ICFTHS was stupid full. doorpeeps alleged they turned away 200. clientele - made up of painfully beautiful specimens of every gender and persuasion - were more about posing approximately in time with the music than busting the freak out - but i think they had a good time under all that studied indifference. drivey's CPU came unstuck at one point and i got to Save the Day at last. for extra points, i made 'em wait for a mo while i held an imperious finger aloft: waaaaait for it...
the venue capacity shd get upped to 300 before the next, and we're talking about ways to tie the thing together - make the bar and a new third room (the snug) all part of one complex. it's good to have extra options. feel free to make suggestions below, though no fucker ever does.
after, i holed up with just a very few close comrades in a bedroom in hove. one of them formulated a novel solution to my recent narcoleptic tendencies... (which i'm really not happy about, by the way - again suggestions below, yeah right) ...she bit me. hard. a lot. and, much as i'm loath to set a precedent, it did work. stayed awake till the next morn having actually pretty intelligent, measured conversation.
got home, put myself to zzz. spent almost all of today exhaustively tidying and cleaning house in slow frenzy. swore at inanimate objects. listened to eno, laurie, patti (who i'm angling to review for La B, live). wrote this. uh... a bunch of other rejections, nothing to phase me for real - i've been researching lit mags to make tactical submissions before redrafting 'on the pull of things' - am convinced i know the best next step and am ready to make it.