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Shortened sleep and flights reak havoc on my fragile immune system. I'm sitting here at home with a throat on fire and the Pelicans in the stereo (I have an official copy of the cd now with art work and all.) In some ways it's good to be back. The music is better.
You wouldn't believe how many one-guy-with-a-guitar-a-fake-book-and-a-drum-machine shows I saw. I loved every one of them. Of course, we were in touristy parts of the state and bars that were catering to all types. It'll be ok if I don't hear another Jimmy Buffett tune for a while, though.
When we were in Orlando we almost went to see the band Humbert who were playing in the city, but the Epcot fireworks exploded right through their start time and we never would have made it. Besides, I didn't have a copy of the Great White Lunchroom to give to them, which would have been nice. And while we were in Ft. Lauderdale we could have driven up to Pompano Beach to see Stephen Kellogg play, but we didn't feel like driving anymore - even though we had a nice rental car, we had driven it plenty already.
As our airplane was arriving in Ft. Lauderdale, the city a huge mass of lights starting at the straight line of the shore and spreading off onto the horizon, I started singing the Conga song by Miami Sound Machine. We landed, got our rental car, and as we were shooting out onto the 70 mile per hour highway I flipped on the radio and there it was from note number one, that same damn song. Whoever is scripting this thing oughta second guess some of the realism aspects. Mostly we enjoyed a lot of classic rock this past week on stage and on radio. Ain't nothin' wrong with that.
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