Sinister: inky stinky

[stacey dahling]

Friday, 31 Jan. 2003

Oh dear. That would be me, there, in the center of the dance floor, shaking 
my ass to any one of the fantastic pop hits John played Friday night at 
national pop league; I think it's Emma's House by the Field Mice. My mouth 
is slightly open cause I've been caught singing along, an awful habit.
That boy next to me, that's Matt. Mr lokar. Or whatever he's known as around 
these parts. Gubke? He's obliging me here; that steady gaze is not his usual 
dance face. Were the song, say, Spanish Bombs, he'd be in a blurred frenzy, 
incapable of being captured on still film.
The girl behind me? I'm not sure exactly. But she's there every week, and 
always well dressed. I think her dainty red locks are quintessentially 
Scottish, don't you? And she's always so fashionable. Look at that dress, 
with its tiny white polka dots. I've simply shown up wearing all black, with 
the collar of my green button-down shirt poking through.
Oh, yes. I suppose that would be Stuart over there. He's a funny dancer, 
isn't he? He usually only graces us with his moves for a few select obscure 
old indie hits, but tonight he's got his dancing shoes on, apparently. His 
partner in crime is John from Camera Obscura, who is without his 
characteristic old man's patterned polyester shirt this evening, opting for 
a tight white tee instead. It glows purple in the funny lights of the 
Woodside Social Club.
Can you see the beads of sweat on our forehead? It's hot.
*

I nearly forgot about ink polaroid day, which would have been a shame 
because it's been ages since I've posted here, and I thought it'd be a fine 
excuse to do so. Thank heavens for Ms. Lucy's lovely polaroids. Mmm hmm.
Would it be awful to steal her idea and post more than one?

*
Saturday, 1 Feb. 2003

Can you believe how many people they've managed to squeeze into one tiny 
functions room above the old fasioned Manchester pub? It's hard to tell from 
this distance, but yes, those walls are painted murals of old-fashioned 
hunting scenes. That's me sitting on the red pleather bench against the 
wall, leaning on the table with the emerald green foil covering. The empty 
pint glasses in front of me are not mine, I assure you, for I am too 
exhausted from our 5-hour bus journey to drink. Perhaps that is why I'm 
leaning against Richard's shoulder. He's the adorable boy with the blong 
Beck hair whose face is turned towards the stage to watch his favorite band 
ever, the Mountain Goats. Can you see the sparkle in his blue eyes? Doesn't 
he look happy? Sitting next to him is Stoo! Of the Sinister Congregation, 
Sheffield branch. And next to him is his lovely girlfriend Katie. We ran 
into them downstairs, completely unexpected. Stoo was my very first sinister 
friend, and I hadn't seen him since Nov. 2001, when he abducted me from a 
Lucksmiths gig in Leeds for a few days respite in Sheffield.
Ew. See that guy partially blocking the bottom left side of the shot? Well, 
you can kind of make out his yellow pigtailed hair. He was also wearing pale 
blue jeans with big holes ripped in them; pity you can't see that. The thing 
about this boy was that he didn't seem to have a whispering voice. NO. Thus 
ruining the otherwise perfect gig for all. Nah. But enough to annoy me to no 
end. John, the lead singer, is the one sitting in front of that cascade of 
foil behind the tiny stage. He's American, and talks about fucking posers 
and the Tampa Bay Bucks and other things that make the English giggle. He's 
losing his voice. But can still sing an amazing love ballad called 
International Small Arms Traffic Dealer, or something similar.
Oh yeah. The woman sitting in front of me with the blonde hair and the pale 
blue top with weird tassles at the sleeves - she recognized me and Richard 
the next night, at another gig. She's from Florida but has an English accent 
when she wants. She seems to be dating the most square guy in the room, 
wearing khakies and guzzling down pints as if he's been thirsty for a month. 
Actually, he's only had three beers since New Years. They make him snore.
*

I just got off the phone with an old lady from Motherwell. It appears I'm 
taking the train down there tomorrow to interview her for an article I've 
been working on in a panicked frenzy all afternoon. She goes bloodletting 
every week. Should be fun.
It's been ages since I've felt like this - slight nausea, shaking, hands 
freezing. All the signs that I'm working on a big story. The fear, the 
excitement, the adrenaline. I'd forgotten. Is this what keeps Peter Arnett 
going? John Simpson? Mmmm.
Did we all know the band are going into the studios next month to record an 
album to be released in the fall? That they're going to Spain in May? That 
Camera Obscura are playing here on Valentine's Day and I'm so excited I'm 
going to burst? That Stuart's girlfriend is not as scary as she seems, even 
going so far as to smile at me the other day? That I thought of Honey, and 
all of you, while stuck on the last bus out of town last night, with a boy 
dozing at my side, and a bus driver whistling 'Everything I do, I do it for 
you'?
It's true.


-stacey





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