. elsewhere . . letters from the inaccessible .


29 September 2000

X marked by Spot

Across the street from the Revolution, a plainly marked, small building sits, demurely emblazoned with the cautious, nearly anonymous moniker "Pet Medical Center." It is a heart-rending sight, indeed, to periodically see wizened old retrievers enter and exit its placid doors limping, coned, and surely in pain. But, as Clinton says, I didn't write this about the pets or their staunchly optimistic-looking Medical Center.

I'm writing about Treasure Island.

Treasure Island is a small island of earth between the sidewalk and the curb. Nominally, you might expect this to be a venue for bright green, Santa Monica grass. Instead, it is a minefield. You see, we've taken to calling this strip of abused vegitation Treasure Island for the little presents that the Medical Center's patients leave behind. Copiously. You get the picture.


From December 1995 through May 1999, I was in a band with Craig, Jim, and Jesse (and, technically, Justin, but he never played any shows after 1996). During part of that time, we toiled in the same web company, which shall remain dishonorably nameless.

Anyway, Craig's doing some atmospheric music work solo as Proletarian. He's posted some MP3s, and has some rather nice grooves to sway to. Recommended for you avant-garde aesthetics out there. You know who you are.

musings of a prod.

Hanging in there at The Revolution. A couple weeks then looking back at the last 6 months. I hope I didn't screw up as bad as I think.


©2001 Timothy A. Clark -|-