Richard Dawson was stuck in
the boonies, as I was. Nothing to do. He pulled out a small plastic bag of homegrown
cannabis, saying how he had to smoke about five bags to get high last night. I congratulated him on the fact that he'd spent his boonie-time doing something productive, growing the plants. I looked at the weed a little, but we never got around to smoking it.
I was trying to explain to someone the trajectory of
Wayne Shorter's life, from the late
60s to now, his handicapped son (Iska?), his divorce and remarriage, his
chanting, and how all that had an effect on his music over the years. My explanation was going nowhere.
I was trying to ask the
real estate agent to describe the apartment again; it sounded like it was a
studio apartment, twelve feet by four feet. I tried to imagine these dimensions and decide if that would be enough living space.
I could hear
Coleman Hawkins playing, and people discussing him. A
documentary? I sat back and enjoyed...
...as it turned out, IRL it was the clock radio, tuned to WKCR and its all-day Hawkins programming (it's Bean's birthday), and rather than hop out of bed to get ready for work, I overslept by a half-hour. But I guess that should go in my day log :)