Thanks to SXSW, we have two weeks of John Roderick's scribbling to catch up on.
First off: The Long Winters' leader goes to NYC.
I'm reporting to you now from the exotic and glamorous Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn, (which is not, apparently, the namesake of Houston rapper Bushwick Bill of the Geto Boys), but which IS the latest Brooklyn neighborhood to be infested with the plague of conformist Williamsburg hipsters seeking cheap rent who are incrementally destroying New York in every direction. (No offense to the conformist Williamsburg hipsters who let me crash at their place and use their computer).
Next, he lets a touring band crash at his place -- with disastrous results to his chili supply.
But as SOON as we walk in the door of my place, two and a half minutes later, the rabble starts: "Can we order a pizza?" "Is it OK if I open these chips?" "Can I make some pasta?" The enterprising band-leader, a well-known singer, opens my pantry, discovers my canned-chili depository, and says to the room, "Who wants chili?" Four hands shoot up. Back in Alaska where I grew up a man's stash of canned chili is somewhat akin to a normal American's savings account. I've known fellows who, when asked if they had given any thought to their retirement plans, pointed with confidence to a stockpile of canned chili. Even the most domesticated "foodie" bachelor who wears mohair sweaters and makes lamb with mustard/mint/tarragon sauce has, I bet you, some canned chili stashed for emergencies. And now this singer, this friend of mine, was prepared to dole out five cans of my chili to his band like a mother bird plopping worms in their mouths? I bet he was! Why not just start taking the pictures down off my walls?
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