Jordyn and I were sitting around one late August afternoon on that old dilapidated baby blue couch at the Land Palace while listening to volume three of the Dope Guns and Fucking in the Streets comp and blowing some trees when our landlord, the ex-convict who escaped a penitentiary up the coast in a canoe that he kept under a tarp out in the back yard, knocked on our door. That motherfucker was always interrupting. Jordyn was a tangle of long brown hair, skinny brown arms, and lavender skirts in those days and this confused the landlord who liked his men to be more traditionally adorned.