The year is 1998. I am about to lose my band, a girlfriend, and a promising career as a well-abused full-time temp. A two year self-pitying sojourn rife with social ineptitude was about to commence. It would be tempered by a steadfast discipline to improve my craft, which is the needed excuse to remain miserable. Continue reading
I supplemented my meager earnings by being a roadie for a band. The band paid well, treated me well, and it was hard work. The days were long, the drives, longer. But it afforded me the chance to see a bit of America and its little tribal differences town to town.
One of the towns I visited was Nantucket; an island two hours away by ferry off the coast of Massachusetts.
Every structure on that island is grey. It is surreal to witness, for it seems impossible that one particular shade could govern an entire island. The reason is the building codes of the island require all the structures to be built with pitched roofs and unpainted shingles. That wood rapidly greys from the elements. Some sort of nod to the good old days when a wife died during childbirth and scurvy was still in fashion. Continue reading