17/365

There is a lot of rain. It could be snow though, and I’m very glad that it’s not. I am awaiting my chariot, the Big Medicine, the Great White Buffalo of conversion vans — good god, it just occurred to me that the van’s name is wildly appropriative. I will have to call it something else in my head from now on. But at any rate, we’re off to Harrisonburg for one night of punk rocking. I’m bringing both of my cameras, a sketchbook, markers, a sleeping bag, and a change of clothes. No toothbrush, or make-up, but definitely deodorant. I feel vaguely anxious about the whole thing for a reason I can’t yet discern. My feelings that “something bad is going to happen” sometimes cause something bad to happen, so instead I’m going to daydream that Henry Rollins will show up to surprise the guys in Buck Gooter and prove, once and for all, that he is their biggest fan. I hope he’s nice to me when we meet. The last time I went to Harrisonburg — and yes, there was a last time, which is odd in and of itself — it was to meet the man who’d later assist in destroying my self-worth and trust of humanity. I’ve got both things back, to some degree, but it’s weird, isn’t it, how things come full circle?