No plans today—tomorrow we’re doing the retired shtick and heading out to LACMA way early to get the primo old people seats for Gilbert Castellanos, one of the most fired up trumpeters this side of New York City, I’ve been waiting for this one. So today I’ll probably just fuck around with those pictures. It’s a trip, man, they’re like a time capsule we buried twenty years ago after leaving our camera at Mr. T’s. We bought a disposable or two afterward—those things still took vastly better shots than cell phones did for years—but Fyl lost interest in taking pics (most of the best composed shots were her’s, mine are sort of splatted onto the film) and I began seeing everything in words. Another thing I noticed is that we only pulled out the camera when we knew the people around us, bands we knew, people we knew. There’s none of the bands from all over the world we’d go see back then at Rajis or the Anti-Club or the Shamrock or wherever. There’s no jazz or salsa or African or country shots, none at all. There’s almost no people not at gigs or parties or the Sunset Junction, and only a handful of us at home. None of the people I hung with in the various scenes in all my years at the Weekly. None of the newer people who’ve been coming to our parties in the last fifteen years. There isn’t a single picture of anyone I worked with ever. It’s completely different from the range of things I post and blog about. Completely different from what I wrote about in the Weekly. It’s sort of like my writing and these pictures were by two different people. Analog Brick and digital Brick. The upside of that, however, is that analog Brick was much better looking. And a lot of people since gone look very much alive.

Anyway, interesting time going through interesting times.

Me, wasted, with somebody else’s girl.

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