HEAR YE, HEAR YE! THE FINEST IN MUSIC JOURNALISM

4:30 p.m. text message: "do you want to go, please?"

"i was going to poop out." yesterday afternoon, nothing seemed more appealing than going home to watch "i killed my mother" -- and maybe get lucky with the staff schedule and set the ball rolling for a go for broke ironic summer date at the bar at the convention center red lion. "what time?"

"i don't want to go before 10."

"ok i'm in." because, for some reason, later seemed better, even though ten o'clock would mean having to completely abandon my dvd plans, trading xavier dolan for bright eyes.

at just past ten o'clock, travis was waiting in front of the crystal ballroom. we collected our stickers from the box office. "where do the cool kids put these?" disinterest: "where we can see them."

beer is more expensive than liquor at the bar. mcmenamins thinks too much of itself. the last time i came to the crystal was for a metric show in 2009. i'm not allowed to pay to get in this place, so i pay for drinks. just like at metric, we didn't know anyone in the crowd, which was remarkable for portland, and which means that the crowd doesn't live here. "no one listens to bright eyes anymore." by which she also meant that everyone listens to bright eyes. the two men who were standing along the railing behind us must have been conor oberst's best friends, because they only used his first name. they also seemed to know how soon the set was going to start based on the music playing during set up. well, i thought, if bright eyes sounds anything like "these boots are made for walking" then i'll probably have fun.

bright eyes does not sound anything like "these boots are made for walking," which i had expected, except that i did expect a little elliot smith. "no. not at all," i got once the show had started and i asked after my incorrect assumption (that i suspect she had something to do with). i didn't know anything about music until last night.

the rasta man who was freak dancing next to conor's best friends was smoking pot from a one off pipe between every song, and with every song was less abashed about blowing smoke over our shoulders. we had to move. luckily, the view was better from farther back near the bar.

"ugh. why are encores mandatory now?"

"yeah, that set was over an hour. i would be impressed if they didn't come back out."

show goers at the crystal ballroom do a mandatory bleacher stomp on the spring loaded floor to call for their mandatory encores. later last night, i was convinced that the floor had done something unkind to my back.

the encore was nostalgic. bright eyes knew much more than i did about music until last night.

lights up. goodnight, travis. i liked the fourth song, i think. "which one was that?" "i was asking you."

later, backstage: "ok. i don't know if we're staying. let's just feel it out after i say hello. and you have to act really gay. but be nice."

"got it. no problem, i'm having a good time."

i know the layout of the crystal ballroom and i don't know where i thought the loft would be, but i expected the party to be in one -- and that maybe andy warhol would be there. i didn't know anything about music until last night.

"hi, i'm nathaniel." nathaniel got caught up on what he'd missed since the last time he was in portland. the bottle of tequila on the table across the room was empty, but there was beer on ice right next to us. and half and half, although i didn't see any coffee. the room that wasn't a loft was small for the number of people inside.

"i'm moving back to brooklyn at the end of the summer, but he's staying here."

"yeah, we're planning the summer around our divorce."

"so you guys are enga--?"

"yes he is gay."

"have you met our bassist?"

"this is andy." "hi, andy." "hello." "i kind of expected andy warhol to be here." "i think he's gone." "yeah."

i didn't expect there to be beds on the bus, but again, i didn't know anything about music until last night. the last time i was on a tour bus, emily haines asked me if there were any way we she could sign my underwear without my taking off my pants. i guess i only know that one band. i don't remember seeing beds.

people on the bus were friendly, probably because they were listening to billy joel. they liked my boots, which i couldn't blame for my back. that was definitely the floor.

we got off the bus and then got waved back on. second encore. back off the bus. we didn't want to go to arcata. the ride home was much shorter.

late, but not much later: "tell my barista that i'm moving at the end of the summer if you go to coffee before i do tomorrow."

at the coffee shop this afternoon, she didn't remember saying it. "check your journal for april 10 at around three-thirty in the morning."

i was eight minutes fast, but sure enough it was there:

"april 10, 2011, 3:38 a.m.
going to sleep annoyed."