I was at a Talking Heads gig and it was cold and grey and I was naked as the day I was born. The security guards were pursuing me but not for indecency or anything like that but because they disagreed with a quip I'd made about turtles at the turnstiles.
Talking Heads only played bluegrass throughout the set which left everyone in a bit of a culturally disconnected fug but everyone remained respectful, if a little stilted on the applause, nonetheless.
After the set I sat between Harrison and Byrne discussing many things but as it is with most dreams, it felt as though three very distinct and altogether unrelated conversations were taking place simultaneously. In one of the many awkwardly quiet moments, I asked if I could try out Jerry Harrison's Roland guitar synth. And he said, "Not dressed like that, you fucking can't."
I was disappointed, to say the least.
After the feast, someone kindly lent me a paisley shift they happened to have spare in their backpack. They'd sown a strange little pocket into an awkward point over the right shoulder blade. I managed to extricate what looked like tens of thousands of dollars from it and offered to hand it back but they simply replied, "Keep it. You look as though you'll buy some nice things."
I believe, some day we'll live in a world without love.
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