a spill of this, a dollop of that, an assload of music and a touch of death

i laundered the comforter (or is it a quilt?) and the quilt (or it that the comforter?) last week. i won’t google either of these words because i want some parts of my life experience to remain a mystery to me.
with the news of terrorists shopping for beauty supplies in denver hitting the headlines, a switch went on or off, i’m not sure which, but the media blackout has begun for me.
this is being coordinated with michael moore’s new film release, another reason to shut down the old memory-production studios located in the spacious locale between my ears.

it was cold and damp last night.
i filmed cat box real estate deals.
buddy settled into –

unsure, he tried-

feeling, yeah, ok but-


but this isn’t about that.
i want to post some pics and thank some friends and mention some performers who appeared here last week. since trying to get my life in order (on my second, “fifty-year-plan”), my photography moments have diminished. i spend more moments fretting over things i have no control over. it gives me a reason to watch more news and feel increased helplessness which, in turn, makes me sleepy and irish and resigned to a fate worse than life.
i have communicated with a “katherine” for well over a year. i think we became friends of a sort because i may have said somewhere, maybe about grifting lizards, luck, cancer or something equally timeless that she commented on here or there on the innernet.
about a month ago, she asked if i had a place for someone known as “the listener project,” from arkansas to perform.
“sure,” i said.

the supporting act was the guitarist, “fienix”, an artist-associate from just-outside-vegas who was touring with dan, the listener project guy.
behind them was a washing-machine body.

i would find out it was a purcussion instrument.

it worked out real well.
i finally met katherine and some of her friends, but i chose not to be camera-obnoxious. it’s not my style.
she left before i had the chance to give her a dirty book art tee-shirt and buy her a beer. maybe next time.

meanwhile, inside the store was a birthday celebration for justin from the elastic no-no band –

he’s above, seated at the piano.
also on hand was kung fu crimewave

schwervon! and joe crow ryan were on hand that night, too.

last photo i have is from the night before , wednesday, when cameron hull re-appeared after a two-year hiatus from our stage.

he was pleased to be here again. we were pleased to have him here again.

the stop never funs here, by golly.

i wandered downstairs a short time ago and noticed police all around.
the last time i walked out into such an atmosphere, dozens of undercover cops were poised to raid the bodega that sits just beneath my livingspace.
back then, me and maxx stopped as i surveyed all of the guys who were getting out of those sedans and minivans.
me and my dog did not move.
everyone’s eyes were fixed at a point about ten feet east of me and my dog, or so it seemed. they ran toward my building and stormed the bodega door ten feet to my left. once i was positive that i wasn’t the object, we went west.
that was two years ago.
in between then and now has been the aforementioned reggaeton video (two postings back), a few brushes with the police and a raid on the space when someone thought it would be a good idea to use a commercial storefront corner on broadway as an underground DIY space.
tonight i walked out with maxx and to my left were uniforms and uniforms and radiocars and an ambulance. missing was the adrenaline-rush of a police raid. there were no cuffs and guns on the ready. there was the shroud in the damp rain air of muted tragedy. i would not head east in the direction of the storefront that sits below me, but turn right, to my store where i would get the “dead-guy in the basement story,”…the, “keeled-over musician overdose story,” to which i would inquire. “which guy?” and have him described sufficiently-enough for me to go, “oh, i know who you’re talking about,” and with enough dispassionate distance to keep the shock a goodly arm’s length away.
can i take comfort in the fact that i didn’t know his name?
would it have mattered?
am i that jaded? my heart went out to the young girl who was having to deal with the nasty particulars in progress with the police. i kept my distance and will continue to do so. this was new stuff, though his flight path to the eighth-electro-plasma-ocean of the ninth dimension have cleared and all systems are gone.

the flight director came by and made sure.

About stephen trimboli

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One Response to a spill of this, a dollop of that, an assload of music and a touch of death

  1. Pingback: Putting Two and Two Together: R.I.P. Beau Velasco « ASSME: American Society of Shitcanned Media Elites

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