Had a weird night recently, after being up for two days straight and just getting back into town off the Greyhound, addressing the consequences of indie rock on one's personal mythology and the psychological ramifications of Web 2.0. It could be said to have begun after spending over an hour on Facebook before going to bed. Nodding off, laptop open on my crotch, I began to dream; somehow, I'd managed to add Rob Crow and Armisted Burwell Smith the Third's marginally successful side project to my friend list on Facebook, like one of those old friends not spoken to in ages, expecting to resume a cherished friendship only to be endlessly assaulted by status updates of their design on my home page. Before waking up in a fetal position covered in cold sweat, I very well could have experienced the following:
PINBACK is back in Encinitas.
PINBACK is watching Darkstar.
PINBACK is not 3 Mile Pilot.
PINBACK is DEVO
PINBACK is playing Star Control.
PINBACK is wishing someone remembered his birthday.
PINBACK is playing at the Che, but don't tell anyone.
PINBACK is hotboxing the new recording studio.
PINBACK is meticulously assembling tour-only EPs in the garage.
PINBACK is breaking into your spaceship and stabbing you in the heart to keep you from flying a gigantic bomb into the sun.
PINBACK is watching Darkstar.
PINBACK is touring the West Coast again.
Waking up suddenly in this panicked yet trance-like state, I must have somehow been compelled to etch the following dates into my chest with an old, broken Star Wars figurine:
