The Blues

The weekend, even though it involved sleeping sideways three to a bed while listening to a dog and a cat take turns whining (yeah, I took turns too), went well. Actually, I couldn’t have asked for better weather in which to Spring in the Blues. It was a great time (although not quite as debauchery filled as I thought it would be).

We got to see Jerms, Corey Harris, and the oh-so-sexy Eric Lindell. De.Lish.Us. I am pretty sure Spliff and I drooled through the entire show (I think that JGJ might have too, I mean, how could he not?). We barhopped TO the festival, which…you know, being a whopping eight blocks from where we parked, took about three or four hours and a mere seven or eight beers. In any event, we watched the festival for almost ten minutes on Saturday before walking Jerms back to his gig and then having another beer and…Umm…I guess we got lost?

Yesterday though, we actually spent some time sitting Indian style in the grass drinking beer and listening to some great blues before we consumed the giant margaritas of death. If there is one negative thing I can say about where I live, its that I can’t walk to the beach whenever I want. And although the drive is short, if you have to drive at all, it isn’t short enough. (Seriously taking JGJ’s advice and starting a paypal account to fund my beachy slackage, by the way. Look for it. And give me money. I am a lovely person. Really.)

We didn’t run into the squid, the Ethiopian, the one whose name is a sound, the one with the twin, or the hitchhiker. So, I think we had a pretty good run. (And we didn’t steal any giant stuffed toys. Always a plus.)

Also, JUST SO YOU KNOW, I am not avoiding phone calls (unless you are PLP), my phone has decided that it will not work unless it is a) on speakerphone b) plugged into the headset that feels like tiny knives stabbing my inner ear, or c) anywhere but in my apartment (AKA “The Fortress”). So…quitcherbitchin.

Stuck-in-my-head Song of the Day: “Lochloosa” - Mofro