“When you’ve got a guitar case, nobody thinks you’re worth a shit,” says Dan, whom I met yesterday at Club 21 on Sandy, while drinking a cocktail of kings. “When I got this, all of a sudden people started treating me different, like I was some kind of sophisticate.”
So. What’s in the case? “Just assorted crap.” No violin? “Fuck no.” And the front side is covered in a mosaic of police tape.
“When you’ve got a guitar case, nobody thinks you’re worth a shit,” says Dan, whom I met yesterday at Club 21 on Sandy, while drinking a cocktail of kings. “When I got this, all of a sudden people started treating me different, like I was some kind of sophisticate.”
So. What’s in the case? “Just assorted crap.” No violin? “Fuck no.” And the front side is covered in a mosaic of police tape.
Matt Davis is mostly a writer, photographer, editor, publisher, entrepreneur and communications professional. In the renaissance tradition he occasionally also turns his hand to sewing, acting, poetry, filmmaking and so on. But when he dies, he would like to be judged solely on the quality of the relationships he enjoyed throughout the course of his life with other people. Because he feels, in the end, that those are the only point in being alive to do anything.
