What can I say? August was vacationland. So much so that by the time Labor Day weekend rolled around, Anne and I withdrew from the world altogether to watch movies, hike, and basically be spontaneous. There is nothing like going away to make you want to be home, and there is nothing like being home to make you really itch to do something. So I forgot to call Jon and Jim back (my phone died), and I messed up lining up practices for the next weekend. Secretly I am glad I did, save for any grief caused to my bandmates. They are the patient type, and from what Jim has said, he could use the weekend to survey a new automobile. Just keep the license plate of the current one, my friend.
Imagine yourself in a desert. Imagine the desert full of arrid mountains, then imagine a crystal sea between those mountains. Float on your back in this imaginary salty sea in the pitch black midnight after being on planes for 30 hours. Oh, and add a full dinner and a toast with new and old friends on the back of a 75 foot (25m) sailboat. Wonder how you got there, what you did to deserve it (nevermind you have paid handsomely for it), and then start freaking out about sharks. There are no sharks, but your brain won't have any of that nonsense so you scurry to the ladder, rinse and towel off, then fall asleep above deck under bright blue stars (and the steady pulse and sporadic lightning from a disco a half mile (800m) away on the shore. WTF?
That being said, it is nice to be home. Now I get to write the book.