100
It's creeping on 100 degrees in the city. Again. Man, I don't mind the heat, but this is getting ridiculous. All my free time spent hiding away in my 12x8 foot room, A/C blasting, music blaring. For the first few weeks I didn't mind being locked up. It gave me good time to read, listen, smoke my bro's stash and chill. But now I can't take it any more. Moody, sticky, headaches from the double-punch of dehydration and stale air. It's still hot as hell in here, but every time I step into the hall it feels like my building is on fire.
Ran into Cooley and James the other night. They were playing at Southpaw with Heloise and the Savoir-Faire Dancers. Wes, Mirela and I came stumbling out of a little Mexican restaurant, filled to the burst with enchalatas, and there was Cooley, sauntering down the fucking street with a guitar slung over his shoulder. The show was a benefit for some kid who had passed away, so I felt out of place in a crowd of mourning friends. Some shite bar-rock band -- that supposedly featured Joan Jett's guitar tech -- played for an hour. By the time Heloise and co. got on, M and I were so floored we only stayed for a couple of tunes. Sounded awesome, though. Terrific stage presence. And it's worth all the cash in the world to see Cooley rocking the monsterbass on stage, dressed in suit, sunglasses and fake 'stash.
More soberly, I've been really absorbed by thoughts of 9/11 again. Thoughts deep enough that I'm not going to even attempt to voice them here. Anyway, the New York Times has posted interviews with survivors of the disaster, finally released by the Bloomberg administration following a protracted lawsuit. You can read 'em here. Some (most, maybe) would think reading such material to be self-torture. I see it as a necessary -- though dizzyingly painful -- look into an incomprehensibly horrible day.
Peace, everyone. Think rain.
Ran into Cooley and James the other night. They were playing at Southpaw with Heloise and the Savoir-Faire Dancers. Wes, Mirela and I came stumbling out of a little Mexican restaurant, filled to the burst with enchalatas, and there was Cooley, sauntering down the fucking street with a guitar slung over his shoulder. The show was a benefit for some kid who had passed away, so I felt out of place in a crowd of mourning friends. Some shite bar-rock band -- that supposedly featured Joan Jett's guitar tech -- played for an hour. By the time Heloise and co. got on, M and I were so floored we only stayed for a couple of tunes. Sounded awesome, though. Terrific stage presence. And it's worth all the cash in the world to see Cooley rocking the monsterbass on stage, dressed in suit, sunglasses and fake 'stash.
More soberly, I've been really absorbed by thoughts of 9/11 again. Thoughts deep enough that I'm not going to even attempt to voice them here. Anyway, the New York Times has posted interviews with survivors of the disaster, finally released by the Bloomberg administration following a protracted lawsuit. You can read 'em here. Some (most, maybe) would think reading such material to be self-torture. I see it as a necessary -- though dizzyingly painful -- look into an incomprehensibly horrible day.
Peace, everyone. Think rain.
posted by eC at 7:00 PM
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