Bands with Pans: Celestial Shore
Max’s apartment is a patriotic place, one wall swallowed by a tattered American flag. “My grandfather was buried with it,” Max says. “Then I grave-robbed him.” He waits while we make solemn faces. “That was a lie by the way. Write that down.” He lights something that smells heavenly. “Incense of the west,” he says. “This is cedar.” It was cedar. Budweisers get doled, butts get sat (maybe just my butt, actually).