My latest drug is "The Fool," this fucking ebullient song by Call and Response. It makes me the happiest person in the world. "This apartment is great!" said Joel last night. "Life is good." Never mind that I've only accomplished a fraction of the things on that to do list. I realized that I had been sort of matter-of-factly staying up until two and three every night, and waking up at eight or nine, with the sun streaming through my wall of windows. So it was probably okay that I didn't get up until 11:30 yesterday, even though our band practice was supposed to start at nine.

We didn't use Olde Club, but our "official" practice space, the basement of Lodge two, which finally came into its own, and proved itself quite appropriate. After cereal, I wandered over there to set up my drums (which had been sitting there in cases for about a month), and by two o'clock we were all assembled, with one improvised mic stand and a full complement of four amps. Chang was there playing House of Dead Dreamcast video games, to lend an air of authenticity, and the mangled spirit of Nori still found its way into the proceedings. We polished "IFA" for a while, scrapping the old verse for a more involved chord sequence (four rather than two) and got closer to the desired techno-funk groove in the dance section. "Rock Song" (which is being called "Rock Song") didn't give us too much trouble, and then we experimented with "Lullaby" for a while before taking a break.

Joel and I came back to the barn for lunch (an apple or so), I wrote some lyric fragments, and called Gabe to talk about formal stuff. Fortuitiously Jocelyn was here, so I gave him to her and he managed to talk her into free desserts. She seemed to make quite an impression. That stuff is all progressing, if slowly. Back to work, this time with Allen joining in on purpley-blue. He found a better way into the rock song, which is probably our tightest number (Radiohead tease notwithstanding), and to "Lullaby." We worked that one for a while, arguing about format. I feel that the opening A section should be considerably longer, allowing each element to fully reveal itself before the next one comes in, and so that it has a more relaxed feel. The groove is so pungent, but then the unexpected shift to 3/4 swing is just sublime. They were afraid the tune would get boring, but Jessie, Elena and Milena debunked that notion. Although the lodgemates had been apprehensive about practicing, they all popped in and bobbed their heads and goatsigned and so on: Nate, Bobby, David avec sa pétite amie. It was a good old rock and roll party. At the end we pulled out "Take-off," and I got to air some of my sillies, although the mic was so low you couldn't really hear them. Joel's bridge broke before we could get very far, but I guess we're going to try to do it tonight anyway.

I went to the opera. Plural. The first was a setting of Christopher Durang play about Naomi ("So few people are true Christians these days. I know I'm not. I'm a psychotic!") in the living room, and was quite entertaining, if the sets gave me subversive thoughts. The second, a product of Swat faculty (including Victorian Poetry prof Nathalie Anderson, who has sent me at least a dozen emails this weekend) had more exciting music, and was more musical in general, had a ridiculous premise that was essentially a half-hour set-up for one mediocre punchline. Maybe if I remembered my Mitologie Classique better I'd appreciate it more. It was worth staying for, though, and may have even been a better piece, despite its flaws.

I happily found Alana and Liza to sit next to me, and the latter followed me home, under the pretext of getting money for Roots tickets. While I assembled a quesadilla très sabrosa avec les sausage andouille (cutting my finger in the process, and improvising a bandage with kleenex and packing tape, elle made peanut butter cookies (using Skippy; she agreed to take the Crazy Richard's off our hands) which, although they came out crumbly and burned (actually, they're a little better with the sun) were fun to impress with forks. We migrated to my room for some old-style sing-a-long action, taking off from Belle and Seb (and our theme song); "Angeles," "Oh Maria," "Here Today, Gone Tomorrow," "Everyday," "Busby Berkely Dreams," "Embraceable You," "Big Yellow Taxi" (complete with triangle sample), "Free Man in Paris," "Beautiful." That stuff's so great. "Nobody writes 'em like they used to."

We pranced around a bit, and then dangled on the sofa with our books (Shakespeare and Pynchon supplanting Dickinson and Frost) and Kruder + Dorfmeister (brilliant), then "Blue Lines." I finished section three and last week's reading, leaving a scant 150 pages for Wednesday. Kabam! Rebecca came in from SQU party, and proceeded to forsake my bed for Ester's (I gather from her website that she went into the city; if not for that I'd be kind of annoyed by that old devil lack of communication.) At about three I woke up and stood in the hallway waiting for R to be out of the bathroom, pouty and asleep. Then I went back to sleep, and eventually Liza left with the money. She and I are pretty much like playmates, I guess. And it's good. Maybe there's still some of that sexual tension, but it's also partly the return to innocence thing. Eighteen till I die.

I just want you to hurt like I do
I just want you to hurt like I do
I just want you to hurt like I do
Honest I do, honest I do, honest I do