Friday, July 02, 2004

Fairly certain I was lightly burglarized during my travels. Not sure how entry was effected: Two doors w/ decent locks and different keys at the front, strong deadbolt at the back. All secure when I came home. It seems to have been through the front though, 'cos the take was roughly what one person could carry off from within two steps of the door and make off with quickly: A few clean towels and blankets I left on the piano bench for some potential houseguests*, plus two randomly chosen alphabetical handfuls from the CD cabinet, maybe 25 in all. Specifically, whatever lay between Andrew Bird and Paul Bley; and between Blossom Dearie and The Decemberists. The discs I'm sure are gone are those by: Peter Blegvad, Carla Bley, De Artsen, and the dB's. (All my Birthday Party is on vinyl; so are Escalator on the Hill and dupes of most of the dB's stuff.) No books gone, that I can see; more valuable and fairly ready-to-hand items -- guitars, Microkorg -- were untouched, likely b/c they looked like something someone might insure or bother to trace. The towels and blankets just make me sad; most likely, the thief is homeless. And heck, if I'd known someone was coming, I'd just have left a couple weeks of promos out -- the trade value would probably be just as good (except for Like This, which I've noted on the wall at Amoeba for $75). But damn, that De Artsen disc is both good and hard to come by.

*Chris Stroffolino and the rest of Continuous Peasant were supposed to crash here at after a show I would be away for, and which later got cancelled; they ended up playing in San Diego and somewhere in O.C., and didn't even come to my place. They were to be handed my extra keys by Catherine Daly, who still has them. It does all make for weird timing....

High tea at Huntington Library this afternoon for Bree's b-day. Afterwards, she and her mom and sis went antiquing in Pasadena, her stepdad had a business meeting, and I stayed behind for a little while to glance at the Christoper Isherwood exhibit in the public section of the library. If you've got to fetishize something, it might as well be Isherwood's personal copy of Auden's first volume of poems, privately printed by Spender, with autograph corrections by the author. Walking away, I distinctly recall thinking, "I'd steal that."

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