ceciliatan

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

I walked into the hospitality suite looking for Flip when it turned out I had, in fact, managed to not bring the charger for my pager. There I didn’t find Flip but I did find Waldo, Martin, and Charlie the flugelhorn player. Charlie’s iron-gray hair was slicked back against his head into a stubby pony tail but that only emphasized the kind of Ichabod Crane look to him: hooked nose, skinny limbs, long fingers.

“Where and when can we rehearse tomorrow?” I asked Waldo, thinking it was a no-brainer kind of question.

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

One of the best things about being a small person physically is that it’s not a big deal for me to spend 18 hours on an airplane in coach. They had booked me on whatever they could get at the last minute, which meant I changed planes in Seattle, and then went non-stop to Tokyo from there. The trans-Pacific leg in those days took like fourteen hours because there was some dodging of Russian airspace necessary.

Fourteen hours is a long time to think about something. Not that I sat there thinking about Jonathan, or Ziggy, or anything for fourteen straight hours. Sleeping and eating occupied a fair amount of time, too. But the thing you find about long haul trips like that? Fourteen hours actually isn’t that long. Time passes. What seems beforehand like it’s going to be “forever” actually goes by a lot quicker than you think it will.

Yeah, yeah, insert relationship comment here.