Thursday, October 25, 2007
* It's on the House *
Last night was the Caribou gig.
I spent my first say petrified. My landlord's son took me to the grocery store where I was just intimidated and very aware that I was eating up his time. I spent breakfast with Otto and then attempted to have a bath. I hate baths because they are always too hot and then you have to wait ages for them to cool. Showers are just so much faster. Given that the apartment is the attic the shower is too short even for an oompaloompa. I then went grocery shopping and spent a while trying to work out the dial up connection. Stupid dial up. Here goes my attempts to steal wireless internet. The internet should be free.
I then went to meet Farris. I walked down to the tracks, I knew they were south on 400 or something like that and I just walked west until I found a station. I was approached by a hooded figure that scared me slightly. He had red eyes and was carrying a bottle of water that had been emptied and the contents switched for something a lot stronger than water. He asked to borrow my cell phone, and after i told him it was British and wouldn't reall work (I lied, but it would be so expensive), he proceeded to talk to me for ages and ages about Scotland and Utah and he gave me his life story. Well close to it.
He was from Maryland and he was paying about $1000 a month to share a studio apartment. He managed to get in contact with old friends on myspace and one girl in particular was living in Utah with her husband and she suggested he move out here where it's a bit cheaper. So he did. He really was a nice guy. It turns out the red eyes were caused by a sty. Although he did ask if I smoked weed at one point. He gave me his number. I doubt i'll ever use it though. Nice guy called Nick.
I met Farris in temple square where we bumped in to Pauline Campbell, same old Pauline. I almost cried when I saw her though just because I had been so sad and so alone. But I knew her. I knew Farris too I suppose.
Farris was meeting a random family and so he asked if the head of the family would give me a lift to my gig. He agreed and they dropped me off at 10 to 9. The gig was supposed to start at 9, but the doors didn't even open until 9:30. I tried to make conversation with the other eager waiters, but nothing happened. I went in to the venue and after chatting to the guy on the door about the greatness of 1983, nestled myself in a booth, where I stayed during the support band.
Before locating and pitching camp at the booth I ordered a cranberry juice which I was told was on the house. That actually happens, it's not ficticious.
While sitting waiting for the bands to play there was a boy with a number 11 shirt. There was a writer who was tense and eager (and later I learned wanted to document his normal life like he was still travelling... he needed to let go of the summer). There was a hot boy with semi floppy hair, and a hat - he also wore trainer socks that reminded me of Peter Couper. There were many people. But that which outweighed the people was the cigarette smoke. In a state based on mormonism and the word of wisdom it was strange to see smoking in doors. It was as if it was a final stand or something. Even although if they banned smoking indoors it would be for health reasons and nor mormonism. Look at Britain and Ireland, look at L.A. and New York. It makes sense.
Caribou played and I stood near the front. I have never seen anything like it. There was one boy in front of me... the boy with the number 11 shirt and he had a tattoo on his arm that looked like a sun set and stick men. He was hot from the back. I totally fancied the back of his head.
Dan Snaith gave the gig his all and more. I have never seen anyone with that much passion and life before. It was truely a treat and I am so glad that I never missed it. When they played Brahminy Kite I almost died.
After the gig I had the guy on the door call me a cab and I ended up chatting to him and the randoms that I originally wanted to talk to while waiting outside in the beginning. One of them said he liked my bag. It was nice of him.
I chatted to the taxi driver and asked him where he was from. He told me here. But then I asked him where his accent was from and he told me somewhere eastern (i've forgotten), and that he had only been here for seven years. It's funny that in a country where the actual residents want to be the nationality of their ancestors the new additions are happy to be American.
I walked from the taxi to my front door with the sprinklers at my feet and the cool breeze calming down the desert streets. It was beautiful.
posted by: Vikki Miller @ 1:55 AM
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