6/25/02 This was supposed to

6/25/02

This was supposed to be my “Brooklyn day,” you know, where I stay at home and get all the little things done that I’ve been desperate to do for months. I wasn’t due to leave for the editing room until 3:30pm, so ostensibly I had the whole first part of the day to myself. I sure as hell did; I slept until 1:35.

Now, this was par for the course in Chapel Hill and Los Angeles, where nothing in my world had much import until well after noon, but these days it seems like a Roman vomitorium-like luxury that I don’t really have. So I made the best of things, paid all the bills on the way to Asset and called Earthlink to ask why the hell our DSL modem hasn’t shown up yet. Apparently there’s two kinds of modems, and well, the details are so dull as to bend one’s mind. Suffice to say I’ve been waiting for the forkin’ thing for 5 weeks.

I’m kind of pissed at Earthlink, even as I’ve been their strongest customer. I signed up for service back in 1995, which is how I got “ecstasy at earthlink dot net” instead of “ghkjsdhf3984e723 at earthlink dot net.” Of course, my email address (and probably this website) has been the source of some grief, since people sometimes think my email might be spam from either porn or rave drug distributors. For the record, my email is “ecstasy” because that’s the address I had at UNC. And I had “ecstasy” at UNC because my favorite living band is XTC. Plus, I always loved the word “ecstasy,” long before the drug fell into favor.

My best ecstasy experience, speaking of which, was a night in mid-August ’95 in the French Quarter of New Orleans, tooling around with Sarah Adkins in the back of someone’s Chevy. We went to a show where a Japanese rock band/performance troupe was using a snowblower as an instrument. I drank a fifth of Skyy Vodka, danced with 35 strangers on top of a table on Magazine Street, then watched the sun rise over the rooftops of the Garden District. Ah, the crazy mid-90s!

Sarah and I pose behind the French Market in 1995, mere hours before our rhapsodic, MDMA-induced torpor

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