It really should be a big old ‘80′s car, you know.  One with a tape deck that sometimes captures your cassette and holds it for ransom. The kind with ridiculous power assisted steering and no feedback from the road.  Your friend should bring a tape of depressing Britpop favorites.  There ought to be a hood ornament that forges a path through endless trees.  You should stop every once in a while to listen to water and feel the warm stones.

I spend several hours every month just waiting for people to show up.

There are many procedures in my profession that absolutely can’t be interrupted, and I try to schedule dropoffs and pickups strategically.

Relying on musicians to be punctual shouldn’t be a big part of any business plan.

-Watching OITNB and wishing I had a functioning falsetto, because it sucks trying to sing along with Regina Spektor and not hitting that last note.

-Going to have a beer with a friend I haven’t seen in almost exactly 20 years. How can that not feel weird?

-Hot August nights always make me restless.  There’s a peculiar energy to them.

There’s a contemplative moment when mixing up shellac varnish.  One swirls the dry, amber flakes around in the denatured alcohol like some detective story protagonist brooding over his bourbon.

I was alone in the supermarket tonight. Empty aisles. Hollow sounds. Only the hum of distant refrigerators and florescent lights.

There was a tiny snail frolicking (as best a snail can) in the pool left behind by momentary rain, shadowed by a flower next to the steps.