In a small club in Cincinnati, we drove all day to get there, and here we are. The band plays "Fountain and Fairfax." They never play that song live. So I know, then, that this is their last show. The first time I realized what that song meant, I had a moment of realitization. That whole album. Cross country while the wrong person for me slept next to me, sheer insanity looming in the days ahead. In a few scant weeks, I would be decimated and never put back together again. I would become something from IKEA, with pegs left over, only to fall every time you slam your door. I heard those songs and cried into the flatlands of Kansas, as cars barrelled past me, because I had no idea how to drive a stick. She would get it started and I would drive. It's kind of like how I can't tie a tie and I wear one every day. Mitch Hedburg said ties are like a weak man strangling you all day. He's dead now, way before his time. The last time I heard "Fountain and Fairfax," I could not listen.

Photo - S
Words - S