i’m sorry i’m blogging too much. where is xiu xiu? they left me.

miranda july is in your extended network. so is george bush, jack kerouac, and that girl who sings in that band that goes they don’t love you. how will myspace effect the next presidential elections?

i saw a girl with purple hair in one of those pull off side of the express way gas station mart things. i saw her again at the next one. i then saw her at the chicago show. who was following who?

i bought a book at the walker today from a girl who said she went to otis. i told her tell nikki david says hi. she said she’ll write it in a letter and mail it to los angeles. will i get to la before the letter?

for some reason when i see native americans that are homeless i feel a far larger sadness than people of other ethnicities. i saw a lot in minnesota. we drove by sandcreek in the dark a month ago.

thank you for taking us around the walker and telling us about the blood everywhere and how there might be hidden poop by the artist somewhere in the space. my nose was stuffed so i didn’t smell anything. was nietsche and noam chomsky a pipe bomb for blowing up hegemony? isn’t hegemony already blown up, and now everythigng is just scattered, like shards of glass floating around space but making up a whole. and thank you for the photograph of the person who looked like they got run over by a car on coney island. i wanted to buy a book on conceptual art but it was $75. i need a job. somebody hire me. my fortune cookie said that in my next interview i will get a job.

last night i put on the juke box: joy division, “atmosphere” – the misfits, “teenagers from mars” – bad brains, “banned in DC” – the clash, “lost in the supermarket.”

jamie put on cock sparrer, “england belongs to me.” where is freddy ruppert? freddy ruppert once told me that he wants to start a reality TV show where you get one million dollars if you can make your dad ejaculate. there are some things that people tell you that you never want to hear mentioned again. and there are times when you are sitting in fargo when you just don’t care and you type it because there is nothing else to do. oh freddy, oh freddy.

Fargo, ND.

Jamie: “ummm, wow, how about this, try and spell this, ready, ewwwwww woooooh lovvvvvvvvvvv oohhhhge miiii”

to utter is to affirm. to blog is to (i don’t know).

to read one’s blog on one’s journey is to know where they are in their head.

if you read our blog you must realize that at this point in the blog’s linear history (is it ‘linear’ and can i call it ‘history’ if it hasn’t happened yet – i am reffering to, or presuming, the blog as a whole, meaning the future aspects of the blog, assuming there is a future beyond right now).

what i am trying to say is:

WE HAVE ALL GONE TOTALLY INSANE.

(we enter chicago and do they have the same mayor that they did in ’68 when the mc5′s and phil ochs tried to kill the pigs and abbie hoffman and then later the sds fell apart and then there was the weathermen taking their name from subteraneananana homesick blues, bob dylan is in town, my dad once said he drove to ’68 chicago in lincoln park and his car brokedown, he said he would have been the chicago #9, or maybe #8 after bobby seale seperated himself from the whites. – up against the wall motherfuckers this is a stick up, there is nothing more beautiful than a brick in a cop’s face, wait wait, that was the situationists, and didn’t they start post-modernity? wait, you cant start it, they were just at its moment of emergal, it’s a cultural thing. i knocked everything off the table in cracker barrel when i saw that there was a thing on francessca woodman in nylon, i don’t know what nylon is, but you can buy it at a store, like i said yesterday just a duplicate, and they called joanna newsome a genius, isn’t that word archaic are they stupid who uses a word like ‘genius’ in today’s times? fuck them. fuck them to hell)

repeat: WE ARE ALL TOTALLY INSANE

buy renee’s cat badges.

bring david horvitz chicago pizza please.

good bye sanity.

RIP: diana oughton

writing during songs, read the blog listening to the songs, its a project.

can david write a blog during the entirity of boy soprano at this show in ohio? yes, yes, yes, he can. i once ate honey from a bee that was in a mathew barney movie. that was at krysten’s play about gravity that she did in her parking lot in washington. one time i was driving to see good for cows, which has ches in it, and i happened to be exactly in front of krysten’s house (i was coming from my grandmother’s who happens to live about half a mile from krysten) and a motorcycle sped in front of me and crashed into an oncoming car. i got out to see if the guy was ok, i was sure he was dead b/c he must have flew 100 feet. i found him on the sidewalk with his foot dangling from his leg by a little piece of flesh. boy soprano is over.

writing a blog during the song caralee sings, what is it called? hello from someplace? i don’t want to do this anymore.

do coke bands worry about plant death? do you worry about your own death? what about the death of others? is photography really about death? or just mortality? or is mortality and death the same thing? why do you even read this? why do you do anything at all? or, if you don’t do anything, why do you not do anything at all? or, why do i write this? do i write this to be read? i don’t think you write blogs for the reader, you write them for the writer, it’s like a confession, or a venting. do you understand my readers who i don’t care about because i only care about me, the writer, and yes, yes, i understand. this is a break in older traditional forms of writing, where you wrote for a reader, or that was the intention. or maybe it’s just me, i’m just writing: PUT THAT GUN TO MY TEMPLE PUT THAT GUN TO MY HEART are these xiu xiu lyrics right? xiu xiu fans probably know more than me. AIDS HIV I CANT NOT WAIT TO DIE CANT YOU TELL CANT YOU TELL CANT YOU TELL that is what i think jamie is singing. back to the point, i once bought a book of frances stark writings at ooga booga in chinatown b/c it had a black flag reference and this good essay on bas jan ader (it was good because it wasn’t about him, but it was, i hate things that are about something that already exists, you know? why make a duplicate? why not just do something interesting yourself? i think those writings were interesting themselves.) but somewhere there was a quote by someone i don’t know about writing to yourself. something about narcissism. did you read all that? you shouldnt have. or maybe you should have. FEEDBACK ENDING. VIBRAPHONES. MORE FEEDBACK. MORE FEEDBACK. what i am doing is so about time right now, its about something happen now and it going a long with it. whoever reads this won’t get it because it is already after the fact. it is already dead.

jeaze, i type too much. sorry, D.

p.s. now it’s the song off the yellow album (weezer), the one about HAIR.

BLOG UPDATE: THEY ARE FINALLY PLAYING J JO, WHICH THEY HAVE BEEN TRYING TO FIGURE OUT ALL TOUR, NOW IT IS HAPPENING.

does honey production kill bees like meat production kills cows?
did Poison ever worry about honey production/bee death? does coke production kill plants?

the above is nothing. it’s only the end. i got the juicy footage on my mini-dv camera, so you’re going to have to wait ’til the movie comes out.

i’m in a college in the middle of nowhere beautiful beyond anything rainy yellow leaved trees ohio. it’s nice here.

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i got an email of someone who saw me dancing with eva with a broom stick, oh oh oh oh, do you long for a past of dancing broomsticks and magical eva?

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David,

Thank you!

…

once i saw you dancing around with a broom at a show in Indiana.

-adam-

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on the theme of going to art-galleries, go see my friend krysten’s show opening this saturday at rental gallery in chinatown (in LOS ANGELES).

RENTAL GALLERY – 936 MEI LING WAY – CHINATOWN, LOS ANGELES, CA 90012

i guess there should be a contest here too. if you find her, take a picture with her, and you will get a special xiu prize at the ECHO show.

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we went and got massages today. i am not used to getting massages so i don’t know if it was good or not. it felt good, i guess. i told her i had a sore muscle in my lower back, and she found the tense spot with her finger and said, “yep, you have a sore muscle – you should do stretches.” i thought she was going to rub it or something, but i guess not. she did something funny with my feet which was weird, so i guess the whole thing was worth it because of that. after, i felt practically the same except i was a little more relaxed and a little oily. i remember i did get a massage a long time ago and the person said, “jeaze, you have no stress at all.” maybe that’s it. since i don’t get stressed, because getting stressed is not worth it and in the end you have total control over whether you get stressed or not, then i can’t really feel better – just good at the moment. (but what about my sore lower left back muscle?) but what i really wanted to write was that when she was massaging me i started to think of a story my friend had told me when he went to a certain kind of “massage parlor” to get a certain kind of “massage.” he said the lady didn’t straight off offer any sexual services because that is illegal, so he had to make the suggestion, but he didn’t know, so they just kind of waited and awkwardly looked at each other for a long time trying to figure out what to do. she finally ripped his towel off, and he was feeling really awkward so he wasn’t even erect, and she looked down at his penis and said, “pathetic little thing, get out.” when i started thinking about this i wanted to start laughing hysterically. i wanted to laugh so hard it was almost impossible to resist. i thought it must be pretty taboo to just start laughing while getting a massage, like laughing at a funeral or when you are having sex. so what i did was i tried to imagine the must depressing situation possible to get me down instead of staying on the verge of laughing. i thought of my dad. i thought of him homeless on skid-row, totally crazy, disheveled, talking to himself or to people not listening, wanting to die (he is not like this, i don’t think, though he could very well be). i thought of my friends and the people who i care about, i thought about them dead, or about them on the verge of death – all so i wouldn’t start laughing. this was a really absurd moment. i once had this strange realization that all the people you know, all the people you care about, one day it will either be you or them that will look at the other as just a body — as something lifeless – as something that once looked back at you. this isn’t necessarily a negative thought, it’s just life i guess. sometimes at the place in-between sleeping and waking consciousness, when you are in the floating state with your mind drifting around the room, i think about death. i think about how it is nothing – not even nothing – just complete absence (nihil?). but not even absence, only absence for others, but for you it is non-existent. i think about how strange it is, and how strange it is to be alive, thoughts that i don’t think about in waking life because the world is too busy spinning around with its inconsequentiality’s and nonsense. it doesn’t make me more happy that i’m alive, it just seems to make things a little more ‘magical.’ and i guess you can draw on the word ‘absurd’ here. so it’s just, look around, strange. strange. strange. – sigh. what do you want out of life? i want to put my feet in the stars and my head on the top of a tree, i want to be upside down and i want to swallow the ocean, and if you are lost at sea i just ate you. you can be lost inside me and when i spit out the ocean you can be lost outside of me again because you are in the world not in me now. i forgot that girl’s name. the one in the hotel room in that book. that book is old and you are not young like you were, you are older, you are still the same but you are more sophisticated – does that mean sadness and joy and a boredom with the world (flaneur?) also becomes sophisticated with you? is your boredom more sophisticated than when you were younger, or are you just more conscious of its presence? when i spit you out are you on a ship or are you sleeping?

we are in the car, we just crossed the river into kentucky. i want to be at the river in paris. the seine.

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yesterday i ate a seasoned pumpkind flower taco in kentucky.

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romania: http://www.cmc.ro/florean_museum/film.php?y=2006&id=309

SPECIAL CONTEST FOR PEOPLE COMING TO: minneapolis, MN

go see Uta Barth’s show at: http://www.franklinartworks.org/

take a picture of you standing in front of the photographs holding a sign that says ‘xiu xiu.’ bring a print of it to the show. win a special xiu xiu prize.

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Dear Ches Smith, who went crazy last night and destroyed the motel room,

James Tenney.

Sincerely,

David Horvitz

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we wanted massages but everything is booked up, so we will get them tomorrow before we drive to kentucky. i am in a ice cream parlor/coffee shop in columbus, jamie and carlee just went to the movies, ches is playing vibes in the motel room. i need to do work so i have to stay here. there is so much i should write about, but where do i begin? yesterday i thought it’d be funny to video jamie falling onto the ground in the woods, like a bas jan ader ‘falling’ film, then he wanted to video me, so i handed him everything except my phone. later i looked for my phone and couldn’t find it, so we watched the video and there it was, falling out of my pocket when i got up of the ground. we drove all the way back to the national park where we were and i was convinced i knew exactly where the phone was – that is, convinced if it was broad daylight. we got there in pitch blackness, and all i had was a small 6 inch flashlight. where we did the fall was off the path in the brush, so i was thinking, there is no way in hell i will find my phone in this darkness in the middle of brush. i ended up walking off the path, into the brush, and straight to my phone. impossible! yet possible! i have it all on video. low light setting of the ground illuminated by a small flashlight.

things i miss on my stolen ipod: bob dylan live at the gaslight singing, ‘cocaine.’

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i will think about more to write while i’m sitting here (come and find me), and i will do a mass photo upload too, probably, but for now, here are two polaroids from our illustrious polaroid project, which you may have already seen on pitchfork:

(special note: so everyone thinks i’m getting these bloody noses from doing coke. it’s from the arid weather in the south. i seriously thought i had a brain tumor and was going to die b/c i got them everyday for like three or four days, but i am healed)

have you ever been me???? no no nono.
HAVE YOU EVER HEARD NONO?!!!!!
charlie looker of dirty projectors and his excellent band Zs have heard that. not like you could tell, he just told me that backstage in DETROIT,

newy m in MO city.

beach vollyball brodown sweetness,
cs cs cs…
! ! !

check out polaroids: http://www.pitchforkmedia.com/article/news/39258/Photos_Scandalous_Xiu_Xiu_Tour_Polaroids

last night i made my shakuhachi debut on the encore during fabulous muscles.

turn on ohio radio now.