Rhythm and Booze

Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.

Colin had called a cab while I was still drying off, and of course for once they came right away. So I had soaking wet hair and nearly broke my neck trying to pull a boot on and cross the living room at the same time. Turned out the insole had gotten twisted inside. I tossed the boot across the room and pulled on my high tops instead and didn’t tie them until I was in the back seat of the cab and we were on the way.

We got into traffic a few blocks from Lansdowne Street. “Ballgame traffic,” the cabby said. He was a bulk of a man with almost no hair and a neck like a whale’s belly, tattooed with something I couldn’t read. That was kind of surprising to me, given that I expected to see neck tattoos on guys like Colin and not ones twice his age.

“Let us out here. We’ll walk the rest of the way,” I said.

( Read the rest of this entry » )

About my heart (not a romance)

I just realized that when one is 14 and a goth and writing about mortality, nobody gives a flying fig, because what does a 14-year-old know about mortality, no matter how morbid-minded? But when you’re 44, and have just had two friends your age die within a week, and you have a medical emergency yourself, all of a sudden people take your musings about mortality very seriously.

Herein, the story of my medical emergency, and my musings on mortality, though may I stress I am unlikely to kick off any time soon. For the tl:dr crowd I REPEAT: I’M FINE. For the rest of you, read on.

( Read the rest of this entry » )

Mirrored from blog.ceciliatan.com.