Notes from the Midnight Driver

There are really no guidelines whatsoever, because this is the kind of thing that only happens to ME.

...my little blurb wasn't going to win me any speaker-of-the-year awards, but at least I hadn't tripped and fallen off the stage, crushing and killing three elderly jazz fans.

Not, like, that, boychik, you sound like a herd of elephants charging through a music store.

We're all free to chose some people to love, and then do it.

You’ll learn one day that real apologies don’t come with a BUT in the middle.

I was lost in a vast, storm-tossed sea of shifting rhythmic complexities.

Did she want me to kiss her? How weird was this going to be? Should it be like a real kiss, with passion and stuff? Or more of an experimental, pecking kind of deal?