ypsilanti's Diaryland Diary

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I Heard The Angels Sing

Right now I am in remarkable pain. My back, chest, neck and shoulders all suddenly went into some sort of terrific anti-positivity positioning and I feel terrificly wrong. Congratulations, evil world and it's membership; whatever voodoo curse you've planted seems to be working for now.

Driving in the rain, my driver side windsheild wiper disintigrated then flew off and the metal scraped against the blurry window. I pulled over to switch the vacant one with the passenger side blade. The metal scraped against the crystal clear glass. It still made me happy to be driving in cold rain instead of frozen snow.

No less than five people called or e-mailed me today to let me know that Phil Spector had been taken into police custody for homicide. How sweet that they remembered my love of Spector's musicianship and production, but why why why are the people or icons I really identify with all crazy? Maybe it's a symptom of realizing your place in your own art, or maybe anyone with a spotlight shining on them will be revealed for whatever specific insanity they are guilty of, and we're all crazy and insane and totally fucked in the head, spotlight or streetlight.

Oh the pain.

Listened to "Caught Up" tonight by Millie Jackson. It is the ultimate "Mmroyy" album.

Also loving the sound of a better new Will Oldham record, hating the sound of a worthless new "album" by a "band" I thought I used to like called Joan Of Arc, and making a long chart of the Ann Arbor Punk Scene, starting when I wandered into it back in 1991. From the first performances of Jaks and Nadsat Nation at the solely youth organized and attended "Cornstalk" parties, through the nightly basement punk shows at The Lab, up through the Pirate House and last summer's generator shows and vomit-filled lawns of Catherine street homes. There is so much more going on than anyone ever seems to want to acknowledge or appreciate.

1:31 a.m. - 2.4.03

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