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A runaway steamroller, this weekend. True to form, Mountain Rasta rang, bright and early Friday morning... at quarter to eight. Not the hour to catch me at my best. Especially when I'm about to be conned into doing a show, unprepared, that afternoon. And so it was, solo, with Miss Jane bonding with the speckled one for the day. In C'Ville, the usual traffic crush, studio politics and two-hour frenzy. And also being stood up for the second time on the interview. And an interesting "invitation" to a show in Richmond, offered by the young Audrey Hepburn noon DJ. Those evil thoughts weighed heavy... but what a wuss am I. Oh... bitter temptation. Lissome, raven-haired and of the lovely arched eyebrows. And me... the aged one. Good for the sagging ego. Returning to the street in full rush-hour swing. Taking as long to cross town as it would to get thirty miles away. The end-of-the-week, pre-holiday feeding frenzy. Returned home to find the girls as fast friends, and a call waiting from Biggles. Rebirth Brass Band, Saturday. Less repercussion, less thrill than Richmond. OK. I greeted Saturday in the fetal position on the futon... at 4AM. Fell like a redwood, thanks to the early morning wakeup call. Probably a good thing, the extra sleep. Broke new tracks in the snow, rescued my mother from her first big computer crash, tidied up a bit and made for the city. Met the Varga girl having a smoke on the new front porch... another raven-maned beauty. A pattern, here. The first of many stouts cracked open in the glow of the cathode ray tube... sadly, to witness Arsenal's stumble at Old Trafford. Surely needed a "Rebirth" after that debacle. What WAS spawned was the foundation for a phenomenal hangover. More in the bar below the club, upstairs in the concert hall, bathed in the rasp of brass, New Orleans Style. Among fellow DJs, lurching drunks, those enraptured by rhythm... even Culture Biff in the crowd. Souls that brave the cold for the warm bath of sound. Well insulated, to that point. When the lights went up, off across town to the late bar for the fatal glass of brown. The one that says, "No More!" Biggles reminding me of his determination to return to England, to straighten things out, family in tow. Then, another miraculous return to the comfort of bed. My appreciation for the man who invented the Bloody Mary. Spicy tomato juice, in the blender with celery, horseradish and hot sauce. Generous on the Stoli. Maybe not recovered, but functional. The hangover, making Christmas shopping bearable. The Sopranos and the weekend... conclude. |
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