Stephen Mejias

"I was at Maxwell's last night for no more than three hours, and it made me terribly sick."
"What’s Maxwell's?" JA asks.
"Oh," I say, "It's a rock and roll club in Jersey."
"Thank you for assuming that I'm hip."
I laugh. "I’ve become so allergic to cigarette smoke. I woke up this morning coughing blood, and I've got a horrible headache now."
"You must have some insect genes."

I met John DeVore at last year's Consumer Electronics Show. Wes Phillips directed me: "Have you been to the DeVore Fidelity room yet?"
"Nuh-uh," I shook my head.
"You should check it out. I think John'll have some stuff that'll interest you."
"Alright," I nodded.

I was unusually happy, and now I’m sad.

But it’s not the cats that are killing me. It’s the commute.

On our way home last night, at your request, we found shelter from the relentless rain near a bit of dancing fire. White candles melted into soft wings and waves and fingertips, beckoning us closer. We sat at the fun table beneath so many beaded chandeliers, and ordered the best drinks in all of Manhattan—pineapple coconut mojitos and razzle dazzles—which were far too strong, but perfect, nontheless. The older woman in the strange hat offered us one of her piggyback dates—stuffed with almonds and wrapped in bacon, sprinkled with Cabrales bleu cheese—but we, of course, declined, and decided instead to order some of our own.

So, I arrived at home (I mean, at Wes') one night, and decided to take John DeVore's advice about popping a CD into the hi-fi as simple background noise. My plan was to listen to Smog's A River Ain't Too Much to Love while feeding the cats in the kitchen.