The Basement Sessions
Here's the thing nobody tells you about having a basement: it's basically a legal contract that says "bring me your disasters." I didn't sign anything, but apparently owning a house with an unfinished lower level makes you the default emergency shelter for every terrible idea in a three-mile radius grace comes to Travis can I have a
Which brings me to Travis, standing on my porch at four o'clock on a Tuesday, holding a cymbal stand like it's a spear and grinning like this is the best day of his life.
"My mom kicked us out," he announces, like I asked.
"Out of what?"
"The garage. She said, and I quote, 'I can't park my car next to a drum kit anymore, Travis, this isn't Madison Square Garden.'" He says this with the wounded dignity of a man who has been deeply misunderstood by the world. "So I told the guys we're practicing at your place."
I want to point out that this is the first I'm hearing about it, that "your place" implies some kind of prior agreement, some kind of conversation where I said yes. But Travis is already maneuvering a drum kit through my front door in pieces, and behind him, I can see Aasim carrying an amp that's bigger than he is, and Lerang trailing along…
