Sunday, 14 October 2001 | Thirty minutes to go

On my way back from hearing Richard's band play on Thursday, I drove the usual route past Central Prison, a red brick behemoth located half a mile from my house. Despite the building's size, it easily fades into background if you drive past it frequently enough. This time, though, the building caught my attention. First I saw a few police cars clustered together, then I saw candlelight, and then a sign sprouting through a group of people that confirmed my suspicions: Execution is Not the Solution. It was 1:30 a.m. as I drove by, thirty minutes to go. I purposely didn't look at the clock when it struck 2. I still don't know the details, but I feel like I should.

Friday night Suran Song in Stag, disguised as an Indian and two cowboys, played and danced and strummed and banged on a stage that became a canvas for five simultaneous slide shows. When the show was over, we went to Richard's so that Suran could wash the fake blood off before going to a party we never actually went to. Instead, they drove on to West Virginia, and I went home and slept ten hours.

Today I have Three Days stuck in my head after seeing Jane's Addiction play last night, a show that, unlike Friday's show, drowned in its own theatrics. Too produced, too many Apollo dancers, too much exploitation, too much gibberish coming from Perry Farrell's mic in between songs, too many advertisements everywhere you looked, out of every cup you drank, in every seat you sat. It felt like watching a (formerly?) subversive band in Corporation Disneyland. The tickets were free, and I'm glad I went, but I didn't stay for the whole thing. Instead, Martin and I rented Blue Velvet and ate some strange, sugary crap that made my teeth hurt.