Wilco - Venus Stop the TrainWe had nothing on our minds but girls and guitars, and the former required more effort and money than the latter, so we went to try our luck at the shop in Virginia Beach, which meant a forty-minute drive both ways, and a handful of quarters for the tolls at the tunnel. It was a dead-heat day in August, and the humidity had yet to roll in off the James, so I wanted to get an early start before the lack of air-conditioning in my Buick would make the drive an exercise in rolled-window shouting. I put the trussed remains of a six pack in the back of the car and convinced P to sort through his tips from the night before.“So many singles, man,” he said. “I can’t fit this in my wallet. It bulges.” He shoved the whole thing in his front pants pocket, and it looked like he had a particularly geometric tumor.“Just, I don’t know, rubber band the cash together. It’ll be fine.” I said.“Looks like a dealer’s wad.”“You don’t look like a dealer.”When we finally got under way, we took the main road out of town, along by the school, where the joggers ran, and where the prime tourist restaurants stood cheek by jowl with the upscale clothing stores and Christmas decoration outlets. We listened to the local radio, which broadcast toothless secretarial jazz and oldies.P reached down to light a cigarette off the car’s defective lighter, and then pointed with it, across my face, to someone walking down the street.[Just look around online to find the Yankee Hotel Foxtrot Demos and Outtakes]