In which Birdmonster lives a life of pampered privilege, remembers vegitables, and rocks out for some shoppers

If I had to do a seven deadly sins checklist for
this tour, I would've been doing fine. I would've
been up in heaven playing canasta with Jesus,
flirting with Mother Theresa, and high-fiving God
like the ending of Tango & Cash. At least, I
would've been fine until North Carolina. We stayed
at Dave's pappy's house in Raleigh, where I spent
two days being the poster boy for sloth and
gluttony and the lesser known eight cardinal vice:
unadulterated uselessness. But we needed it. We
needed vegitables that hadn't spent three years in
a dented can, a bed free of spine-gouging springs,
and thirty hours free of the Whaleship Essex. It
was glorious. And free. Which are a fantastic
couple. Like raspberries and dark chocolate. Who,
really, can say anything against hedonism? And if
this means I'l be spending eternity listening to 98
Degrees with Lizzy Borden, well, that's just the
way the cookie crumbles. At least it was a
delicious cookie.

We fled this leisurely paradise this morning in order
to play in Norfolk, Virginia, which we can call ol'
Virginny, if only to quote the Band for the second
time in as many weeks. We played at a record
store slash venue slash cafe slash internet hub
called Relativity Records for a nice handful of
shoppers who, when we started did in fact quit
browsing, bob around and, dare I say, dance. I like
folks who dance, regardless of whether they
should be. Like, for instance, I really should never
try. I have three moves: the matador stomp, the
clap-thing, and...ok. Perhaps I have two. The point
(if indeed there is one): rug cutting is good. Not a
controversial statement, but, come on, I spent
two days eating chicken, reading Michael Malone,
and playing pool. You gotta allow for a tangent or
five.

And you know what? It was a great show. Sure,
my bass made that crackly, death rattle sound
that makes me want to euthanize it, but CR from
the Talk gifted me his, which I didn't slam the
tamborine on (to his pleasure I'm sure) or drop or
abuse in any real way. We're trying to get to
Baltimore early to remedy that annoyance and I
pray we can. I mean, there are only three more
shows. It must be cosmic punishment for deeds
enumerated in paragraph one. God's playing dirty.
No more tithes for you, sassafras.

Tomorrow: Maryland. Then the big city. I guess, in
reality: The Big City. It's been a while for me.
Last time I was in New York I demonstrated an
incompetence so startling on those rowboats in
Central Park that small children pointed and
guffawed. And I do not use that word lightly.