What a glorious thing to wake up to on CNN

Dems take house, Senate may not be too far behind.

God, I miss bitching about the Democrats being too conservative with their mandate. Let’s see if Speaker Pelosi handles it any better than the Crew of ’90.

In the meantime, I am sitting in Kim from Monotreme’s lovely kitchen yet again, enjoying coffee and the sounds of the London Streets coming in through the open patio door. Why is London milder than Athens, GA this year? Lisa is telling me in email after email about how cold and awful it is back home.

We played in Oxford last night. The club was truly a pub in the Olde School sense. The only concession to modernity that I was able to discern was the large flat TV over the fireplace (for watching “the footy”) and there were large deep couches- two of them. Everything else was stone walls and big wooden tables that looked to be 100 years old if they were a day. We played upstairs, but not before I sat down with a book, a decent sized mug of tea and watched the scores fly by “on telly.” Sundays, this pub (the “Port Mahon”) has some classically english repast that includes roast beef, mushy peas and “yorkies,” which I gather are not small black dogs.

Our gig was louder and faster than a normal Low Lows show. I think I am having an influence, for better or (god forbid) for worse, on the Low Lows. We sounded like Sonic Youth doing Porch Music last night. I hope I am not violating the Prime Directive here. The Oxford fans seemed to be very pleased, and took Low Lows stickers, Music Hates You buttons (I had to give some of those away) and handshakes away.

As we left the show, the fog had settled very thickly over the road between Oxford and London. Keef drove with what felt like total recklessness to me, until I stopped and wondered why I was so anxious about our speed. What was I worried we were going to hit if we did the speed limit in the fog…? Deer?

“Are there any deer in England, Keef?” I asked.

“Not in 100 years or so,” he said.

Oh. Well, then. ONWARD! FULL SPEED AHEAD! Let’s go home!

Parker got hit with a wave of nausea like he’d never had just as we were leaving Oxford. Maybe we’re passing something around, here. There was no effluvia, just a general seasick feeling like my wave of crippling nausea from the night before. I just asked him and he’s still feeling it. And the answer is “Yeah, kinda.” Not fun.

We listened to the Harmonizing Four as we rolled down the M40 and through the outskirts of London. Keef’s converted Royal Mail van, a Ford diesel, makes a satisfying roar.

How cool are we?

I am looking at prices for Air Berlin flights- since I have some days at the end of this that are completely free, and brother W.I.Z. is going to be there doing some writing. I may have to join him. Berlin Air is super cheap- 67 Euros from Barcelona to Berlin, 50 Euros from Berlin to London. I can do this…..

Back in the USSK

We woke up at 4:30 GMT to catch a cab to catch a bus to catch a plane to get back to London. This is where my spanish skills really came in handy, because I had to tell the cabdriver which bus we needed to catch, tell the busdriver which part of Girona we were going to and once in Girona, I had to make sure everyone got some coffee… 😉

I really did like Barcelona, even if parts of it were really touristy. It seemed more like a beach town to me, and that’s ok. I still want to get back there with Lisa and have a look around with her. It might be fun to rent a car and wander spain for a while.

Once back in the UK, several things hit us rather jarringly- #1 was that we hadn’t had enough sleep. We had some difficulty falling asleep the night before we left B’lona because we weren’t sure if we were going to get a proper wakeup call, seeing as how the phone in the room didn’t work. Plus, y’know, in Spain there’s a certain kind of “Eh, se puede…” thinking that goes into the planning of almost every future event. We set alarms on our cell phone, our watches, our computers, etc. Then we laid awake worrying that we were going to somehow miss all of our connections. No rest for the weary.

#2- London may not be colder on the thermometer, but it’s damp here. It got under my coat like I would imagine the cold in a refrigerator gets down beneath the leaves of a head of cabbage… I was cold all the way down, and sadly,

#3- No more cortados. Daniel got the first cup of coffee in the UK, and it had that UK coffee smell. Mweh, pfui.

We went to the practice space of Keith, our driver, and worked out a couple of acoustic songs for our appearance on the BBC world service broadcast. Speaking of cold and damp… oy. The space was in the basement of some old, old building in Shoreditch. We had to walk past the moderately disinterested stares of the staff of some electronic music label. The only guy who took any interest at all was this guy named Charlie, who was a part-timer at the label working on cataloguing their past releases. He was very nice, pointed out the tea kettle and even hung around for a bit while we practiced. He is the first person I have ever met whose favorite Neil Young record is actually Trans. (We were speculating that in a couple of years, everyone is going to turn around and hail that as the inevitable marriage of Kraftwerk and Graham Parsons, and that it is in an overlooked masterpiece. “Ve knew ve vere right, jah….”)

From there, Keith took us to BBC World Headquarters. I have to confide to you that I am ridiculously sentimental about the BBC World Service radio broadcasts, because back when I was living at the cabin by myself, before blogging, before I lived in Chicago, etc, I was living alone in the woods, in a 1000 acre forest, with no one but the dog for company. I would come in from work in the evenings, make some coffee and turn on Public Radio, and at 7pm, there was Fergus Nicholl telling me what was happening in the world. I don’t mind telling you that were some dark and lonely evenings out there in the woods, when I was wondering why I had ever left Athens and if I was ever going to have saved enough money to move to Chicago and be close to Lisa. BBC World Service was a connection with the rest of the world.

So, here we were at Bush House (no relation to the failed US President(s)) and we were ushered into the studio, where Mark Coles, the exceptionally well-informed and generous guy from the BBC World Service’s program The Beat, interviewed Parker while we all watched from behind the glass.

Daniel, who also has an abiding interest in all things audio, and I were amazed, just stunned, at the sound quality of the speakers BBC had custom built for the control room in the Radio 6 studio. They sounded so nice we just melted into our shoes listening to them. As Mark the engineer pointed out, unfortunately no one is listening on speakers that nice. Yeah, it’s true.

At this point, The Low Lows and your humble narrator had been awake 45 of the previous 48 hours, and we were flying low (low). We were tandem napping- one of us was almost always nodded out for ten minutes, as we wandered our way back in Keef’s van to Kim’s flat. HOWEVER, suddenly, an obsessive need for fish and chips overtook us. Keef shouted “WAIT, THERE’S AN EXCELLENT PLACE CALLED SUPERFISH RIGHT UP HERE!” and a crazed hunt for hot grease, fried fish and potatoes overtook us.

I don’t know what we were thinking, but there we were, sitting in Superfish, exhausted and stuffing ourselves ridiculously full of fish and chips and laughing about Keef’s description of the film The Holy Mountain:

“So, of course, y’see, the second part of the film is a bunch of toads and a bunch of iguanas dressed as the Mayans and the Conquistadors, respectively, and they’re re-enacting the Spanish arrival at Pre-Columbian Mexico… what? No, they’re DRESSED as Mayans and Conquistadors… really… well, you have to see it… and then, all of the pyramids start to run with blood…. OH, and then everything explodes…”

We were goggle-eyed at his description. I think I need to see this film.

So, from there were returned to Kim’s lovely house, and I found myself horribly nauseated from the fish and chips. After consuming an ocean of coffee and tea yesterday just to keep moving forward, I think that a meal as heavy as f’n’c was a bad idea. I would have been slightly better off if I had swallowed a live bear cub. Gosh, just thinking about it now kind of makes me a little queasy.

I spent a few minutes coughing at the toilet thinking “Oh, god, please don’t me barf… oh… ooooh… please let me barf… ugh… ugh…”

I finally laid down and got some sleep. Remind me not to do that ever again. This morning I still feel a little odd, but Daniel insisted that I have some yoghurt and granola and I am starting to feel a little more normal.

Today, on to Oxford!

It’s really called the “Bar Cuntis”

There’s a café/bar right across the street from where we’re staying, and it’s sort of been our home base and meetup point. For those of you just joining us, The Low Lows are camped in Barcelona, living on dozens of the small Spanish espresso drink that is served in a shot glass and called “un cortado” (or in Ingles, a “shorty”). Today I had the local neighborhood’s sausage in a small French bread sandwich. (The girls who have been acting as our guides in Barcelona think the word “sandwich” is kind of stupid. They were very polite about it, but they said they failed the see what “sand” and “witches” had to do with anything.) These small meat sandwiches, or “bocadillos,” are the staple of lunches served in all of the little bar/cafés around here, and they are really excellent.

Another interesting thing is that tapas, that sort of bougie repast favored by people who have traveled in this part of the world, are as common as bowls of bar peanuts in the US. I had come to accept that tapas is the sort of thing that people with rich parents come back from their summer in Europe raving about while treating everyone who says “Did you say ‘topless’?” with a kind of indulgent contempt. I don’t know about you, but I have secretly always kind of hitched up my trousers and thought “Here we go again” whenever anyone in Athens started banging on about how “Well, yeah, when I was in [insert European country here] watching [insert global soccer competition here], we would all meet at this one bar and have these fabulous bowls of [almonds, olives, local cheese, whatever] and it was WUUUUUUNNNNDERFULLLLLL. You can’t get anything like that here.” Then, gradually, stuff “like that” started to be served “here,” and it was always so exorbitantly priced that only someone who could afford to go to [european country] to watch [global soccer game] could think of it as a reasonably priced snack.

THE FUNNY THING IS that over here, it’s the most working class thing you could imagine. You walk into the Bar Cuntis, there’s an old retired guy with three days of beard and a little white dog who you’d SWEAR was half piglet. He’s smoking a cigar that costs less than two euros and drinking the local beer, and he’s got a dish of tapas in front of him, merrily spitting olive seeds into the potted plants while watching Barcelona Futbol Club on the massive TV at one end of the bar. This is not your pretentious college roommate’s tapas fan. This is a guy on a government pension having a dish of something salty with his beer and enjoying the simple life. I am now going to imagine all of those tapas loving yuppies in stained white short-sleeved shirts leading around pudgy little pensioner dogs whenever they start moaning about the “amaaazing taahhhpas” they nibbled when they were “on the continent.”

Other than that, Barcelona has been a little of a mixed bag. We went to La Ramblas and found it to be unbearably touristy. I mean, totally unbearably. There were tons of shops that satisfied no need in our lives- clothes that we not only would never wear, but could never afford in a hundred years. Plus, lots of mimes. This is always a bad thing. (Unless you’re toting a shotgun, then it’s what the US Military calls a “target rich environment.”)

We did a rapid about-face, and headed for the ocean, then followed the shoreline down to the place where there is a huge, and I mean HUGE statue of Christopher Columbus. He’s pointing roughly west, and saying “go that way until you hit India, then stop.” Thanks, CC.

Wandering through the many neighborhoods of Barcelona has been interesting. I think that my first impression of the Old Arabic section of town gave me the idea that it was less commercialized than it is. The huge plaza outside the giant Cathedral de Barcelona is open and sunny, but there were… mimes. Ugh. We sat down at a cafe on the edge of the Plaza and watched people for a while. We had another round of cortados, but there was the tacit assumption that we were tourists, and this led to a definite taint of rudeness to our transactions with the staff. We decided that a second round of coffees wasn’t worth putting up with it.

Many of the alleys of Barcelona are narrow and tall- as many as eight or nine stories of apartments above alleys that are only slightly wider than a car width. During the Spanish Civil War, battles between the Republicans and the Fascists raged up and down these alleys. I stood in one yesterday and imagined not only trying to fight my way up the alley against someone who was determined to shoot me, but also what it would be like to fire a .303 Enfield or 7mm Mauser in a alley like that, all stone and concrete walls and cobblestone streets…. all I could think was SCARY and LOUD.

The cobblestones were famously torn up from the street and used to build the barricades when the CNT captured the Barcelona Telephone exchange. I wonder how many of those cobblestones were returned to their use as paving stones afterwards. How many of the stones I walked on today were once barricades?

Now, mostly they serve to convey people to and from high-priced shops selling tight pants for men who ride scooters to dance clubs. I find this a little depressing.

You have to love a country where your butt gets its own sink

And the hotel management seem to have finally sorted out the wireless internet in this part of the building.

Barcelona is just so wonderful. I can’t wait to bring my wife back. I hope to have time to walk to the ocean today. I am sure it’s spectacular. There are palm trees everywhere. I hope to go to the Ramblas tomorrow and buy some dates.

The coffee here is just extraordinary, which is the only reason I am still able to type this after last night’s short nap before this morning’s flight.

Yesterday, W.I.Z. invited me out to see a movie on my last night in London before I left for B’lona and he went out on tour with his lovely and talented girlfriend. He was being kind of cagey about what film it was, but he can be like that. I grabbed the #87 bus from Clapham Commons (where we’ve been staying) and rode it to the Vauxhall Bridge, which is a little place where Londoners like to hang out in their cars and honk their horns at each other.

I finally got let out at Trafalgar Square, whereupon I promptly got lost in Soho whilst looking for the Groucho Club.

I did finally find it with the help of a very sweet homeless guy who noticed I was lost and said “Look, this ain’t the place to be squintin’ at street signs, bruvvah.” I am sure he was right, and he got a quid for his troubles.

So, W.I.Z. is sort of in a state when I drag in, kind of pacing and looking at the space on his arm where he often thinks about putting a watch. He and I run out the door and towards the theatre district south of Shaftesbury Avenue. We have to try and go around this massive throng of people who are bunched around some sort of ridiculous red carpet celebrity thing, with spiraling searchlights and a big fence and tabloid photographers and all that. “God, what a spectacle!” I shout to W.I.Z. as we’re breezing around the outside of this teeming throng. He gives me this sort of nod, a patient smile, then we turn a corner and SUDDENLY…. we’re headed down this fucking red carpet. He hands two tickets to a very nice policewoman, and suddenly we’re on the inside of the throng, and the fence and the spinning searchlights, and above our heads is this giant marquee that says “50th Anniversary London Film Festival: Babel, with Brad Pitt, Cate Blanchett, Gael Garcia Bernal. LONDON PREMIER!”

W.I.Z. knows how insanely fond I am of the work of Guillermo Arriaga, the screenwriter who wrote Babel, but also 21 Grams. I love his fatalism, his meditations on the relationships between parents and children, his lack of fear about writing about loss and sadness… and here we were at the premier of his latest film.

The film was introduced by the Director, who is also one of my favorites, Alejandro González Iñárritu, and Gael, who is a friend of W.I.Z.’s. They were humble and funny, and told funny stories about each other, and talked about the work some. It was astonishing to watch their creation unfold after they left the stage. Babel is a spectacularly sad film, and it is told with Arriaga and Iñárritu’s unflinching lack of sentimentality. See it, see it, see it. BUT adjust your medications accordingly.

Afterwards, we adjourned back to the Groucho Club, where I met a big chunk of the production team with whom W.I.Z. has been doing some work. They are all very successful, stylish as hell, at the tops of their respective fields, and were yet unfailingly kind and indulgent of an American redneck drummer with what I call “fork issues.” (“And what do I use this one for?” “Why did that guy just take my knife away?”)

I forced myself to quit the table and catch the N87 bus back to Clapham Junction at 2am. We had to get up at 6:00am to catch our flight to Barcelona. I think I got two and a half hours of sleep.

As I was coming up the hill to Kim’s house, there was a drunken guy with a thick Scots accent and a $500 suit mumbling to himself, smoking and pissing on the wall of the pub across from Kim’s. I thought, “What an asshole! Someone needs to give that guy a talking to, perhaps knock him down and teach him a little lesson about staggering around drunk and pissing in neighborhoods where people live.”

Of course, I had more important things to do that to rough up some piss drunk Pict, so I bounced up the steps, lifted the mat, retrieved the key and then heard this drunk slurring “Oi!… yah shouldn’a oughtta… leave out….ssshhhh…. key… I could have ROBBED yoooo….oooo…..”

I turned around as I was closing the door and said “Funny thing, that. I could have robbed you, too.”

There was a long silence, and then he said “Aye…. I can’t argue with that…”

quick info blast from Barcelona

I am in the fine city of Barcelona.  We have searched in vain for free wifi and I am in a pay as you go internet cafe using their machine.  Had supper in the old Arabic section of B´clona- had koufte and rice, and it was excellent.  Really excellent. 

They make my wife´s favorite espresso drink here- they call it a cortado, and it´s about one euro, depending on where you find it. 

There are little brassieries everywhere selling charred meat with bread, green beans and espresso drinks.  My kind of meal.  The hotel shares the odd distinction of being kind of dumpy AND expensive, but it´s been since I left Athens since I slept in an actual bed, so it´s gonna be alright.

I have been told by one local that I speak Spanish with a strong Mexican accent.  I take this as a compliment.  It may not be meant as such, but I am proud of it.

Our show is tomorrow at a huge late 19th Century building that has been converted into a night club.  It´s called the Apolo. 

 That´s all I have time for right now.  The tock is clicking on this thing.

so THAT’S why they call it an “achilles” tendon….

I think that the damn thing is torn/sprained/strained. All of the rest of my leg muscles are normalized, for the most part. Walking still really aggravates my left achilles tendon.

I can get around, though. Not gonna spend my time off in London sitting on the couch.

I got my first southern food craving about three minutes ago. Suddenly had a ferocious need for turnip greens…

Yesterday, Daniel figured out how to beat jet lag, mostly by accident. He slept for 24 hours. At hour 18, I was tempted to see if he could fog a mirror. He was just really worn out. The Low Lows US tour was apparently pretty hard on him. Now we’re sitting in the kitchen of Kim’s house listening to Etta James and plotting our travels of the evening. This must be a lot like the life of the famous London dole kids of the ’70s and early ’80s, eating cheaply, obsessing about music and living for the sun to go down so that we can get into London proper and see What’s Going On. If we had a couple of Vespas, we’d be living the dream.

Parker is Parker

I love Parker’s lyrics. The song “Disappearer” is one of the most harrowingly dark and confessional songs I have ever played on. Yet I don’t think Parker takes his own self-pity seriously enough to be annoying about it. Last night, we were done with the gig and it was well after three a.m. but we were still riding high and in fine form. We went to the ASDA (which is the big warehouse grocery that’s open 24 hours here) and bought chocolate, coffee and sandwich fixings for me, diet Coke and whiskey for them, and crackers for Daniel, I think…

We were walking down one of those narrow UK streets, cars packed as densely as one can pack 3/4 ton packets of metal and glass, and Parker was walking down the middle of the street throwing £1 coins straight out in front of him, as hard as he could, then stopping and shushing us to see if they made a sound when they landed far off in the darkness. For some reason, they don’t. Not even a thud. I don’t know how this even came up, and why Parker had to test this theory, but there it is.

This experiment ended up costing Parker about $10, I think. Somehow, this wasn’t the issue. Of course, Parker had the heart of a lion at this point, what with several drinks past him and a really, really great show just behind us… Parker just had to know if £1 coins could be induced to go *clink*! somewhere off in the distance.

England isn’t living up to its reputation

So far, the food has been fantastic, the people have been incredibly friendly, it’s been easy to get around (buses and trains have made taxis an unnecessary extravagance), and oddly, it hasn’t been cold at all. I don’t get it. I must have visited some other England the last time I was here.

Tonight I met up with The Mighty W.I.Z. and we went to see the Tom Stoppard play “Rock and Roll” at the Duke of York Theatre. I sat next to Jeremy Irons. He seems nice. No palsy or smell or anything, anyway.

I enjoyed the play just fine. It was very long, though it was pretty riveting. The house was at capacity, which was pretty extraordinary for a play that ran nearly three and a half hours.

If this is a typical night off with the Low Lows, I could tour with these guys more. It beats doing laundry in Cincinnati, which I have done with my only night off on the road before.

Wandered around SoHo and ate at Kettners, had coffee at the famous Bar Italia, an espresso bar which has been open in SoHo since 1929. It was one of the only all-night places in London in the 1950s, and therefore was sort of a famous hangout for freaks, beats and other creatures of the night.

I spent too much money tonight, but I had a wonderful time. I decided to go cheap and rode a big double decker bus back to Kim’s house. £1.50 for the bus beats a cab or the train, and it dropped me off about three minutes walk from where I wanted to be.

This is OK. I could do this a lot. If my wife and dogs were here, I don’t know if I would ever leave.

Show tonight, and a few observations about the English

By the way, the rehearsal space doesn’t have a bathroom. It’s literally just a garage with some carpet and some speakers and stuff. It has a great sound system, and as a room it sounds excellent, but there’s no place to pee. Coffee is the only thing keeping me upright these days and that only wants to ride around so long before it has to go.

Now, there are two Public Toilets down the street and around the corner at Clapham Junction Station. These mechanical public toilets cost 10p to use, but one of them is either broken or it’s permanently occupied, and the other won’t take my 10p coin. I had to slip behind them last night and pee in the bushes. Today, without the cover of darkness, I had to work something else out. There’s a pub even further up the road from the station, but it’s a long walk, we have work to do and by the way, MY LEGS HURT.

Last night, Parker and Daniel were drinking Stella Artois in big 16 oz. cans. There were a couple of empties in the space.

So I peed in one of these empty Stella cans. Not out in front of everyone, mind you. I stood behind the big curtain at the door. Then I went outside and poured the contents into the gutter. I only tell you this because someone happened to walk by while I was out there dumping it. I probably had a look of general distaste on my face, because this wasn’t a task I relished. So, this guy is walking by, sees the can in my hand, the look on my face and that I am pouring it out, so he says “Yah, that stuff is piss, innit?”

Oh, buddy. You don’t know how right you are….

The show tonight was fantastic. The promoter, the club owner, the guy who books the bands and Kim from the label, they were all thrilled with the Low Lows. We had great dynamics, good enthusiasm, and we played very well. All in all, a great show.

Also saw the mighty W.I.Z.- film and video director and a good friend. He enjoyed the Low Lows as well. We went and had a curry and he caught me up on the latest Cockney rhyming slang, all of which is too filthy to mention here.

W.I.Z. got a call while we were sitting in the Kilburn pub, which is where we were eating, and I had the opportunity to people-watch. I saw two guys who looked like old friends, and they were talking. One of them had a big nose. While I was watching, the other guy made some sort of crack about the nose, I think. He grabbed his own noise, then pointed at his buddy’s, then threw his head back and had a laugh.

Bignose wasn’t having any of it, and he made a facial expression I have only ever seen the British use, and it was perfect. With the slightest change of his expression, mostly just a slackening of the jaw muscles, a subtle roll of the eyes, and a slight pursing of the lips, Bignose managed to communicate all of the following:

“Yeah, I got a big nose. Go ahead, you can have some fun at my expense. But you should know how horribly, horribly this disappoints me. I mean, I knew you would say it eventually, but I had hopes that you wouldn’t sink to it. God, sometimes you’re boring.”

All of that was communicated with the mildest tilt of the head, a little downturn at the edges of the mouth, and a brief but beseeching glance around the room to see if anyone less BORING was hanging around looking for someone to talk to. I was stunned by the subtlety and conciseness of the gesture. Pure poise. Must be an English thing.

It’s half past three in the morning, and I am probably babbling from fatigue… but I won’t be falling asleep too soon, since I have discovered that they sell the Lindt super dark chocolate bars here for £1.00. These are the same chocolate bars that sell in the US for $4.00 each.

So, I have to wait for the sugar buzz to wear off.

After the show, I was hanging out after the show and was informed that there were two women there who had come to see the Low Lows, because they were FRIENDS OF JEREMY! (that’s the Low Lows’ regular drummer, for those of you just joining us.) I felt like such a turd… here is a woman and her friend who have traveled out on a weeknight (a worknight!) to see an old friend, only to find that some other guys has not only stole his tambourine, but he’s PLAYING IT behind JEREMY’S BAND. They managed to hide their disappointment well.

Jeremy, if you’re reading this, we tried to be entertaining and gracious hosts. Don’t hate me.

rehearsing under the train

So, after sleeping for three and a half or four hours, we rose and found that Kim had made us some supper. We had a lovely meal and Keef showed up with the van. We motored over to a rehearsal hall underneath Clapham Junction Tube Station. There is a series of arched spaces underneath the old train bridge, and one of these is a damp-smelling rehearsal hall with a drum kit and a PA, an old piano, some amplifiers and an electric tea kettle that doesn’t work.

We had a really good rehearsal for four guys who hadn’t slept much in the last four or so days. The rental hall has good sound except for the rumbling of the train going over our heads and the hum through the amps of the electric power that runs the train.

I guess we played for about four hours. Afterwards, Kim showed up and we went back to her place, listened to music and had a snack. I managed to get the missus on iChat and we talked until it was three a.m. here in London. I miss her.

Finally, I passed out and had odd dreams that I was alone in the room and that all of the lights where on. I opened my eyes, the lights were off and everyone else was sleeping.

Today we slept until 10 am, had breakfast at the house and then caught a taxi to the rehearsal hall. We just finished rehearsing- it’s been four hours again. The songs sound excellent, particularly “Disappearer” and “Tigers.” “Disappearer” is so heavy and sad that Parker was joking that we should have a roadie who, instead of handing us fresh guitars or wiping the sweat off of our faces, runs out with a towel and dabs the tears away from our eyes…

We are opening for I Love You But I Have Chosen Darkness tonight. I don’t know anything about this band.

I am going to lie down on the (cold, hard) floor of the rehearsal space and nap for a bit. I will proof this and publish it later…