I met The Dude. The dude that Jeff Bridges plays in the Big Lebowski. The real dude. He’s a good fellow. He displayed his stage banter with the mayor of Louisville, Jerry Abramson, as the dude would do. Put a politician next to The Dude and you’re getting your money’s worth ($20, unless you’re a child, and then you get in free to a rated R show and I said poo poo words during my set). The key to the city will go a long way. Believe you me. And the Dude got it. A key to the city of Louisville.
I have a key to the City of Denton. Well, its not a real key. When you try to open the city with it, mistakes fall out like an overstuffed closet full of ping-pong balls with “bad choice” written on each. Somewhere, there’s a room with a bunch of bad balls . Ha Ha. Balls.
It was hot. Real hot. Yet, I didn’t pass out on stage. And my accordion’s wax didn’t melt. And I didn’t open any ball closets allowing balls to flood the stage, bouncing and unruly, with two college kids trying to get PE credit by hitting them off the stage while I try to gather them and put them back in the trunk. Enough about balls.
I played Hocus Pocus by Focus with the Giants again. Afterwards, we ran on the bus and Linnell gave me the hardest high-five that no one has ever seen. So intense was the buildup that I could feel the sincerity.
They asked me to ride with them to Philly do the encore at Penn’s Landing but I couldn’t get Avis or Hotwire to let me turn the car in at a Louisville location. Both Avis and Hotwire couldn’t make a decision to take more money. So, I had to take the car back to Columbus and miss out. Oh well.
Southwest charged me for checking my keyboard. I think they’re starting to date American. I tell you: Jet Blue wants your business and won’t nickel and dime you once you’re there. They just don’t fly enough places.
There was a cowboy on my plane. Real Texas cowboy: always had the hat on, lacer boots, jeans pressed with the crease, and a button-down with a Nascar number above the pocket. The real deal. When we landed, he shouted a “Whoo hoo. Never been to New York City!” Some Long Islanders behind him laughed and began singing “New York, New York” and his ladyfriend, a hot forty-something, looked a little embarassed. The cowboy saved her embarassment by pinching her under the ass as a foretelling of things to come. I’d swear he had Big and Rich songs playing in his head.
The MacArthur airport has a shuttle service to take you to the train. Its $5. The driver was excited about my piano. He played trombone with an opera in Argentina and had just started playing piano. We talked shop and I gave him a cd.
I had a nice train ride home and a nice mini-tour.

The coolest thing about driving into Detroit wasn’t the burning Ford Explorer across from The Majestic. It was the air conditioner in my dressing room that served as an oasis to the extreme heat that the Majesticians love at their venue. It was really hot. So hot you could fry an egg mid-air due to the constant rising of heat which could also give a good jolt to a Frontier jet, the one that rivaled hydralic cars so well that they turned around and went back to the airport. (“We don’t know why we just have to go back.” Later, found it was a maintenance problem. Hi Ho.) Magically, the heat didn’t deplete the energy of the audience. They had a good time. And I didn’t need to take off my wonderful sparklejacket, Sparklecoats.
Thank goodness the venue didn’t read my rider. I put Pabst on there so I don’t rock the boat so to speak and they brought me Sierra Nevadas. I didn’t really get to drink any of my free beer so I gave it all to the Budget Rent-a-car guy who assured me he liked beer.

I got 2 nosebleeds today. The first one just started flowing and wouldn’t stop. Nosebleeds are beautiful nuisances. Just like my friend’s pomeranian who pisses in my hallway every time she brings him over. Then, I got one in the shower. Blood going all over the tub floor. I felt like Carrie. Except no one was around to laugh at me.
Everyone supposedly gets nosebleeds when they come to Boulder.
The show was very intimate. Some guy offered me some shoes. My shoes are getting worn. I may take him up on his shoes. I bet Boulderians are apprehensive about buying white shoes because everyone would have obvious blood on their shoes as opposed to the silent blood shoes of a brown-shoed diabetic. My uncle has awesome diabetic shoes. Clowns in Ringling get fitted for their clown shoes. Those are some shoes you don’t want to see blood on. In Colorado they tie sacks to cover shoes and do the Emmet Kelly imitations. Works like gem. My shoes are gray. Shoes.

The Music Mill is part of a shopping strip off 82nd St in Indianapolis. Its very nice to be able to go to Barnes and Noble to kill time and best of all I went to Office Max to get some cd’s to burn for I ran out of my other ones. I began my factory work at the bar of the extremely clean venue. Goodness is that place clean.
It’s so new that the ghosts are confused. “Hey where do I go? Where was the Burger Chef I was eating at before I said, “I don’t feel good.”
One of the bouncers was telling me about some fights he had to break up at a show there recently.
“Who is this band playing?”
“They Might Be Giants.”
“Rough crowd?”
“You’ll be throwing out at least 50 hooligans that love to fight when ‘Dr. Worm’ starts playing?”
“Moshing too?”
“Yeah, they go shithouse violent when Robot Parade starts playing.”
“Give me a nod when that happens.”
“You got it.”
Just kidding. That conversation never happened. It started out as such, though. But it should have.
I had to play extra long because I went on too early. The set was interrupted after 3 songs and was told to start the set over 15 minutes due north of then but then came to the idea of just keep going. What did I say? Anyway, so I did. And I looked to my right at the ghost holding his ill-fated cheeseburger shaking his head in disbelief that the Burger Chef was going to have bands playing.