After the sun goes down completely, we sit on the porch where a grand piano once lay sideways, it took five hours for her husband and the neighbor to chop it up into scrap wood and metal. I already have too many bits and pieces and art supplies including the oil paint my mom just found in the garage that I forgot about (how much does it say about the state of my materialism that I forget what I own). I love porch nights in the summer, we catch up on everything, and then move inside when the bugs took over and end up watching favorite bits of Spinal Tap.
And Sunday, after cleaning the apartment and restringing the guitar for potential weeknight rockingness, I wander over to the favorite record store to hear Tesco Vee and Steve Miller tell lurid tales of Detroit rock and roll and pick up their books, finally scored the "Touch and Go" zine anthology, and end up trading Michael Stanley stories and hearing the dirt dished about Iggy Pop and the MC5, who my dad actually got to see, and I remember being 15 and hearing the revelation that was "Kick Out the Jams," all that feedback and fury, a secret that none of the kids in school were hip to yet.
As always, the store is a vortex, and me and a fellow comrade in geekitude end up standing around outside talking for the next two hours telling tales of crazy neighbors and roommates and scene politics and world news geekery, the kind of things that are rare in discourse and full of laughter. We part ways when it starts raining and I realize I missed free Shakespeare in the park but it doesn't seem to matter really, and home feels welcoming, with a pot of tea on the stove, a pile of books to curl up with, and the rain coming down.