![]() ![]() Then night falls, and just as I'm beginning to run out of things to say to the representative from Dwight's management company who's waiting with me, here's Dwight, walking in the door with an evening iced tea in a giant reusable plastic cup, sighing apologies. The plan was we'd meet at 4:30, but then 4:30 comes and goes, and then a Los Angeles winter sunset stripes the sky outside the window in blazing chemical-sorbet colors, throwing orange light on Dwight's gold and platinum albums, his framed certificates of achievement from this or that songwriters' association, the posters from films he's appeared in, his neatly stacked coffee-table books on art and design, his Philippe Starck Louis Ghost chair, his little Jeff Koons balloon-dog sculpture. Late afternoon on a Wednesday in December, and I'm in a glass-walled conference room in a Hollywood office building, waiting for an audience with Dwight Yoakam.
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