Singing Little Bluebird

Transmitter wrote this at around evening time:

There was no sign, there wasn’t even a front door. I knew I was at the right place by the smell of the clove cigarrettes, the telltale odor of an indie rock show. The Bluebird looked like a church basement, complete with a drop ceiling, couches, and hushed clusters of teenagers.

I came to see the Hibernauts, but I was here because Grove Fest was awful. Not only was Grove Fest nearly desolate, but my ex-wife and ex-friend, who is now dating her, showed up. They didn’t see me and I quickly downed my beer and left.

The show was awesome, but I was shocked at the indie immobility. How can people not dance and move to this music? It made me think of the Arcade Fire line, “my body is a cage that keeps me from dancing with the one I love, but my mind holds the key.” Then I felt lonely. I wasn’t dancing and I wasn’t with the one I love. Maybe my mind holds the key.

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2 Responses to “Singing Little Bluebird”

  1. Anonymous Says:

    You always said you wanted to go bowling…not what you had in mind?

  2. Transmitter Says:


    It seems that some of us wanted it more than we knew.

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