village inn blues
Happy birthday, dear Lyse.
So this weekend kicked off on Friday afternoon with Chris and me roaming around to see what sort of red wines Iowa City had to offer. We found plenty. Segue into another hookah-night at Marlowe's place: myself, Marlowe, Fred, Vu, two Joshes, and Marlowe's out-of-town friend Manan, who is a cool cat. There was also much beer. By four a.m. we realized we were horribly hungry.
"We gotta eat."
"What's open? Nothing's open."
"Village Inn is open."
"That's, like, all far away."
"Just a couple miles, man. Like two miles."
"Hmm."
"We can't, like, drive."
"We need to walk."
"I ain't walking to Village Inn."
"You are, man. We're all walking to Village Inn."
We walked to Village Inn. It took something under an hour. Manan twisted his ankle halfway there, and when we arrived at Village Inn it was closed. We walked on to the Country Kitchen, which is more or less like Village Inn, only with these strange paisley patterns in the wallpaper and carpet which, combined with the bright lights and geometrically regular placement of the tables, resembled something from a Kubrick film. We ate skillets. We took a cab home. I slept.
Marlowe now has a hat identical to those worn by the Taliban. It's called his Buddha-hatin' hat.
Sex Q&A with Stephen Malkmus (ex-Pavement). Probably too much information, yes. Apparently his girlfriend has essentially taken over Bob Nastanovich's role on this tour: she runs around stage and shouts and sings backup off-key and plays the tambourine. The rest of the band is supposed to hate her. She looks pretty good in the picture, though. (Thanks Felisa.)
Man attacks Liberty Bell with hammer; bell is reported in stable condition.
