I should be dead in a ditch yet again. I came to this realization as I was running my fingers through my hair, somehow managing to construct complete sentances talking to Wayne, and nodding off to sleep at 3:00am somewhere slightly south of Marysville, coming back from one hell of a rock-your-balls-completely-off show by 4020 and T-Bob in Lincoln on Friday…er…Saturday morning. Thanks, by the way, to FortyTwenty for letting me sing a song with them yet again. I’m sorry I couldn’t help you remember the words to your own song, Lern, but you only wrote them down on the napkin for me a couple of weeks ago. I was hoping to write more of the song on which I’m currently working, tentatively titled “I Might Not Make it Home”, but Wayne kept talking about the Purple Wave and just wouldn’t go to sleep. It’s probably a good thing he didn’t, though, because you know where I’d be right now were he to have.
I went to Wichita yesterday for Travis Nittler’s wedding. I arrived at the address provided me by my mother from the invitation, only to drive up to a block in downtown Wichita that included Intrust Bank, the now defunct SC Telcom building, and a parking garage. After driving around for 30 minutes finding nothing but the aforementioned establishments, I drove back to Manhattan.
I’ve been working on a theory about how Republicans aren’t patriots because they don’t trust the government, but it’s not complete enough to explain right at the moment. I’ll keep you posted as the story breaks.
Today, as my family and Kyle Dohm remembered, was my birthday. I’m assuming Kyle remembered because he always does and always calls. He called today, but I was in the middle of an auction and couldn’t check the voicemail; I still haven’t because I’m bad about those kind of things and my phone died. It wouldn’t be a birthday without an auction. The last three years have seen auctions on my birthday. My grandmother sent me a birthday card and wrote about how nice it must be to have a birthday on a Sunday when I could relax and not worry about playing shows or otherwise working. I mailed back an auction flyer.
I’m looking forward to my next show at Rick’s. It’s his grand opening. I’m playing a show with Rick and Martina McBride‘s father, Daryl. I’d better wear boots.
I can’t remember when the last time was that I heard a song, put it on repeat, and listened to nothing else but that for an extended period of time. At the moment, I can’t listen to anything other than Whiskeytown’s “Yesterday’s News”. It’s so good I feel like I’m flying during the chorus. It’s kind of the same feeling of sheer joy I get when I drink a lot and tumble down a flight of stairs, laughing all the way.