a place to bury strangers

reading some commentary about a show i recently attended, makes me wonder if journalism nowadays is all about wallowing in the possibilities of language, rather than portraying an authentic (? authenticity always in question marks ?) account of what occurred. for further example, see jonathan gold's food journalism, which, in its sumptuous prose, testifies more to the palate and imagination (and what an imagination, mr. gold!) of the author than the food quality itself.

the show i went to, they projected images of a moving desert onto the bandmates, and their music in fact felt like an outlying wasteland. every now and then the reed-thin lead singer would semicircle backwards in stilted motion like a cougar on the prowl. there were strobe lights. there were fog machines. the most disturbing part of the show when when, under the blinking retina of the strobe light, the lead singer smashed his guitar to the ground and began tearing out the strings as if he were gutting a dead animal (the word desiccated keeps coming to mind as a phonetic description of the horror i witnessed, even though the meaning doesn't match). he destroyed two guitars in this fashion. i was in the front row trying to take pictures, which meant my head hurt more than usual after the show finished. i went home, laid on my bed, and felt feverish for 2 hours.

received an invoice for my car insurance payment yesterday. boo! must start considering grad school, or selling my art, or selling my body. southern california, i will never fully love thee.