The Kingdom of Make-Believe Lives!!
Like Jesus and Bob Hoskins, I had a fairly eventful Good Friday. Sure, I didn't threaten the political and social fabric of entire civilizations. My London gangland empire was never conquered in the space of a day by the Irish Republican Army. It was pretty eventful, though. So there.

For one thing, I got my hair cut. People don't really like you or trust you unless you're well-groomed. It's a shitty lesson that leaches away one's will to live, but it's there. Honestly--I don't like anything making a liar out of the late, great Fred Rogers.

Tucked away in the Depot Town district of Ypsilanti, Michigan, the "D.T." or "Unabomber Central" (as I'm so close to calling it) seems the size of my kitchen and living room put together. It's apparently run by the multi-talented Naia Venturi, a local artist and puppeteer. I'd been there once before, for "Chemical Traces," a marionette musical about rival unabombers in love with the same disgruntled and heavily armed postal worker.

Good Friday at the Dreamland saw the "March Manifestival," a cavalcade of fun, games, music, and a marionette extravaganza (I like puppets, so I went), following a script partially composed through audience participation. It was a little alarming at first, as the Picaroons came on and played a whole lot of folk music (including a song derived from Shakespeare that I'm pretty sure was covered by Vashti Bunyan once upon a time). I recovered much later that night by listening to Rocket From the Tombs, the Mars Volta, and the Roots.

I don't know why, but the Dreamland seems to have an obsession with the Unabomber (himself an undeniable product of the "Harvard of the Midwest"). We played a trivia game where the contestants were read a line and had to guess if it came from a U.S. president, a Nobel laureate, or the Unabomber. I ended up tying this Martin guy and then it was on to the puppets. I seemed to pull a lot of adjectives during the script-writing, including "stainless," "ruddy," "tumescent," and "cavernous," which give you some idea of the finished product. A wonderful evening, even if (because?) I had to miss the folk-dancing to catch the last #5 bus back to Ann Arbor (um, yay, I guess).

After I returned, I went to the Blind Pig to see Jamie Register, one of the people behind hiphop collective Cloud Nine Music. Local band Otto Vector played first, and I'll just employ the notes I jotted during the performance...

"Who are these people? The place is deserted--I expect tumbleweeds. The music seems kind of a hard-edged dance-pop with a very eighties vibe. It's all right, but definitely not what I associate with the Blind Pig. Kylie Minogue with guitars--that's who they remind me of! Now I can die in peace (unless someone tries to pull a Schiavo on me, in which case I won't be pleased). There are some unbelievably half-hearted moshers right in front of the stage. I'm not sure I've got the heart to stick around for the Cloud Nine guys... Sweet Jesus, this place is dead (no offense, given the date). It's just as well, of course, as I found my usual place on the stool by the wall next to the 1972 Blues Fest album (with John Sinclair pompously smirking all the way through). Still... I've never seen it like this. Yeah, this is really getting me down. Screw the headliner--I could be at home watching old 'Cracker' episodes."

And so I went.