Showing posts with label music. Show all posts
Showing posts with label music. Show all posts

February tunes

Have you been too busy lately to dig around for cool new tunes? I got you fam.

Here's what's new to me, and awesome:


So very much to tell, so very much to say.

Delorentos - "S.E.C.R.E.T."

Was exchanging random songs with someone earlier--the sort of one-offs that stick in your head forever, becoming part of your secret musical menu. Remembered one in particular I love, which has a neat video, too:

Try not to be singing along by the end of it, I dare ya.

Fri-Ni Jamz, Lake Burton remote edition

Thanks to my inability to sit through a four hour flight without wifi, I was able to crank out a quick FNJ ahead of time, like a real blogger. I literally only have time to hit publish before I gotta stow the lappy for descent. Publish, my little internet elves, publish!

octobre. octobre. octobre.

Can I say how frustrating it is, to not be able to share what I'm doing right now? And that I know how annoying the secrecy is? It's one part paranoia over protecting my interests and two parts resolve to have something impressive to share for once. The paranoia I know is probably unnecessary, because it isn't as if there's a subset of Elliequent readers idling about just waiting to swoop in and steal my next dumb business idea. The resolve I hope is self-explanatory.

I decided to change my approach on a few things in a major way, which has made the whole enterprise a million times more exciting because now I have something truly worthwhile to sell, I think. But that about-face has cost me a lot of time and not a small bit of money, because the equipment I need is so specialized. In fact now I'm at another standstill, while I wait for yet another thing to arrive. Oh my god this vagueblogging is absurd. I'm sorry.


I'm heading back to Lake Burton on Wednesday. My dear friend Bill hasn't been quite up to speed lately, so unfortunately it falls on me to go to one of the most beautiful places I've ever been, smack dab in the middle of leaf-peeping season (we timed my visit to the exact week the foliage is projected to be at its peak), and kick his octogenarian butt back into high gear. I mean I don't know where he gets off, slowing down as his 90s loom on the horizon, but not on my watch. No sir. I intend to have him baking bread in the morning, gardening in the afternoon, and cooking dinner every night. Oh and still drinking me under the table the whole time. DO YOU HEAR THAT, BILL? I'M COMING FOR YOU, BUDDY.

This older generation I tell you. Bunch of layabouts.

Anyway, as I am back on Instagram I apologize in advance for the onslaught. I haven't seen leaves change color since growing up in Michigan, and I am so goddamned excited.


Have you heard "Bros" by Wolf Alice? Maybe it's my upcoming trip, the anticipation of which has me feeling like a little kid. Maybe it's the season. Or maybe it's the fact that these days I'm feeling especially connected to the people I care about, people who've been so kind about touching base with me to see how goes The Transition. I just feel really fucking lucky. And when I feel that way it doesn't take much to shove me over the sentimental edge, and I have to stop myself from texting everyone I know and saying I LOVE YOU. THANK YOU. Anyway, this song and video.



Moved my desk, for a change of scenery. I love seeing everyone in the building across. Feels like I have co-workers.

Had a stupidly fun night with Krista recently. The best kind of random night with no agenda, new people, and lots of laughs. No idea what's happening here but I had to document it for posterity. 

From the last night we hung out before she left. She'll be back to pack up (Ross is still here, too) before she's officially moved up to SF, so I'll see her again. But yeah. All the feels. 

I posted on IG about my randomly ending up at a Bernie Sanders rally the other day. This was my view from onstage. 

Car selfie yesterday. Terence's hand to my right. Fun afternoon. Oh, life. Y U so crazy.


Tonight I'm having dinner with Ross and later Terence and I are going to Lane 8. He got tickets for us ages ago and we both love the music so much so we figured why not. I mean, come on:

Anyway, there will likely be some altered consciousness gramming later. Wheeeee!


re: the post title - When I was in high school, my French teacher was obsessed with getting our pronunciation of Octobre perfect. She drilled us on it over and over and over until we had the second, closed 'o' sound and the '-bre' ending just right. Octobre. Octobre. Octobre. Ever since then I can't hear or think the word "October" without automatically practicing my Frawnch.

dark dark dark dark dark dark dark dark corners

Sometimes you go to a show, see a band you've never seen live before, and walk away feeling secretly disappointed. Thinking you prefer how they sound at home, on your speakers. Loving them slightly less.

The only point of this post is to say that Tokyo Police Club will not be that band. And if a time comes when you have to choose between, say, dining at your favorite restaurant or seeing TPC? Tell the maitre d' you'll be in touch to reschedule. Then hit a Red Bull and be on your way to the concert hall, because these young rockers are going to bring ALL their energy. And they'll be expecting yours.

here be moshers

Bambi will forever be my favorite of theirs, but Argentina (Parts I, II, III) off the new album is wicked lovely, if you haven't heard it:

nocturnal wonderland 2015

I took very few photos at Nocturnal, but that wasn't because it isn't an exceptionally photogenic festival. It is. In fact it is much prettier than I thought it would be, since when I heard "San Manuel Amphitheater" I pictured dull, paved fairgrounds. Nope. We're talking full-on The Sound of Music style hills, gorgeous mountain sunsets, and grasssss.

Other than local nightclub shows, this was the first Insomniac event I'd ever been to. I knew to expect big, bold, and beautiful, and truly, they delivered. Spectacular lights and decorative displays, and the most jaw dropping stages - and captivating onstage visuals - imaginable.

I went a little crazy with the outfit, but it was worth it. Got lots of compliments, the fur kept me warm on the first two very chilly nights, and the leg wraps were just a blast to wear.

I actually had a second outfit which I didn't get photos of, since I wanted one day to be completely, 100% picture-free. But it was another fur situation, a head-to-toe husky outfit that Terence wore the hood and tail of so we'd match.

Seriously high production value, exceptionally cool stage design, and always something interesting to look at. And which you can see, even if you're at the waaaaaay back of the crowd.

Could not even deal with his giraffe ears and purple lens sunglasses.

Those pink leopard wraps I layered on top of the black wraps were UV-reactive, which was fun. You can see the full, frontal ridiculousness of my ensemble in the video at the bottom.

By far my favorite thing about Nocturnal, and the reason I will definitely return, is how spacious the grounds are. Look at all that land to spread out on! HardSummer events, in my experience, tend to be oversold and uncomfortably jam-packed. So this was heaven as far I'm concerned. Even the most crowded tents weren't that bad, and still had plenty of breathing room. In fact you can see in the video that I'm dancing with lots of space around me, even at the busiest time of the night.

The sound was phenomenal, even this far back. Well done, Insomniac.


There are costumed performers walking around all evening, interacting with the crowd and creating vignettes. Burlesque dancers, stilt walkers, clowns, etc. Insomniac does a great job of bringing the masquerade theme to life, which makes attendees feel welcome to dress ridiculously themselves. We saw so much spirit, I loved it. Really, I was massively impressed with the crowd in general. This was the first festival ever where I experienced no pushing, no shoving, no rudeness whatsoever.

Kandi bar!

We opted for VIP because the older I get, the more of a baby I am about PortaPotties (and waiting in long lines for them). VIP festival restrooms tend to be the larger, cleaner trailer restrooms. (Which these were.) Other perks of VIP: no waiting to get in every day, you just breeze right through security, plus Nocturnal had a smallish, cordoned off VIP section to the left of the Labyrinth stage which was kinda nice. Yet another perk of VIP? That's where all the other olds hang out.

The crowd was wonderfully chill and friendly. Similar to Bonnaroo, but even better, more social energy. And really respectful of one another. Several people approached me to ask about where I'd gotten my hood and gloves, to dance, or to just trade kandi. I loved this whole back section behind the Labyrinth stage where people spread out under the electric trees to watch and talk and dance. You can see how much room there was to move around.

Best sets: Lane 8, Sasha, Booka Shade, Kaskade, Sander Van Doorn, Armin Van Buren, Slander, Sylence, Orjan Nilsen, Ummet Ozcan, Bingo Players, Nicole Moudaber, Tensnake, Audien. My only disappointments were Donald Glaude (who kept obnoxiously killing the sound to rally the crowd like a bat mitvah DJ) and Pretty Lights, who did a much, much more mellow set than I've ever seen him do before.

Between us we got a decent amount of video, but I only threw together a little bit of it. There's a few clips of me dancing, because fun/ridiculous, there's the glove/light show kid I referenced in my previous post, and finally there's some Lane 8, who I shared recently in a Fri-Ni Jamz post and who absolutely, without question, was our favorite set of the weekend. What a talent, and what a cool, humble guy. I hope he keeps rocketing to stardom, I really do.

fri-ni jamz volume II

Should I make Fri-Ni Jamz a regular feature? How flexible can we be with the term 'regular'? Does the fact that my headphones are partially broken cast doubt on the euphony of my selections? Did I learn a new vocab word?

These and many other questions will not be answered in the videos below. Weekend. Happy. You!

fri-ni jamz

Oh hey is it Friday night? How about a few relaxing, weekend chillout* tracks, to meet your various ambient background music needs?

Have a great one, kidlets!


Autocorrected to "chalet" which I think works, too.

recently, 'round here

After-dinner drinks at Casey's with Kross, where I had a White Russian AND a slice of chocolate cream pie, like a boss. Does that look like the face of regret? No, I didn't think so.

When he lays soaking up the sun like this, Terence hums wub-wub-wub like a power grid and calls him a "wub wub worm" and it is basically wonderful, is what I'm trying to say. 

We went to a great warehouse party last weekend, which isn't as exclusive as it sounds since it was listed on Songkick BUT STILL we felt pretty cool about it. The DJs were fantastic and though it was pricey at $30 a head, they didn't oversell it so there was actually room to dance. Chill crowd, neat space (Lot 613), would definitely go again.

This is the spot around the corner from our building where Chaucer plants his ass, completely and utterly refusing to move, and waits for Terence to get off work. For real. Will not budge, no matter how I beg or yell. There are worse creatures to be held hostage by, I suppose, and for worse reasons. 

Ilan Bluestone is an EDM guy I like who's come to Santa Ana a couple times but not LA - until this past Friday! I am not a fan of Exchange, the club where he played, but we found a decent spot to wedge ourselves into and ended up having a not-horrible time at all.

Oh, hai Mom. Yeah, vacuuming would probably be a good idea, since you asked.

Every so often we give in to our MSG cravings and hit up our favorite Chinatown spot, Full House Seafood. (We don't get seafood. We get fried rice.) Afterward we wander around looking for trouble, because it's Chinatown. (We never find any. Everything is always closed.)

We finally checked out Mrs. Fish, the unfortunately named underground bar that opened up near us recently. (Literally underground, not secret underground.) I dig it! Three levels, spacious, tables that don't require bottle service, friendly bartenders, and live music. The kind of place I'd take out-of-town friends, to impress. Hear that, out-of-town friends?? Come let me impress you!

thurzday night jamz

We interrupt your regularly scheduled stream of druggie nonsense to bring you this extremely important musical interlude. Management humbly requests that you

1. Cue the player up to about, oh, 40:30.
2. Hit play.
3. Feel all the feels. All of them.
4. Break something dancing, probably.
5. Acknowledge the greatness that is god-man Eric Prydz.
6. (Optional) Buy yourself and management tickets to Creamfields, so that we may worship him together, in person, in England and shit.


So I guess that's what unplugging during a vacation feels like? Difficult (though probably good) for me, but unavoidable either way. The past two and a half weeks have been go-go-go, see-see-see, and do-do-do. Tennessee, Georgia, and quick jaunts to North and South Carolina. I had internet access but no energy at the end of each day with which to use it. Collapsing into bed every night sun-soaked, bug-bitten, and lake-logged. Took another few days since I've been home to catch my breath, reconnect with my boys, and wash the South off (though happily, parts of it are stuck on me forever).

Cannot wait to share my Bonnaroo and Lake Burton stories. Shivers just thinking about all of it. But first I have the unfinished business of Joshua Tree, and all that unfolded there.

To get back into spirit of that day, I pulled up a song on YouTube. It's one we listened to on the drive out, and so became forever linked, for me, with the experience I had there. Now, I had never once seen the video for the track; I only searched for it to share here, rather than embed a song from SoundCloud. I laughed, delighted but somehow not surprised, when I saw the video was shot in the desert, with some visual elements straight out of my LSD trip (will explain in the next post).

It's ridiculous, of course. Flower eating, fire dancing, and one very nervous-looking chinchilla. Please ignore all that silliness and focus on the music, which is so very pretty, and so perfectly representative of my birthday in the desert. I'm going to listen to it myself right now a couple more times, as I try to slip back into the wild, weird, and wonderful world I visited almost one month ago.

I'll see you there very soon.

beautiful, in six parts

1. the tweet

A hint dropped, by a musician we love. English singer/songwriter we saw at Coachella last year and whose scream-along populist ballads get me through housework. He's doing a secret show tonight, just like Nick and Norah's Infinite Playlist! Somewhere in Hollywood. Piece of cake - train ride away. We set him to mobile notifications and track the game until one of his followers cracks it: Madame Siam, a speakeasy near Vine. Perfect. You nap; I'll paint my nails dark blue. Yes, let's definitely get there early. Bet bigger fans than us will be around the block.

2. the scramble

Went for a run and now I'm running late. Goddamn it, why can I never manage my time? Can't decide what to wear. You zip me into a long sleeve dress - it's cold but I don't want to mess with a jacket. Nope. Too hot, too constrictive. Cropped tank and jeans? Good god no. Whose clothes are these? Where is that girl? I haven't seen her in ages. Fuck it. T-shirt, jeans, bomber, sneaks. It's Frank Turner, FFS. You sing and fix yourself a drink, in a fantastic mood that levels me out. I toss my own back and it's time go, now, we've got to get moving. Running to the subway. Running back to the apartment; I forgot something. Running to the subway again. No trains to NoHo from here tonight? What the ever loving fuck? What are the chances? We hop a bus to the next station. On the way over, I fill you in on my web adventures the night before. My new obsession: slaughterhouses, factory farms, meat packing, Temple Grandin. Captive bolt stunners, livestock behavior, restraints, bloodspotting, the whole nine. I tell you some of what I've learned, the good and the bad. Back out on the street, running again, a text comes. Holy shit. Kerry and Ross have won a trip to Japan?!

3. the wait

Bigger fans indeed have beat us there; we won't be getting a spot up front, that's for certain. Blame the Metro, but really we should have known. A solid hour's wait, in the cold. But our mood is fantastic, bubbly and giggly. The way you hold me, and kiss my cheek if I look at you too long and smile. Where did this come from? So nice. This. So easy. Your affection, the playfulness. I am so lucky. We read tweets and watch videos. We text Kerry back, joke with our neighbors in line, and cuddle in the cold. You offer to go grab us pizza. I'd rather wait, hungry as I am. It's all lovely though. Such a great space we're in. Hi. I missed you. 

4. the show

I make a beeline for the stage while you get drinks. I can't get too close, but I don't begrudge those in front of me; they know every single word to every single song. True fans, they have my respect. We end up against a bit of brick wall, not more than five feet back. You've got something to lean against, and now so do I. Depending on whether I know the lyrics, whether I can belt them out along with the others, I jump and dance and fist pump - or I melt back into you. Hearing you at my cheek, watching this performer we both love. This is a really, really good night for us. Frank's brilliant, of course. The music matched by his jokes and stories, the way he flirts with the crowd like an old flame he'll never get over. He loves us. We love him. We are all of us drunk. He is a poet. And I tell him this, afterward, in his ear while you sneak a picture though I told you not to take one. Poor guy is wasted and exhausted, only a few hours off a plane. But I had to meet him. Don't know when I'll ever get the chance again. "You're my favorite poet" I say, and draw back a bit to see him smile. "And my favorite discovery of the past few years. You inspire the writer in me and I hope to someday see you across the pond, too." Holy shit I got it all out without stumbling. Thank you, vodka. He is grateful. Says it means a lot. Or something. Not sure; I was still pretty nervous. He's thinner than I'd thought. Taller, too. Let's go get pizza, baby. 

5. the pizza

We go to my favorite place, even though it's already late and you have such an early morning. Two huge slices of cheese that we eat on the steps of the El Capitan, as is our tradition. Tim Allen's star at your feet, Roger Ebert's at mine. People watching. You can't beat Hollywood people watching. Post-mortem on the show. You're embarrassed by what you said to him ("Great show, man") because you think it was lame. But it was sweet and perfect. Something magical about seeing him hug you thanks, this stranger who's nevertheless meant so much to me, and you. Two of my favorite musicians. We should have taken a photo, we agree. Together, with him sandwiched in between. A Frankwich. Next time. Maybe across the pond, even. Crust isn't very good tonight. Let's go. But I'm still hungry? Ghiradelli? Yes! But once inside I change my mind. We skedaddle with our free squares of chocolate and head to the station. You are wiped out, poor thing. Way too long a day for you, with way too little sleep.

6. the train

I'm in the most comfortable plastic seat in the world, sinking sleepily into your shoulder. Selfies, in between yawns. You're so damn beautiful. So was tonight.

'roo music preview

Would you like to hear some excellent music? Because back in January I threatened to share some of my favorite discoveries from the Bonnaroo lineup, and four months later I'm finally ready to make good on that threat.

(Some of these vids have playback restrictions; you'll have to click over to YouTube to watch/listen. Hoping you find at least a few worth the effort.) Ready? Let's do it!


Courtney Barnett is an Australian singer/songwriter whose brain makes me wish I could put it through some kind of enfleurage process, get a vial's worth of essence for my very own. Her conversational lyrics come rapid-fire, like spiral notebooks tumbling down from a too full shelf, their pages crammed with poetry you don't want to stop reading. So goddamn smart. If you listen to only one artist listed in this post, please make it the first.

The Districts are an indie quartet from Pennsylvania. Lead singer Rob Grote's voice shares that same wonderful lisping quality as Isaac Brock from Modest Mouse. So if you dig that, I think you'll like this. Silver Couplets is twangy and rich; the refrain will get pleasantly stuck in your head. For months. And 4th and Roebling takes a page from The Strokes - and it is a rockin' page:

Seattle electronic duo ODESZA is pretty big; you've surely heard them. But maybe not Kusanagi, which is like drinking peppermint tea and listening to a rainstorm:

And you know Spoon, of course. But in familiarizing myself with them more, I discovered this little gem:

Festival organizers have already published the schedule, which is great, but it kills me that Pokey LaFarge is on so early in the day. Don't know that I'll make it to see him, but holy cow would this be fun:

More Aussies! The DMA's are a trio of kids with a really sweet, plaintive sound that'll slingshot you right back to every 90's emo band you ever banged your heart against:

Indiana quartet Houndmouth just released their second full-length album in March, and I have a really, really good feeling about these guys. And something I've learned about festivals - the closer to their hometown, the more fun a band is to see live. Also? Bonnaroo fans represent, when it comes to folk and country. Sedona from the new album and Ludlow from the previous:

Time for some Afro-electro-pop. Chances are zip to none that Ezra Koenig will make a surprise appearance alongside The Very Best at Bonnaroo (sigh), but I'm including the track featuring him anyway. I promise it is physically impossible to feel bad while listening to these songs:

And while I've got you in a good mood, I'm skipping Slovenian DJ Gramatik's super popular (and played out, maybe?) Hit That Jive for Born Ready, which'll make your freakin' throat pulse:

I know. You're sick to death of AWOLNATION's Sail. But hear me out. Rather, hear frontman Aaron Bruno out, singing the sexiest screamfest you will hear this week. I dunno, it could just be me, but I cannot get enough of Woman Woman:

Good stuff, yes yes? Everyone ready to join me in Tennessee in June? Elliequent field trip? I promise I won't narc if you have to forge your parent's signature on the permission slip...

in which I White Knight for a music festival

In a move 0% of those surveyed characterized as "a good idea", I went to Coachella for just one day - Sunday. I'm not often in the habit of wasting two thirds of a music festival ticket, but thanks to my own last minute indecisiveness, a resale glut on StubHub, some flaky Airbnb hosts, and a disinclination to engage with Craigslisters after dark, it was the best I could do to salvage my investment. I drove out, spent eight hours there, and drove home. Intense for sure, but not unbearable. And considering how much incredible music was plied into such a narrow time slot, worth the trip.

Coachella is everyone's favorite festival to hate on, and understandably so. It's expensive, heavily corporate, and has a terrible reputation for superficiality. Fashion has become such an integral part of Coachella culture that it seems to garner just as much attention as the performances themselves. When I saw this photo on The Atlantic, I cringed. A pack of rich, skinny white women striding in imperial lockstep across the field, outfitted in head-to-toe Bohemian Muse™, refusing to break the fourth wall and even acknowledge the photographer (kneeling in apparent fealty) before them. Looking at it tells you absolutely nothing about the festival. It's images like this that scare otherwise enthusiastic live music fans away from Coachella. Hell, it briefly scared me, before I tore my eyes from Alessandra and Co's cheekbones and noticed the reassuring averageness of most everyone else in the photo.

Coachella's excess is undeniable. But what I've experienced in the last three years is that those corporate dollars buy a lot of production value. The festival truly delivers in terms of spectacle, talent, visual and audio design. Also in terms of cleanliness, accessibility, and organization, which are no small considerations when you're exhausted, overheated, dehydrated, and on day three of self-abuse. I for one am happy to pay a little more for a ticket if it means substantially shorter bathroom lines, easier to navigate grounds and exits, less trash, and more shade structures. And the fashion thing? Yes, it can be tiresome. But it's hardly fair to crucify Coachella for glorifying style when the flower children of festivals past are to this day admired as, well, Bohemian muses. Personally, I inwardly snicker when I see girls sweating under the weight of clingy crochet tops and leather fringe bags, dancing stiffly in heeled boots lest they dislodge their headpieces. And if those paper dolls want to blow $7k on a "Safari" tent vs. taking an actual safari, more LOLs for the hoi polloi. (Though I'd happily take their money and their cheekbones.)

Your social media feeds don't lie. Yes, some people at Coachella really look and act like that. And unless you check out the Rolling Stone, Pitchfork, etc. coverage of the festival's raison d'etre, those obnoxious selfies are probably your sole impressions of Coachella.

As a festival lover, this makes me sad.

Coachella could certainly use some tweaking, by everyone from organizers down to attendees. Skip the obnoxious publicity stunts and set up some truly noteworthy reunions and surprise appearances. Kill the over-the-top lodging packages, which attract scenesters and spoiled trust fundies. Stop making it about the clothes and satellite parties.

These failings notwithstanding, however, Coachella is an incredible experience. Seventy-two hours of pure potential: to bond, to explore (within and without), to be surprised, to feel and love and listen intently. This is what every music festival offers - even one whose hype has outpaced its maturation.

The Atlantic photographer who focused on the Coachella Heathers and blurred out everything else got it exactly backwards. If he'd stepped back and taken a wider shot you would have seen, albeit mixed in with the occasional douchebag, thousands of everyday people, concerned with much better things than matching outfits. I know because I notice them. Especially when I'm alone. I see tiny stories unfold, all day long. Some I'm even a part of. And I'll tell you a few, though they might well seem pedestrian and schmoopy. But first, you know what you have to do. That's right. You have to slog through Ellie's Carefully Curated Selection of 'Same Shit, Different Year' Festival Photos, because that is the tradition around here. Now look, goddamnit, LOOK AT THE PRETTY COLORS.

You have to admit that on the scale of obnoxious to cute, a circle of kids with their heads together for a group selfie is definitely at the cuter end of the scale. 

Look at these disgusting, multi-color, multi-size people, milling about all normally and shit. It's like they don't even care that The Atlantic needs clicks.

Are you frightened? It's okay if you are. I was. And I was completely sober. Did I mention it moves?

I heard this variously described as "the earth mover statue", "the machine from Aliens", and "the crane thing." Whatever it was, at least it stayed put.

They keep shoving the Do Lab further and further to the fringes of the festival. At this rate it'll be in Riverside by 2020.

"Hey Ellie, did you finally ride the Ferris Wheel, like you've been promising you would for forever?" "What's that? Oh hey look over there, free popsicles!"

I know what you're thinking. You're thinking that no one could possibly be so messed up at a festival such that alternately seeing a butterfly and a caterpillar could, like, totally screw with their mind and trip them the eff out. You go right on believing that. 

I was glad to see the Corporate Headquarters hippos back this year; they are a hoot. Here's an interview with the people who do it. 

Instagram's hardest working balloons right here, folks.

I rarely insist on being close up but for my first time seeing Ryan Adams? Hells yes.

I think that's the helicopter they used to airlift Drake to the hospital after Madonna sucked out his trachea. 

Not pictured: a mercifully cool breeze.

They ain't pretty, but they is comfy!

Sahara Tent, EDM headquarters of Coachella

"Okay, everybody, since it's almost 4/20 we're gonna put a spotlight on each of the weed smokers in the audience! Remember, it's not paranoia if they're really out to get you!"

Rainbow. Bright.

You made it! You made it through my shitty, indiscernable-from-all-the-others festival photos. Your reward? A recap of the 2/3 of a day I spent there. Next post, though, because the hour is late, recovery is incomplete, and your Festress will be much more apt to produce purple prose vivid description and adjective abuse imagery without foto filler distracting her.