Beach, Bitch

So I'm sitting looking out over Venice, my foot all bandaged, bruised, and banged up and I'm realizing that this summer's turned out A-OK so far...lots of good stuff, thought I've been in LA for weeks now instead of the usual 1-trip a week life.

That means shows. Flaming Lips, twice. Once at the bowl, where the majesty of their spectacle finally met its match, and once off of hollywood boulevard, where you could get close enough to remember the first time you smiled at hundreds of balloons full of confetti popping over an unsuspecting audience. I officially want to be Wayne Coyne when I grow up.

Then: Gnarls afterparty, and a reminder that things...happen.

Josh Klinghoffer -- bert. Fan. Now touring the world in Gnarls, ex of Beck, PJ Harvey, and Jon Frusciante.

Brandon Boyd -- again, bert. Fan. Now member of platinum-plus fan.

Brian Smith -- Knitting Factory alterknit. Now, Troubadour.

Me -- Gorilla. Ithacan. LA Times.

Crazy, man.

moe., twice (should've been three times, but there's a big fucking rod on sunset with my name all over it.) Nostalgia. People on E. Me getting zoned, not on drugs, just zoning. Realizing I don't know the names of the songs offhand anymore and it doesn't really bother me. Wondering if that means I'm old. Or spoiled. Or apathetic. Or all three.

Yesterday I spent too much at a bachelor party at hooters for a guy I never see. And the food wasn't that great, but the company was. He got a ball and chain. Today I get to smell the sea air and heal my foot. Tonight I drink beers. Tomorrow I play music. Monday I play more music.

Tuesday I play music

Wednesday I see music

Thursday I play music

Friday I rest.

Or not. You decide.