I just shook the dust out of my rugs from my second story window, like in the olden days. No, not out the front window where all the people walk, out the side bathroom window. The one I blow the smoke out of when I am sneaking cigarettes.
I don’t know why I mention it. I guess I just felt old school. Like if the weather was nicer I’d string a line from my window to the Christian Bookstore next door and hang some laundry.
I am actually writing to tell you what a horrible friend I am.
I failed to secure a ticket for tonight’s Big Rock Show for me best friend Jen.
She was gonna drive up just for the show and being the worst. friend. ever. I just assumed she wasn’t serious about wanting to go – having to drive 6 hours and all to get here, just to go to the Rock Show.
But she called today and she was all “did you get me a ticket, too?”
And the show’s sold out.
Like I said, worst. Friend. Ever.
So instead, to make it up to her, I’ll go visit in a couple of weeks and we will drive to St. Louis and have too many cigarettes and cocktails and litter up a hotel room and write on the mirror in lipstick or something.
I suppose it’s the least I could do.
Hey, know what?
I have a new musical obsession - Mates of State.
Oh, you hipster kids, quit rolling your eyes already. I know you’ve already heard of them, already have the t-shirts and in fact, you are already sick of them because they happened to be mentioned briefly on mtv.com
I think they are lovely.
He plays drums she plays an ancient Yamaha keyboard. Interesting harmonies and sometimes clumsy melodies and wigged out beats and keyboard noises. Fun. Pop. And gosh-darn jovial at times. And instead of just playing together, it just sounds like they are talking to each other.
She taught first graders, he helped cancer research.
And they ran away to be in their rock band together.
They are so endearing it makes my teeth hurt.
So, I was thinking. I’d like to do that, too, run away with someone to be in a rock band, I mean. But considering running away at my age is a little ridiculous, why don’t we just practice here? We'll write songs about overheard conversations and the contents of your pocket right now, and we'll drink pabst and share cigarettes and write on napkins with coffee rings. You can play drums and I’ll play tambourine, okay?