A letter marked in chalk, the name dusty from neglect, the sound of sheets wrinkled September in my bed. The words are statements, the antithesis of lyrics. The paper is silent, lifeless except in memories that supply the absent voice. Well, I suppose that's it then. Every time the phone rang, I almost wondered, but I couldn't live like that - hopes hovering pointlessly over the receiver as my hand grasped and woke up my voice from where it had been hiding in the time it takes to light one cigarette, the time it takes to say hello.

One signal, a thread of blueprint, I wanted a reprieve, but that's not what I received.

Rechargable Biologically Based Battery
It was meant to be Ray's Mariachi Madness birthday party tonight, except that he came down sick. Some of us went through with the plans anyway, as they were a little too weird to casually pass up. The venue, up on third, proved to be a hole-in-the-wall school of some sort, split between Spanish and music classes, decorated in what I can only label Tijuana Church Basement flea market.

It was a one room affair, similar to a community theater show you might find in a film, complete with low, vaguely unflattering lighting, walls awkwardly studded with various traditional decorations, and streamers that may have been left over from someone's Mexicana wedding. The stage was a raised area with banisters, like an ornamental bridge over a very tiny stream, but instead of a stream, there was a row of potted plants. Most of the attendees spoke rapid Spanish, as did the host of the evening, leaving our friend Mishka, the violinist, looking like a deer in the headlights. A deer in a jacket three sizes too big and a ridiculous hat, mind, but a deer nonetheless.

Not that we were doing much better. At one point, I turned to Wayne and mouthed, "what have we gotten ourselves into?" He replied, "hell if I know, but it's awesome." Not only was there Mariachioake, which is exactly what it sounds like, there was also a Mariachi Idol contest that involved volunteers from the audience getting up and howling, and, for one song, the band was led by a five year old boy who sang at the top of his lungs at the prompting of his pregnant mother in the back who guided him through the lyrics with hand signals.

It was like culture shock, but in our own back-yard. If the backwards dancing midget from Twin Peaks had stepped from the audience and taken the mic at any point, I would not even blinked. Staying until the end of the show already felt like suspension of disbelief.

I highly recommend giving it a try. If nothing else, the food is delicious and the beer very, very cheap. Friday nights at 150 e3rd ave, just off Main st. Music starts at 9 o'clock, goes until approximately midnight.