Pete Loague and the author. “A casual remark on my T-shirt has turned into a lengthy chinwag about music.”

As I loiter in the smoking section across the street from D.Z. Akin's, I am sometimes privy to the one-sided conversations, held by people (usually on their phones) who are talking to someone I can’t see while they smoke the cigarette I have given them. But this guy? This guy is different. I pick up repeated lines, and then a rhythm, complete with emotion, providing a melody. When I approach him, he looks ready to run or fight, but he pauses for a split second when I ask him if he is rapping. He is. His name is David, and he is honing his spontaneous words into something razor sharp. I’m not into rap any more than he’s into rock, but our shared passion for music fuels the banter.

Another day: Pete Loague and I block the aisles at our local grocery store, oblivious to the annoyed shoppers around us. A casual remark on my T-shirt has turned into a lengthy chinwag about writing music, influences, artists we have seen and those we wish we had. The conversation reignites whenever we run into each other around the neighborhood. He shoots me his SoundCloud, which boasts enough music to keep me listening for several hours.

These are the sorts of connections I missed most during the Covid restrictions that forced the closures of venues and the cancellation of tours, and spawned a general feeling of caution when out in public. Now, with every new conversation held and bond formed, I can’t help but think of the permanent losses. Mark Goffeney, the man who helped me learn “Deuce” by KISS and got me through my self-induced blocks playing Sabbath bass lines, is gone forever. More haunting still is the absence of Legend, a man with a habit and a guitar who compensated for his missing strings with a focused passion. I haven’t seen him at his usual spot in El Cajon since the beginning of the pandemic, and I fear the worst.

But the world is moving again, leaving me little time for reflection on what was or what might be. At the College-Rolando Branch Library, I strike up a conversation with Sam Lopez over his Troma Films shirt. After we mutually fail to find any redeeming value in the film Mother’s Day, he tells me his company Stay Strange is hosting a thing in the community room in a few weeks. The experimental voice show features Stacey Barnett and Circle/Temple and reminds me of Brian Eno producing the band James. Outside, my interaction with accompanist Drona Ra about music and film makes the day complete. Three high school students are curious about the donation awards: vintage bubble gum cards from the garish cocaine fueled film that was Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band from 1978. After I provide an animated, caffeine-fueled explanation, one of them returns the favor with an education in jazz.

“Opening back up” means something different to me now. Now, I associate the term with people, connection, and a shared love of music. I’m happy to see lines outside of places that seemed like ghost towns not long enough ago, and excited to see shows again — even if it seems that Live Nation has spent its off time creating new ways to fuck us.