Si, si.

Babbo has an assessment interview for the dual immersion Spanish-English kindergarten program on the 26th. No pressure or anything, Babbo, but it'd be sweet to have our own personal translator.

We've also applied to get Babbo into Round Valley Elementary. This school is 15 minutes away in a green pasture and where Matty and Walter (my father in law) went to school as wains.

Buffalo - The new Phoenix Foundation release is out

I was already obsessed with this tune, but in light of the BP oil rig disaster in the Gulf of Mexico and tomorrow being May Day, I'm spooked.

the economics of a Bishop Potluck Society Presents potluck

Old Coyote Moon played in the living room last night.

Dave Huebner described OCM as a jam band, which was new territory for us. It worked well in the house party setting. Folks filtered in and out over the two hours, had a good boogie to the country, funky, bluesy, folksy tunes, then wandered back into the kitchen to catch up with somebody over a some new dish that'd just come in. The band expanded from its normal five (drums, bass, two guitars, and a didgeridoo) to seven, with the addition of banjo and mandolin. They made joyous sounds, and it was a lovely, lovely evening. I still am a sucker for Huebner's cello playing.

These musical potlucks are a bit of a financial roller coaster for me. I always offer a guarantee (my motto is, "My guarantees may be modest, but there's whisky on the rider.") because we are a very, very long way from anywhere and because, frankly, it seems that fewer venues in the big cities do so anymore.

My sister-in-law Kate used to handle the door, but she's wanting to catch more of the music these days. I don't blame her. With Kate on the door, we always took in more than what I guaranteed. Blink, who brought Over the Atlantic and Disasteradio, never worried about the guarantee because he could tell how good Kate was. We just handed over the "koha" (Maori for "donation") bucket at the end of the night, and all was good.

Since Kate became a punter, we've tried using unmanned donation buckets. It's been so-so because folks don't see or choose not to see the buckets. A few folks do come in with their donations over the next few days. Last night, we tried the donation buckets, plus Matty going around with a hat . That worked better. There are always some folks (Karen Robb) who give too much, and I've got to work on finding some middle ground.

There is the perception, especially by some of the younger kids in town, that I make money at these shows. I don't. All donations from the shows go to the bands and to Derik, who usually provides the sound/lights. The only time I've ever paid myself back was when I fronted the money for a hall.

Labretta is coming next month, and I've extended a lot cash for this show. I had been a bit nervous, but I've done a fair bit of Bishop-style, word of mouth promoting. Things will be fine. The"koha" bucket will be in the doorway of the VFW hall, and we'll take shifts handing out wristbands to those who've donated so we know whom to hound.

I can't and don't want to put on these shows as a proper business. For one, the economics are such that I can't afford to pay $300 (often more than my minimum guarantee) for event insurance for each show. I believe, and I may be wrong, that as long as these things are ostensibly not-for-profit private house parties/potlucks, they are covered by our homeowner's insurance.

I'm lucky that I'm still married to an easy going and generous guy who understands how much fun I have. He enjoys hanging out and meeting new folks, (maybe even more than I do). He plays co-host, and together we provide a bit of food and drinks for all the folks who come through.

Matty said the nicest thing to me after Easter when I thanked him for letting me host what was really just a huge sleep over for a bunch of New Zealand music geeks. He said, "Well, these shows are like your powder days" (ski terminology for the kind of day you call in sick for to play hooky). Yes, yes they still are.

Out of the infirmary gates, running

with love to Patria Jacobs for use of the photos.

The girl that you were in the back of a car

there was nobody left there to tend to your scars
all the aspirin in the world couldn't make you less that girl
do yourself a mischief if you could

Steven Schayer sang those words Easter Eve, and I think there were a few of us old gals in the audience who could identify. Heh. It *was* a week, and I'm glad that I came out the other side, alive, smiling, and still humming from the gathering we had.

Bibi flew out from Atlanta on Tuesday. It was stormy as hell, and her flight to Mammoth was canceled. We figured out how to get her on a bus to Lancaster, and I tore out of the house and picked her up 3 hours later. It was an interesting drive, with at least 3 semis knocked down from the west winds picking up speed out of the Sierras. The Owens Dry Lake looked like a 20 mile long witch's cauldron. We celebrated our safe return to Bishop with a few single malts. This was Bibi's fourth visit to Bishop, and she hit the ground running and made good use of the workout and caffeine resources we have while I did a bit of work and started to makes lists for the weekend.

Sue, AKA "the new girl from Wis-CON-sin," flew out Wednesday. She got to use Mammoth Airport, and it was smiles all around. She was a trouper and fell in to the flow of drinking what we were pouring (tea, wine, belgian beer) and thoughtfully chiming in about all things New Zealand music and everything else. Her New Zealand music "thing" started in earnest in the early 1980s and predates Flying Nun. Meeting Sue was like meeting a long lost sister- one who'd been to all the best shows and had all the best memorabilia.

Friday found the first wave of musicians Patria, Volita and Moss - a sister and brother from Auckland who are in the States to play and to record- rolling in from Los Angeles. I'd met Patria briefly in LA at Steven's last solo set in October, and we kept in touch over the months. I hoped that culturally and politically, she'd find Bishop full of kindred spirits. She is wry and cheeky and nurturing- my kind of woman.

Karen, my rock of Gilbraltar, regaled us all with love (in the form of her famous crack and mac mac and cheese, West Coast brews, and promises of freshly caught trout), tales of playing pool with Jeff Buckley, and her enthusiasm. Uncle Sniffy Mark came from the Bay Area and brought the gorgeous and kind Renee, who'd been raised in Mexico City, but conceived in Russia! It was lovely to sit in the semi-dark around the fire and the stage, telling tales, hearing snippets of live songs (including one from Volita called "From Russia, with Love"), and having a good laugh.

The second wave of musicians, Steven, Marc Horton (whom I met from the Mutton Birds' list back in '03 or so), and Chantelle, arrived early Saturday morning. Sue and I were bathing in the glow of Facebook on two laptops when they arrived. We promptly whipped out the meat products (tri-tip and carnitas), shots of single malt whisky, and silly hats. Steven treated us to cartwheels in the backyard and tales of an intensive New Zealand tour with the Black Watch.

Five shots of whisky (Old Pulteney, Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban, Springbank Sauternes finish, Bowmore, Jameson) later, we bade each other a good night and went to bed. Incredibly, nobody was hungover the next day. I credit ginormous pots of Irish Breakky tea.

Owen, the Kiwi who flew out from Chicago, arrived with with his friend Amy Saturday morning. They had a hell of a long day coming from Phoenix, getting stuck on Hoover Dam, overheating in Owen's '66 Mustang, and calling it a night in Beatty, Nevada. They still had what I refer to as "the alien abduction highway*" to contend with, so I'm glad they tackled it with fresh eyes and some sleep.

Matty took some folks to see Sky Rock, our local petroglyph. The soundchecks went well. Davey Cello Man Huebner turned up after a ski and met Steven minutes before their set.

The wind picked up. There was to be no potlucking outside. I forgot to cut the rum punch with seltzer. Folks arrived. I was strict with the kids about where they could and couldn't play - I hope I wasn't too mean. Patria picked up Derik, my sound man, for country lead guitar and Chantelle for pick up drums.

Wee babies - Eloise, Amaya, Soren, and their mommies and daddies turned up. Cousin Deanna and Nellydog (both whom we hadn't seen in ages) turned up.

Songs from both sets sent shivers down my spine. Patria sang with an effortless grace about grown women and little boys. Dave and Steven played beautifully together - like they'd been playing together for years. Bless Dave for putting in the time to learn Steven's songs. Bless Steven, the boy with the voice the size of a house, who, for the sake of decorum, changed the phrase "God damn" to "Gosh damn" on Easter Eve. Steven made Karen cry with his line that goes something like:

I'm going down to the Mission

and

going to light a candle for my mother

everybody says this won't hurt a bit

that's a lie that people tell each other

Post show, the group staying at the house and a few others sat around for singalongs. We Humphreys and Keen fans murdered the tune "The Liquor Talking" but did an alright Able Tasmans' "What Was That Thing?" with Owen on drums. Steven scatted a fine "Blister in the Sun." Marc and Chantelle led lovely Verlaines (Joed Out?) and Big Star tunes. Chantelle is this gorgeous auburn haired, dark blue eyed slip of a woman who plays drums. I am in love.

Volita and Moss played an impromptu set, rocking out and letting Karen and me to shake a leg.

Davey Huebner is a genius and slayed folks with his cello playing and singing. His "House of the Rising Sun" made me come running out of the TV room (I was hanging out with Babbo and Orin, who were watching Sponge Bob) because folks were stamping and hooting. Steven kept saying, "Please make him stop. It's depressing me!"

Steven tried out a very punk stream of consciousness "Walk Like an Egyptian" on Davey's cello.

We ended the evening with drinks, cups of tea, leftovers, and more drinks, with most of the crew going to check out the local honky tonk, Rusty's. Karen was the tourguide for the expedition and Matty, the chaperone. A few of us more sedate girls stayed home and got our jammies on. I had to send Humphreys and Keen's Peter Keen a note about the evening. I'd been calling the weekend a convention in H&K's honor and Marc, without knowing that, turned up with the chords to "The Liquor Talking" learned and the lyrics printed. All our geeky threads are long and intertwined.

The drinking party returned like waves of loud geese - so loud that Patria and I got out of bed to see what we'd missed. I came downstairs to find Karen madly making scrambled eggs for everyone. She had to get up at dawn to get AT from LA. Folks stood around the kitchen proclaiming how much they all loved each other and how talented they thought everyone was. Steven was plied with eggs and meat products and put to bed.

Babbo was in his element that week. Aunties and uncles played with him, read to him, sang to him. He got to play boy host. "Steven, my mommy made you this yummy (as he's chomping away) Carnitas!" He wouldn't dance to Steven's set, but did play a little light sabre air guitar.

Most of us went to Macey's Easter Sunday potluck in Keeler. My dad was there and it was nice to introduce him to folks. Sundays at Macey's are mellow affairs, and it was a good place for us to say our goodbyes to the LA-folks and to Owen and Amy.

Perhaps one of the loveliest memories for me from the entire week was being in the car with Bibi and Sue on the drive down to LA on Monday. We sat for long stretches without talking, but we did sing along to hours of the Able Tasmans on the car stereo - all this, without apology.

The weekend had been a Jameson and pots of coffee/tea-fueled affair. That, coupled with the late nights and adrenaline made it a wee bit hard to come down. Over a week later, some of us are still floating.

* alien abduction highway = HWY 168 desolate, mountainous, full of free range cattle and sheep, dark as all get out, and you're going to get abducted and probed.

Day 8

Eighth day in a row that I've not been sick! Huzzah! Prior to this, the longest streak since December 17 had been a whopping three days. The viruses have rendered my arms funny - they tingle most of the time now- but eh, I'll take it.

Spring is coming and the boys have been here

Day 5 of feeling virus-free.

The Juncos, Sparrows, and House Finches (aka Sparrows dipped in red ink) are having breakky just outside the kitchen window.

The volunteer arugula has already bolted, even though it's been a cool winter.

The Hunzakut apricot tree hasn't blossomed - making this one of the later years in years.

Babbo is up at Mammoth at his ski lessons. Bless Matty for all those early Sunday morning starts.

Konrad came back from South America and spent a few weeks here before moving to the Coast for a while. Even though he's come and gone before, there was a bit more finality to this move, and I was wistful the day he left. He's been my practice 30 year old son. It was lovely to hang out with him, and it was lovely that he gave us a bottle of Bowmore.

Chris Dio came down from Juneau, Alaska, and spent a few nights here and there with us. It was lovely to see him again after the two or so years since he moved away. Babbo loved him very much and shouted "Uncle Chris!!!" every time he was downstairs in the morning.

Matty Birch is in the trailer. He plies me with cups of tea, and he's easy. Glad I don't have that crush on him anymore (going back six? seven? years now) - makes life much...simpler. He is here to climb those crazy hard boulders of his. He doesn't have that pressure he's had those other years to finish his project - and he seems more liberated and content.

Several hundred tomato and pepper seedlings potted up. Giving away half dozen to a dozen away each day, but at some point in the near future, my attention will turn outdoors and the seedlings with suffer. It is par for the course in spring.

There is a god and it is a vengeful god

I don't know how, but I seem to have picked up another virus. Except for maybe three or four days, I have been with lurgy since December 17th! Luckily, this one seems to be of the 24 hour variety. This is good, too, because we're supposed to go to Disneyland this Friday.

Wed

I was giving advice to a Scottish man I know about how he and his fiancée could get married here in Bishop. They are coming out from Scotland for a climbing trip and thought it would be lovely to be married someplace as special as the Sierras. It made me sad to think that gay friends who actually live here are not afforded the same access to the simple forms needed to get married.

A thought for my Gung Gung

My mother's father passed away this week in Hong Kong, not far from the Donguan, China, where he was born some 86 years ago. He died in the city where he settled as a young adult. Circumstances found him in Southern California for 35 some odd years, but circumstances also found him back where he probably belonged.

At 40, he became the single father of nine girls, having lost the really capable, independent, and fierce wife he loved so much.

He was a husband and father who was ahead of his time. My mother, the oldest, remembered the letters of love and encouragement he carried in his pocket and gave to my grandmother each time a new baby - always a girl- was born. She also remembers that they were the only couple of their generation to hold hands.

My grandfather found himself in his 40s suffering a catastrophic stroke. Prior to the stroke, he had been very outgoing. After the stroke, he led a rather introspective life. He wrote long letters to friends with his left hand (a skill he forced himself to master. The Chinese, like many others, believe the left hand has sinister connotations, so folks from his generation were right handed). When he first moved to the States, he wept openly when he heard Chinese folks songs. He and my grandmother had been traveling performers during World War II. They went from village to village performing and doing things to subvert the Japanese presence in Guandong. As the years went on, he listened to the songs less and less, but I don't think a day went by that he didn't think of her.

In old age, he was very fond of basketball and mah jong. He was so good at mah jong, he could "read" a tile by running his thumb over the relief.

He is going to be buried with my grandmother's remains.

Dr. Perry released me from his care today

and, as soon as the lungs have healed, I'm going for a ride on my bike. I've missed watching the birds, and I've missed the sun.

Planning some Bishop Potluck Society Presents houseconcerts. Steven Schayer and Patria Jacobs, with dear friends in supporting roles, will do a variety hour for us come Easter. Bibi Gellert will fly out from Atlanta for it. Awesome!

Speaking of Bibi, it may have transpired that our hand clap debut survived my being in it. That, or the fellas in the Phoenix Foundation felt sorry for the chick w/ no rhythm (me) and overdubbed the hand claps until they sounded okay. At any rate, we appear on Track 3 "Forget It" on the release, Merry Kriskmass. The release is a big psychedelic wig out that has really grown on me. When I first heard it, I was reminded of the 8 track tapes that warped in the Southern California sun and that used to scare the shit out of me when I was a wee kid. Nah, it's heaps more melodic than that.

In other neat musical news, lovely Steve Carosello in St. Louis introduced KDHX DJ John Wendland to Humphreys and Keen's The Overflow and John has been playing tracks off it on his fine, fine show "From Memphis to Manchester." It's probably the first airplay H&K have gotten in the States. From little things big things grow, indeed.

Speaking of growing, we killed my four potted up Pimiento de Padron plants in the hard freeze we had, but I have germination from new seed! And so, a new year *does* begin.

The longest two weeks ever

Mid-December started with a virus, which struck me down like a fool and gave me a cold, two weeping pink eyes, and sinusitis. You know you have sinusitis when you beg for a wood chopping maul to come along to split your head open like a pumpkin - anything to relieve the pressure building behind your eyes, ears, nose....

I am still part of the walking wounded. As a party trick, my body decided to fake a pulmonary embolism on what was supposed to be my first day back at work. After a few hours of intermittent, painful, heart clutching stabs, I followed my dear friend Diane's advice and went to the ER. After an ECG and CT scans (the iodine contrast makes you feel for a few seconds that you might be dying. The heat from the iodine spreads over your body like a wildfire and your lungs feel very heavy. Glad that they warn you over and over that this will happen), it turns out I have pleurisy, which is just inflammation of the lung lining. It's another viral thing, probably residual from December. I'll take it. I feel silly having had all this state of the art testing done on me, but I guess in the end, it beats thinking that I will leave Babbo motherless.

Eh, enough whining about viruses.

How about that new year? We had some wonderful, wonderful visits from Jean-Michel and Lucie, Mayumi and Erika, and Motorcycle Michelle. The visit with Matty's mom went well and so, for all that, I have no complaints.

I am one exhausted mo-fry, though.

Bomber run to "Los Angelesh"* a success

• Diabetes: Babbo's A1C fell .10 to 7.1. This is fantastic news and still vindicates the steep learning curve that came with switching to the insulin pump.
• Gastro: Babbo still has GERD (acid reflux), but because he's thriving and growing, he can remain on Prevacid until the sphincters in his esophagus mature and start working.
• Ate pho noodles, 1/2 a slice of Costco pepperoni pizza, dim sum, and chicken curry ramen. We might have died and gone to heaven.
• My mom still has a good sense of humor and is in pretty good health. Same can be said about Auntie Tammy. I am grateful.
  
• Had beignets and my first real coffee since coming home from the hospital. We dragged my mom to Lamill. I love that the place is pretentious, but that the staff are nice. Clover coffee might be a bit too extracted for me. We had a Kenya peaberry and some Guatamalan.
  
• Saw Nik Brinkman, from Over the Atlantic, for a rushed espresso. He is recording a record in LA and staying close to Childrens (why don't they use an apostrophe?) Hospital. Matty, Babbo, and I dragged him to Intelligentsia, where he said he had his first Wellington style espresso drink since coming to LA nearly a month ago. It was fun to catch up on what he's doing and some extra New Zealand music news.
  
• Between Costco and Childrens, walked/zimmered/crutched the length of several football fields and way hey, survived! Prior to this, I think I managed three trips to our mailbox.
• Matty was a star and drove the whole trip. This is not an easy feat considering what a back seat driver I am. Oh, and I have a low tolerance for short breaking distances and am always bracing with my feet and hands. Give that girl a valium (not that I've ever had one).
  

*Babbo is playing with language and accents now. He calls LA "Los Angelesh" and sings his ABCs much like a singer with a vowel impediment would scat.

Chinese Ghetto Thanksgiving Stuffing

for my mystery Asian g'friend from years past:

cube and slightly dampen two loaves of cheap supermarket bread

Sautee together, sliced into 1/4" - 1/2" pieces:
chinese mushrooms
heart, gizzards, liver, etc. from the turkey
pack of bacon
sliced onion
whole celery
minced garlic (lots of it)
(you may add things like water chestnuts, chestnuts, etc.)

When all the items are wilted through, add (without draining the fat from the bacon, if you can stand it) the soggy bread and lots of oyster sauce to taste

press mixture into baking pans, place in oven the last 30 minutes of the turkey roast (350F oven)

I didn't use glass noodles, but maybe my dad did one year. It could be a nice addition, especially those fat Korean ones made out of sweet potatoes.

The trouble with referendums

Friends have dropped by. Friday night found us eating around the kitchen table with Marsha, Reed, Devon, Annie, Joe Lane, Stephen, Erik, Dave McGee and Janet. The conversations were everywhere and for the most part, gave us a good laugh - something we all needed.

I did feel sad when we talked about the referendum in Maine that revoked the right for same-sex couples to marry. I was sadder when Stephen said, "I'm just tired of feeling bad all the time."

Civil rights cannot be legislated by referendum. The masses can't be trusted. Less than 40 years ago, my marriage would have been illegal in certain states and Babbo would have been a bastard. There was a Southern judge who recently refused to marry an African American man to a white woman on the grounds that "those" kind of marriages don't work and the children resulting from them are fucked up. Surprise Judge, statistically, that's usually the case no matter the color!

Really, this growing crusade against access to basic civil rights (recap: there is theoretically a separation of church and state, marriage licenses are issued by a representative of the state, all citizens should have equal access to a license) is turning me into an uppity old Chinese woman.

Join us, it's bliss

Finished my Oxycontin. Felt sharper pain the subsequent day, but it's all good now. Percocet got swapped out for Norco (a stronger version of Vicodin) because I was throwing up or feeling queasy most of the time. Swiss Kris (a laxative you can find at any health food store) works like a champ - not that anyone really wants to know, but one never knows....)

Have only stepped outside the house twice in 17 days - once for a checkup/stitches removal. I am a fast healer the docs say. I have heretofore been blessed with that ability.

Plowed through William Boyd's The New Confessions, and I still believe that Any Human Heart is his best. Have started on the Mishima tetrology. So far, Spring Snow (which I have read before) is sprawling, and I find myself craving the succinct writing from his short stories in Death in Midsummer.

Reading, surfing the internet, folding laundry, bathing, and hanging out with Babbo or the odd friend - recovery is like being on holiday, really.

Will probably transition from the walker or crutches to cane just in time for Christmas.

Now with new and improved stitching!

Got home Sunday from a Friday surgery.
I didn't think I was ready for being released from the hospital, but Blue Cross only approved one night's stay. I think I stayed five nights last time. In the end, it all worked out fine. I continue to get stronger by the hour. Matty and Babbo are waiting on me hand and foot. Babbo wants to spend a night in my single hospital bed with me. I don't think so. I do let him pile in after school and watch cartoons before dinner or before bedtime.

I got taut little black nylon stitches this time. I am a bit allergic to the monocryl they sometimes use. They are handsome stitches, and Dr. Perry seems quite pleased with how everything turned out. I got an epidural (first time ever) and there are three wee bites in my lower back to show for it.

In addition to the doctors and their schedulers, I am indebted to the kindness and competence of nurses - as always.

I was shocked, again, at how useless my leg became. In in the first day post-op, it took a lot of focus, sweat, and help to move it even a few inches. Yes, they sawed the bone in half, but the muscles should have theoretically still worked.

Waves of mild nausea and sleepiness come over me several times a day. It's the painkillers, the four hours of anesthesia I was under, and the vitamin supplements. I will forgo the iron supplements - they make me really sick- and just eat like a piggie instead.

Surgery got moved up a week

Have been running around like a headless chicken. Surgery got moved up a week, but Doctors Mast and Perry will be there. I am really still incredibly touched that Dr. Mast will drive down from Reno for this. I am touched, too, that I work in an incredibly flexible workplace. I'm as ready as I'll ever be.

It was not a pleasure to wander around the streets of LA in the rain last week. I tried going to a Target in a large mall, but the sensory overload was too much, and I retreated to the peace of my car. My eyes also glazed over at a midsized Whole Foods, too. I'm such a hick.

I did run around Sunset Blvd. very late at night for two nights in a row to see two shows at the Echo. It'd been decades since I did something like that by myself. The adrenaline surge was huge. When I was getting gas at 11:30 at night off some unknown freeway offramp, all I could think was, "What the hell am I doing here?"

In the end, it was a huge pleasure to see Matt Salas' band, the Rhone Occupation. They are a young band, and they've been gigging hard. They have purdy songs and sound like a cross between Radiohead/Elliot Smith/the Phoenix Foundation. Their free set didn't start until after midnight, but they played as if their lives depended on it to a room of about 25 of us. I know Matt from going to the Phoenix Foundation shows in LA in 2006. He was with Sony digital music at the time and tried really hard to help the band out in any way he could.

It was even a bigger pleasure to see Steven Schayer, the Jazz Butcher, Downy Mildew, and the Black Watch the next night. It was a lovely treat to hang out with Marc Horton, Owen Harris (who was on a stopover in LA on his way back to NZ), John Andrew Frederick (the English prof and fellow William Boyd fan behind the Black Watch), and Steven Schayer in a Latino bar in the late afternoon before the show. Steven, Owen, and I met through the Able Tasmans/Humphreys and Keen/Puddle gig that Owen put on in Auckland in February. Marc and I met years ago through the Mutton Birds' listserve. I'd seen Steven's band, the Clay Idols, once when I was a teen. I wasn't prepared for how sad and lovely Steven's songs were and how well he could sing. There is something outgoing and endearing about Steven which reminds me of certain Lew cousins very very much.

Marc and I killed a few moments waiting for the Echo's doors to open by having some of the Glenmorangie Quinta Ruban I brought down. We sat in the heavy rain on Sunset Blvd. and toasted our lovely spouses and small children. Our spouses may not also be huge geeks, but they allow us to be. Bless.

So a group of us have become friends or have become better friends through geeking out over our love of New Zealand music. The friendships have gone from the days of going to the post office and sending blank cds so that somebody could make a compilation to the age of Facebook and Yousendit, where we can cut to the chase and crank the mixtapes out.

Motorcycle Michelle put me up in her fabby apartment in Glendale. I talked her ear off the first night, when I was hmming and huhhhhing about getting ready to leave at 11 pm for a midnight show. I did my best imitation of a a lump on her couch for the next two mornings in a row.

It would appear that boots and tights and skinny jeans are in with the in girls of the Republic of Silver Lake. The porkpie hats on the boys must go, though.

I am glad I got the chance to get out of Bishop for a few nights, glad that I missed Matt and Babbo and Bishop, glad I got to eat ramen twice, and glad I got to do something different before facing being laid up for a long while.

Undertheradar.co.nz : The Bats Virtual Show

The lovely Ian Henderson - whom I've known through things New Zealand music related - is putting on this show. He's fronted his own cash, and I wish him well!

Undertheradar.co.nz : The Bats Virtual Show

Mad neurotic scratchings

• I was not very zen this morning when I tore the house apart looking for my old Moleskine notebook. Yes, I guess I would have been very sad if I'd lost my mad neurotic scratchings from the past few years, but I would have lived. I found it in the very last place I would have looked- well, well, well under the couch. I have started a new notebook. It is sexy and red and unmarked. Clean slates and all that.

• I have temporarily damaged my fingertips from moving around frozen pyrex bowls.

• Going down to Los Angeles to see AT, Karen, part of the New Zealand music mafia.
  

Date with my orthopedic surgeons

Doctors Perry and Mast will do me the favor of giving me another femoral osteotomy - this time on my right hip. It's hurting like hell in this low pressure system we're having, and I'm ready.

The left hip still has some arthritis, but that was always going to be a given.