On Saturday (June 10), C2 and I hosted Graham Moore, his Black Meat partner Travis Travissimo, and the lovely, gore-besotted Bobbie for dinner and libations at the C**** manse. We hadn't been told that it was GM's birthday, so the party had extra resonance and more than a soupçon of zazz. The last time we'd laid orbz on G's scrawny frame he was moments away from a (cosmetically) gruesome traffic mishap; there were no gouts of plasma spewing from his cornea (damn!), but the defensive flenching and stuttering he exhibited later triggered indiscriminate felching and queefing... Those crazy noize kidz! C2 whipped up a batch of her legendary vegan chili (well, it should be shrouded in renown), and the veeg choc peanut butter cake we nabbed from Southern Sweets dismantled all dietary reserve. (Lest I forget, C's plenipotentiary course of homebaked jalapeño cornbread ruled over all dishes-in-waiting.) Travis showed his appreciation by playing Pong on his Razr for eleven straight hours; Bobbie admitted she harbored a desire to bumrush Black Meat and take their twee, Manchester-ish shoegazing asses over. Thy will be done!
Back to reality: Graham gave as good as he received, presenting the new Dead Machines vinyl (can't remember the name of the goddamned thing at the moment) to C2 (#44 of an edition of 500), and tossing Ryke, Frankie López, John Wiese, and Sudden Infant (the oft-clamoured-for reissue of Radiorgasm) discs to yrz impurely. The boy is ambitious, well atop the friggin' ball. Plus, as much as I hate to admit it (check out the delightful Klan alteration he posted on TLASILA's MyS**** site), he's a total pussycat. Ditto T and B!
Okay, enough fucking drool. After dinner, we got fairly plastered. I called Bobbie both "Robin" and "Billie" before I finally got her snake-handling moniker down; she pretended not to notice. Once I'd stopped blushing and apologizing, we walked over to a neighborhood park to cavort on the swings and lob serious Geo. Romero jive. (I prefer Day.) A great evening...
Pics up soon.