Sep. 14th, 2003

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When you're not quite sure whether you're dead or alive, you're dealing with Schrodinger's Cat. When you're looking for three married lesbians playing loud rock music, you're looking at . . .

Sartre's Pussy

. . . proof that philosophy founded absurdist theater. [Insert Pic: goth kitten with speech bubble reading "Existentialism."]

In other words, I have formed a band, which is really an end in itself. The fact that we're not any good does not seem as important as the design for our album covers, or the promos for the radio spots we don't have. I know I'm supposed to say "it's all about the music," or something like that, but it's mostly about being able to wear a t-shirt that says "rock star" on it without having to be terribly ironic. I would say at least half of our rehearsal time is devoted to practice interviews. After all, we could become really skilled at our instruments, but isn't it easier to just fob it off as a social commentary?

In response, largely because we kick them out when we're rehearsing, Patrick, Jesse, and Ciro have formed the midi/electronica band "Descartes' Cock." [Insert Pic: rooster with speech bubble reading "Reductionism."] They have trumped us in our mandate of style above substance; not only do none of them play instruments well, none of them play instruments at all.

Why didn't I think of that?

p.s. We actually do rehearse and are trying to get good; I just think we should embrace are strengths, which at this point amount to not being able to play.

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