Backspace. When we walked in, the barista was up on an A-frame next to the stage, tying prayer flags to a disco ball and humming the bass track to "You Are My Sunshine" as it loped along through the stereo. At first the flags just hung there, like a raggedy little sibling of Sputnik at Mardi Gras, but she kept working (and humming) and pretty soon the ends were tied off to speakers, lights and even the treehouse itself. Now, an hour later, she's back serving vegan cupcakes and all those Sputnik legs are splayed out above the stage, looking more than a little predatory. What sort of musicians do Tibetan Disco Spiders like to eat? *ACT II : Y'KNOW?* "I see both of my parents as failures." The conversation happening in front of me is a sad one, but not for reasons that either of its participants would appreciate (or, for that matter, comprehend). The topic being tossed back and forth - so much as I can make out - is: How I, the unloved inhabitant of society's dusty outer fringe, having struggled past enormous obstacles, have become the glorious, rather attractive (if I do say so myself) beacon of wisdom sitting across from you now. The primary life obstacles that have been listed thusfar are as follows: 1. A loving but woefully under appreciative "failure of a family" that "just holds me back ... by ... like ... existing, y'know?" 2. Professors (all of them apparently) who spend their energy not teaching, but "cramming their, like, ideas down the throats of [students] who just, like, don't care , y'know?" 3. The entire population of Portland, OR; which is made up of "just, like, uppity fucks who don't get it. I mean, not you, but, like EVERYONE else. Y'know?" Ten minutes later: Now they're showing each other journal entries which contain short poems about favorite meals and carefully recorded quotations by people who have - mistakenly, I promise you - told one of them that he looks like James McAvoy. (Note: They will still be doing this in three hours, when I decide to leave.) ACT III - WORKABLE BEAT Before I go, let me leave you with this beautifully constructed little electronic piece, entitled "Dictaphone's Lament" by Tycho. It isn't the sort of song I normally put up here, but if you happen to still be tapping away at some project when three AM swings around, I highly recommend feeding it through the headphones. [audio:tycho.mp3] (Interesting tidbit, when he's not producing ambient ear-candy under his Tycho persona, Scott Hansen assumes his other identity as one of America's best known graphic designers, ISO50.":http://iso50.com/iso50.html You might know him from the gorgeous set of "Obama Posters that he did last year.)