Minding my own business encountered two suprise rock & roll moments.
Rock & Roll Moment 1:
Went to the favored joint to read, eat, and study. In that absolute order. Suddenly I was chatted up then joined by Waiter Wes who was "bored." To and fro, to and fro when - suddenly - the subject of tattooes came upon us. He has several, very colorful, inked by his pal John. I mentioned this year of life and significant alterations seemed so memorable and that I'd always had an idea tacked to the wall for a tat. He said, Hey, $50, let's do it now. I hemmed. I hawed. I even happened to have a neat Grant in my back pocket. I demured, saying I'd have to think about it. He pressed. So, whenever it is that I decide to do this inky project I'm taking Waiter Wes and we're going to see John. And for an even $50 (is there tipping?) I'm going to have the between-the-shoulder-blades piece of art. Then, as the rest of the plan goes, WW and I will go out and drink wine to celebrate. Will this happen? Who can Keith Richards really say.
Rock & Roll Moment 2:
For reasons I cannot understand I have to have my leased vehicle photographed for my new insurance co. And there are but two garages who can oblige, one being in the epicenter of the quadrant of the Middling City where several ghetto genres collide. Appointment? Why would there need to be, I speculated, if in fact this is common vehicular practice. I rolled alongside the place, skeptical. Inside were many signs separating the customers from the employees. And they were mean signs, to boot. I found some people who were not tinkering with cars, in a hazy office of flourescent lighting, beige office equipment, stacked papers and who the fuck knows. Inside were two shady characters who I imagine were doing little more than viewing internet porn. They approached. I held out the form. They queried, in the voices of svelte boutique ladies, if I had an appointment. One of them left to get "him" "upstairs." While waiting, and waiting, I stood at the edge of their showroom, a cinematic view, gorgeous with high ceiling, crap chandelier, an odd assortment of American-made cars missing hubcaps, a somber man mopping, a burgundy (and I chose this colour carefully, with love) Ninety-Eight with pinstriping and a sign readin' "SMOKIN'" on its windshield, a man truly smokin' - Dorals - next to the classic, and a beat popcorn machine on wheels, a jug of orange compound atop it. A real scene. And, while taking it all in, Led Z blared behind me. I snuck the hell out of there. If they caught me before I reached the vehicle to be shot I'd claim I thought I was badly parked. With a glad heart I gunned it out of there, flicking on the classic rock station they had been listening to. Tomorrow is yet another day. Another garage, in the Middling City suburbs, is where I'll be headed for my matters of insurance.

R&R Love.