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

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As promised, power had been restored at the theater and we did our sound check and hung around with Stumblefish, eating catered cold cuts and drinking a kind of canned soda called Blue Sky. Carynne called around six frantic and trying to figure out what we were doing in Boulder still. I told her, and she told me she had decided to fly out to San Francisco to meet back up with us after all. She had a friend at the University of Washington she wanted to visit in Seattle, too.

There’s not much more to tell about waiting around. Ziggy was keeping his distance again after I’d brushed him off.

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

I was driving in the late morning the next day, my sunglasses greasy from being worn so long and the Rocky Mountains trundling along on our left like the world’s longest skyline, when we pulled into Boulder, Colorado.

There were no tall buildings here, as if the mountains used up all the tallness. Office buildings were three stories at most, and spread out long with gleaming mirror windows as they were in suburban industrial parks everywhere. Strip malls. Houses with redwood decks. Kinko’s. Taco Bell. The sunlight seemed brighter, sharper, than it had in Texas, like the dry air was too thin to slow it down (which I suppose in a way it was). Otherwise, being a mile above sea level didn’t seem to make much difference.

When we had settled into yet another room with two double beds, a TV, and a desk, Bart lay back on the bed and said “Are you okay?”

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