Tweens sneak into the 18+ side of Hamilton’s from time to time, sure, but one of the diehards who would most benefit from a spot at the front of the stage on All-Ages Nites won’t get the chance. Because everybody, absolutely everybody, knows he’s just 16.
They call him Word List.
Word List’s dad is keen to get his progeny into the nearest big-deal university (maybe even the college on the hill, but we suspect WLD is shooting even higher). The boy’s been prescribed a steady diet of vocabulary exercises, so as to up his SAT scores when the time comes.
But what Word List really wants to do is rock.
When a hot local band beckons, the wordbound youth attempts an escape. Pretends to be studying in his room or (while he could still get away with that charade) the library, then hops a bus from the suburbs.
Unfortunately for him, the direction in which he flees is all too clear. Blame our tight-knit, three-club music scene. The boy can barely settle into a seat at the juice bar before you hear a booming voice yelling his name. This wild call of the wounded Word List Dad can cut through the din of the most punkiest band. (Guess we ought to consult a few word lists ourself, huh?) The cringing child sloughs off home to receive his punishment.
Some of us in the scene have experienced this awkward encounter so many times that we’ve flat-out asked Word List why he still bothers.
“This is where it matters,” he says, and he says it again. “This is where it matters.”
Nice choice of words.

Spent all my money (after rent) on music. Couldn’t help myself.

Kids on a Crime Spree, We Love You So Bad
If Buddy Holly had lived, he would’ve gone to college (Jean-Paul Sartre 2), darkened his mood (“I Don’t Want to Call You Baby, Baby”) and continued to mess around in the studio (“Trumpets of Death”). But however fuzzy and musty he’d get, he’d still be chirpy and winsome.

Dentist yesterday. I’d broken my “flipper” (fake front tooth) and needed a new one.
It’s a curious procedure. The dentist and assistants rush into the room with a warm wad of bright yellow putty, freshly boiled, and shove it into your mouth before it has time to cool. Then they stick a horseshoe-shaped mold in there and urge you “Don’t bite down!”
I was picking yellow guck out of my teeth for hours. Brought up memories of eating playdough as a child.
But the real image I carry away from the experience is of dentists rushing around. The whole dental appointment thing is usually so sedentary—someone dressed austerely in white painstakingly picking at your mouth, having a leisurely one-sided conversation.
This, on the other hand, was like some weird new sport, like they’d have on some embarrassing TV competition. How fast can you fill the mouth with yellow goo?
The tooth fairy is mortified.

Billy coffee wants to be a pop star so he can live his dream—of owning a chain of coffee shops.
“All I need is one hit record,” he explains. “I would know exactly how to invest that money,” says the idealistic caffeinator. It sounds like a chemical high, but Billy (who’s not to be confused with Jimmy Bean, another local barista with pop star dreams) has it all mapped out. Coffeeshops figure in every step of the process.
“You record live at the shop during open mics,” he proposes, “or after hours, when it’s quiet. You sell the music through a network of shops.
“And you drink lattes while listening.”
The sticking point (besides the spilled sugar on the countertops) is finding music which will enthrall the average coffeeshop patron. “No problem,” Billy says. “It’s world jazz. World jazz is like Columbian beans—the great common denominator.”
Asked to name three worthwhile world jazz acts in our area that he can exploit, Billy pauses… then offers us a cup of coffee on the house.

Strangely quiet out there tonight. A no-name open mic at the Bullfinch, a private party at Hamilton’s and—whoa!—great thundering metal rampage at D’Ollaire’s with Edmontosaurus, Monoclonius and Chasmo…

A care package from home: rent money and socks.

Brontosaurus, Cold Comes to Claim.
If Sting was still as cool as he was in the late ‘70s, and still doing Brecht like he was in the ‘80s, he might have evolved into Brontosaurus instead of wispy luteman.

I’ve been putting yeast in my sourdough. I had a spate of flat loaves a few months back. It’s all in the timing—if it sits too long, sourdough will lose its will to rise. Other than a telltale grayish hue it sometimes takes on when it’s feeling listless, you can’t really tell if your sourdough is going to come out of the oven puffy or flat. A lot of the sourdough rising process happens in the oven.
So now, if I’m scared it won’t rise, I add yeast.
Is that cheating?
People who think using yeast with sourdough is cheating had better not be cooking in electric ovens, that all I can say. Freeze-drying was one of the greatest contributions top civilization since…
Electric ovens?
Sure. That’s what I tell myself anyway. But when I find more time in the fall, I’m going to be eschewing the yeast again, and mastering this whole no-additive thing.

Undone by a toy pig- shaped pump- battery flashlight that couldn’t be turned off. Zanella (the pretensious band with an unreproduceable accent over the final “a”) needed a flute on a song, and had a chart made up by some college musician on the hill. The notes were in pencil, and too small and scritchy to read in dim light. So, a few minutes before the gig, band member Agafya rummaged through her purse and found a toy flashlight she’d been saving as a gift for one of her kids.
First they couldn’t figure out how to work it. Then they couldn’t clip it anywhere. Then they had to get a fan from the audience to hold it. Then it crapped out anyway. There’s no light in flutes. Greasy pigs are easier to handle.

Trice Rat Ops at the Bullfinch, with Toro and Saurus… a particularly weed-friendly strain of world rock at The Moas and Limn O’Scelis at Hamilton’s…Paludis at D’ollaire’s. Why?…

While I was in my hole, Mar climbed a tree and we just sat by ourselves for hours.