In Tucson, we played the show I’d promised you, at the Hotel Congress, with Howe Gelb and John Doe. You were not waiting on the sidewalk when we got there. Billy and I checked into our room—our very warm room. Felt like we were in Paper Moon. The Hotel Congress is without modern amenities, meaning, it is real and it is going-back-in-time and it is perfect. Our mushy, rainy winter-spring bodies were sucking up the dry Sonoran air, balancing. “I think my skin is smaller,” Billy said, pinching his arm.
“I’m gonna go find Vic,” I told him, “wanna come?”
Stare. “Nope.”
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