#238, Tucson, Arizona
The heat in Tucson in mid-July was nasty and infernal; it's the sort of thing that would drive someone to say, "You know what? I'm gonna stick this wicker chair on the roof." It inspired a perspiring David Foster Wallace to adopt his signature bandana so he wouldn't drip on his manuscripts, and it drove me into a tiki bar (granted, I was playing a gig there) where I ordered a drink called Fat Man on a Diet. Strange things happen in the Tucson heat, and when umlauts appear over numbers, you know you're in uncharted territory, my friend. The 8 also appears to have a blank word bubble hovering off to the side, a feature I've seen throughout New York plastered on ads and bus shelters, but next to a number is a new one on me. All I know is, when the 8 starts talking to me, I'm sticking my head in a bucket of ice.