Sunday, Apr. 04, 2004 - 2:23 p.m.
We played a sort of stupid show last night � there was nothing wrong, really, no mishaps or bad vibes, but it wasn�t inspiring. And now L is having one of those musical crises of the soul that I�m so prone to, and it makes me sad.
I, on the other hand, have felt more like playing the guitar and writing songs lately � even, astonishingly, writing lyrics that are supposed to mean something. Most of the time we just fill in words with the right vowels sounds, words that are neither too ponderously vague nor too specific, words that are meant to mean nothing but do not even draw attention to themselves as nonsense � they�ve got less content than nonsense. Probably half the songs I�ve ever written are like this, and most of the band�s songs are, but lately it�s started to bother me. So I�m trying to write better lyrics. The problem is that most lyrics in the world are really, really bad, and mine are no exception. I need, like Clint Conley did, to find my own Holly Anderson.
The time change, as usual, gets me down. How can it be 2:18 PM when I just woke up?