Infatuation with ghostly electronics, escapism and realism, the work and the skill. Their reflection of themselves in asides and gestures, blacked out backgrounds and sucked upon crab claws. The changing date stamps the only notable, identifiable marker of venue. June 24th at the concert. July 1st on holidays. The red nose and red mouth, a hairstyle frizzed by inflammable paws, and eyes lost to barmen. Only over tea and Jacobs, Big Brother on the television, can separation from reality commence and wholesale imagination take over.
“There were like three of us, and we were sooo leery. You know what I’m saying. She was all over some fella’ and us two were mortified beyond you know what. The suds machine got clogged for a minute and just ‘sploded over herself and the fug, all fuckin’… all fuckin… LIKE CHRISTMAS!?! Jesus, it was hi-larry-us. Like last Christmas at O’ Sullivans, you remember. You remember? You don’t remember nothin’.”