. . .
He’s probably not going to read this, but I blame Jay. Not for me getting sick, but for where I was when it first dawned upon me that I must have caught food poisoning.
It was September 2004, the second night of our first visit to New York City and Rox & I were at Jay and Emily’s apartment in Brooklyn, having just had a lovely dinner — not the meal that got me sick, nope, I’m pretty sure that was an undercooked burger I’d eaten at a dubious-looking joint during lunch — and just as we were going to ready to head back to our hotel in mid-town Manhattan, Jay asked me if I’d heard Tift Merritt’s Tambourine.