We are the Music Makers and we are the Dreamers Of The Dreams.
Misspent youth tending the seeds of debauchery. Developed them into a thriving hothouse that knows neither time nor season. (Or appropriateness, for that matter. Or tact.) I spend most of my time in there weeding.
Spent the better part of my adult childhood in the Lower East Side lounges and taverns as a journeyman player in various outfits, hacking away at whatever instrument was laying around. The groups I worked with leaned toward the dark, brooding, pour-me-another-whilst-I-sharpen-this kind of music.
Lounge Noir, we liked to call it. (I believe Mark Steiner coined the term)
I settled down to piano for Kundera. We clicked. We all just clicked.
Things were going really well until the world went to hell.
I left the sanctuary of the East Village for the wild wastes of southwest Florida. What the fuck was I thinking, right? Right.
Every time I return to New York, I feel like I'm having lunch with an ex girlfirend that I SO regret dumping. I couldn't see her for what she really meant to me, and now she's moved on, content to be a casual aquaintance, and she's more goddamn beautiful than ever. I bask in her radiance for a few hours and then slink away, dejected, seething, biting my nails, back to my self imposed exile.
Actually, Fort Myers is pretty nice. All in all, not too bad. Weather's great. I could run down a list of petty complaints, but what's the point? Everybody's lived in the suburbs at one time or another in their lives.
Let me clarify that; the outdoors, the water, sky, trees, birds, all of that stuff is nice. The majority of people here are oxygen theives. And I've never seen such a vast amount of soul deadening architecture. Just effen hideous.
But enough about me. What's your excuse, punk?