London, England, The Garage
Sitting in the Internet Cafe for the last time, I think - with Andy next to me reading about Layne Staley, me thinking about email from some girl back home & feeling distracted, but not enough to tell you all about it - before going back to the festival. It's a pretty dismal day, finally: rain, and cold, and I have to wear a jacket for the first time since we got to London. I'm sure it will be all the more dismal on the coast, but I don't doubt this will still be a good day: Ex Orkest is today, one of the highlights, and Mission of Burma again, another highlight. There's this Roger Miller song they're playing from 1992 apparently, not sure of the title, but at the festival they played it with members of the Rachel's hammering away on cello and violin, it was stunning. I get to see it again tonight, and I'm glad about it.

So last night we played at The Garage. It seemed like the moment I walked in the door I grew an appendage, the punk rock lighting girl, obnoxious and attention-starved but somehow appealing... that lasted not so long, though. How is it that my affairs, which once lasted at least a week if not more, now run all of three hours if I'm lucky? Is this a good thing? It gives me something to do before the show starts, that's a good thing. Though I wouldn't say it's exactly what I'm looking for.

Okay, my mind is elsewhere. We played at The Garage with Mission of Burma. Versus was supposed to open the show, but they couldn't make it - a medical emergency, yes that's right an emergency prevented the singer from making the flight. Balls! So we played, then MOB played two sets. Our show was not so bad, pretty good maybe - it sounded good onstage, people said it was absurdly loud offstage but still sounded good... that is a positive thing. The place was packed, people didn't seem entirely offended by our hanging around. That is all acceptable. The fucking cab ride out there, though! Rush hour London! Fuck! This town is so packed at all times, just crowded, and all on these tiny little streets because they keep having to add lanes but they can't widen the streets but they double or triple the number of lanes, and still these bastards have to park their fancy cars and you try driving on this bullshit with these giant fucking busses about to crush you, you fucking American you think you know so much about the world.

So things are going well. Going back to the hotel to pack up the shit & get a train to the coast. Our next show - the last show of this trip - is tomorrow night, then Tim is DJing again on Sunday night, late; then we take the shuttle to Heathrow early Monday morning, then to work Tuesday morning. I am not interested in this particular development. Did I tell you I dreamed of a plane crash, standing with others in a plane as it screamed into a burning building? Very realistic, so realistic that just before impact Andy in the next bed woke me with a gasp of fear. It wasn't so scary, just realistic, and do you know what I will be thinking of during the lengthy flight back to Chicago?

I will be thinking about my cats.

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