May 7th, 2010


No Spit

The "poetry" that kept occurring to me as I thought about attending a special event last night was a lyric from the record I traded to my brother (for a Sonny & Cher l.p., I believe) when he was unloading his "uncool" records. (I picked up all his Barry Manilow then, too. Cheap.) I'd liked the band's cover of "Locomotion," but he was a better fit for the "harder" stuff, like the hit with the lines I'm thinking of:

We're coming to your town
We'll help you party down

You know it? You old? Or is that one they've recycled in pop culture? Seems likely it would be.

Gee I used a lotta scare quotes in that first paragraph above.

"Grand Funk Railroad," I submit, is right up there in the most dated-sounding of band names.

So yeah, they were coming to my town, the revival of Sister Spit. Felt very much like that, with the van of gender-queer-core-y yet retro-lesbo-feminist and even queer-cine-celeb coastal spoken word stalwarts driving into Ann Arbor to do some of their thing for us. And after much waffling right up to deadline, I skipped it. Pulled some garlic mustard, wrote some email and a letter, took it easy. And no regrets. I knew that the second I finally took the decision.

Guess it'll be sometime later on that I make my first visit to the town gay bar under the smoke-free dictate.

It's pouring rain today, which is Friday. Steady all-day rain. The practice part of softball practice-and-potluck tonight will almost surely be washed out.

Enough. Back to work. Trot to the finish.