Pauline made some needed changes to my blog today… now you can check out some of the blogs I read over there—->. Also some of my crazy trip reports and stuff.

Pretty soon, I hope, we will get some Poptarticus TShirt action going. I am sure you’ll ALL want one. What should I put on the back (if anything?) I want to get them made in time for Spoon’s show so I can give one to

WAIT JUST A SECOND. I AM NOT GOING TO MENTION ANY NAME HERE. DO YOU THINK HE WILL PICK IT UP IF I THROW IT AT HIM?

Tomorrow night will be a fun one. Pink Martini is coming! I am going to eat some ice cream tonight in anticipation of burning it off. San Diego sucks for live shows but when bands do come, we often get to see them in more intimate spots. Like, tonight Pink Martini is at the ginormous Hollywood Bowl, but tomorrow I get to see them at the smallish Belly Up in Solana Beach were I can get all in their face and shit. I’m sure China Forbes has heard girls scream her name on many an occasion, but not with the same ferocity as moi. She’s enough to make a girl go whatever. (Laurie Bushman, you’all know what I’m talking about… I’ll miss you tomorrow for sure!)

I know you are all just dying to know if there were fireman at the Fireman’s ball. But seriously, my computer is overheating, and I am not sure I can make it that far. It doesn’t seem hot, but it IS. This morning when I went out for my morning walk I thought I was having a hot flash! But I think I am still too young for that. I hope. At any rate it really is hot. Flashingly.

The other day I posted an entry about the end of the world and I got a really heartfelt and time consuming comment from one of my readers. But, I had to pull the entry down, because it was pretty sad and negative and let’s face it, we don’t need that right now. We need to take the community feeling we’ve got going and intensify it – and not think about the future or lack there-of. Still, I felt bad deleting the comment more than the entry, because someone actually took the time to write that, for me and my other readers. It’s not so easy to write stuff like that, believe me. The cool thing is, this comment I got, and some comments from my mom, made me see through my own bullshit, whether or not I “had” to write it or not. This is the weird thing about having a blog. I mean, what the fuck is this thing? It’s not a music blog, or a travel blog, or a food blog. It’s ME. Everyday I look at how many people have had a look and think about the numbers, but holy cow, those numbers may be really reading what I am writing!

It’s really hard to be entertaining and to write kind of well and to not spill your personal anxieties and nastinesses all over, but it’s also almost impossible, since this is pretty much a diary written for the entertainment of others. Where to draw the line?

Since we are getting close again, I can say this: and I don’t care about fucking punctuation; sometimes it is so hard to be entertaining. But other times when I think I can’t write, like I felt tonight, I just sit down and write. And sometimes it works.

Well then. It’s still really hot.

On another note, and one that I am sure EVERYONE will be thrilled about, Spoon is COMING TO SAN DIEGO! That’s right, Britt Daniel will be here, and at Canes, a little postage stamp of a club right down the street in Mission Beach, where I can try not to get too close because I will just look like an aging groupie, even though everyone will try to talk me into talking to him. (I won’t talk to him. I’d be too scared, also I’ll most likely be drunk, and I know not to open my mouth in these situations. One of the good things about age.) I got FOUR tickets because let’s face it, one is not enough. The show is not until November 18, and my solemn vow is to not mutter one mention of Britt Daniel on this blog until at least October 3. Not one! Except this one:

The Dandy Warhols have a new album coming in a couple of days and the title is really stupid but the record is GREAT. It’s like the old Dandy’s, the Dandy’s of 13 Tales of Urban Bohemia, one of the best records ever made in, like, 2000. You can listen to the record before it is released here. I love it… and must really have Britt Daniel on my mind because in “All the Money or the Simple Life Honey” all I can hear is Britt Daniel’s voice… not Courtney Taylor-Taylor’s. Not ALL the lyrics, but for sure some of them… Courtney loves Britt too, I can see that. How could he not? YEAH. UH HUH.

Now I promise, not one word, until at least October 3, about Britt Daniel. Maybe, by then, I’ll have a different obsession. Sorry about the randomness, I must admit, I am getting a bit lax with the run-ons. But you can take it, or you wouldn’t have got this far.

I dreamed of Montreal, a city I have never been to. I rode the city bus looking for a place called Savage something but I rode the bus too far and ended up downtown and then outside the city gates. Outside, there was a canyon and at the bottom of the canyon, a shallow lake of turquoise water. There were all kinds of animals down there, like water buffalo and emus, and there were dolphins swimming in the lake.

Then I went back through the city gate. Somewhere in there, I was with my boyfriend from a million years ago, Chris Albano, and when I said I wanted to stay another day, he offered to drive me back to San Diego. In my dream this would only take eight hours. We drank wine in a bar called The Vine. (There’s an easy one.) We ate in an Italian restaurant and drank a really good bottle of wine and the waiter was really cute. Then we went to a square with a giant church made of Istrian marble, and an ancient Roman structure. The dream went on and on. I saw an awful lot of the Montreal in my head. Maybe I’ll go to the real Montreal someday and wonder, hey, what happened to that square?

Are there firemen at a Fireman’s Ball?

I’ll check it out and let you know later.

Dear Shannon,

This is your neighbor here. I feel I have to tell you, that you have totally gone over the line. The reason is, all you ever listen to is Spoon and I can’t take it anymore. You think I am a bad neighbor and write nasty things about me and hate me and stuff but YOU are the twisted one. I hate to break it to you but there is a lot of other really great music to listen to like Usher and Hilary Duff. Give me a break! I can’t take any more Spoon! Everytime I hear the opening of My Mathmatical Mind, like eight thousand times a day I just want to VOMIT. And when I think you are going to stop playing Gimme Fiction for a while, you just start playing Kill the Moonlight, Girls Can Tell, even A Series of Sneaks! I can’t fucking take it anymore. You’ve always handled your other obsessions well, except for that Arcade Fire thing around Thanksgiving but thankfully I went to Costa Rica and missed the worst of it. Seriously I am concerned about your mental health. What’s so great about Britt Fucking Daniel anyway? Usher at least has a killer body. The past few days I thought maybe you were getting over it but today, all day, all fucking day nothing but SPOON, SPOON, SPOON. And you don’t think I can hear, but when you play those KCRW sessions on your computer I can totally hear them. You are watching them too, aren’t you, you whack job. Get some help, seriously, an intervention is needed. Next time I come home at 2:00 A.M. and make a lot of noise remember! Remember what a bad neighbor you are, even the mailman is sick of Spoon!

Sincerely,
Elefant

An interesting review of Chow! Venice has appeared on amazon.com. Whenever I see there is a new review I get a little freaked, though by now I have learned you can’t please all of the people all of the time. This review? I guess we are hindered by our own success. I WISH!

I am glad to know about the “hordes” of people carrying Chow! around Venice, but as we only printed 3500 copies, I am kind of wondering how many of the 3500 people who have a copy were in Venice when this guy was. Twelve? That would be AWESOME.

Anyhow he still gave us four stars while complaining at the same time, mostly about other Americans. A very odd review. It’s not so much that it is a bad feeling about a bad review, but more that it was a good review with a bad feeling. Or something like that. You’ll get the idea. Sorry that I’ve created a bunch of screaming, obnoxious American tourists and sent them to all your favorite places.

I love, love, love my good friend Colleen. It’s weird how people show up in your life and then never leave. This is what happened with Colleen, and it is because it is totally and karmically meant to be. It’s so awesome and cool that I am one of the lucky ones karmically connected to Colleen. Lucky me!

Colleen is the best kind of friend. She is totally cool, supportive and fun. Plus she likes to do things like go to Sicily and drink wine on balconies when everyone else thinks it is too cold. Also, she is always, and I mean always, thinking of others. Way more than me, that is for sure.

If I ever move to Northern Spain I want Colleen to come with me, at least for part of the time. But in the meantime, we are going to celebrate her birthday here. That’s right, we’ll be partying with non other than Wayne Fucking Coyne. But who cares about Wayne when Colleen Alley will be on the ship?

Whateves. She probably won’t even read this for awhile but Colleen, when you do, I love you, sister.

Yesterday at exactly 3:00 P.M. my phone rang. The caller ID had a Georgia number, so I figured it to be a work related call.

On the other end, a woman’s voice said “Shannon? Listen” and then, La Marangona! The bell that rings in the Campanile in Venice at midnight. My favorite bell in the universe.

I was trying to figure out why a Georgia number would be calling me from Venice to let me hear the Marangona. It was a little perplexing. It turned out to be Nan McElroy, who lives in Venice and wrote a book called “Italy, Instructions for Use.” She CALLED me just so I could hear the bells and I don’t even KNOW her. Is that cool or what?

Next time I will be more prepared and less surprised, and I’ll just listen. It could get addicting.

Nan writes a blog about her experiences as a resident, and you can listen to La Marangona here.

It made me homesick for Venice listening to La Marangona. But instead, I am headed for Baja this weekend for the Vendimia and a lot of wine-soaked experiences involving priests and bullfighters. Be sure to check in Monday and I’ll report back what I can remember.

There are a few things I want to write about tonight. The first thing is the emails and comments I got from readers who have been following whats been going on this last week. Seriously, sometimes I have no idea who is reading this thing. Thank you to everyone who sent me, verbally or electronically, love and support. It is appreciated and, well, it just makes me feel good.

Now I am back in OB and the skies are clearing of fog, but it seems like Fall is here already. We’ve somehow skipped summer even though it is not over yet! And the noise level of the last couple of days had me thinking – is it a full moon?

Well, yes, as I saw tonight since there is no fog, it is indeed almost a full moon. During the full moon, the noise level rises, and the freaks come out. Last month was a record month for the freaks but this month the noise makers are winning.

I guess I have to vent a tiny bit here. A few months ago, a family from Texas moved in next door to me. There is a wall seperating us, but I might as well be living in their house. They have a dog that barks, a phone on the highest volume, and a daughter who, I kid you not, has the loudest voice in these United States. She is making my life hell and I am too nice to do anything about it.

Why is that? I just lay in bed at midnight suffering while she bellows “Daddy” and drones on about the most inane shit and I have to listen, listen, listen. It would be OK if it was more interesting eavesdropping. But it is eighteen year old (and the stupidest and lamest eighteen year old) complaining and whining. No good stuff in there. It just bugs.

Today I was working here, and I hear screaming over there. It went on for TWO HOURS. Homegirl got her car taken away, and she was SCREAMING at her mother about it. It went on and on. At one point, I screamed out my front door, into their house six feet away, “GIVE HER THE FUCKING CAR SO SHE WILL SHUT UP.” But they didn’t hear me! It’s useless dealing with the Clueless. But I am thinking of moving to Galicia in Northern Spain, and these people are helping me to make up my mind.

So what else? There’s that bad heroin that is killing youngsters in New York City. There are numerous plane crashes. And then there is the bling.

In the current issue of Rolling Stone, there is an article about bling with interviews with a bunch of hip hop guys. The amount of money spent on diamonds and gold (and cubic zirconia) is pretty astounding. What is up with these diamond teeth and shit? And these five pound diamond bracelets? I’d like to think everyone thinks it just looks ridiculous, but there is a whole group of people that think that shit is cool.

I’m not trying to diss on this whole bling phenomenon. I’m just thinking, and expressing. And here is what I think: that in a couple of years, the whole bling in hip hop thing will be over, the movement/fad/setback turned to dust by that new revolution – the hip hop folksters. I can see it now – the new talent of hip hop, pissed off and horrified by the excess and obnoxiousness of the current hip hop stars, getting back to the grass roots of music and forgetting the bling. I foresee a hip hop Ani DiFranco. Hippie Hop. The pendulum will swing, and Tiffany’s will be pissed. Well maybe not pissed but their stock will certainly go down. And then, real tits will be back in style. Watch. It’s right there, just waiting…

How do I even start to explain the last 36 hours?

Funny, and kind of harsh, that the show/religious experience of the year would be on the day following a good friends death. I was still in shock when I left for L.A. in the morning yesterday. Slowly, it all started to hit me. Slowly, then rapidly.

The slow part was all day, while I zigzagged from downtown L.A. to Beverly Hills, back downtown, then to Westwood. I’d feel it in my stomach, then try to put it away and focus on the road. Finally my sales calls were done and made my way to Hollywood and checked into the Motel 6 off Hollywood Boulevard, where I stay when I can’t justify the Best Western Hollywood Hills, which is pretty much all summer. The Motel 6 off Hollywood Boulevard is like staying in jail, but it is only $59.95 a night. This way I can justify going out to a $40 dinner. See, I have the whole financial thing down. Yeah.

Not wanting to hang out in the room, and needing to eat, I walked up to a French bistro place on the Boulevard. This was a sketchy choice, but it turned out well. I sat outside, drank some Merlot, and watched a pregnant spider weave a web between a lamp post and a tree. That was some seriously trippy shit. I have never seen a spider weave a web before. The spider would lower itself way down, spinning the piece of web, then climb back up and fasten it to the pole and then the tree. My waiter was really cute and when he came out I showed him the spider. He told me some fascinating tidbits about spiders and webs. I ate some roast chicken and pommes frites. It was really good and I will never be skinny because I like French fries too much.

When I got the bill the waiter said, hey, you don’t have to go you know. You can hang out. And I was like, I have to go to a show. And he was like, Oh. Was this really young, cute waiter HITTING on me? Must have been because I noticed the spider.

By the time I got back to my room to change for the show it was already 8:00 and the doors were opening at the Avalon. When I got there, 20 minutes later, I was shocked to see the opening act, Anima, was on and the club was already packed. Normally, I would have barreled right up to the front, but somehow I knew (and I am still functioning on a sort of auto-pilot) that I could not go out into that mass of bodies. I was unsure of myself and what I might do. Auto-Shannon directed me up the stairs to the balcony, and Auto-Shannon made me sit up high, looking down, with a wrought iron railing in front of me. I had a clear view of the stage. I kept my hands on the railing. Hot room, cold iron. Rapid was rapidly coming. Pretty soon, Sigur Ros would come on. Two nerdy guys below me looked up at me from the floor just below. One of them said, “on Labor day weekend, you have to come to the PLAYA.” I was like, what the heck are you talking about? He’s all “go to Burning Man dot com. It’s like a totally interactive FESTIVAL.” I said, well, I already have plans for that weekend… “NEXT year,” both guys say. Already I am getting more attention than is normal for me. Is grief an aphrodisiac?

While all this is going on, I am sedate. Normally I would be peeing my pants in anticipation. There is colored smoke slowly filling the theater.

Sigur Ros began their show behind a white screen. Three orange lights glowed, and the music began. The shadows of the band looked huge on the screen, and 10 seconds into that first song, I totally lost it. All I had held in all day was dust. The floodgates opened, and it was all I could do to keep my shoulders from shaking too much, but probably everyone around me, if they noticed, thought I sure was happy to be seeing Sigur Ros.

The bottom line is, if I wasn’t crying for Nancy, and for myself, I still would have been crying. Because the music of Sigur Ros is so transcendant, so beautiful, so lush, and so magical that it demands emotion. It defies classification. It is, basically, love and the end of the world blown into your brain. I was prepared to be blown away, and I was. Totally. And I was shocked by the total devotion of the entire crowd. I have NEVER seen an L.A. crowd so quiet, so intent and so respectful as at this show.

A few songs into the show, Anima, a quartet of young women, joined Sigur Ros, a quartet of young men, on stage with their violins. The singer of Sigur Ros plays an electric guitar with a violin bow. I can’t even begin to describe this sound. It is an other-worldly Arctic scream. My tears stopped eventually and I began to get itchy to get closer. At one point, the band stopped playing – froze- during a song. They literally froze, holding their instruments in whatever position they’d been in. The entire club was completely silent for at least thirty seconds. A thousand people seemed to be holding their breath. It was remarkable.

Finally some asshole (and there is always at least one in a crowd of a thousand) shouts OW! Five hundred people shush him. The band starts up again. Wow.

Towards the end of the show, I decided I had to get down on the floor. By the time I got down there the set was done, and it was time for the encore. This is when the second trippy thing of the evening happened.

The Avalon bartenders make a very weak drink. A vodka soda there is like an eight dollar cup of water. I don’t even know why I even bother. But I do. So I stopped at the bar for a drink before I headed on to the floor. The guy behind the bar was distracted, and barely even looked at me. But he proceeded to pour me an entire glass of Absolute Mandarin vodka, then sprayed maybe a half ounce of soda in it. It was like, he poured me all the Vodka I’ve paid for at the Avalon but never got, into one eight ounce plastic cup. “Nancy?” I thought, and looked up. It was the weirdest thing.

I took my giant vodka and shimmied my way through the crowd to the second row just in time for the encore. Now I was close, and it was pretty incredible, let me tell you. One thing that struck me was how young they all were, or seemed to be. And how talented and in control they were. It was the most amazing, and beautiful experience. Four violins, a keyboardist, a bassist, a drummer beating the shit out of his drums, slowly, and a Jesus-like singer playing a guitar with a violin bow. Out of control sublime. I know today, and I will know forever, that this night and Nancy’s death were meant to be together, for me. I was passionate about Sigur Ros before. Now the music goes even deeper. Way, way, way down. Up, too.

Sigur Ros and Anima came out and did two curtain calls, bowing like they were in a revival of “Hair.” It was so sweet and they totally glowed. It’s enough to make a girl up and move to Iceland. I was stunned and touched by the whole experience, and shockingly, left a half glass of straight vodka on a table on my way out.

It was on the way out that the final thing of weirdness occured. Leaving the theater, I could have sworn I saw none-other than Britt fucking Daniel. He was like, right NEXT to me. But it couldn’t have been, right? If it was he has a lot of acne scars, and he was with a chick. (Bastard.) But maybe it was really him? If I find out he was at that show, I am going to freak.

Tomorrow I am going to New Mexico for the memorial. Onward.