B O N D P H O N E.
Words and pictures by Chris Lamb.

Tomorrow I stitch up the neccessary-for-survival second job at Whole Foods, a grocery store in Chelsea whose produce section has a sharper design sense than most shoe ad campaigns. At some point I'm supposed to get a poetry book from Lisa to review for THE STRANGER NYC and spit keywords and numbers at her about the ad kit I'm cobbling together for the magazine.

I didn't know I knew how to build an ad kit.

The promise of financial stability gives everything else something to run on. I'm back to filling bondphone with notes towards dozen thing and jotting first lines of stories on anything that will hold ink. Time to do all the things I'm wanting now will open up eventually, and if not, we'll push on without it. And talk like British royalty. Oh yes.

Amazing what happens when you stop dicking around talking about what you want to do and, y'know, do it.

Listening to Portishead now, so it's a lucky thing I've got cigarettes and whiskey within arm's reach. "Dummy" held my hand on the plane home from San Francisco last December, and hearing it always feels like the middle of the night at 30,000 feet and 400+ mph, trying to sleep over an engine the size of my bedroom. The best bit of sci-fi noir stories is how the dive bar lounge singer never changes; she's always just as smoke stained and razor cool as her detective flick ancestor. Portishead dusts off the old poses and empty words, wraps them around a drop beat and wears them on stage shining like a borrowed cocktail dress. Poor little doomed girl in her mother's make-up, tracing your lips with one finger while the other hand slides a knife between your ribs.

"I'm gonna to give my heart away, leave it for the other girls to play." Exactly. Exactly.

posted by chris  # 12:05 AM