Last night was the big show at the Way Out Club. I mean, I guess it was. I was only there 'til 10:30PM for reasons that'll be left undisclosed in this public forum for now. Maybe I'll write a letter about it later. Suffice it to say, it mostly broke my heart that I couldn't see three of my favorite local bands play together, and that I couldn't help with Courtney's video, and that I seem to have needlessly worked my way out of another friendship, for reasons I don't understand. I felt bad also that I wasn't there to see a lot of the people whose presence I requested, and that I had to leave without saying goodbye to anyone, except Bill Michalski. Nor did I get to talk to Jason Hutto, a fellow I much admire and find to be rather the keen character. Thanks so much to anyone who showed up in my absence; it still meant/means a lot to me.
Now, think of a killer earthquake. A 10 on the Richter scale. One that lasts for days. Of apocalyptic proportions, even. When it's over, trees are knocked over, houses are in shambles, huge formerly absent crevasses snake their way across the earth for miles. I feel last night did that sort of thing to my views on rock 'n' roll, St. Louis, and relationships somehow. I'm not ready to enumerate how, though.
Also, to the post I made last night after returning from the (pre-)show, I feel that maybe I should add the names of Pat Weston, Russ Olson and maybe Jason Young. Minus that "I'm sorry" part for them, though, I think.