The Fear Blog. Part 11.

15 August

A day off. Well, I did an early morning gig and just talked about my flatmate, Zeinu. Apparently he met a girl in Costa Coffee. She said she would like to go to Edinburgh. He bought her a train ticket and then she said she didn't want to go with him, so he suddenly had an expensive ticket to get rid of...I may be moody, angry and irritable, but in other ways I have the patience of a saint. He is due down on Saturday. I will have to try SO hard not to take the piss. I wonder how he will react to my material about him and me as a married couple. Seems pretty innocent to me. We'll see.

The rest of the day was pretty great. Went up to this beautiful spot overlooking Edinburgh under some huge pillars on a hill with Madelaine. The landscape is amazing. Even though these are the 'lowlands', it's still so dramatic. Because of the hills either side, sometimes Edinburgh reminds me of Rio – apart from the beautiful people, rhythm and vitamin B. We smoked two spliffs before going to some art galleries. Most of it was Renaissance stuff, which I'm not all that bothered about – but some of the faces were incredible. When artists use light just right, it's unbelievable. Faces come out of the painting and leer at you. I don't think the weed was that strong either. Art is vanity, really. Especially the portraits and busts. It was a way of saying “Check out my face! Look at these robes I'm wearing. This feather in my hat is boss! The book in my hand shows I'm all smart and shit. Don't fuck me. I've got a sword.” Who the hell wants a representation in marble of their own head? I've got a big head. Marble is expensive. All these people thought they were ensuring immortality, and they were. However, their immortality is that they bore the shit out of restless children.

The best thing was a description of an artist who did a self-portait and then presented it to his master. Yeah, great gift.

“I've got you a present for your birthday.”

“Nice. What is it?”

“It's a painting.”

“Wow!”

“Of me.”

“What?”

“What's the matter?”

“Well, I thought it would be of me.”

“Oh...yeah, right. I guess. Seeing as you're going to own it and everything.”

“Yeah.”

The descriptions under the paintings are worthless. They all read like: 'In “A Flying Bird” the artist depicts a bird, possibly in flight. Hence the painting's title.' The older I get, the more it occurs to me that the world is run by people who have no idea what they're doing. It's scary in some ways, comforting in others.

I had a quiet evening drinking beer, eating curry and reading newspapers in our front room. Our front room is only available for two days before someone else uses it as a bedroom. I had only slept a couple of hours the night before and it was clear that before I started 6 more days of web design, emails, flyering, show I would need one monster sleep to put me on the right track. Edinburgh may be a festival for a lot of people, but for me it's work. I am enjoying it though. I'm enjoying the sense of purpose it gives me. This could be the day off talking.

My mum called me up when I was in M&S buying filters for the coffee machine. I told her about the Scotsman and some of the jokes in the show. She laughed a lot. She related a conversation she had with an old primary school headmaster of mine. She said that hhe thought I was very brave, and though some people talk about doing things in their life, I'm actually getting on with it. I used to talk about things rather than doing things, and now I sometimes talk about things and sometimes I do things. The only times I won't talk about something is when I'm very conscious of the fact that I'm not doing it. It seems my Mum has finally accepted my pursuit of comedy as something I won't give up. Now I need to accept the same! This is not a path I have just fallen into. It's a path that always made sense to me, and yet when I think about how hard it all is I want to run and hide. The fact is that there is no escaping hard work and being driven nearly insane by what we do. That's just called life. If I tried anything else, I would be good at it for 6 months and then I would become utterly disenchanted. Occasionally I think “You should have started earlier” but that's rubbish. I've being doing this all my life, really. Well, in bursts. Sometimes I look at audiences and think “Ha! They think I'm a comedian!”

I had been talking to my mum for 20 minutes and realised the whole time I'd been doing laps around ladies lingerie. I think this is my unconscious mind dropping hints: “Ed, you should have sex with somebody soon or we may become dangerous.” Suggestion noted.

The Fear Blog. Part 10.

Aug 14

Got a text from my brother this morning congratulating me. After the gig the night before, I thought that 'commiserations' may be a better choice of word, and maybe predictive text had done the rest. Turns out the Scotsman had published a 300 word thing I'd sent them (http://www.scotsman.com/the-scotsman/scotland/festival-blogs-george-mann-ed-o-meara-1-2466385) and also decided to put my face on the front of the paper. It made a nice change from total obscurity, but I think they only published the photo because it looks like I'm looking at the newspaper title. It was a photo from when I longer hair. It wouldn't have killed them to photoshop some of my hair out. “Short back and sides mate?” It's the Adobe BarberShop. However, I took a great deal of joy from the fact that some poor journo had spent time cutting round my hair. Not a great job, I may add. He obviously gave up. “Hairy Sassenach bastard. Fuck it, I'm going on my Buckfast break.” Ironic that people who drink Buckfast never make a buck fast. Well, buskers and benefit scammers maybe.

I then received a tweet to say that a reviewer was coming to my show. Immediately, the ambivalence kicked in. This was what I was here for and yet I didn't want some guy sat there judging my show. Entertaining an audience could be hard enough, as I had proved the night before. I didn't need the added concern that every move I made was being carefully analysed. Not that they really are. If I were to review reviews I'd have a field day. One of the recent classics I've spotted was “My enjoyment was immeasurable. Four stars.” So not immeasurable, then. The star system. The method of measurement. In fact not only was their enjoyment not immeasurable, but it was also less than an immeasurable five stars.

I stayed in the house and tried to cut down my show, which has been overrunning. I've had to skip stuff on the fly and wanted to try and memorise the ending a little better. It always escapes me without a notepad. Not always a great sign, but an hour is a long time. I took a break to go and social-mediarise my dubious paper mug shot and treated myself to a coffee. By 'treat' I mean to have yet another coffeeshop coffee. I had resolved not to have them and save money, but decided the 'treat' would be to put off this resolution for a day. I don't like to use the word 'treat' when it comes to my own purchasing. It's the height of self-delusion. Also I used to work in the Cheltenham Bella Pasta (then Bella Italia, and then closed down, probably due to rancid cheese balls I had stuffed under their sauté station a decade ago. My friend Mark had sex with the manageress of that outlet in her grubby little office. Rancid cheese balls, Batman.) where they used to say “Coffee and pastry £4.50. Go on! Treat yourself.” Piss off.

Before I left to go flyering, I looked at myself in the mirror and was reasonably pleased with my appearance. Not spending all day at home or working in admin does that. The terror of the freelance life has helped me shed pounds from those problem areas, and anal-clenching has toned up my core no end. Also, I had my shirt tucked into my belt. I always thought my Dad looked silly with his shirt tucked in, but now I could see the point. When you're without gut, it an advert that you're without gut. Unfortunately my Dad is not without a gut but he is, apparently, without a belt – meaning the line where trousers end and shirt begins has a pronounced but askew equatorial aspect. I don't know if that makes any sense. I'm sleepy. In short, my ambition is still to buy my Dad a decent belt.

Incidentally, some people I have talked to say these blogs read very bleakly. Even my musician friend Depresstival (AKA Lottie) expressed mild concern. Funny. It felt like Goethe telling Mickey Mouse to cheer up. She dresses in black. I dress like a Bovis Home. Not to worry, subscribers. Edinburgh is a stressful time, but the stress is justified. I'm actually much more depressed in normal life when there's far less reason to feel so doomed. However this a stream of consciousness, bad things are easier to write about than good and I want to mention things that stick out during the day: Like annoyances, frustrations or my Dad's gut. Wahey! Whooped 'em again Josie. We sure did, kid. We sure did.

The reviewer turned up and we had a chat. He seemed nice enough. He didn't seem to know much about comedy though. No matter. If he gives me a good review, he's a man of sound judgement. If he it's bad, he's a bungling amateur. The show wasn't that great. Well, some of it was but I rushed it, concerned that I wouldn't finish in time. This was a mistake. Better to have a good show that must be cut short, than a poor show that finishes on time. I didn't make a conscious decision to rush, but even my landlady Alex (who was there to cheerlead laugh) went quiet at times. No disaster though. I could see that most people were enjoying it for most of the time, and I will take my time on Thursday. No bloody reviewers in then, of course. Alex assured me it was “really good” and her friend gave me £20, which was clearly “I like you Ed and I know you're skint, as opposed to what a terrific show, money.” The reviewer disappeared. I have the feeling that it may be a three star review, which means the show is all right but it's not something I can use on a flyer. Hopefully, he'll say something like “He has some potentially brilliant material” so I can quote “Brilliant material” or something. I know he will include a fair swathe of points criticising, but that's my fault. I left him with too many options to pick on: reading from notes etc.

Someone else got furious about that. It was later at the Anti-hoot. Lach was finishing what had been a pretty impressive night of acts (i.e. no open spots on the bill and only one comedian) with a chapter of his book which he was reading from a phone screen. It was about how his nights had helped BECK and how BECK had changed since he's found fame etc. Lach had has a pretty amazing ride with his Anti-hoot thing. In the East Village in the 80s, his night saw a huge amount of future stars come through it. Now his show is in a big room on the Free Festival. People wander in and out. This is not to say that some of the people who play there now won't go on to big things, or that his shows don't have their own magic now, but he feels a bit like he's chasing the glory days. He also talked about a cat called Agnes growing up on his porch which I thought sounded like the worst kind of home-farm, Walton's out-take. Still, Lach is a fantastic guy, so most of the crowd (i.e. musicians) were rightly rapt. There was only one woman who was sighing and shaking her head and throwing her hands up to her face. I thought, 'She doesn't like name-dropping or his prose. Fair enough. Tone it down though.' When she came down, Lottie said:

“You clearly had a problem with that.”

“Yes, I did.”

“What was your problem?”

“Can I be allowed to answer the question?”

etc.

These arty types may seem to like the idea of love, but not as much as they want to kick the shit out of each other. She finally said:

“He didn't learn his lines. It's UNPROFESSIONAL.”

Hmm. She should never go to a book reading. Most authors don't learn their 60,000 words either and Lach's not even a professional author. Either way, I was sure not to give her a flyer. Another interesting thing about the night was a guitarist called Erin. She is a pretty American girl with a certain twinkle in her eyes which make it looks like she starts off her days either eating toast or the souls of men. First she played a hypnotic song where she simpered “I'm sorry. This isn't very good” to which everyone responded NO, YOU'RE BRILLIANT! Then she did a song about fucking a bartender with a ten inch cock. I liked her. Her boyfriend on the front row squirmed and then pawed at her for the rest of the show. He's dead meat.

I should say that I saw an Irish comic called Conor Matthew (maybe) in the semi-final of So You Think You're Funny, who was excellent. In the first 10 seconds, I knew it was his to lose. All the judges looked like the biggest bunch of miserable cunts imaginable. None of them cracked a smile during the whole process. Could the media just release a statement saying “Success is an illusion” then we can all get on with being happy.

I went for late drinks with Lottie and a Scottish lad who was great on guitar. We asked a military veteran over to our table because I was in a reasonable mood. He talked an awful lot and I couldn't understand a bloody word he said but I smiled and nodded as is custom, going out for an occasional cigarette and a well-deserved frown. You can drink til 5am but can't buy anything from an off license passed 10pm. Can't believe that Tarantino missed that.

The Fear Blog. Part 5.

Aug 9

Although I woke up a few times at night gasping for liquid, exhaustion and earplugs served me well and I had the full complement of sleep. I felt particularly good as after watching Sam Simmons (who is mind-blowingly good. He is an Australian guy who performs this piece about the secret life of a nutter, which involved groping my flatmate Mike in a sweaty embrace, sitting on his lap whilst spinning around an office chair in front of hundreds of people...front row baby! Actually, although it was brilliant, I did lapse into the odd moment of analysing the performance and wondering what it would take to be as talented a comedian as he, but that's what always happens), I managed to extricate myself and get home before midnight. I got up with that reassuring feeling that I had spent a night in a washing machine - that dazed disorientation of the deep sleeper.

I celebrated all things with a mammoth fry up before going to the Cabaret Voltaire for a midday spot, which went well (oh sleep, how you fix everything and yet how you so often evade me) before finding an original priceless copy of Shakespeare's Hamlet, which was nice...Not really. It's just that I felt good. The sun was out, festivally things were happening and (over lots of coffee) I sent out some reminders to journalists that I existed. The coffees came to a total of £4, which is a lot for 2 hours of WIFI use, so I compensated myself by downloading a couple of albums from torrents. Fair's fair.

I should mention that the other thing I did well was deal with Mike's fried. She's a Manchester-based comedy promoter and, although being ostensibly nice, an incredibly argumentative individual. After rising to her on a number of stupid things she was saying (1. Comedians should never sit at the front of a gig, 2. Agents aren't important, 3. Australians walk on their hands, well not that one) I finally decided that she was the promoter and I the comic, and I had better just agree with her. She then offered me a bunch of gigs in Manchester. I think she was positively reinforcing my behaviour. She could have equally offered me beer and dog biscuits. Mike apologised for her, but I told him it wasn't necessary and she probably had some points. Mike and I agreed that everyone's a little bit right and a little bit wrong and a lot opinionated. That's the kind of cliched summary I'm happy with in life. Everything else is ego. Done and done. And thus a fellowship was forged. Mike has diabetes. The kind where you get to eat all the time. As far as disabilities go, I could think of worse.

A bit later I returned to the flat to find an 80 year old man waiting at our door. His name is Hugh and he's involved in a show. He is using someone else's room for a couple of days. He's a nice chap, an actor, owns a bit of property and seems on the verge of senility, but holding on in there. He was coughing a bit so I made him a cup on tea, and he told me (among other things) that he used to play the timpani but now plays a cello that he's having restored. He told me about a house he owns, the problem with trains, why he refers to motorcycle riders as “organ donors” and his theatrical past and then suggested that Argentinian wines were inferior - which I had to pick him up on. Suddenly he developed a well-timed coughing fit to drown out a winning argument I was making about Malbec. Fiendish swine, these old folk. I sound incredibly bourgeois. At the time I was making roast veg with balsamic vinegar and pesto. Mike stuck his Northern nose in and muttered profanities about softness.

Flyering was a hell of a lot easier. It wasn't any better or more successful, just a tad easier to tolerate when you've had some rest. Mike suggested that I should be talking to people and selling my show. He's entirely right. I'm basically giving people flyers and saying “Free comedy at 9” and then the actual people who come to my show just wonder in on a whim. I should really be selling my show more, I'm aware of this, but I loathe flyering so much that I just half switch off and treat it like a job. “When you get rid of this pile of flyers, you can have an icecream.” By next week, I'll probably be binning them. Self-delusion is a powerful force in my life.

There was a powercut at the venue, shows were cancelled and I was only half-delighted when they announced my show could go ahead. I know I should want to do my show, I do, but if someone says “This gig may not happen” you start fantasising about sitting on a sofa somewhere having a drink and you think “Yes, that sounds like a better idea than standing up and talking for an hour.” The show went ahead (yay-boo) but for some reason they moved the location from the big room upstairs to some chairs put in one of the corners of the bar. This was EXTREMELY disruptive. I'm not sure if they were thinking “This guys had an easy run so far. Let's REALLY try and throw in some obstacles.” I couldn't hear whether the audience were laughing (they looked like they were) but I think the show flowed well and I got all the material in. I'm not sure if I rushed through some of it, but it didn't feel like it. I think the thing to remember is to make the most out of the material, keep the pace slow and improvise a bit for added pep. I think I'm saying less words like “Err....umm...right...and that's...blah blah blah...oh good, we're almost finished” so I hope the audience experience is improved. From 7 people I made £11, which is pretty good. Also a guy in the audience is doing a charity benefit in Scotland and asked me if I wanted to come up and do a set – so it couldn't have been that bad. Somehow I have 500 posters to get shot of. I might give them to audience members who donate to my pint glass. They look like they'd make lovely rabbit bedding.

The Fear Blog. Part 4.

The lack of sleep is catching up with me. I am crumbling a little. The weather has been incredible these last two days. Good weather is bad for comedy. People don't need to be entertained when they're not miserable. Where do you think the famous British wit comes from? Terrible, terrible weather. You can flyer in good weather, but no one wants to come sit in a dark nightclub. The rain forces them into my lair.

First, I will say something positive. Tony Law was brilliant and my flatmates Mike and Madelaine are lovely people. Now, that's the positives out of the way.

I felt tired yesterday. Flyering was even harder than usual, and that was followed by a performance to 6 people that was HARD work. They were nice people, but not very vocal about it, and that made my job very difficult. Banter is all very well, but I have an hour long show to do. Imagine meeting someone and they bring up the subject of plumbing, and then they decide to subject you to a monologue on that subject for an hour. A cabbie who was in the audience thought I needed some pointers: "Well, you're likeable, you're confident and a quarter of your jokes are funny...so that's something to build on." I pointed out that it wasn't very easy to deliver material to a quiet room. "Yeah" he nodded, "Well, maybe it was more like 35%." I've never known someone so unqualified to haggle so precisely over intangibles.

I spotted two young guys standing at the back. One of them wearing orange combat trousers and a cowboy hat. He was joined by a friend. They came up to me after the show, said "That was fucking excellent. We're coming back on Thursday" and gave me £5 each. Two 18 year olds. Richard and Lewis. Bless you boys. I'm starting to realise that I'm most popular with Scottish goths/ space cowboys. I think it's because I argue that there's nothing wrong with feeling shitty and mental. That rather appeals to them. Me too.

Despite the nice comments, I hate my efforts to entertain not hitting the mark. True, they all laughed a lot at my 'brain' material (essentially where I argue that our unconscious minds are panicky morons) but I am afraid of removing the material from its context, because I'm not sure it will be so well understood in a shorter set. This material is my brand new baby in swaddling cloth. It's not ready for the Krypton Factor yet. I did the popular bears segment of my show this morning at a mixed bill and got fuck all for it, so I'd rather not further whittle down the confidence I have in my own material. I know it all boils down to the delivery, but that doesn't help if I'm exhausted, or not in the mood, or a butterfly has farted in Singapore. It all seems too precarious to me. "Sir Chris Hoy. You came last against toddlers on trikes. What went wrong?" "I had the wrong kind of jam this morning."

The crowning turd wasn't even performance related. Last night I went to the pleasance Dome and saw The Alternative Comedy Memorial Society. Claudia O'Doherty (an Aussie comic) did something inspired about chairs. Matthew Highton and Ben Target did a stunt involving a mousetrap and a carrot cake which was messy and fun. Pretty much the rest of it was theatre groups and festival hangers on talking over the acts, fat girls (sorry) who obviously have Red Dwarf boxsets and wardobes of Boosh memoribilia throwing their heads back and laughing at nothing (usually Thom Tucke's exaggerated laughter), and general Edinburgh circle jerking of the grubbiest variety. I think my hostility at the whole thing can be summed up by a 20 year old kid who was sat with the acts. I have no idea who he is. He probably doesn't do anything but is the 3rd most influential person in comedy. That IS how it works. When an act who he deemed important(Sara Pascoe, David O'Doherty, Dr Brown) was on, he was in spasms of theatrical laughter. As soon as anyone less important was on (for example newer act Phil O'Shea) he stared at them with utter boredom and contempt. It was the worst of lackydom, the most gruesome display of the Jacobean court mentality that pervades Edinburgh. These obnoxious hangers on run the show and yet posion it. It's all favours, status, powerplay and paranoia.

A 18 year old admin assistant in a large agency basically has more clout than actual comedians. It's stand up comedy, you stupid bastards, not the Julian Dynsaty. Stop throttling it from the top.

Sadder even was seeing comics hanging around the Pleasance Dome. If I saw these people in London, they would come up to me and say hi and we'd have a chat. In Edinburgh, they are strange, dead-eyed zombies who just look through people like me. I don't even talk to people who a few years ago I considered friends because I'm tired of having them staring over my shoulder scanning for an upgrade. When we're on a train to Norwich in mid-Novemeber, these same people will suddenly become my good friends again.

STAY AWAY, Ed. It's not good for you. I have to work very hard to keep my brain intact these days. I think there needs to be a Decent, Sane Comics Society. I saw a comic who is just starting to go places, but already has a wife and kids. He looked at me and said "Can we just go out somewhere for a meal one night?" I could sense a need in his voice. He wanted to have a chat with a non-zombie. He didn't want to have to schmooze with 'industry people', or laugh loudly at some cunt's horrible jokes. He wanted to actually relax with someone who had a vestige of sanity and empathy.

I'm sure if I was signed to some big agent, I wouldn't be compaining quite so fervently. I'd certainly keep quiet about it, anyway. I always wondered whether it was possible to navigate your way through this swamp without getting too dirty and unhappy in the process. I asked Josh Widdicombe on a train back from a gig. I wasn't sure what to think of him, then he said "Ed, let me tell you. I fucking hate Edinburgh" and my respect levels for the man went through the roof!

I don't hate Edinburgh, but I hate some of the things that people have to go through to do comedy. I hate the irresistable pressure it puts on you. I hate how insignificant it can make you feel and in what a contemptible manner it makes people behave. It never seems enough just to be good, but I guess that's the case in any field of endeavour. It's like if Prince William becomes king, it'll be pure nepotism. Call me cynical if you like.

The Fear Blog. Part 3.

If there's one thing that you should watch for in Edinburgh, it's letting the place bite you in the arse. If you let your guard down or get complacent, it will take a chunk out of you. Today I put on shorts. The sun was suspiciously ruling over the sky. The clouds waiting in the wings. "Come and play, Ed" said the sun. "Yes, dig out those shorts. All will be well." I climbed up from our place to the Burns monument. A very pretty panorama awaited me after a lovely waft of wild flowers. Just as my heart rate started to drop, the rain clouds ambushed me, the air chilled and it started to bucket it down. Edinburgh knows there are comics here. Even the weather systems feed reflect the all-pervasive manic depression. I seem to remember that being called pathetic fallacy. Nice one Mr Chidlaw. You taught me so much for which I have no useful outlet.

I had had a very turbulent sleep again. My bed is soft and saggy. You can be comfortable, but I shudder to think of what damage it is doing to my already warped spine. I awoke with a blistering hangover at 8am and then fell back to sleep only after the inducements of mobile phone youtube and weetabix. I used to think of sandcastles to lull me to sleep. Now I think of Napoleanic memoribillia, muskets, artillery and suchlike. I may complain about the all too sporadic presence of women in my life, but the fact that I get any is a fucking miracle.

After giving up the search for a legendary Tesco Metro which is supposed to be near our flat, I then went on a quest for WIFI. I paid a whopping £2.50 for a Starbucks coffee only for the WIFI to fail after 20 minutes. The staff shrugged.  It's outrageous. Why do they actually think that any one who likes coffee goes into the place? Not for the piped jazz music. This is Edinburgh. Cheapskate writers need their WIFI.I finally found a free source in the performers centre. I was about to send out some press releases before spotting a hatchet job done on one of my flatmates. The reviewer (some turd basket from the Scotsman) said "This show was free. Frankly, I think that's too much.

"HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Why is it that backseat comedians have more power than people who actually have the power to amuse? If hacks want to slag off a crumby phone app, fine. But rubbishing a stand up comedian just to flex a muscle is vindictive. No journalist in their right mind would give a poor review to anyone under the wing of a powerful agent, but they're happy to use unrepresented people as target practise. I hesitated before sending out emails. I want to make sure the show works. I can't give them an excuse to sharpen their knives on me. I decided to send out emails on Wednesday. This gives me two days to days to iron out problems with the show. All of a sudden I remembered a solitary man in the back row of yesterday's perfomance. I hope he was a loner and not a comedy reviewer, although in essence it's the same thing. All this is wishful thinking, of course. I highly doubt if the media will swing along to my show. I am rightfully ambivalent about the eventuality.The rain continued to pour and my saturated shoes turned into footspas. I made changes to my show and was late leaving the house. Flyering was never going to be effective in this weather. People have umbrellas in their hands and aren't minded to stop. The umbrella almost provides a zone of protection from incoming flyers. Shields up! Even so, I only managed 30 minutes of it under a bridge. Flyering, that is.

Four Swiss people were joined by a middle-aged woman who wants to start comedy. The show started off very informally and then four Scottish people came in. Although the crowd were the smallest so far, they were incredibly appreciative. Barely a line failed and I actually felt very lucky to have them. They were enjoying themselves far too much, and so was I. One of the Swiss guys said "That wasn't funny. It was hilarious and brilliant. Brilliant and profound." They looked like a bunch of people who had had a superb hour. I asked them to write audience reviews and they agreed. Of course "hilarious, brilliant and profound" today could well be "shit, boring and clunky" tomorrow. I may be caught have been caught in shorts, but I've got my mental umbrella up.

The older woman was slightly less impressed. I think perhaps my liberal use of swearing put her off, and maybe lampooning my mother's advice. She put a pound in my bucket. "Listen to your mother" she said. Pssh. Open spots.

Called my friend Lottie for a chat. She's a depressive musician type who complains about the inauthenticity of stuff. She has a brilliant voice, is very amusing and a real tortured artist. She makes me look like Bambi. I like spending time with her, however. Some people put me in a good mood, regardless of what they say.

Off to see Tony Law tomorrow. The man is exceptional.