December 15, 2005


Last night, JR (still undiscovered as America's greatest young writer and punk's foremost Lincoln authority) and I were sitting on the couch (still unvaccummed) at him and Miles' place (still mad bachelory, JR's shelf of several thou vinyl Lps still leaning more by the day). JR and I were racking our pea brains for NPR-approps songs about heresy or the effects of heresy or what happens whn you cold kick it heretically and Miles came in sat down next to me, folded up like a lawn chair those lank legs in tight jeans were, he hid the Miller Lite Can almost up under him, protected under his chicken arm. It was just slight to last call downstairs. He arrived just as we had begun to peruse, high speed, Hold Steady' Separation Sunday for the heretical inferability of young Holly in dem lyrics, Miles sang along, swinging the beer for punctuation. Every song we played, every 33 second snip, he would say "Oh, yeah, that is perfect. That one." "Are you drunk?" I ask once I bother to look up at him. "Totes" he slurs, holding his beer up as evidence. JR did not pay anymind, as he was furiously scrubbing the liner notes of Smithsonian folk collection boxes for mention of folks who do not beleive the bible-truth. I resorted iTunes to isolate il reggae, see if anyone is doubting in between shouting down Babylon. I-Roy and U-Roy offered nothing, Dr. Alimontado close but not quite. Miles, silent, stands, offers his nighty-night salutation: "JAH RASTAFARI!" and saunters to his room.

Posted by Jessica at December 15, 2005 01:20 PM | TrackBack