Here's an odd little something: our CD comes out
today. Why exactly, you might ask, is this odd?
Well, a couple reasons. Firstly, it's been completed
since sometime in mid February. In fact, regular
readers may remember our Demi Moore in Indecent
Proposal moment wherein we rolled around in a
feather bed of No Midnights back in April. So, in a
certain way, its been out for around four months.
The problem was that there werent any in record
stores. You had to either brave the universe of
Paypal, our website, various online retailers, a few
select stores we'd badgered personally, or visit us
after a show, which usually meant that I said
something inexplicable while sweating profusely.
See, now it's in stores. Which means record stores.
And I love going to the record store. I like
wandering the aisles, filling up one of those
grocery-store plastic picnic basket things, and
spending what should have been my rent check on
new ear candy. Near my house, we have Amoeba
music, which, if you're unaware, is a converted
BOWLING ALLEY. Seriously. They have
everything. You like accordion heavy, triple
speeded covers of early doo-wop b-sides? Please.
They have a whole section. I've walked out of
Amoeba weeping with joy and poverty on several
occassions. It gives you a great excuse to not give
gutter punks booze money too.
We spent yesterday in full three-toed sloth mode.
I actually hung out in a tree for five hours, eating
leaves. Also, went to the beach on the Gulf of
Mexico, which is a lot like getting into a ten minute
old bath with seven jars of Morton's accidentally
spilled in. And we barbequed. Or rather, ate
barbeque made by Pete's sister's hubby. And played
banjo in the backyard, which is pretty much what
I've got planned for my elderly decades. That and
the wizard thing. And really: who doesn't like a
banjo playing wizard?
Hopefully though, something thoroughly Florida
happens today. Warm beaches & mosquito bites are
one thing but I want weirdness. I want snakes
eating alligators and exploding. I want illegitimate
vote recounts. I want Al Pacino frowing for three
hours straight, then dying in a hail of leaden
justice. Make it so.
Aw...poor Patrick. Hope your life as a cube is
fulfilling. Or, at least, symetrical and pointy.