Like every decent cartoonist in the past two decades, I'm back on sabatical. It was always depressing when you'd see old Calvin & Hobbes panels on the funny pages while sitting at the kitchen counter eating your Rice Krispies, but, unlike Bill Watterson, there aren't too many people who'll be saddened by my third long-term break from my day job. In fact, I don't exactly spread good cheer at work, unless grumbling curmudgeon-ness and streams of colorful invective count as good cheer. Which, last I checked, they do not.
So it's prep for tour time. I've gotta whip together a poster, get my pernially broken amp fixed, do the supreme load of laundry, pretend I can fix a sour, broken melodica with a screwdriver, no expertice, and the mechanical knowhow of a blind twelve year old, stock up on all manner of environmentally hazardous van liquids, and hopefully, find an extra bench seat for Patrick Stewart so we can get a trailer and not freak out into claustrophic seizures by week five. In other words: lots of expensive errands.
In fact, the Gods just smiled on me. Instead of forcing me to shlep my amp an hour north of the city, I got a call back from the local gentlemen who "fixed" it last time. I'm gearing up for some dissapointed haggling. And frowning. Last time it was fixed, she lived for about a week and a half. Not really acceptible. Hence the frowning. And the annoyed insistence on free repair. Of course, I've never been that good at this sort of thing. I go in with big ideas and bigger gripes and end up paying full price sheepishly because, well, some part of me thinks that if you shit on someone's work they've got no reason to do a good job the next time. Which might be true. But maybe I'm approaching this the wrong way. Maybe I need to be more threatening. You know, walk in with my brass knuckles on and a garden hose full on BBs, just smiling at the guy. Yeah. Too bad we don't have a hose.
This, sadly, is going to my last post until Friday-ish, maybe the weekend. I'm going to Reno with a banjo on my knee. The big question is, while there, when do I give in? When do I, the guy with a pitiable income and a downright depressing savings account, decide that a half hour on the craps table is a great idea? I'd say one day. Or four beers. Whichever comes first.
In the meantime (which, remember, was that one Spacehog song? I listened to it a few weeks ago and it's really fairly crappy. Except the bass line)---In the meantime, visit the bands I linked below, our good friend Gasoline Hobo, my imaginary good friend Jon Carroll, and whatever other websites look perhaps vaguely related to your job because they're text based and lack copious flash games. T minus one week till tour. I can almost feel my arteries clogging.