Posted by Sarah Bowles on Sunday, July 18th, 2004
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Am I the only member of staff lonely and insomniacal enough to update her blog, I wonder to myself. I commission features and sub submissions and try to sort stuff out, and this is the place where all the leftover energy goes. The bits of energy that don’t go into writing songs about flying ants and making evil noises on my synth.

Today, though. It suddenly got a bit too much. I read a friend’s online diary about his life in Johannesburg. There were pictures. His room was clean and white with books and a view of bright hills and sunshine. Suddenly I started crying and couldn’t stop. It was unnerving. I tried to figure out what was going on. I really missed my friend in Johannesburg, sure, and it would be nice to see him, but that wasn’t it. I have a deadline to write 1400 words about Matmos by the end of today, but that isn’t it either, in fact that’s a nice task. Likewise with some subbing for this site, that’s a nice thing to do too. I just had breakfast with an ex-boyfriend whose life seems to be turning into some kind of underground hippy version of Sex and the City, but that only bothered me in an ‘is there no karmic justice and why are women so easily fooled?’ way, not any kind of real way. I made sure I wasn’t listening to anything really sad. In the end, as I coughed and sniffled and laughed at my teary face in the mirror, I surmised that I was crying because I am tired and I need a holiday. It was as simple and as boring as that.

I have a beautiful new book I bought at our local church summer fete yesterday, about the Wildernesses of Europe. There are fantastic pictures of glaciers and lakes and places I want to go to. My eyes are literally longing to see some mountains again. I spent last summer marvelling at the Pyrenees and walking all the way across Cornwall in a heatwave. I seem to have spent this one staring at a laptop and marvelling at the contents of my own head. That’s fine, until your eyes get hungry for new pictures and fresh vistas and your ears just want to hear the grey-green whoosh of the English sea on a shingle beach. Away from the wilderness too long, I feel like I’m out of practice somehow, losing a language. I feel like, if I don’t see it enough, it will just go away and won’t exist for me anymore. Of course, that isn’t true, but tiredness and needing-a-holidayness has turned everything a little personal. I’m really sick of the personal today. I want to ge in the presence of something so big and awesome, or so weird and old, that I can’t even begin to ‘engage’ with it. I don’t want to engage. Engagement’s for…well, it’s for people who want to get married, I suppose. Enough said.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Sunday, July 18th, 2004
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Today my ‘office’ reached a level of chaos not even I could quite believe. But at least I managed to clear that space between my bed and the door, so my bedroom is back to the semi-relaxing space it once was before the muse took me and I decided there was no point clearing away the jack leads and the synth and the thumb piano and the 4-track and the guitar and mic stand when I was just going to get them all out again the next day anyway, so for a few weeks now I’ve been picking a delicate stub-toed path between the place where I try and sleep and the place right next to it where I try not to. My idea of a relaxing room is one festooned with instruments, sure, but this was getting silly. I kept hurting myself on stuff. This chaos was compunded by the strange Saturday morning incident a few weeks back when I leant on my cheap MFI bookcase that was always tenuous at best and hear it crack the way that only cheap furniture can and despite having been up til 7 I snapped into action (my books! on the floor! hell no!) and dismantled the toppling bookshelf and decanted my precious tomes into (alphabeticalized) boxes which are piled up next to where the instruments were. And now the books are spilling out as well, because I got urges to dig out Bukowski for my friend and Ring Lardner for my wife and the alphabeticalization went somewhat awry at that point and -

Well. the reason the instruments finally got a tidy was because I took them all out for a little jaunt last night, to a pub in Dalston called the Sussex, which is home to one of my favourite things, the Klinker club. The Klinker takes place in the Function Room of the pub. It was at the Klinker I saw my first ever jazz show, Charles Hayward and Pat Thomas, just about blew my head off, that did, and witnessed Bob Cobbing doing his Alan-Bennett-with-glossolalia thing before he died last year, and played a few improv slots myself, involving alarm clocks, recorders and a song called, I think, The Terror Of Now.

But here I was in the Sussex, on a Sunday afternoon, and I was sitting in the pub bit next to the big china sheepdog and Bovril posters and drinking cheap vodka with my friends and laughing hysterically to Tina Turner and Foreigner songs and thinking, in a few hours, I, Frances May, in my faux-Egyptian ‘Tiki-Knit’ dress and busted up boots, I, drinking vodka and discussing 80s music and smoking like a singer oughtn’t, I, that is me, I am going to be singing songs to my friends. On My Own. I stopped drinking vodka and went and bought some nice biscuits to calm myself down. It didn’t work. In my head I could hear my ex saying ‘I bet you’re going to sound like Fursaxa.’ THANKS.

At 9.15 I switched on the laptop - I didn’t want to bring the laptop because it makes me look like a folktronica asshole but I didn’t have time to burn the little backing track I wrote and the bell samples onto CD before I came out - and knelt down by the mic. I had written a vocal melody late the previous night. I sang it; it tasted new in my mouth, as new as it actually was. Then I turned to my harmonium and began to play one note, one drone as my recordings of Dutch bells faded out. And then I really was on my own. I sang one song, a hymn called ‘Awake awake to love and work’, and went straight into another one, a sea shanty thing I wrote about Cornwall and the Looe Pool and stuff. As I sang and played, all at floor level, not because I’m shy but becasue the harmonium is supposed to sit on the floor, I felt a weird tingly peace descending on me. A weird happiness that there was no going back, tinged with a sadness that I would rarely sing with the conviction that I was singing with at that moment, on my own in front of a small group of friends, in the room where I saw Charles Hayward and Pat Thomas.

Everett advised me to talk between songs, so eventually I did. I explained I was going to sing an Appalachian song about what to do when your girlfriend’s family don’t like you (answer: kill ‘em). I worried out loud about the ring modulator pedal working (’It’s supposed to sound weird, can you hear it?’ I said, like it mattered. It didn’t). This was a prelude to a song I wrote that I didn’t want to say the title to, so I detracted from it by worrying about the pedal, which worked fine anyway. The song was called ‘ And from my horse I will wave at the heavens’, anyway, so you can see why I wouldn’t introduce it, on account of having a title like that. Of course, I could have changed the title I suppose, but it sounds OK when you sing it.

I got my nylon-string guitar out for the last song and made it make a tinkly robot sound with the ring modulator.
“The last time I played an acoustic guitar in front of people was when I was twelve, at a cheese and wine party,” I explained by way of apology,” and I played a Donovan song. But I’m not going to do that now, so, um. yes. Well. This song is dedicated to my wife for putting up with my craziness, and it’s called Staring at the Mosque.”

I felt it was the least I could do, after all my obsessive behaviour, to dedicate a song about said obsession to the person who had to listen to most of the fallout. Dedicate it to the person it’s about? Now that would suck.

And it was now that I felt the most vulnerable, playing an instrument I couldn’t really play, whispering lyrics about my heart without any pastoral/mythological/psychedelic/religious imagery to hide behind. Playing a love song, on nylon strings with clumsy fingers, to people I know, to people who’ve seen me make a noise, support their songs, hit a bass, scrape a violin, twiddle synth knobs, stay in the background always, for the last 7 years. It was almost as embarrassing as when I flipped out at a party last Christmas and punched my ex-boyfriend in the tummy and then fell over and banged my head on the floor as an extended version of ‘I feel love’ played in the background. Almost as embarrassing, but you know what? Nicer.As you can probably imagine. Less painful.

Afterwards I wanted to curl up on the floor and cry, but instead I strummed and hollered out a retarded version of the Byrds’ ‘I am a pilgrim’, as a kind of unwanted encore. Because by then I didn’t give a fuck. I felt warm all over and shaky. Like I’d been in a Turkish bath, or in the sea for a bit too long. In the corridor I hugged an old, dear friend. The guy I’d punched in the tummy. He was crying a bit. I didn’t know whether to feel bad or proud.

I just wanted to do it all over again, and better.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Tuesday, July 13th, 2004
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Went to Willy Mason’s Rough Trade in-store. It was a new experience for me, both the in-store thing, and the being surrounded by teenagers thing.

Robin just interviewed Willy Mason for this site, after being charmed by him at the Ben Kweller show. I was sceptical. The guy was so young, and his fans even younger. But that’s my job, I reasoned, and was charmed in spite of myself, because Mason, despite singing about university and high school and stuff that I cared not to remember, at times hit his guitar with the pure loveliness and bell-like surety of a young Anne Briggs. And that’s not something I say lightly. Of course, we rate Anne Briggs’ The Time Has Come album because it’s so preserved and lovely; we love the shy girl on the cover and her naive lyrics (oh my baby, don’t you know/ the time has come for me to go) because they’re from the past as much as because they’re lovely. She was young when she made that record, as young as Willy Mason, but because it was made in 1973 we’re not confronted by her youngness in the flesh, in Rough Trade and we don’t get sceptical. Those were my thoughts, as I watched this pretty guy with his metal fingerpicks and sincere face, singing about jazz clubs and New York and homeless people and how young people were going to make a difference in this horrible world. I liked the immediacy with which people reacted to him, and the earnest young boys to the side, who I could tell were watching his nimble fingers and figuring out their own songs.

Afterwards I sloped around the shop and noticed that there was a release of a David Hemmings record, as in David Hemmings the actor from Profondo Rosso and Blow Up. He’d been pissing about with some hip Californian musicians in the late 60s and recorded his pissings about, as rich actors are wont to do. And now, in the trawl for detritus and glimmers of gold, it’s been re-released. Although I love David Hemmings, and spent a summer of my teenage life trying as hard as possible to look and act like a female version of his Blow Up character (getting all my prettiest friends to pose for photos in the multi-storey carpark behind Budgens), and I love late 60s Californian psych, I had no desire to hear the record. In fact, it kind of pissed me off to even see it. It was the equivalent - 40 years hence - of someone digging up a demo of Vincent Gallo jamming with the guy from the Chilli Peppers, and - oh, hang on…well, the equivalent of someone digging up a demo of Uma Thurman and Bjork and seeing fit to put it on the market. Of course, it might be really good, but who the fuck cares? Really. Seeing that CD made me glad for Willy Mason and his following of kids full of meaning and hope.

Robin’s friend turned up too late to take live pics, but we said, well, why not take some of him talking to his fans. It seemed so much a part of what Willy was about, this communication with others, and it didn’t seem lame at all, despite what it sounds like. While he did that, I caught sight of a CD reissue of Worldfood by Ramon Sender, which I was keen to listen to. I read the sleevenotes and Sender himself seemed a little unenthusiastic, but that’s the avant-garde for you, I thought, putting it on the headphones anyway. Sender was right, it was purely of interest in a historical way, and not much else. The second track (there were two and they were both long enough for a mini-tripout) was fantastically burbly and far-out in the way that only 1965 tape-loop stuff can be, but still it wasn’t enough to make me buy it. It was actually quite amazing, but it was fossilized, petrified. It was of its time. Yet I knew it was as radical as any song about homeless people. It was radical in the sense that it tore at the roots of what we thought of as music; what we thought of as a ’statement.’ It was part of that revolution in the ear that resulted in the electronic music of today and it was part of the future even as it clunked and whoooed away like purple-turquoise mandala-styled automata. Music. It confuses me sometimes.

I looked over at Willy Mason with his young fans and friends all talking and excited in the stuffy little shop and while my aesthetic leanings took me to the Ramon Sender and, if we’re gonna talk singing and songing, to the more esoteric fields of PG Six et al., and the historical safety net of Anne Briggs and Bert Jansch, my soul was glad for his presence. Not content to just trawl through romantic alienation and self-loathing like most of his peers, Mason had sung songs about the world and our place in it. He’d tried to reach out, and by the looks of the people around him, had succeeded somewhat. He hadn’t been oblique in any way at all. He had no desire to mystify. He actually seemed to believe in the power of a song in G major to make a little difference to the world. For me, that made uncomfortable listening, but his ‘hit’ song, Oxygen, couldn’t help but touch your heart. Unless you’re a complete hipster asshole, in which case good luck to you.

All traditional ‘protest’ music makes uncomfortable listening; that’s its conundrum. And more so when it projects from someone who appears to be so balanced, so not an outsider. I’m intrigued to hear what he has to say, and intrigued to see what Robin writes about him. Sometimes coming to music from the most straight-ahead sincere place can unsettle much more than it ever intends to.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Friday, July 9th, 2004
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This record has strong wrists like I wish I had. I’ve got blurry eyes. I tried to relax last night. I invited two friends over and we ate food and listened to Jack Rose and Sunroof! and Brownie McGee and watched Gozu, one of Takashi Miike’s more coherent (but none the less sick as sick can be) films. Imagine the nightmare journey of Like a Velvet Glove Cast Iron with all filters of American indie-comic taste turned to “Off” and none of the humanity. That’s not to say Gozu wasn’t suffused with humanity; it’s just that its humanity was, how should I say it, completely fucked. If you like your homoerotic paranoid yakuza quest movies with a shape-shifting mythical polysexual twist, and you like your humour as screwed and as slapstick as a drooling man with a bull’s head and y-fronts licking your face and a cafe run by bra-wearing, joke-telling eunuchs, then you should probably watch it.

But about halfway through (I’ve noticed that with Takashi Miike films I often lose it in the middle and perk up again for his unbelievable end sequences, which are usually so worth that mid-Japanese-film lull), I couldn’t sit still because there was an idea in my head. So I got up on pretence of getting some water or something and scuttled around a little drunk looking for a pen and I wrote some stuff down on a pink post-it in what I call my spirit writing, not because I’m a hippy or nothin’, but because it looks like it came from a fake dead person. I mean, I write really nice except when I’m having an idea, and then it looks like the craters of the moon graffitied by a psychotic medium. So I’m writing stuff down on the post-it and then again in my nice new notebook, and mark out in my head how I want the ‘chorus’ to go and I run up and down the stairs a few times in excitement. So then I went back to the film and I watched it and it was great, but all the time a song was writing itself neatly in my head and it was all I could do not to just leave the guys to the film and go write it.

After they went, I decided my wife was probably sleeping deep enough for me not to disturb her so I sat and sang and smoked cigarettes and sang and played and sang and wrote and then I looked at my phone and it was 4am. I tried to sleep but I couldn’t. Now I’m supposed to be at work. I know at work for me involves doing office-type things from the comfort of my own home, and yes I am grateful, but it’s still work. And I am tired.

The thing is, since I’ve been reading about music, I’ve often read about musicians doing this staying up late thing, driven by a song. I’ve also, of course, seen it and been around it in bands, and forced myself to do it too. But it’s only this year, my 27th, too damn late (I reflect on my bad days), that I’ve actually felt it myself. I think a sneaky, resentful part of me thought they were making it up or something, that urge. I know it’s only step one in some process I should have started years ago, and just because you wrote something in a mini-frenzy at 2am and it came out as easy as birdsong doesn’t mean it’s any good, in fact it probably means it’s crap, probably means it’s cliched singer-songer bullshit, but still. I’m beginning to realise that you can pick songs apart and apart and apart but the only ones that cleave to you and won’t come off are the ones that sound as if they had to be made. Whether they’re ‘good’ or not, that’s beside the point.

I’m not talking about music, mind, just songs. For me, instrumental music’s something I build carefully and rightly and like a proper thing, or I improvise it, meddle with it but mostly leave it alone, let it visit me, think about it in terms of timbre and volume and effect, not what it ‘means’. It’s just the songs that pull your hair in the small hours and force you to give them some time. They don’t care if they’re good or not, either, they just want to hang out and inveigle themselves into your already-quite-full-thank-you life. They don’t care that you already have a stay-up-late-going-crazy art form that you adore, which is called WRITING ABOUT MUSIC, and you really don’t need another one. They want you to be 18 again, when you did actually stay up all night writing essays and making stuff, because sleep was boring and non-sleep made you look more cute and feel more crazy.

Now, this music thing and this writing thing (and this living thing and this working thing) is just making me look so old. It’s giving me lines. My friend said last week that frown lines were cool; “cooler than smile lines,” he said disparagingly. Sure. Not when you’re a girl, they’re not. If you’re pushing some kind of moody messed-up handsome guy image, then fine, frown at the sun and narrow your eyes and mutter about your troubles and the ladies’ll love it. But me, I do not have that option.

But I digress. Oh, but, listen, talking of youth and wonderfulness and all, you should all listen to Shystie’s new album. Because it, mostly, rules, and it reminds me not to listen to too much old men’s music (she says, putting an Incredible String Band song title in the title of her blog, and switching on the Buffalo Springfield CD). It makes me think of all the music that goes on right on my doorstep and about how exciting it is to be making it; it makes me think of how cool it must be to sing a song that goes ‘Ladies we can rule the world!’ and mean it. It makes me want to dance myself out of this tiredness and onto the next thing. Whatever that is.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Friday, July 9th, 2004
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Posted by Sarah Bowles on Wednesday, July 7th, 2004
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I’m having an Andrew Clare moment.

Two of my favourite bands - Kaito and The Gin Palace - plus a brace of other promising types, are playing at Po Na Na tonight. I know I’d thoroughly enjoy the music and meet plenty of friendly faces. So instead I’m staying in, staring at nothing. Nobody appreciates me.

Posted by Everett True on Wednesday, July 7th, 2004
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I am doing that software update thing that always fills me with a luddite kind of dread (what if it, like, breaks my computer?). I restart i-tunes and it’s got this New Thing called Party Shuffle. Oh my god, I say to my wife, Look at that. Party Shuffle. That’s so lame. Party Shuffle. I ask you. Look, it’s mixing up all these tracks that don’t match! Look! That’s so fucking crap.
Nonsense, replies my wife (a sanguine and supremely adaptable lady when it comes to new things on computers, I often think there’s a scientist lurking within her Dorothy Parker meets Bukowski meets L’Trimm brand of creativity, and that when the apocolypse comes she’ll be the one who figures how to set up a solar panel while I’m out trying to scavenge edible insects). Nonsense, she says. Party Shuffle is great. I use it all the time.
Hmmm, I say, thinking in my mean muso head, well, that’s because all your stuff probably has the same tempo. Or something.

Then suddenly I’m addicted to Party Shuffle. Addicted and intrigued. Admittedly, it’s not much of a party round these parts, unless your idea of partying is “Sea Song” by Robert Wyatt segueing into “I’m Going to Tell God” by Mahalia Jackson segueing into “Web of Sin” by Noxagt, but it sure is surprising. I like the extra chance magic it introduces to the musical selection process, another little ghost in the machine that, like the iPod, chips away at the concepts of the Album, the Work of Art, and even the sacred beast that is the Mix CD. It reflects the only way to deal with the mass and morass of music that we have, literally, an RSI-throbbing click away - pluck it from the air, from the ether as it flies by.

I don’t feel any nostalgia for days - 10 years ago now - spent trawling Essex markets for old records, or weeks waiting for Bishops Stortford Our Price to get that Pavement record in for me. I don’t feel nostalgia for only knowing about, liking and having access to a few bands at a time. The only thing I feel a little nostalgic for is the weird directions musical privations lead you to, especially when you’re young and in the burbs or the green belt or the middle of nowhere. I mean those privations that draw you to your battered cassette of Bleach, which incongruously has Led Zep 3 on the other side, over and over again, or that leads you to listen to your mum’s amazing old blues records till you know every word. The privations that, while you get into Nirvana along with everyone else, mean that your secret passions are really that awesome mixtape of Orange Juice, the Velvet Underground, Tom Waits, Nanci Griffiths and Fairport Convention that your much-older sister gifted you, and the occasional listens to Public Enemy in the girl down the road’s front room, completely bemused. That tape of Babes in Toyland that ends abruptly with your friend from Leeds making a revision recording of her French verbs. That isolation that makes you wait by the letterbox from beautifully crafted mixtapes from your friend in Glasgow, which then open your mind to early Eno, Love, Kraftwerk, The Byrds. The choice of only buying ONE single every two weeks - what’s it gonna be? “Bull in the Heather” or “French Disko”?

OK, I don’t feel nostalgic for that, actually. That was kind of rubbish. I was just lucky to be led down some good paths is all. Looking back, when your mind’s that open and you’re that young and with that much time, I feel cruelly denied that I couldn’t have got into more stuff, and I envy those today who can. Even if they do only choose to listen to the Libertines or something, diversity is theirs for the taking and they don’t have to hang around Harlow market scoring Specials 7-inches, and reading about the Boredoms but never getting to hear them.

Your real friends are still your best portals for the right music - well, mine are, at least (last night I was promised a Nick Cave primer by the lovely person who recently turned me onto Scott Walker’s Tilt after years of resistance, and I am so looking forward to it), but the way we listen now, whether it’s to Booty Bass and British Sea Power like my wife, or to - hmm, let me see, what’s on now, oh dear, it’s “I’d like just once to see you” by the Beach Boys, damn, I was hoping it would be something really cool - is beautifully encapsulated in Party Shuffle. This ’surface’ control of our media and our aesthetic, which we’re lucky to have, whether it’s an illusory opiate or not, is combined with a device that makes me realise how out of control it is and we are. More and more, when I think of my musical world, it’s not lined up on a shelf, special spines displayed and handled with love and care. Instead, it’s worlds plural now, or not even worlds, just places, little vistas flickering in a dark landscape. Not even places, just machines that fly overhead - and you can hear their radios if you listen. It’s no longer a library for you to collect and contemplate. It’s more like a country to walk through, following leys and digging for treasure if you want, or just admiring those pretty IDM trees if you so choose. As the musical landscape becomes newer, so it becomes ever older, hermetic, magical, charged and silvery (the whacked-out American hippy voice that lives in my head drawls sarcastically, dude, Party Shuffle is like the fuckin’ tarot…. I banish said voice, but only after agreeing).

It’s no wonder some of us become ascetics in the face of this, making simpler music than ever before (while others, like my wife, jump into the new like happy ducks into the Regent’s Canal, accepting that this is to be loved and assimilated as much as it’s to be explored, which is why the music these people like is often so comfy, but that’s another story) and romanticising history and “authenticity” and handiwork the way the Arts and Crafts movement did.

Making simpler music, yes, and crafting it with love and awe, somtimes. But then sending it into the electronic ether, because, really, that’s the only place it should ever have gone in the first place. It’s just that we were waiting for the machines to catch up. Oh, the seriousness of such musings are not in keeping with the subject I’m musing about, this I know. I mean, it’s just Party Shuffle. It’s just i-Tunes. It’s just a Macintosh gimmick. But it’s music, and music’s never just music. Not at my parties.

Posted by Frances May Morgan on Friday, July 2nd, 2004
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For the third month running, Brighton’s Pipettes stole my heart and a second-hand pair of my favourite dancing shoes, this time surrounded by crusty poets and middle class wankers laughing at said crusty poets calling them middle class wankers at the Komedia. Songs that are sharp and sweet and sarcastic and Sixties and laden down with harmonic gorgeousity (it’s a word, right?). There’s coolio Jonny F on guitar, fretting cos he’s got an exam the next morning. There are the three girls on vocals - Julia, Rose and Riot Becki - polka-dotted queens all, swaying and sashaying and flirting with the spotlight, singing butter-sweet lyrics about how they’re the prettiest girls you’ve ever seen, tough girls in school, loving a boy (and a girl) in uniform, school uniform, the kitchen sink and my particular fave ‘Julie’, ripping off the melody from Outkast’s ‘Hey Ya’ for a sweet second and then going into strict(ish) dance formation the next…

Twenty minutes, 10 songs, pure delight. The Pipettes have matched the playful didatic early 90s Riot Grrrls to the sound of the tough, troubled girl group gangs of the Sixties (part. The Ronettes) - and, whoa! It’s bedevilled me.

Posted by Everett True on Friday, July 2nd, 2004
(4 Comments)

Seconds played a blinder last night: Brian leaning back all louche and dishevelled on his drum stool, his sticks creating intricate imaginary patterns in the air, telling his joke about the lightbulb (don’t ask) (please), thundering fury and disdain out of a hi-hat stand, drumsticks click-click-clicking mischief and joy. Seconds played a blinder: Zach’s face all contorted and NICE, screaming incontinent babble down the mic, guitar bouncing freely against his chest as he tangles another expression of dismay from six - count ‘em, s-i-x - strings. Seconds played a blinder: Jeannie all wired and compressed dissonance, screaming words of challenge into stilled air, bass a solid heartbeat, a ticking metronome of determination. Numbers tumbled after numbers tumbled after jokes tumbled after - hey, was that a brief nod to The Legend!’s performance supporting Yeah Yeah Yeahs a few months hence, Brian (“It’s five o’clock in the morning and I’m going to get fucked up”), I believe it was - and all in front of 15 Brighton punters. But they were 15 very select Brighton punters, believe me.

And afterwards, we all piled down Jim Smith’s aptly named No Fun indie nightclub, 30 seconds’ stagger away, and composed songs about local promoters. Jeannie taught me a few hand signals, and Jon Slade confessed to a momentary tiredness.

Posted by Everett True on Thursday, July 1st, 2004
(3 Comments)