Stephen Mejias

Tomorrow, music editor Robert Baird is off to Austin, Texas, for the South By Southwest Music, Film, and Interactive Fest. He attends year after year.

Alan is very laid-back. I almost typed "laid-baked," which would be an equally appropriate description. It seems to me that this laid-backness, not to mention laid-bakedness, is a fine quality in a bass player.

On the streets today, people seem so smart and full of Spring. Though the temperature has dropped ten degrees from its high, the sun is still shining. It's 32 degrees and sunny in New York City.

Happy Friday, lovely. I'm sorry for missing you yesterday. I started on several different entries, actually, but none went where I wanted. Which isn't necessarily bad — entries often take unexpected turns — but these entries, in particular, simply seemed not right enough for this space.

Dear "poker casino 875,"
I hate you.

While riding the F train this morning, I, for some reason, found myself face down on the Hawkins Street School asphalt. All over again, on this hot, summer, 5th grade afternoon: Jose Quiros pushed his weight down against my lower spine, clenched his angry hands around my 10-year old throat, and announced, clearly and confidently: "I'm going to kill you, I'm going to kill you, I'm going to kill you..."

Last night, I sat down for a bit with Anthony Hamilton and his open road. You're what I want. You're what I need. You touch the deepest part of me. And these loose and tenuous warbling riffs stretched out wide across my windows, parting the curtains and welcoming in the neon lights from the bar on the other side of Monmouth.