do people go this far off the rails at work?
And my predecessor was not bad at his job by any means. In fact, he was rewarded with a promotion. And to be fair he deserved it. It's just that his housekeeping and organizational skills were practically nonexistent. I knew this would end up well for me because when I am in charge I can't handle clutter. In fact, the shit gets me in a bit if a state. Whenever you are in a work environment, and you have a group of people working with you, around you, before, during, and after you, anything you do to erode the sense of order translates into a plea for chaos.
If I am put in charge of a workspace, much as I am right now, it won't be long before I have to tidy up. Once things are under control you can focus on actual important things like staying on top of the work load, and kicking the lazy motherfuckers in their ass.
That shit takes your full attention.
Not that I'm tyrannical, because I am far from it. In fact, I am fairly easy going. Seriously. No, seriously.
I know that in my writing I have a tendency to come off like Goebbels after half a pound of dirty crystal meth, but in person I work hard at controlling the monster. Let him out too much and I become the Antichrist. Always a mistake.
Almost always.
The other day the Unspeakable and I were doing our thing, enjoying our evening, when it became apparent that the neighbor's dog was in no mood to let anyone else in the complex not pay him attention. To remedy this, the dog resorted to this shrill, carping, yappy bark, the kind that burrows into your consciousness until it is nearly impossible to ignore it.
I lurched directly into hyperdrive and set out to slaughter this hellhound.
On my way out the door, I grabbed my keys so that I could check the mail, because even in irrational rage I had the sense to see if I was getting some overdue money in the mail.
Miraculously, as I passed the patio of the offending dog he actually stayed indoors and didn't perform his customary ritual of screaming his fool head off at anyone who had the misfortune of walking by.
As I stood at the mailbox looking over the pile of crap for Moustafa and Abdul and every other Middle Eastern named person that lived in my apartment before me I heard the return of the baying beast.
It's funny, because much like the sound of a crying baby - whenever you aren't hearing one, merely reflecting on the horrors of listening to one - you might be forgiven for thinking that you tend to overreact to sounds like shrieking or barking. And yet, the moment the nail hits the chalkboard you are transformed into Edmund Kemper on mother's day.
I went from zero to kill-dog in about one second.
From there I beelined it to the offending mutt's patio and then it was on.
“Shut the fuck up,” I yelled maturely. “Take your dog inside,” I shouted at the open door.
More yapping. More ecstatic shrieking.
Again... “Put you dog inside!” I said even more loudly this time, now bordering on plot-loss.
Nothing. Nothing save for the dog.
Fuck it. I headed home.
Naturally, as I walk a bit up the way, I pass some people in the near distance off to my right leering at me with obvious disdain.
“What's your problem?” says a rather portly female member of this motley entourage. “The owner is right here if you have something to say.”
“Then tell your dog to shut up.” I reply sensitively.
“Why should we?” she says.
“Because other people besides you live here,” I add. “And, because it's been barking for an hour.”
“It hasn't been an hour,” she replies, now with a clear sense of righteous purpose. “Get over it.”
Bruce Banner time.
“Shut that fucking dog up!”
Fortunately I have the sense not to offer the dog some antifreeze, which, in retrospect, would have been a dramatically bad idea, one because saying that is illegal, and two because I would never do something like that, and best of all, I don't have any antifreeze.
Whoa, hey now, fuck you, asshole!” She says, somewhat shocked at my escalation.
Sensibly, at last, I walk away.
By the time I get home I am already feeling like the tool that I just was. I realize that I need to go back out there and try and ice things over.
On my way there I realize that one of these people is actually the insanely nice guy that lives in the complex. Yeah, the big, jolly fat guy who was so friendly during the hurricane, who always shares a word and a nice hello whenever we pass.
Great.
Once again, now I'm the asshole.
I wonder what went through their minds as they saw this 6 foot tall guy with a crazy beard and an obvious attitude walking towards them with purpose. I imagine they foresaw great ugliness on the horizon.
“I'm sorry for the language.”
“Whatever,” said the woman.
The big, nice guy just looked at me, almost with a hurt look on his face. In retrospect, it was probably surprise more than anything.
“No, no,” I said, “I'm sorry for the way I acted. I got angry and I flew off the handle. It was wrong and I shouldn't have said the things I said.”
The guy looked me and said that I shouldn't have let it get to that point, that all I had to do was go over and let him know.
I agreed, shook his hand, and told him I was embarrassed about the whole thing.
Even the lady said that we all have bad days.
I felt much better.
I got home. The barking stopped.
This event is beyond unlikely for me. I never do shit like this.
If you know me solely for my antics in blogs you might think that I am a perpetual jackass, but that simply isn't true. In writing, when you have the chance to think about what you are going to put out there, being sharp and direct is, to me, a gift. Say what you really want to say, and not because you are hiding behind an electronic curtain. On the contrary, say it because with only words to represent your point of view, your opinions, your stance, use them like missiles, use them like bullets, use them without mercy because they're yours and you are their master. Fall prey to fear and second-guessing and you're done.
In person, with a body attached to the words, there are so many more ways to communicate your ideas, your needs, your wants, you. It's a package deal in person.
So, what did I learn from the dog incident?
That dog hasn't barked longer than a moment since. And in the end, the fucking guy was totally responsible for not controlling his epically annoying animal, and in doing so (or not doing so in this case), he incurred the wrath of an otherwise mild-mannered guy who lives down the way.
Did he cry himself to sleep that night? Of course not. But he won't soon forget the nut job that lives down the way whenever that fucking banshee dog of his decides to spread hell the world throughout.
Sometimes a little venom goes a long-ass way.
You just have to know when to bite.
In a work setting, I refuse to act as stupid as I did the other day. I need the paycheck.
And besides, as long as that one lady keeps bringing in baked delights and candy, I'll shake every hand in the building. Twice.
On the surface, those people are creepy nice. It's like the movie Coraline. When the girl first is introduced to her “other” parents through the small door in her weird new house, she is amazed at how nice and accommodating they are; but eventually she realizes what they are up to, and by then it is almost too late.
Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself, but seriously now, in my entire life I have never shaken so many hands in so short a time. It's like I was just elected president of the store. Like I'm their first black president, like the last one was some sort of reactionary extremist hick that no one approved of anymore, and that I represented some sort of hope for their future.
Of course I know better than that. The scheming has to be taking place beneath the pretty surface - all covered in lotus petals and languishing frogs and salamanders.
Beyond the personnel differences that come with the new store, the building itself is like a football field. It is, without exaggerating, about 75 to 80 yards wide, a single floor, and fairly busy. That is to say, the store is about twice as busy as my old one; so while their sales may not be where they want them to be (and unless you work for Wal Mart, whose are?), they still do a brisk business.
Worst of all, the attached Starbucks (yes, them again) doesn't allow for a half-off discount like the one in my old store. This is due to the Starbucks at my new place being an actual bona fide 'bucks and not a B&N cafe licensed to sell Starbucks products.
I don't have many luxuries in my life, so cheap(er) coffee would be a nice one.
Oh well, guess I'll bring a coffee maker to the store and go that route. Actually, as it is, someone already has one up there but it's one of those two cup jobs, and god knows I spill about three cups on my pants a day, so that's no good.
Now, I gotta tell you about this.
Why is it that people spend so long in a workspace and yet somehow never seem to notice the snowdrift of dust and debris that piles up in the absence of taking two seconds to sweep the shit up? Then, there's the reams of dated paperwork clogging counters, file cabinets, and clipboards, not a sheet of which is useful or timely.
How do people go this far off the rails at work?
And my predecessor was not bad at his job by any means. In fact, he was rewarded with a promotion. And to be fair he deserved it. It's just that his housekeeping and organizational skills were practically nonexistent. I knew this would end up well for me because when I am in charge I can't handle clutter. In fact, the shit gets me in a bit if a state. Whenever you are in a work environment, and you have a group of people working with you, around you, before, during, and after you, anything you do to erode the sense of order translates into a plea for chaos.
If I am put in charge of a workspace, much as I am right now, it won't be long before I have to tidy up. Once things are under control you can focus on actual important things like staying on top of the work load, and kicking the lazy motherfuckers in their ass.
That shit takes your full attention.
Not that I'm tyrannical, because I am far from it. In fact, I am fairly easy going. Seriously. No, seriously.
I know that in my writing I have a tendency to come off like Goebbels after half a pound of dirty crystal meth, but in person I work hard at controlling the monster. Let him out too much and I become the Antichrist. Always a mistake.
Almost always.
The other day the Unspeakable and I were doing our thing, enjoying our evening, when it became apparent that the neighbor's dog was in no mood to let anyone else in the complex not pay him attention. To remedy this, the dog resorted to this shrill, carping, yappy bark, the kind that burrows into your consciousness until it is nearly impossible to ignore it.
I lurched directly into hyperdrive and set out to slaughter this hellhound.
On my way out the door, I grabbed my keys so that I could check the mail, because even in irrational rage I had the sense to see if I was getting some overdue money in the mail.
Miraculously, as I passed the patio of the offending dog he actually stayed indoors and didn't perform his customary ritual of screaming his fool head off at anyone who had the misfortune of walking by.
As I stood at the mailbox looking over the pile of crap for Moustafa and Abdul and every other Middle Eastern named person that lived in my apartment before me I heard the return of the baying beast.
It's funny, because much like the sound of a crying baby - whenever you aren't hearing one, merely reflecting on the horrors of listening to one - you might be forgiven for thinking that you tend to overreact to sounds like shrieking or barking. And yet, the moment the nail hits the chalkboard you are transformed into Edmund Kemper on mother's day.
I went from zero to kill-dog in about one second.
From there I beelined it to the offending mutt's patio and then it was on.
“Shut the fuck up,” I yelled maturely. “Take your dog inside,” I shouted at the open door.
More yapping. More ecstatic shrieking.
Again... “Put you dog inside!” I said even more loudly this time, now bordering on plot-loss.
Nothing. Nothing save for the dog.
Fuck it. I headed home.
Naturally, as I walk a bit up the way, I pass some people in the near distance off to my right leering at me with obvious disdain.
“What's your problem?” says a rather portly female member of this motley entourage. “The owner is right here if you have something to say.”
“Then tell your dog to shut up.” I reply sensitively.
“Why should we?” she says.
“Because other people besides you live here,” I add. “And, because it's been barking for an hour.”
“It hasn't been an hour,” she replies, now with a clear sense of righteous purpose. “Get over it.”
Bruce Banner time.
“Shut that fucking dog up!”
Fortunately I have the sense not to offer the dog some antifreeze, which, in retrospect, would have been a dramatically bad idea, one because saying that is illegal, and two because I would never do something like that, and best of all, I don't have any antifreeze.
Whoa, hey now, fuck you, asshole!” She says, somewhat shocked at my escalation.
Sensibly, at last, I walk away.
By the time I get home I am already feeling like the tool that I just was. I realize that I need to go back out there and try and ice things over.
On my way there I realize that one of these people is actually the insanely nice guy that lives in the complex. Yeah, the big, jolly fat guy who was so friendly during the hurricane, who always shares a word and a nice hello whenever we pass.
Great.
Once again, now I'm the asshole.
I wonder what went through their minds as they saw this 6 foot tall guy with a crazy beard and an obvious attitude walking towards them with purpose. I imagine they foresaw great ugliness on the horizon.
“I'm sorry for the language.”
“Whatever,” said the woman.
The big, nice guy just looked at me, almost with a hurt look on his face. In retrospect, it was probably surprise more than anything.
“No, no,” I said, “I'm sorry for the way I acted. I got angry and I flew off the handle. It was wrong and I shouldn't have said the things I said.”
The guy looked me and said that I shouldn't have let it get to that point, that all I had to do was go over and let him know.
I agreed, shook his hand, and told him I was embarrassed about the whole thing.
Even the lady said that we all have bad days.
I felt much better.
I got home. The barking stopped.
This event is beyond unlikely for me. I never do shit like this.
If you know me solely for my antics in blogs you might think that I am a perpetual jackass, but that simply isn't true. In writing, when you have the chance to think about what you are going to put out there, being sharp and direct is, to me, a gift. Say what you really want to say, and not because you are hiding behind an electronic curtain. On the contrary, say it because with only words to represent your point of view, your opinions, your stance, use them like missiles, use them like bullets, use them without mercy because they're yours and you are their master. Fall prey to fear and second-guessing and you're done.
In person, with a body attached to the words, there are so many more ways to communicate your ideas, your needs, your wants, you. It's a package deal in person.
So, what did I learn from the dog incident?
That dog hasn't barked longer than a moment since. And in the end, the fucking guy was totally responsible for not controlling his epically annoying animal, and in doing so (or not doing so in this case), he incurred the wrath of an otherwise mild-mannered guy who lives down the way.
Did he cry himself to sleep that night? Of course not. But he won't soon forget the nut job that lives down the way whenever that fucking banshee dog of his decides to spread hell the world throughout.
Sometimes a little venom goes a long-ass way.
You just have to know when to bite.
In a work setting, I refuse to act as stupid as I did the other day. I need the paycheck.
And besides, as long as that one lady keeps bringing in baked delights and candy, I'll shake every hand in the building. Twice.
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The Final Screening
Somewhere around 93 or 94 I left the backbreaking sweatshop deli I was working in and took on what I thought would pay my bills while I pursued my desire to play guitar in a band. I started working in a bookstore. I had friends who worked there, and compared to what I was doing previous, it seemed like a fucking dream. The store offered a 40 hour work week, full health and dental benefits, and an overnight and relatively unsupervised shelving shift.
Friday was my last day.
Yes, I took an 8 month hiatus in order to escape the boss who had taken things over and was promptly running the place into the toilet. Nonetheless, I was right back in it after that and since then I have remained in not only the same business but the same store.
That's almost 15 to 16 years in one place.
I am guilty of many things in my life, and if you know me then you are probably able to expound on this, but one thing no one can accuse me of is being an unreliable employee.
Did I love the place, is that why I stayed so long? Was I getting paid like a champion? Did it help me grow as a thinking human with expanding creative interests?
No, I didn't really stay for any of those reasons.
Sure, I love books, and yes, I enjoyed the environment in general. The store I worked in was an old movie theater, built in 1939, and turned into a fully restored theater/bookstore in 1989. The original art deco murals are still there in all their pastel glory. I have been all over that old building, under the floors, in the crawl spaces upstairs, in the area beneath the stage we called the dungeon, on the roof - you name it. I know that building well. It is a part of me.
But the company that operates my store is building a new megastore just up the street and in this economy, and with the theater's declining sales, it was just a matter of time before the boys in New York shut her down.
She still has a few months left in her, but for guys like me, in management, it became time to find other options.
You see, my position was already filled at the new location, so that meant I had to make other plans if I intended to remain with the company.
The transfer I hoped for took shape months ago, but there were so many dominos that had to fall in order to get me to the store right by my apartment. I knew that this meant a couple of things. I knew that it might not happen at all and that if I got my hopes up too high I could find myself starting from square one. I also knew that if things did fall together that it would probably happen quickly.
Thursday brought a conference call that led to a hint that the final move was in place, and from there my boss made a few calls and, boom, Friday was my last day.
I am excited to still have a job, and I am excited to move to a profitable store, and I am excited about being so close to home that I can ride my bike to work. But despite all that, I am actually a little sad to leave the theater behind.
There has been a lot of speculation (often fueled by the parties involved) that the theater will be torn down once it is closed.
What a fucking tragedy.
Houston is the kind of place that for whatever reason doesn't seem to value its architectural history. I'm not sure why, but there you go. The company that owns the theater knows that without the bookstore there to anchor the center, that it will be difficult to justify keeping the place open in a business context. Now that the economy is in such dire straits, and from a total layman's perspective, it doesn't look good for the future of the theater.
On the wall in the theater is a photo from opening night, 1939, and there is a huge crowd out front enjoying the festivities and preparing to go inside and catch a Jack Benny film.
She may not survive through 2010.
Life is full of milestones.
In the last two years I have had my share.
I have spent a fair amount of time wondering how I would leave the theater, whether it would be through me moving on, getting promoted, getting fired, or dying, or what-have-you. And now, it is over and done.
Tomorrow morning I start at my new store and take this story to the next chapter.
Sure, it means little to you, maybe it means nothing to you, but for me it's a big deal.
Then again, it's just a job, and I'm glad I have one.
There, there's your boring proletarian post from me.
The theater is a special building, and I have worked with some genuinely amazing people over the years. I will miss the place, but I am moving forward, and a la-di-fucking-da.
Friday was my last day.
Yes, I took an 8 month hiatus in order to escape the boss who had taken things over and was promptly running the place into the toilet. Nonetheless, I was right back in it after that and since then I have remained in not only the same business but the same store.
That's almost 15 to 16 years in one place.
I am guilty of many things in my life, and if you know me then you are probably able to expound on this, but one thing no one can accuse me of is being an unreliable employee.
Did I love the place, is that why I stayed so long? Was I getting paid like a champion? Did it help me grow as a thinking human with expanding creative interests?
No, I didn't really stay for any of those reasons.
Sure, I love books, and yes, I enjoyed the environment in general. The store I worked in was an old movie theater, built in 1939, and turned into a fully restored theater/bookstore in 1989. The original art deco murals are still there in all their pastel glory. I have been all over that old building, under the floors, in the crawl spaces upstairs, in the area beneath the stage we called the dungeon, on the roof - you name it. I know that building well. It is a part of me.
But the company that operates my store is building a new megastore just up the street and in this economy, and with the theater's declining sales, it was just a matter of time before the boys in New York shut her down.
She still has a few months left in her, but for guys like me, in management, it became time to find other options.
You see, my position was already filled at the new location, so that meant I had to make other plans if I intended to remain with the company.
The transfer I hoped for took shape months ago, but there were so many dominos that had to fall in order to get me to the store right by my apartment. I knew that this meant a couple of things. I knew that it might not happen at all and that if I got my hopes up too high I could find myself starting from square one. I also knew that if things did fall together that it would probably happen quickly.
Thursday brought a conference call that led to a hint that the final move was in place, and from there my boss made a few calls and, boom, Friday was my last day.
I am excited to still have a job, and I am excited to move to a profitable store, and I am excited about being so close to home that I can ride my bike to work. But despite all that, I am actually a little sad to leave the theater behind.
There has been a lot of speculation (often fueled by the parties involved) that the theater will be torn down once it is closed.
What a fucking tragedy.
Houston is the kind of place that for whatever reason doesn't seem to value its architectural history. I'm not sure why, but there you go. The company that owns the theater knows that without the bookstore there to anchor the center, that it will be difficult to justify keeping the place open in a business context. Now that the economy is in such dire straits, and from a total layman's perspective, it doesn't look good for the future of the theater.
On the wall in the theater is a photo from opening night, 1939, and there is a huge crowd out front enjoying the festivities and preparing to go inside and catch a Jack Benny film.
She may not survive through 2010.
Life is full of milestones.
In the last two years I have had my share.
I have spent a fair amount of time wondering how I would leave the theater, whether it would be through me moving on, getting promoted, getting fired, or dying, or what-have-you. And now, it is over and done.
Tomorrow morning I start at my new store and take this story to the next chapter.
Sure, it means little to you, maybe it means nothing to you, but for me it's a big deal.
Then again, it's just a job, and I'm glad I have one.
There, there's your boring proletarian post from me.
The theater is a special building, and I have worked with some genuinely amazing people over the years. I will miss the place, but I am moving forward, and a la-di-fucking-da.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
While the Ears Are Still Ringing
Alcohol and concerts go well together.
I don’t go to shows very often anymore. Most times I will opt to skip a show to avoid going alone, or simply because I’ve seen the band a thousand times already, but mostly, I skip shows because I’ve been to so many that I have become jaded. Well, that, and because I don't come by time and money too easily anymore. These days, for me to cram myself into a room with a bunch of sweaty-hipster-strangers, the band had better be able to put on a good show. Simply liking the music is not enough anymore. Also, my short stature typically leaves me staring at the back of the 6’5 douche in front of me for most of the show, only hoping that he’ll have to piss or get a drink so that I might be able to see for a few seconds.
Tonight I went to see Devotchka.While they are not my favorite band, I enjoy the music and thought the show might be worth seeing. It also helped that I had friends that were going. They played at Warehouse Live, which is one of two decent music venues in Houston. I’ve pretty much been to all of them aside from the new House of Blues, but I think Mr. Butcher described it in a less than glamorous light. Meridian is the other decent venue; the others can’t seem to be bothered to keep their sound system working or their bathrooms from building up an inch or more of piss and filth. Well, Ruds is alright too. Needless to say, I’ve had my fill of sub-par Houston venues. And we wonder why lots of bands skip Houston altogether. Well, another reason is that we’re shitty fans. Before the encore, when Devotchka was taking a breather, some of the “fans” took it upon themselves to throw shit on stage, one item being a full beverage. Their roadie, with a look of understandable disgust, cleaned the mess and warned the band to watch their step on the wet and slippery stage. All in all though, the show was great. The lead singer reminds me of Bruce Campbell. My next show is likely to be Andrew Bird. Otherwise, there are not a whole lot of promising shows coming up, at least according to Pollstar. Blogger is not cooperating with me, so I'm done with this one.
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