Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
The lobby clock showed two a.m. when I walked to the elevators, now feeling a little itchy for a shower. When I got up to the suite I heard people laughing inside and I knocked instead of opening the door with the key.
Bart opened it. “Here you are!”
I stepped past him and saw sitting on the couch Carynne, Chris, and Remo. Remo stood up and came toward me. “Jeezus, where you been?”
Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
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When the wakeup call came I was lying face down on top of my left hand and my thumb was numb. Bart picked the receiver up and then lay back groaning. Sunlight lined the blackout curtains like white fire. I sat up and shook my hand. “Shit.”
“Wha’d you do?” Bart said, standing up and yawning. He had a severe case of bed head.
“I think I slept on my hand.”
Mirrored from the latest entry in Daron's Guitar Chronicles.
The wake up call came at ten, and we motorvated ourselves to pack up what we’d scattered and get dressed and get out. Digger hit the road for New York, and the rest of us headed for Philadelphia.
I drove the first leg, wearing what I still thought of as Matthew’s sunglasses and playing a 90-minute tape I’d made mostly to horrify the guys, a mixed tape of stuff I knew that I (and they) had listened to a lot of not so many years ago: Toto, Journey, Hall & Oates, stuff that was never going to have a retro-revival and which was not aging well. Bart shrieked when “Hold The Line” came on and said we ought to do a cover of it. “C’mon, I know you know it,” he said to me, and was right. I refrained from making any promises. On the B-side I had E.L.O., Supertramp, a little George Harrison solo stuff.
Today was another five hour trip, not counting pit stops. We arrived at the somewhat upscale Philly hotel at three in the afternoon and I was a bit bleary from having napped the last hour or so. So my eyes weren’t the best-focused they’ve ever been when I walked into the lobby. Which would explain why when Jonathan jumped out of a chair–and started shuffle-running toward me with a bit more enthusiasm than people usually launched themselves in my direction–my first thought was ‘whoa, crazed fan.’ But that impression didn’t last when I recognized him. Much handshaking and back slapping ensued and this only slowed down the check-in process slightly.
“Jeezusfuckingchrist, it’s good to see you,” I said as we walked to the elevators together. I meant it, too.
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timeasmymeasure
