So says Aaron. In a hollowed-out warehouse that used to be a book bindery. Theater seats, almost a full house. Good view from the last row, but a long walk to the keg. Halfway through Dirt Circle Dogs’ set I wished we were all standing. But it was alright.
He caught me reading my work copy of Lord of the Flies while they were setting up, warned me that it was disturbing, and something. Dark, maybe? I told him I’d just finished The Road that afternoon. Hah.
Walked a little over two miles home, stopping halfway for a beer with Kat. They sound like the Pixies fucked Arcade Fire, I tell her. It’s not entirely accurate, but it’s the first thing that comes to mind.
I wish I could explain, even to myself, what it means to be someplace with good local music, good cafes, good used book and music and clothing stores–and actually have the time and energy and money to enjoy them all. Because I wasn’t reading 5 books a week in New York. Even though I was working at the largest used book store in the whole goddamn world.
So ends my first month in the apartment. I still don’t have a bed, but who cares? The last of my books came from New York a few days ago. I walked the half-hour home from work in near-90 degree heat, and found nine eight-to-ten-pound boxes with my name all over them piled up in the vestibule. No one else home. I carried them all up myself, sweating in disgusting places. And I was really, really happy.
