Meg White's Mailbags

So I woke up a few days ago to the unfamiliar sounds of chaos outside my bedroom window. It seems that a truck had pulled up outside the apartment building next door (which happens to be attached to our apartment building) and began unloading scaffolding and all manner of axes, chain saws and nail guns and whatever else my be required to turn the building from a pile of wet cardboard (which is how it has looked for at least the previous year until now, and I was just starting to get used to it) into something presumably worthy of a rent increase. I believe some people call it 'curb appeal.' I call it the fucking disaster that wakes me up at 8AM every morning.















The re-roofing began first. This involves tearing every inch of unusable material from the existing roof and then starting from near scratch. It is a miserable operation. Jeremy knows what I'm talking about. I keep having dreams about The Money Pit, and then I wake to a group of migrant workers hammering nails into the roof, which is no more than four feet from hammering them straight into my head.

That unpleasantness aside, the weather has threatened to warm up a bit, and most of my houseplants are picking themselves up off the floor as the sun comes out now and again. The unending rain may yet subside.















It's really difficult to find fault in winter like this:

For real.















But of course...


After spending a week or so watching the first season of 30 Rock, it seemed completely necessary to get tickets to see Tracy Morgan the night I get back from Brazil. I can't even begin to imagine the madness that could ensue, but I'm sure it will not involve wearing a shirt.

Sunday I am on the way out, south, down to New Zealand, but not before The Super Furry Animals show at Great American, and one more night of sushi at Tsunami.