When I was younger–much younger–“alternative” music was an obsession. Scouring the French Quarter’s decrepit indie music shops to find copies of albums from flashes-in-the-pan like Strawberry Switchblade, Foetus, and all-time fave Haysi Fantayzee was enough to make me swoon. I can’t really describe the sensation–I’ve never been able to–but it was kind of like what I imagine people must feel when they see Jesus in a tortilla or in the whorls of a goat’s fur. It was as though I had in some way discovered those delicious freaks; it was rare and special and thrilling.
But now there’s a store on Magazine Street called Pink Opaque and I listen to Missy Elliot on ClearChannel radio. Go figure.
…In other news, either I’ve gotten a glitch on my hard drive, or a pesky virus has disabled my entire email Inbox. To paraphrase the craptacular, non-ecstasy-inspiring, one-hit-wonder of the 1990s, Miss Paula Cole, where has all my email gone?
Yippie-yi, yippie-yi…
sturtle [dot] com 