No more rent money. Oh well, it was good while it lasted. 6 flights of stairs kinda sucked, but the rooftop close enough to see the East River was a fun reward. Good hangs at this apartment. My girlfriend liked it because she could smoke all the cigarettes she wanted out on the fire escape and drink beers at sunset on the roof, we would open the door from my room to the escape at dawn on a Saturday and watch the rain from my bed, my buddy Adam Gnade dreamed about the roof, did an interview up there, my buddy Bart Schaneman wrote a poem I really liked while up there, I watched—and was sufficiently underwhelmed—by Hurricane Irene. It was my first time having a place I could call all my own, and except for the occasional bouts of shut-in-ness and cabin fever I found it ideal for working.
Things are going to be a bit up in the air this month. I’ll mostly be bouncing around between the Lone Wolf Tribe studios in Fort Greene, Brooklyn and one of my brothers’ couches. I’m going out to San Franscisco in May to see if the summer of love is real…
PS— this was yesterday’s barren situation which was made bearable by bottles of libations:
~rjb
