Native

“well. it was your hot dog.” — my mother’s neighbor to her daughter on Friday night. the hot dog has landed her daughter’s significant other in jail … and that’s a story for a less public medium.
anyway, I moved mom’s neighbor’s entire goddamn bead-jewelry store from one rented space to another today. she only packed about half of that shit before we got there this morning. so. many. goddamn beads, dude.  the place is called “La Beada Loca.” like the Ricky Martin song. and I had it in my head all day.

I went to a rock and roll show

there’s a train rolling by right now. it’s really loud. I dig it, the ambiance.
so Neil’s on his way back to the Los Angeles area, if he isn’t there yet. yesterday evening, he and I and his brother and his brother’s friend went and saw Neil’s other brother’s band at that coffeeshop that I saw him at last week. you remember.
the band is loud, man. it’s really loud. Dan hooked me up with a t-shirt (that I’m wearing right now) and an album, which I will talk up, though it’s not really my thing. Matt a decade ago would have been all about this shit, but I’m old and boring now. so I’ll just do it because Dan is legit.
“the kids love them,” Neil says. and they’re on tour right now, and there’s no way any of their shows are gonna cost more than ten dollars a head right now. so if they’re in your town, go, and find out what it is that the kids love. oh yes: they are called Native. go and listen to some loud rock and lots of tempo changes.

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1 comment so far

  1. The Gangster of Love on

    Yes, I want to be “Living LaBeada Loca”! Are there any tight pants involved?


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