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.
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..."
While Buddha keeps asking me about hands, and Wonko wanted to know more about the glove, Christian had some more practical questions. First, he asked, "What are you running through the Moscode now? Are you still using the Arcam as your source, and are you running it through the Arros or the DeVores?"
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.