So catching the concert that my sub-conscience conjured was cool.

Harmonica Dude liked the riffs and licks. I enjoyed the lyrics, but near the end, the singer’s ability to roar above his band mates suffered with each glass of red wine he skulled.

Still a good time. Most of the crowd turned out to be old friends of the band.
I bumped into four people from work who all were independently linked in some way to members of the band.
Freaky.

They had to wind up at 10.30pm because the bar wanted to put on its own diff-diff dance music. So we left.

Harmonica Dude suggested a coffee, so we ended up at Starfucks where he bought me the biggest cup of coffee I’ve ever seen in like the whole wide world. Then we sat at a window seat and watched the freaks and the pretty young things passing by (or passing out) in Queen Street outside. We talked about our own musical ventures for a couple of hours as if we were musicians ourselves. It was good. He’s suffering from The Great Depression at the moment, so it was good for him to get out. He lives on the west side now, and I’m on the east, so we don’t get to see each other as much. But I can see that he’s still keen to do some collaborative stuff, so I said, hey. Bring your stuff over next time you come over. Yeah.

And then I headed home, and fuck, do you ever notice how many traffic lights a big little city has when you’ve had a couple of pints of lager and a pint of flat white coffee and you’re busting for a slash?

The answer is: Too Fucking Many. Especially when you catch every red.

And do you know how long it takes to wind down after you’ve drunk that much coffee that late at night?
Of course you do. That’s why you don’t drink the equivalent of three of four expressos coffee that late at night.

D’uh.