The Blood Arm: Born in the U.S.A.
The Metro is pretty fucking great. Like, pour-yourself- a-glass-of-fine-red-wine-rub-satsuma-scented-lotion-all-over-your-body-no-time-for- kissing-no-need-for-protection-take-you-on-as-a-lover-and-your-friend-can- come-too, that kind of great. (The lotion must be checked-in and packed in the hull, it's not allowed in the passenger cabin, okay?) The band was on fire, and people brought me belated birthday presents. I could live in last night's show at the Metro, methinks. I'd have to make sure it had central heating and air-conditioning first, though. Also, a bathtub.
Nathaniel and I were led over to our dear friend Teri's husband Ben's poker night afterwards, at which we lost loads of money, drank too much, and totally snobbed out about music with our hosts. The pub we were at--the name of which I can't recall at the moment--is of the sort where persons are ejected for requesting Smokey Robinson records. (The Smokey Robinson ejection actually happened, though the booted gent requested the song sort of violently. The collective response by those at our table was, "Smokie Robibson? Come on.") The evening eventually devolved to the point where we were arm-wrestling to determine the superiority of one band over another. Billy Joel triumphed over the Stones and the Faces and the Kinks. Bruce Springsteen is the greatest musician ever. It was a good night for the USA, basically.
All this recent homosocial behavior has filled me with an angsty demeanor and a musky scent. I need more balance, more Woman in my life. Perhaps Dyan will teach me to knit soon, or my sister will bake with me... (Classy, attractive, well-rounded ladies are welcome to lend a hand in my re-feminization as well. Must be 18 or older to apply.)
I must run now... I love you at the MacBeth tomorrow night.
Ben Lee
Nathaniel and I were led over to our dear friend Teri's husband Ben's poker night afterwards, at which we lost loads of money, drank too much, and totally snobbed out about music with our hosts. The pub we were at--the name of which I can't recall at the moment--is of the sort where persons are ejected for requesting Smokey Robinson records. (The Smokey Robinson ejection actually happened, though the booted gent requested the song sort of violently. The collective response by those at our table was, "Smokie Robibson? Come on.") The evening eventually devolved to the point where we were arm-wrestling to determine the superiority of one band over another. Billy Joel triumphed over the Stones and the Faces and the Kinks. Bruce Springsteen is the greatest musician ever. It was a good night for the USA, basically.
All this recent homosocial behavior has filled me with an angsty demeanor and a musky scent. I need more balance, more Woman in my life. Perhaps Dyan will teach me to knit soon, or my sister will bake with me... (Classy, attractive, well-rounded ladies are welcome to lend a hand in my re-feminization as well. Must be 18 or older to apply.)
I must run now... I love you at the MacBeth tomorrow night.
Ben Lee
Labels: Bruce Springsteen, London
posted by BLOOD AMBITION 2008 at 8:45 AM
2 Comments:
I HATE YOU ALL FOR BEING LONDON WITHOUT ME. AND YOU NEVER THANKED ME PUBLICLY FOR GIVING YOU YOUR WRITING MUSE BACK, BEN LEE. AND I'M NOT KIDDING. XO GBOTBAAKATAFKAKB
Im so gagging on you coming to sydney australia. the only tunes i get to hear are the ones on myspace! Please i need more more more.
xx Angie xx
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