Just got home from an Oswalds rehearsal and can’t sleep. Maybe that’s the sign of a good rehearsal? Probably. I think we’re sounding great; now if only I can remember my own goddamn lyrics, we’ll be set. (Fun drinking game: come to our April 30 NYC gig at the HiFi Bar and down a shot of something every time I flub a lyric.) There’s something uplifting about making music with the right folks, it exercises the right kind of muscles, mentally and physically (and emotionally too, I suppose). Sometimes it’s hard to reenter the world afterward, even if only to sleep. I do remember this from the early days of The Oswalds (cue a grimy slide of Koch-era New York City, a time history now admits was badly badly crime-plagued but which I think we three enjoyed a ton, Drummer Mark, Bassist Mark, and myself). We practiced really quite a lot, and played out pretty often, after which then I’d go home somewhere and stare at the ceiling. I well recall a variety of ceilings at night, striped by streetlights and headlights and extending from the loft on 9th Ave and 14th St to the apartment on Sackett Street to sofas on the Upper West Side and floors all over the East Village. Places back then where I also lay awake, unsleeping, in the late 1980s.