Smog's A River Ain't Too Much To Love rose again and again in the earliest days of this blog. It reminded me of Nebraska and it brought me back to San Francisco, and I am a rock bottom riser and I owe it all to you.
Some days just can't hold onto their hours. This day Wednesday has butterfingers. It feels as though only seconds ticked since I phoned Jon Iverson this morning. In fact, an entire day has gone by. People are walking out the door, saying "bye," without looking back. Meanwhile, I'd like to start from the beginning.
It's hard for me to believe that all of today's sunshine will soon be replaced by clouds and rain. Then again, there's no reason to trust in whimsical April. The forecast calls for the sky to fall at about 6pm EST. Right now, at 4:55pm EST, the tall, brick buildings outside my window are blanketed in golden warmth. I'm usually not so in touch with the weather's hourly report, but there's a special circumstance keeping me curious.
On the corner of Monmouth and Third, in the parking lot of the Genesis Educational Center, where the blood lines erase the color lines, a drummer needs practice. I wasn't expecting this. It might interfere with our listening session. The bad beats are hopping into my third floor window and making themselves comfortable, crowding the sweet spot. The singer, it seems, needs practice, too. And is that a preacher hollering the gospel, or a drunk abusing his wife? Around here, one can never be certain. Perhaps it's both...