Science Fiction Rain
It’s raining outside, epic rain, Ray Bradbury science fiction rain. The National Weather Service says it will taper off, but there’s no sign of that.
It is Spring, evidenced by the yellow daffodils blooming near the Boat Basin, and by the red and purple crocusses sprouting along the horse path in Central Park. I ran there this morning through the wind and pouring rain, so happy to have the daylight to myself. I scribbled tonight’s set list, called Club Iota, Palm Picture and Epic Records, and Grubman, Indursky & Schindler (lawyers to the stars, and hopefully, would be stars). I walked through the dark city, hustling between rain drops to Virgin Records (no Nick Drake), Office Max (no circular labels), and Kauffman Army Navy (no fatigues in my size). I sat in Olympic Flame, my favorite diner on 57th & 9th, and read The Village Voice, quietly savoring a turkey burger deluxe, and my time there, alone.
In an hour and a half, a car will transport me, my Marshall, Rickenbacker and Martin downtown to the legendary CBGBs, where Talking Heads, The Ramones, and countless other rock bands have gone before.
Checking my email just now, I received this email: “I can’t get ‘Another Saturday’ out my head. I had ‘Out of Your Head,’ but lost it in a breakup with my ex-girlfriend. I’m getting ready to order that disc again. Anyway, [I knew that] that you had a big show this Wednesday, so I wanted to wish you good luck.”
Just when I thought no one was listening…