Last night I went to see the Deerhoof show at Club Congress, but, after receiving misinformation, arrived after it had ended. I did have the chance to spend time with a few of my favorite former students, though, which tempered my disappointment. And a youngish guy named Matt, staying in Tucson for the night on his way from San Antonio to L.A., appeared to be hitting on me, which is strange because men never hit on me. Maybe it was the Phoenix Art Museum sticker on my black silk shirt that lured him. Or the combination of my new "punk" haircut and the bald spot to which it draws the viewer's attention. I'm going to have to be more careful what I drink when I'm out and about. Someone might slip me a roofie.