ceciliatan

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

So it turns out you don’t have to do a lot of drugs or have a lot of sex to have what I–and probably most people–would consider a rock star weekend. Magenta seemed determined to prove us “kids” weren’t going to outlast her and when you have three lead-singer types hanging out together, they will sort of compete with each other for the spotlight. Okay, maybe “compete” isn’t the right word, but whenever one would cede center stage, another one would step up. It meant things never got dull and I was content to be along for the ride.

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

(Reminder: there’s a ‘Moondog Fan Club’ email list. We haven’t send much of anything to it, but when there’s news, we will? Sign up at Mail Chimp: http://eepurl.com/-_Fxj)
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I took the Fender into the studio and shook hands with the guys in the band du jour, and we shot the breeze for a little while about how they were liking New York: not much, actually. They were freezing their butts off.

“Back home it’s eighty-five degrees today,” the bass player complained. “You always read about these bands from England going to record in the Caribbean in the winter and shit. Why’d we come here?”

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

When you come from the New York area, you grow up learning a certain disdain of tourists. So it was distinctly weird to be staying in a hotel in the city for an honest-to-god vacation. It really hadn’t sunk in for me that we’d be playing tourist in what was, really, kind of our hometown. Well, mine anyway. But there we were, like something from a Christmas movie, waltzing in and out of a lavishly decorated lobby on our way to and from leisure activities like seeing the tree and the windows at Macy’s.

The tree. You all know about “the tree”?

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

(Saturday post! Also, Happy Pride Day in Boston! -ctan)

“Sex has always been easy for me and hard for you,” Ziggy said. The statement would have come out more clinical sounding if he hadn’t also leaned over and wiped his eyes on the sleeve of my black T-shirt. His face was less raccoon-like now than it had been when we started talking. I felt that was a victory of sorts.

“It’s not quite as hard for me now,” I said, a little afraid to admit too much and set him off. “At least, not when there’s not a lot at stake.”

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

So I learned a very important lesson about tequila.

The lesson was this: I remembered way more about what happened when I was on LSD than after two drinks of tequila. At least, I think it was two. Like I said: I don’t remember.

Let me back up to what I do remember.

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

Things were not fine. Things were far from fine. Ziggy had been taken to a different hospital, where the only person who had been allowed to see him was Digger, and that only after he’d produced some kind of power of attorney Ziggy had previously signed.

It was not lost on me that maybe it could be considered a little fucked up that my own father went with him to the hospital instead of with me, but I guess it made sense in our world. I mean, if I had to pick Digger or Carynne, which one do you think I would have preferred? I had bigger things to worry about, anyway, like whether to cancel the show.

Ziggy had three broken ribs.