We're getting ready for tour. As if in anticipation of our future's sojourn to the American Southeast, the weather in Baltimore finally ratcheted itself into actual Fucking Summer territory: ninety degrees plus, steaming stuffed-in-underwear afternoons full of loud sun and windless minutes. The shock of the air conditioning at the post office almost stopped my heart out loud. Our pores are open.
Plus, the basement smells like a catshit mushroom pantsuit. It keeps raining and the floor keeps leaking all over everything; Nate's drumsticks were actually moldy. The cat box gets moldy too. Last month's trial run of World's Very Very Best Feline Expensive Litter (which is made out of corn and which friend Michelle refuses to buy because she, commendably, thinks cats defecating into cornmeal is insulting to the world's hungry) grew blue fuzz after two weeks of tolerating the damp concrete hole that is our practice space beneath my floor.
During times like these, I think of you, Diamond Dave, and how you must have suffered at some point during your life. Was it easier to half-starve while living out of your station wagon, sleeping inside the PA on the beach, wearing blue jeans so thickly starched they could stand on their own, than it was to lose your radio show? Did a poorly built smoke pot ever give you a burn worth writing home about? Do you ever think about Massachusetts and get misty?
Incidentally, back in the starching days, did you see kids powdering their faces to appear British? Do you remember the names of any of those bands you used to play with? What about the compostion of those smoke pots? Please, next time let me help you write your autobiography, next time you live again or when you're ready to commit to something that'd dent the coffee table, something with all the pictures from forever and everybody. Something that really talks about what happened. I think we'd really get along; you're almost a Libra so I understand the edges of your personality, and I always admire a good Virgo. Who doesn't?
Thanks for helping me forget that's its totally hot as balls inside and outside, or rather thanks for helping me realize that life is hot as balls all over and that is a ruling thing. In honor of everything you've done for me personally tonight I'm posting this image from a website that claimed you had a severe allergic reaction to nuts. Which you later denied. Also you look like Vigo from Ghostbusters 2.