This time last year, Birdmonster was almost-but-not-quite in Los Angeles, almost-but-not-quite recording our almost-but-not-quite debut record (we had an EP, after all) and I had almost-but-not-quite quit the job I somehow still have. In fact: sitting here right now. Which is odd, honestly. I could of look at a year where so much happened yet so much remained the same with a half-empty glass of self-pity or a half-full glass of not-being-homeless. Take your pick.
Yes, it was a good year. Our first national tour allowed us to see the gaudy and horrible wonder that is Wall-Drug, the oft-maligned eyesore that is Cleveland, a collection of surprisingly impressive presidential noggins in South Dakota, cruel and unsual sausages in Utah, and lots of hipsters in ironic t-shirts. We got to see both coasts and swim in the Gulf of Mexico (pee-warm, by the way) and play countless, sometimes to hundreds of people, sometimes to a janitor who booed us profusely.
Yes: I'm feeling nostalgic. I feel like reminiscing. I feel like I'm sitting in a rocking-chair, chewing Skoal, rambling at my grandkids. Hopefully I have a banjo. No. I definately have a banjo.
It's kind of pleasant to be at work, honestly. Not because I enjoy my job. I don't. This place is vaguely cancerous: you can only deal with it for so long. But because I realize that life is still work, friends, family, and music. That's soothing when you're getting Christmas cards that show your erstwhile high school buddies with dogs and kids and then there's you, not responsible enough to keep coffee stains off your white sweatshirt.
And then I get to thinking that this year will be pretty similar. I mean, we've got a tour coming up in a couple weeks, we're recording again at the end of the year, I'm still selling Barbara Streisand tickets to old Jewish women and young gay men. And that's a good thing. Except for Streisand, but she's "retired" again, so: hooray 2007. We've written a new song and found a batman fish too. So far, so good.