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Walking west through the cathedral-like tunnel under the 7 train, cars streaming by on either side, looking like rivers of fire in the sun. But it's delightfully cool here in the shade, a light breeze carrying the intoxicating smell of Bounce fabric softener, floral & chemical. I am listening in my airwalks and grooving to the Sun Records singles compilation, the single best singles compilation ever made, probably, (it's all about the perfect inspired mistake, the feel, the voodoo. I've been slowly reading Peter Guaralneck's bio on Sam Phillips, a lightning rod for the gospel of rocking roll, and it's enlightening.) I just got a haircut at Juan's on 41st and Queens. The barber barely paid attention to the cut as we all watched France vs. Peru in the World Cup. We talked about the standings, the upsets, and how you can see the personality of the countries reflected in the teams, à la cinderella stories Senegal and Japan, and we talked about how hard it is, in
