I was sick all the night  before…was still shaky when I got to the hotel for the protest. Dropped by Trader Vic’s in the hotel lobby for a whiskey. I felt like such a cliché….a reporter dropping by a bar on the way to an assignment and it ain’t even noon yet. Whiskey helped, though, and the second helped even more, and things settled down enough for me to interview a bunch of angry musicians. Drove to the day gig right afterward, still feeling sick as a dog, and when I walked into the elevator on the way to my office there was this overwhelming odor of cheap Mexican food…they were giving away nachos for some reason. Servers glopping them on people’s plates. People ladleing on sour cream and green salsa and red salsa and oily grated cheese. Trapped in the back of the elevator by a dozen people trying not to drop their nachos. Oh god. The twenty floors was an eternity. On every floor people on and off. I hated them. People can talk endlessly about nachos. Finally my floor. Got to my desk, opened my email and I’m getting  yelled at by a couple people for not telling people how incredibly important some gigs were. Work was fucked. Got home at eight I think. Tried to eat. Tried to write. Tried to sleep. Damn. Why do I keep doing this? I hate being a jazz columnist. I was gonna quit a couple weeks ago and had guilt trips laid on me like you can’t believe.  And now I still have that thing to write and my regular copy to write and I am tired of this writer crap real bad. Either that or I need a vacation. Anyway, I got the piece written. Now all I have to do is not think about nachos and I’ll be fine.

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