I’m stuck in a den of iniquity, waiting for my girlfriend. The laptop’s out, and I’m listening to Sonic Nurse while I work on the config for a couple of wireless bridges I’ll be giving names based on books I read a long time ago. Pattern Recognition‘s such a calming track, swirling over the hubbub and the TV footage of old footy biffo scenes from the 80’s. I’m here to see a film about robots, but I’m still thinking about last night’s film, all in black and white, where a keen-looking Iggy Pop tried to recommend a drummer to Tom Waits. Last time I was here, a co-worker invented the drink call of “managerrrrr!”. It seems so long ago. I’m leaning forward and drumming on my calves to Dripping Dream. I’m waiting. What would golden boy Jim O’Rourke do in a situation like this? That’s what I wanna know. A beer, a lemonade and a coffee. More drumming. People come and go, but more are coming than going. I’m realising that I haven’t been listening to enough loud music lately, loud enough to drown out everything and anything. I’m getting softer in my advancing age. I walked around the neighbourhood yesterday when a Birthday Party tune came across the iPod – She’s Hit. Rowland S. Howard‘s spidery guitar drawl instantly recognizable. It changes the way you walk, the way you look at the trees as he kills another couple of strings. It’s time to go. Robots await.