"Two Funny Memories."

Two funny memories came rushing to me today in the kitchen. Both about the same gurl I used to know. I am never more susceptible to the whooshing rush of recollection than when I am standing knee deep in washing up at the sink or idling at the kitchen work surface.

I was listening to Six Organs of Admittance, Asleep on the Floodplain, a rather dull album, and thinking with a curled lip, it were "music for Lee Ranaldo devotees." People like this sort of thing, but then maybe they are people in the Netherlands, Germany, New Zealand and Japan, countries where they are unusually susceptible to minor works by minor types.

It's like listening to French hip-hop.

No matter. The music first made me think of an occasion when me and everyone I knew all liked Will Oldham. We were all going to see him play a show on the Tottenham Court Road. Me, Gorgon, Jonesy, think Matilda went too, and was Pricey there? Harry maybe... was Adkell there...? It was the famous time when my brother harshly and baldly told Gorgon that he looked like Harry Nilsson.

My female ladyfriend at the time, who I liked her right well, she made herself unpopular all through the day leading up to the show by going on about how she didn't like Will Oldham and telling us why. In the Coach and Horses. Everyone else was there to see the show. She was not going to get a sympathetic hearing for her point of view. She was not preaching to the choir. Although she was apt to preach. Anyway, that was rather typical of her, and I liked her for it and I like her in memory for it now. And then we all said cheerio, and left her on the Tottenham Court Road as we filed into the show.

The second memory of the same gal-pal (I use the term extremely facetiously) came to me, continuing my boring thinking about Lee Ranaldo's French fans. That really wide-eyed and lame way the French have of misunderstanding everything. I like the French a lot, but it's nevertheless true. I recalled to me now being in Pere Lechaise cemetery looking for the grave of Proust. There emerged a lad of maybe sixteen summers in a German army jacket, who asked us with great youth and exuberance whether we were looking for the grave of "Jeem". I said, with boiling-over sarcasm, "Oh, ouai, Jeem est le plus chouette." Like John Lydon to Bill Grundy. "Oh yes, we really like his music. It really turns us on."

The other day I was walking on Western towards Franklin when a German with a skateboard under his arm asked me the best way to the Hollywood sign. Could it be done on foot from here. I said, "Not easily. Go up there and keep walking and you'll hit the hills."

Anyway, the memories, they roll in, and it will probably always be this way, Christ willing!, and especially, it seems, when we are in a kitchen.