By Jeremy Krinsley
10:32 AM. 11 hours after Indian Jewelry ended a set that clawed through our aural cavities and followed us through two hours of sleep. My girlfriend dreamed of cell phones and computer screens defying the absence of batteries and electricity and light and pulsing with dementia-provoking super viruses. I had Robin Hood Men In Tights‘s Carey Elwes costumed and chasing me with a wand through my old college campus. (And did I mention that he could fly.)
I think we all know who suffered the worse night terrors.
In ode to the nocturnal, here are two videos. The first is a cut up to the culprits of my insomnia. Apologies concerning the sound, but it was captured in the Cake Shop bathroom because the microphone couldn’t handle being any closer to the Indian Jewelry cacophony.
This second bit is a sequence from Peaking Lights, who have inspired me to write an independent film about a couple who temp during the day and contact aliens with mountains of analog equipment each night in their basement. No, seriously.
