Stephen Mejias

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One Two Three Up

In bed the night before last, images of large and heavy loudspeakers carefully maneuvered into their old shipping cartons and up the narrow flight of stairs from JA's listening room, around a tight bend made tighter by piles of shoes and other things, and up another flight into a hall separating dining room from living room. One heavy step at a time, carefully.

Deluxe Edition

I think it was the only album my parents owned on both cassette and vinyl. So they could listen at home, and in the car. I remember looking at it and thinking I don't know what. This young black man in a gleaming white suit with a look on his face that says what. Looking all confident and comfortable and strange.

Passion, I said

It was a quarter to five on the last day of the show, and I was feeling good. I mentioned this to John Atkinson. He was sitting there beside me. The bus was empty but for us. We were waiting to go back to our hotel, waiting to leave the noise and smoke and lights of the crowded, extravagant Venetian. The place is madness. All of Vegas is madness.

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