A good weekend, fraught with ambivilence and apprehension though it was, and my activities can be summed up in three words: Japanese, rocknroll and cockfighting.

See, I've been developing an article on cockfighting films (yes, they exist, enough so that I can concoct a flimsy argument that there's a "genre") so I stocked up at Scarecrow, pulling down every title I could that included cockfighters among the main characters. Boy, that was a good feeling, walking up to the girl behind the counter with EL GALLO DE ORO (THE GOLDEN COCKEREL), ROOSTER: SPURS OF DEATH, REALM OF FORTUNE and COCKFIGHTER. Lori, of course, was loath to actually watch roosters fight to the death, but I've gotten used to it, and I have to admit it's a damn beautiful sight to watch all those feathers fly in slow motion, and the fetishy close-ups of handlers tying on the spurs make me wonder why the S/M community doesn't appropriate the gear into their edgeplay (perhaps I'm naive and they already do). The stories are all essentially the same, some underprivileged schlub trying to score riches (like the fella who wants to win enough money to buy his dead mom a fancy coffin) or be identified as the top of his craft ("Cockfighter of the Year!") and their obsession always pays off but they lose something along the way. Familiar enough, pretty much every boxing movie you ever saw, but of course it's COCKFIGHTING so it's more like a boxing movie that focuses exclusively on the trainers and gangsters instead of the actual athletes themselves. In the American films someone is always popping up to make impassioned speeches defending the "glory" of cockfighting (one movie has the balls to suggest that our entire legal system is based on lessons the founding fathers learned in cockfighting pits), but the foreign ones (Mexico and the Phillipines) have no need to apologize. So yeah, for the past few days it's been cockfighting, cockfighting, cockfighting ...

... except for the first live rock show I played in five years, a mere three-song set at some cornball "Nuggets Tribute Night" at a local place called the Lo-Fi. My pal Jeremy did all the legwork, recruiting a Japanese garage rock band called the Jailbirds to help back us up. I didn't meet these guys until a few hours before the show, and it wasn't hard to pick them out of the crowd as they walked down the street ... six young Asian guys dressed in tight flared trousers, Beatle Boots and velvet jackets wearing sunglasses on one of our typical grey Seattle afternoons. They were all very personable and laid-back about having a total stranger just walk in and join the band.

We "practiced" by playing the songs once through during soundcheck, then I proceded to drink bourbon and pace. Honestly, I wasn't terribly nervous, not once I got there. The place was pretty cool (looked more like an art gallery than a rock club, no smoking inside but they did have a full bar), it was clear the audience wasn't going to be expecting much and everyone was pleasant and accomodating. We opened up the show with me and Jeremy doing a slow, quiet version of "You're Gonna Miss Me" accompanied only by a harmonica player, then our Japanese friends joined us for a rousing run of "Midnight to Six Man" that was unfortunately truncated by some flubbed cues after the solo. We finally got our legs on the old Pop Tarts standard "Sorry," which was sloppy and energetic in all the right ways. I'm usually reticent when playing guitar in front of people, but I was feeling just right enough to rip out some furious licks and trade head-bobbing rockisms with my Japanese bandmates, who took it all in stride and were as pleasantly surprised with how well it turned out as I was. Meanwhile, Jeremy belted it out and shook his tight white denim trousers, poncing about in proud Rod Stewart fashion (I don't know about all the scarves this kid wears, though, we might need to have a talk about it).

The Jailbirds stayed on stage for three of their own numbers, which were fucking explosive once they cut loose all the caucasian deadwood. Nothing you haven't seen before, but as good as you've ever gotten it ... fast trashy garage punk with Japanese accents, white shirts and skinny ties, but no arrogant "fuck you" attitude, it was an all-inclusive "everybody shout at the top of your lungs and dance" approach that made them irresistible. Hands down, the hottest version of "For Your Love" that I've ever heard, easily besting the Yardbirds (it's their weakest track anyhow). After that we stuck around to watch a weak 60s revival band struggle to follow the Jailbirds, then got the hell out before a perfect night had a chance to go horribly wrong.

Sunday I savored a mild hangover, watched cockfights and daydreamed.