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good morning aztlan

Last night Sylvia related the amusing story of how she got stabbed at Alberto’s. It’s amusing mostly because she was only slightly injured, and also because I learned the street Spanish for “shut your piehole”.

There was also a long and interesting discussion of the racial politics of primary education around here. I was once again reminded of how lucky I was to have gone to school in the 1970s when “everyone gets along” was the example set starting from the top and working down. My junior high in particular was a cross-section of California ethnic and religious groups, but we had not one incident of racial or other communal violence the whole time I was there. Meanwhile they were telling me about the year at Ensign Middle School that the administration divided the place between the whites and the Mexicans like a prison because of all the fights.

I gave Michelle an MP3 CD of all the Jelly Roll stuff plus some other things which made her very happy. I really like the look on people’s faces when I give them music they haven’t heard and want. This is why I liked being a DJ so much!

There is crazy music from Aquarius winging its way to me, also more RAM for my computer. It’s sunny outside. The cat is cleaning my elbow.

Later this evening, I hope to churn out two book reviews for y’all.

Where am I and why is this lion sniffing me?

I just read a good post by genericus about dreams which got me thinking.

I don’t often remember my dreams now. I think this is probably a result of sleeping better, since as I understand it you remember the dreams if you wake up afterwards for a bit, and they tend to fade otherwise. In general, though, my dream life has been unremarkable and kind of boring. Mostly I just get the same three or four classic anxiety dreams about school or travel or money problems. They’re annoying but not nightmares.

When I was a young child I had very unpleasant nightmares. Many of these were fever dreams during some childhood “stomach flu” fever. Almost all of them had the odd feature of being wordless and in fact free of story or reason. I would just be seized with terrible fear and anxiety. Sometimes it took forever for my parents to get me out of this state. I couldn’t go back to sleep, and an oppressive horror of everything seized me. One frequent hallucination in this situation was that I was responsible for holding the entire universe in my hand, and it was at once somehow tiny and very heavy. Almost always, though, it was just the Nameless Dread. For a few hours at a time. Boy did that freak out my parents!

I had one very good, very detailed, and very strange dream in high school. I was an apostle, one of those who had met Christ. And I was preaching the Gospel to sailors on a classic 19th century style wooden warship, like something out of a Hornblower novel. There were all these sailors sitting listening to me explain that it was all true, and I had met the guy, and wasn’t this great news. I was apparently impressive. I woke up understanding religion better than I ever had.

The only other notable dream I can remember was more recently and very depressing. Everyone was disgusted and angry with me, including close friends and immediate family. I was openly abused and reviled, and unfortunately it was all true. That one took a few weeks to shake.

Otherwise? I sleep, I wake up. I am not bothered by dreams for good or ill now. I snorkel in the Styx for 8 hours a night and wake up refreshed. Not such a bad deal, although I’d prefer hot ‘n’ steamy sex dreams or entertaining art slideshows if I could order from a menu.

best “other” responses to my Valentine poll

In no particular order:

“Revive Lupercalia instead. Don’t forget the goat and dog sacrifice!”

“Sex at the zoo!”

“Ironic ‘my funny valentine party’ wherein we all get drunk and make warped, disgusting cards for each other.”

“Book table for 2 @Spago, act disappointed when 2nd party is no show, enjoy dinner, leave backpack bomb under table, dash out on check, enjoy explosion from safe distance.”

The list is here at the poll results.

“Other” was the winner by a long shot, followed by “Spasmodic, bonobo-like masturbation”, “Pure bitter bile, straight no chaser”, and “Transgressive BDSM orgy with harem of doe-eyed, slinky ingenues”.

That last one does sound awesome but presents logistical difficulties. The first one is easy enough, though. Why if I had a dollar for…

DEAR DZ

SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP SHUT UP

Goodbye Rhino Westwood.

rocky

From 1983 to about 1993, the Rhino Records store on Westwood Boulevard in Los Angeles was my second home. When i was a student I’d walk down there at least once a week and look through the new releases and imports and all the used stuff. The employees became my friends, too. Big John Breckow, who also did a great bebop radio show on KPFK. Scott, who always had a big friendly smile and a good suggestion, and now works at my local Trader Joe’s. Nels Cline. Gladys aka Laura, my college friend and fellow music freak, now the bassist in Third Grade Teacher. Phast Phreddie. It wasn’t a record store, it was quite seriously a family. When I was a rock critic for a while I’d go down there and sell back my promo crap and Big John would make me promise over and over again not to write about jazz, and maybe someone else there would have a correction or a compliment about my writing, so I knew someone gave a shit.

There was a time when I was a 19-year-old music idiot and I’d buy just about anything imported from England, especially all that death rock 4AD/Beggars Banquet crap, or stuff on Demon. And I’d just buy anything new on SST or Twin/Tone or Restless. I spent way too much damn money there and it was all worth it.

rhino signLater on, in the early 90s, I was poor and no longer cool and my life sucked. Bit by bit I had to sell back my CDs and vinyl for cash. I was a mess, and a lot of my friends and even the other people at the church I was attending weren’t being so helpful. But the Rhino people could tell what was up, and they’d look both ways and grossly overpay me for my tradeins. They were solid people.

This is the last weekend for that store. They moved a few years ago and never really recovered. They changed the focus of the place and even the name and flailed and now they’re gone. This weekend is the last ever parking lot sale. If you’re in the area I suggest you go. Details at the Rhino Westwood site.

Chris Morris, my former coworker and one of the few music writers who consistently makes sense, wrote a fitting eulogy to the store in the Reporter.

Thanks to LA Observed for pointing me to this story that I somehow didn’t see.

I probably won’t make it to the last day tomorrow, but that’s probably as it should be. I hate funerals. Never thought I’d cry about a retail store, but there you have it.