So very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very very tired

Red came by for Jesus' Son:

It was Un Festuval du Film chez moi last night. With Sxx et Amanda et Rob: not 2 films. Not 4 films...Mais CINQ films were watched. Among them were Truffeau's first short, some late-model Hal Hartley (beautiful shorts remind you why you'll always love Hal, courtesy the ever-resourceful Sxx) and Ari Gold's short film Helicopter, about the crashing of the helicopter which killed his mother and music legend Bill Graham. Run to his website where you can get your hands on a copy of his heavy, moving, personal and also funny and mighty nicely crafted short film.

skilla's intro is fly...[Et, il est son anniversaire aujourd'hui. je parle seulement en francaise aujourd'hui. Parce que je puis.]

And this happened on the train:

I rarely go to those nyc clubish bars where you enter from a vacant street in the meatpacking district through a nondescript door which is barely lit by a single dangling naked lightbulb. A nonchalant doorman stands outside. If you weren't aware of the club you would assume this person was waiting in the middle of the block outside on a cold night for a woman, or for his dealer, or for it to just keep getting later.

When you get on the other side of that door, you're met by a nightclub version of the power woman : she is beautiful and tall, and her thin arms are empowered with a clipboard and the ability to whisk you inside, or send you back onto the street. Beyond her, the chainsmoking coatcheck person will take your coat for a few dollars and store it in the closet where she will smoke nonstop for the next 7 hours, exhaling onto your coat.

We were there to attend a small party being held in the bar, and so were allowed past the threshold and headed to the stairs leading underground. Music is pumping, the crowd is dancing and or drinking and conversing. The D.J. has a shag haircut. He's been in Cali or London until very recently. It is a small room. It is not a rave. It's just a bar... in a basement. But the walls are wood veneer lit from behind, there are candles and wall sconces and there are always people who dance alone, expressing that they are bored yet entertained. One guy is convinced that pulling his t-shirt up over his left nipple regularly to the beat of the music is the right move for this venue.

The bathrooms are always worth the wait. No, i take that back. They are never worth the wait. The wait for the womens' room always finally ends when a few females in line join fists and pound on the locked door, drawing out the two men that have been in there together for the past 15 minutes. We women make faces at eachother... wondering what was going on in there and why they won't do it in the mens' room?

This bathroom was a 3-dimensional chalk board: all walls and ceilings black slate with chalk provided for temporary grafitti. "I GIVE THIS PLACE ONE MONTH" and "THIS PLACE IS SO 5 MINUTES AGO" are scawled in foot high letters on 2 of the 4 walls. This makes me like this crowd so much more. The fact that at least one these co-loungers here sees it as a silly, contrived event makes it more of a funny game, hanging out here. Less of a night out where one is meant to have fun.