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Monday, Feb. 24, 2003 - 6:58 p.m.

Yeah, long gap between entries. To sum things up, Heather came to town, we saw her, him, him, her, and her. We went to a rad wedding that had a goofball rabbi and a mariachi band. It snowed. A lot. Heather and I stomped around snowed-in Williamsburg, where almost all the bars and restaurants were open, in spite of the snow.

Caught a cold, which was made worse by the chronic dehydration that I was suffering from as a result of the weekend's activities.

Only worked one day last week. Not good. The one show that I did do was pretty cool, though. I pair of very pleasant irish musicians. In spite of my pledge to myself to head straight home after work, I ended up at a punk rock show at Siberia, where a bouncer checked my I.D. and told me that there was to be no cursing or hitting on girls on the premises. Behind him was a large sign which read, "No Cursing and No Hitting on Chics (sic)". Uh huh. So the show was pretty good. The Carbonas from Atlanta were decent, and the Little Killers were awesome. They're a very tight trio that remind me of the Saints' first record. The last band of the night was Georgia's Black Lips, who play really derivative garage rock. They jump around the stage in a rather calculated and contrived fashion. At one point one of the guitarists dropped him pants and was waving his dick around. There is also some conjecture as to whether he urinated on another band member during this display. Thankfully, I was, at this same moment, urinating in the restroom.

After the show, I ended up heading in a cab to a loft party in East Williamsburg (Bushwick). I'm pretty sure that my motivation to go to the party had more to do with avoiding the dreadful weekend service on the L train than wanting to stay out any longer. The party was alright. There was a great '60's style soul/rhythm & blues band playing, who finished up not too long after we got there. As the party died down, I commandeered a car home with a couple of other people.

Tomorrow, I have to make some calls and sort out my slow work situation. Damn, I hate hustling for work.

Listening: John Cale, Fragments of a Rainy Season

Contemplating: Tasty, Tasty Dinner


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