After a hassle with misappropriated tickets and a trip back to the car to return what is apparently my “professional rig” camera, we got into 4th and B, got drinks, and found seats. A friend’s description of the venue pretty much proved true: outside, it looks like a skyscraper; when you first walk inside, it looks like someone’s dilapidated barn; when you get into the actual venue, it looks like a pretty decent place.
Note: Photos in this essay depict re-enactments of actual events, not the events themselves.
Thursday, July 12
McCaskill picked me up at my folks’ house at 9PM. We weren’t planning to leave Jackson until about 1 or 2AM, but we’d decided to hang out a while and say goodbyes because, naturally, we may never come back.
Instead of going to the bar, for obvious reasons, we opted for dinner. Regardless, as with alcohol, we are both bottomless pits for food. The meal was uneventful, save for the fact that our waitress had apparently served McCaskill once before, and had taken offense to a conversation about foreskins. Despite this, the food was palatable and (hopefully) spit-free.
We drove to D.C. on a whim, twelve hours each way on 95, for Califone‘s show at the Rock and Roll Hotel. Highway barbecue, coffee, a night in South Carolina where “Deluxe” still describes cheap motels. Slither on HBO. North to President Inn (‘s not included) on New York Avenue near the arboretum. Capital Dome: I bare my ass to it in the window, more than they deserve, and Amy and I head out. The neighborhood is depressed, restaurants all closed or takeout Chinese or ff chain. We eat shrimp lo mein and fried rice and walk to the club.
