catch her in the Rice

No one who is at all familiar with my ever-evolving-never-slackening budget constraints (imaginary or not, self-inflicted or not) would be surprised, I suppose, to learn that I had never experienced a live performance by anyone remotely "famous". Never, that is, until last Thursday night.

If the chosen destination of my maiden voyeurage does not readily commend (or even reveal) itself to you, perhaps we have less in common than originaly suspected. Which would obviously be your loss, not mine or Damien's. I mean, he is Irish, hangs out with Tori, writes about older chests and accidental babies (neither of which I'm crazy about, btw, fyi), shows up more than once on the TLW soundtrack... What more could a girl ask for? Oh I know what. An agonisingly beautiful female co-vocalist. Which, of course, he delivers also.

So what if my increasingly middle-class friends don't care for him an awful lot, or if the artsy ones can't take him seriously enough. Listening to him and Lisa makes it that much easier for me to visualise trekking across volcanos, licking coconut skins, meeting Eskimos, and learning to play the Tibetan singing bowl - all of which I hope to do one day.