Sunday, May 12, 2002
Ah, well. There you go. I actually fixed it myself. And having reached manuscript page #193, I get another bite of the carrot.
Yesterday, here in Birmingham, was the annual crawfish boil, hosted by one or another of the local crap rock radio stations, and downtown was briefly inundated in a small, but disorienting, flood of unpleasant people. The vacant lot where this affair is held, off 18th or 19th streets (I don't recall which, if either, exactly), just south of the tracks, used to be filled with neat lines of rusting, ancient railroad cars and locomotive engines. I used to go there every now and then and shoot video. Now all the trains have been hauled away to a local railroad museum and once a year the lot is filled with a teeming mass of sweaty, half-naked bodies swilling cheap beer and eating crawfish, lining up for port-a-potties, and baking themselves pink as the crustaceans for which the fête is named. Oh, and there's loud music, of one sort or another. Needless to say, I stay away.
I need to get back to work.
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