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I Know My Mind Is Made Up
Grammys: The Police sounded good (hearing Stewart's drums really makes it seem like everything is going to be all right with the world, somehow) but played for such a short time that I kept the TV on in case they came back. I typed up novel stuff and listened to iTunes, mostly. Was momentarily distracted by Shakira (guh) and my love Christina (DAMN that girl can sing. And she was rockin' the white suit) but mostly I missed it. Not sure how I feel about the Dixie Chicks stormin' the castle like that; I'm a big fan of theirs, but this album is a big upswing on the self-righteous scale, and the music suffers. One of the first things I noticed was that they'd written ALL of the songs. This is a problem because in past albums they did songs by folks like Jim Lauderdale and Lloyd Maines (yeah, Natalie's dad) and Patty effin' Griffin. Great songs, interspersed with the Chicks' own compositions, which were earnest if not as interesting. Which was what the new album turned out to be, sadly. It's good to see some props given for not keeping one's mouth shut, true, and I don't even know who else was nommed, really--I know that they're better than Carrie Underwood and Rascal Flatts, at least.
Yesterday there was a crazy dude at the coffee shop. Actually, I've seen him there before several times, but never with the crazy cranked up all the way. He kept insisting on engaging people in conversation; he had sort of a polite approach, and most people are polite by default, so he had a lot of victims available. He'd take an interest in them ("Oh, are you in school? Oh, where did you get your degree?") until he could relate it back to his fixation with how Jesus is our savior and Ronald Reagan was his prophet. He would keep on until his audience either ignored him or walked away, and then he wandered around drinking his cold coffee, with his hands trembling, scribbling stuff into a notebook. (Incidentally, a woman who visits the coffee shop just about every day spent this entire time snoring in one of the chairs, just as she does every evening. I'm not sure what her story is, but her odor is such that the spaces around her are usually deserted even when the rest of the place is packed.) It occurred to me, between snippets of overheard craziness (One guy asked him where he lived, and he replied "I live in the trees, I always have.") that most people don't have much experience dealing with crazy people. Like, maybe a weird aunt, but not genuinely mentally ill people. Another point in favor of my time spent working at the Rathskeller, where I dealt with deeply disturbed people every day. One woman--one of the harmless ones--spent ten minutes at the cashier stand telling us that her hands were on backwards. Some were just homeless guys who liked to wander the Terrace picking up "dead soldiers" i.e. unfinished beers. Most weren't actually dangerous, although the Fisher King (so-called for the fishing pole he always carried) did shove me once as we were escorting him off the premises. But it occurs to me that maybe most people are insulated from these sorts of folks, so don't notice them or know how to deal with them.
New Secret City excerpt up. Garbage gangs, this time. Enjoy.
Yesterday there was a crazy dude at the coffee shop. Actually, I've seen him there before several times, but never with the crazy cranked up all the way. He kept insisting on engaging people in conversation; he had sort of a polite approach, and most people are polite by default, so he had a lot of victims available. He'd take an interest in them ("Oh, are you in school? Oh, where did you get your degree?") until he could relate it back to his fixation with how Jesus is our savior and Ronald Reagan was his prophet. He would keep on until his audience either ignored him or walked away, and then he wandered around drinking his cold coffee, with his hands trembling, scribbling stuff into a notebook. (Incidentally, a woman who visits the coffee shop just about every day spent this entire time snoring in one of the chairs, just as she does every evening. I'm not sure what her story is, but her odor is such that the spaces around her are usually deserted even when the rest of the place is packed.) It occurred to me, between snippets of overheard craziness (One guy asked him where he lived, and he replied "I live in the trees, I always have.") that most people don't have much experience dealing with crazy people. Like, maybe a weird aunt, but not genuinely mentally ill people. Another point in favor of my time spent working at the Rathskeller, where I dealt with deeply disturbed people every day. One woman--one of the harmless ones--spent ten minutes at the cashier stand telling us that her hands were on backwards. Some were just homeless guys who liked to wander the Terrace picking up "dead soldiers" i.e. unfinished beers. Most weren't actually dangerous, although the Fisher King (so-called for the fishing pole he always carried) did shove me once as we were escorting him off the premises. But it occurs to me that maybe most people are insulated from these sorts of folks, so don't notice them or know how to deal with them.
New Secret City excerpt up. Garbage gangs, this time. Enjoy.
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Police announcment
(Anonymous) 2007-02-13 07:48 pm (UTC)(link)http://www.thepolicetour.com/exclusives/video.php
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