We’ve been making our way up the east coast and are headed to MA right now. I was told to try melatonin for getting to sleep on tour. Might have taken too much because I’m in a sort of dream state today. We are in Memorial Day traffic and there’s nothing to look at. We make a lot of how close people sit to their steering wheel. One woman was so close to the wheel that there were at least six different fatal scenarios floating in the van having to do with proximity to the airbag. Giorgio: “No, it’s just that the bag won’t be able to fully inflate.”
Josh: “Vertebra man. That’s the way to break one. That’s the way it happens.”
Justin: “Crush her fucking chest man that’s for sure.”
Passing through Yonkers I remembered a trip Saskia and I took to the big city when we were in college. We drove up to Yonkers so we could meet another friend and stay with his sister. She lived in one of those yellow Yonkers apartments. We’d been warned by Saskia’s mother not to talk to anyone because of muggings and murders. She’d been a writer in NY in the 70s and told us all about the crime. As we walked up to this woman’s apartment building a man wearing a baggy blanket-coat affair shiftily whisper-hissed “White trash white trash,” to us as we passed.
The apartment was really nice because the sister of our friend was rich from exotic dancing in the city.