Arrival

SIng, O Muse, of a man and a bag. A bag with a broken wheel, no less, which you can be damn sure made navigating the subway system a nightmare of high-friction surfaces. After two days on the road w/ Adam (study abroad roommate and friend) from Chicago to Philadelphia, followed by a two-hour jog on the Bolt Bus to Penn Station, I'm literally dragging my life down escalators—and my life, apparently, is in no mood to move. About 60% percent of my luggage is musical equipment, and right now it feels like 80% of net weight. The existential crisis presented by do-I-bring-acoustic-or-electric-guitar was resolved by: both. The truth, as usual, lies not in either extreme but somewhere in the middle.

Regret sets in, though, mid-turnstile. Logistic challenges present themselves left and right. The triumphant step and confident stride of the anticipated cinematic montage of my arrival has been replaced with a somewhat less-heroic reality of trudging backward down Brooklyn streets dragging my suitcase, trying to balance my perilously-duct-taped bookbag on top as the sidewalk grinds through my luggage.

Elisia mercifully rang up one of the future loftmates to lend me a hand once I got out to Bushwick and things started going more smoothly. Before long, we reached the McKibbin loft, my residence for the next month. Outside the front door, a mountain of discarded furniture and books is being picked over by young-artist looking types sizing up the relative merits of different particle board shelving units. I.e. This one has a weird stain, but the shelves are all intact, whereas that one may have actually been thrown out the window. Besides the shelving, there's an a array of beat up but actually quite well-selected literature, frisbees, t-shirts, and pregnant black garbage bags that do not invite further inquiry. The few clothes hangers lying about are being scooped up with the casual deliberation of choosing apples at the supermarket. The mood is festive.

The neighborhood is what I'll elect to call "industrial-chic". McKibbin itself, in terms of aesthetic and aroma, is something like an unfinished basement, though not unpleasantly so. I'm not sure how many people live in the building, but it's a lot. The same goes for our loft. There's a christmas-tree-light-lit practice space in the basement with a drum kit, amps, guitars, a PA, and a neatly swept pile of cigarette butts and dirt from the last show they threw in the space. The view from the roof (6-ish floors?) is fantastic. Manhattan beckons.

I answer the call later, making a trip down to the Kmart south of Union Square to pick up a couple things. It's 10 PMish but the subway bustles. A bleach-blond girl in ray bans covers "Fake Plastic Trees." At Kmart I pick up a cheap tent and air mattress and head back to Mckibbin to set up camp. Elisia and I set up the tent and I hang my clothes up on a stepladder.

At around midnight I hit up a local bar for a couple drinks with two of my new loftmates and unwind. The bartender pours our drinks strong, which I appreciate.

Around 1:30 (in memoriam, everyone) I head back to the loft. As I settle into the sleeping bag, I gaze upward through my tent's advertised "Night Sky Viewing Mesh!" Never has the night sky seemed more beautiful.