This morning I received an email of distress from my friend Scott in Minnesota:
How you doin’ Matt?
After reading your blog, I’m here to check on you and make sure you’re all right. That’s some eyebrow-raising shit you’ve been linking to and I recommend a lavender bath to chill your ass out.
Maybe your friends are feeding you the links, I dunno, but all I can say is if Susan Wright’s now dead husband would have just gotten her a shit bitch bear, I bet he’d still be alive today. Pass it on. It could save a life!
Just to assure Scott that I am not going to the roof of a tall building with a high powered assault rifle to pick off old ladies with shopping bags anytime soon, check out this stupid sweater.
I do not get Techno. I have tried to understand the music and the scene but it has never worked out between us. I like the allure of young, sweat-soaked bodies stuck on each other in some ancient tribal dance, but the monotonous beat, the lack of lyrics (aside from the occasional sexual innuendo or F-bomb repeated for twenty minutes atop a monotonous beat) and the “songs” that never seem to end does not do anything for me.
Are you reading this in Minneapolis, Scott? I may not get Techno but I appreciate the mix and the effort.
I arrived back in Denver today safe and primarily sound. Aside from a wicked day-long drunk followed by a slow, mind-numbing hangover, I am in good spirits and had a great time. Last night I attended the finale party hosted by a paper company (I was too drunk to care which one) where conference goers were given free reign over a warehouse where the majority of the Mardi Gras parade floats are stored. In the midst of six foot paper-mache heads of jazz music legends, sports heroes and animals, we drank and danced the night away.
Over the course of the 2003 HOW Design Conference many relationships were established and by three o’clock this morning were solidified by toasted imbibed spirits. A design posse has now been established reaching across the North American continent. There is me, Holly and Tina from Denver, Wes from New Jersey, Scott from Minneapolis, Mark from Montreal, Dave and Beatriz from New York, Stacy from Pittsburgh, Rod from New Orleans (who gets props for taking us tourists to some of the best eating establishments in town) and whoever else I forgot to mention that I may have sat next to at a session, ate fish with at a restaurant or drank with on Bourbon Street.
Although my liver hates me, the rest of me had an excellent week.
New Orleans smells like a combination of stale beer, urine and vomit. You will be walking down the street and the pungent aroma assaults your nostrils and makes you want jackals to chew off your face. Other than the stench, New Orleans is a very cool town. Out of my hotel room window I can see the Mississippi River, and I am across the street from Harrah’s Casino and three blocks away from the French Quarter. Last night a pack of conference attendees went down to Bourbon Street and engaged in drunken revelries until the wee hours of the morning. Tonight I am touring old haunted homes in the French Quarter and watching some crazy bastards do some voodoo shit. As if becoming a self-fulfilling prophecy, yesterday, the first person I met remarked on how humid it was. It has been raining for the entire conference thus far, and the weather reports indicate that it will continue through out the weekend. So the obvious response to the humidity question is yes, it is fucking humid out.