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Food is first on the agenda. I see a
Krystal sign in the distance. I go. Being a
White Castle hater, I choose some
chicken sandwiches instead. Remarkably, the
sandwiches, petite like the burgers are,
don't taste like chicken. I endure it anyway, washing it down with something that tastes like coffee -
this morning's coffee, it would seem, with all of the battery-acid qualities it accumulates in gestation; it laughs at my vain attempts to tame it with powdered "cream" and sugar. My stomach will rebel, a few minutes hence.
Browsing through the NME, I stop to read a review of a friend's band; it's a cheeky thumbs-down (no surprise), but that's not what startles me. Geography comes to mind: I'm sitting in Alabama, reading about friends from Georgia in a London newspaper, a review written by a Scottish scribe about a gig in New York.
I don't want to be in Alabama.
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