I am the lead singer in The Attack Plan. Tonight's rehearsal ended and after turning off all of the amps, unplugging the Christmas lights and setting the alarm, I lit a smoke and stepped out the door. The dead end alley air, full of a urea and the smell of bodies that haven't been washed properly in far to long is refreshing compared to the muggy heat of our noisy three hour worked studio space which lacks sufficient ventilation. My face feels swollen, achy and hot from smoke inhalation, the heat, and exerting myself singing and playing the Rock and Roll that I love so dearly. Our show on Friday will go as well as our individual moods shall dictate, as is the way with most things. I will play well and I will have fun.
Inspiration struck as I took a step toward my transportation home, the borrowed American truck with the giant apple in a wheelbarrow emblem on each door. My left foot met the pavement after a quarter of an inch of unexpected light resistance. Assuming it was some manner of feces and not being surprised, or alarmed in any way, I calmly stopped and turned to examine further. I found it oddly pleasant to discover that it was merely a mass of cigarette butts, a condom, the heel of a loaf of bread and some plain ol' city dirt. I'm sure, beyond what I could see with my naked eye, that the lot was infected with some strain of flesh eating disease as well. I unlock the passenger side door, put my bag in, flicked my cigarette through the chain link fence, exhale and climb into the drivers seat.
Tonight I was able to get home early enough to not feel the pang of guilt usuall associated with lazily deciding what I can and will accomplish before my time of slumber. I decided to write about one of my favorite places on Earth. I showed our rehearsal space to Julia after knowing her for two days. She appreciated it appropriately.
Living for the city
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