Rock n' Roll

More of the real Hot Face perhaps later today, or at the latest tomorrow, not that anyone cares. Right now I wanted to note that last night I witnessed one of the most balls-out rock n' roll events that DC has witnessed in awhile, courtesy of the Washington Social Club and the Carlsonics (I ducked out during Thee Snuff Project to attend a lame party thrown by that other venerable DC institution, the Khaki Mafia). With the addition of a second guitar, the WSC had never sounded better. A "Dead Kid Town/New Jersey Malls" 45 could, I think, take off (Realistic Records, are you listening?). And the Carlsonics' set (it was actually their CD release party), was a fucking drunken mess, and I mean that in the best possible way. As always, the covers were a highlight: White Rabbit, Baba O' Reilly, and that fantastic Guided By Voices song the title of which I can never remember. I think a headline from the Springfield Shopper says it all: Show Enjoyed By Some.


Homer for President

After surveying the Democratic field for the ’04 presidential primaries, among whom the ostensible frontrunner is Joseph I. Lieberman (the I stands for icky), Elise and I decided that maybe the celebrities running for office trend is maybe not so bad after all. However, it’s hard to think of celebrities who are any more deserving of the presidency than Gephardt et al. Here’s our preliminary list of celebrities who should run for president. Email me, please, if you have any further suggestions.
1. Bernie Mac
2. Anyone with a vagina who is not also Ann Coulter
3. Bruce
4. “Weird” Al
5. Maseo Plug 3
6. Ian Svenonious
7. Johnny Depp as Captain Jack Sparrow from “Pirates of the Caribbean”
8. Sarah Vowell
9. Homer Simpson
10. The late, great Gregory Peck



Tonight the stars are out and innocents are dreaming and cicadas are chirring in the minimal humidity and, for a Monday night, should be right with the world. I’m writing, aren’t I, and this is what I want, isn’t it, and if the answer to both of these questions is yes, then what are these nagging things in my chest like moths blindly battering a naked bulb? Other wants, I guess. Like the want to bend back the bars on the window Superman-style and fly off into the nightlife, to drink too much and smoke too much and talk too much and dance dance dance. Like the want to throw myself in front of time’s onrushing locomotive so that one of us will have to end. Like the weird urge to read dumb webpages, scour the alley, lie on the carpet and pretend to be thinking—anything to avoid facing down the page, to avoid disappearing into that rabbit-hole where I go when I write, the one from which I’m writing now. There are moments when your senses dilate and the soul gets free of your ribcage: love moments, sex moments, music moments, church moments, nature moments. This is not one of those moments for me, when really, that's what I'm burning for.