I allow myself to believe in good fortune on the streets of Brooklyn. In people and forces coalescing that by chance might become a thing greater than the sum of it’s parts.

My old best friend Noah met Will Bates at a party in LA years ago, attracted to the fact that he was British. A Londoner, his connection to the bloodline of Louis Pasteur is bar talk and I leave the details of that to the bottom of empty beer glasses. And there he was years later, in a small, dark room on Hope St.. Writing songs and looking for a band.

James, the guitar player, is a veteran of the nineties Ska scene out of Santa Cruz and I’ve heard about his touring Japan and Europe and almost getting arrested with hash in Germany. He’s working on a novel and I no more understand how he came to be living here as I do how he came to be dating my old friend Marisa from San Diego. Who calls herself Mia now but I knew her when she lived in Culver City and fed N and I when we were broke with n