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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 turn, to root for Russia, (who is kicking ass.) The Mexican announcer on this channel, channel 47 locally, Telemundo, is 10 times better than US announcers. No contest really. He is a like a jazz singer compared to our monotone snorers, especially when the game gets exciting. He is like the front man of a killer band, and backed up by hundreds of people in the crowd blowing vuvuzela horns and making, together, a singular mutating whiny sound, a weird music that seems to have evolved out of the Futbol culture itself. Between the entrancing sounds, the chanting of the crowd and the feel of the haircut I slip into a state of Samadhi. Afterward I woke up I told Junior to shave quotation marks on each side of my head. It took a second for him to decide if I was joking. I also told him he took a little too much off the top. And speaking of, I'm grateful just now to the 7 tunnel for protecting my bald spot from the sun as I just danced all the way east to LaGuardia college on 30th and Queens to sign the girls up for swim lessons. Holding it down.