i think i'm eating lunch in a brothel. i emerged from urban outfitters maybe fifteen minutes ago and stumbled into a hitherto-nonexistent rasputin music store. or is it? no sign of the jonathan richman (thankee jake) stuff i was looking for - kind of predictable - but they didn't have any stones, either. rasputin isn't as nifty as amoeba, mind you, but it's supposed to be fair-to-middling. fifty copies of fashion nugget in the new alternative section? what gives?
so i gave up and came back downstairs. wrong turn again, and now i'm in a restaurant in the basement of the same building. or is it? there are four waitresses and a hostess for about six tables, and these waitresses are all tall, teutonic, and heartbreakingly lovely. confused, i ordered a sandwich, and they didn't understand me. but they keep looking at me and smiling. and there are bouncers. maybe money laundering? i hope they let me out. bouncer 2 doesn't seem to like the fact that i'm writing.
i neglected to mention that jonathan richman opened for belle & sebastian the other night. get on the horn - he's the greatest thing since aerosol cheese. he's clearly made some arrangement with satan, as he looks my age and was indie before i was born. he actually played requests from the audience (an easy group to placate, as roughly twelve people knew who he was) and, as salon predicted, kept setting his guitar down to dance gaily for us. if i make it out of the basement, i'm off to throw some cash his way.
she gonna - she's gonna respect me.
look, sometimes we bound to argue, sometimes we bound to fight.
i don't want her tryin' to agree with me when i know she must still think she's right.
i don't like that.
she can't lean on me, she's gotta think for herself.
well, if leavin' me's better, that's good, if she thinks that'll help.
i want her to grow up, you know.
and this way she's gonna - she's gonna - she's gonna respect me.
and that's what i want.
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