The image above captures the moment that I hit the end of my third sentence in the first paragraph of my prepared explanation to the boy concerning the meaning and importance of Joy Division.
A couple buddies and I went to see New Order last night in Berkeley. They were always more of a studio band, weren't they? That's where all the real magic happened, as it was when it was. They did play "Your Silent Face," which was a highlight for me and might be for anybody else. The entire night was memorable if only for that six minute moment. What an album.
The podiatric malady that I described yesterday was not improved by the fifteen minute walk to the car after the show. In fact, my condition seems to have deteriorated a bit, even as it seemed to be improving by yesterday afternoon when I departed our little valley hamlet.
I have begun to accept the doctor's suggestion that it is plantar fasciitis. I've had it before and the similarities are becoming more clear as I learn to live with my cursed affliction. The last time it came on more slowly, I think, and was the direct and obvious result of my training for the NYC Marathon, from daily jogging. I know what he's going to tell me: no bike riding until it has healed, could be months.
None of my shoes seem to have much arch support, and they lack that dreamy synthetic cushioning material. Mine are all Adidas, Puma, and Converse. I will need to go buy a pair of Crocs or something hideous, like old Iggy Pop who turned 70 yesterday.
That's right. One of my buddies that I went to the show with dropped that chronological pin in the evening. Iggy Pop is 70. This means something terrible, I'm sure of it.
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