Yesterday one of my friends commented about the new Rock Camp documentary, with the note that she had a crush on STS. I replied that STS is definitely crush worthy, then wandered off without any further reflection.
Somewhere in the night my sub-conscious took up the issue, and I had a long unwieldy dream about trying to get to a show featuring The Haggard, the Curse, Harum Scarum and (a little off in geographical terms but I’ve only seen them play in Portland) Submission Hold.
Now that would be a show – though in real life I would probably be drafted to run the merch tables as opposed to, say, dance in the front row. She-Mo is much more my speed (along with being a favorite of my son) and I was at their last surprise performance in a basement a couple of years ago, but for the most part I avoid live music.
In the dream the effort to get to the concert was epic, and never realized – always just a bit further, later, beyond. When I woke up this morning I was in a funky mood, missing Portland and my friends. Though the dream itself was fairly accurate – STS and I mostly share missed connections and notes left next to breakfast plates at the 19th Street House, always promising next time.
I keep her zine on the boat, the only remnant of that life to have made the cut aside from the latest Craphound (thank you, Chloe) and a few of Stella’s cards. Not much to show for six years in a city, but then again, it has been six years since I left.
The tonic for homesickness is obviously a trip home, but this time the cure is beyond reach. Onward.
Today should be interesting – dinner with locals – and I need to ponder the etiquette of whether or not to take wine.
I just don’t understand the rules here.