Today we were supposed to get some snow, but instead, Philadelphia has turned into what I imagine as our finest replica of an English winter. It's not quite raining. It's not quite foggy. It's definitely not snowing. Soon enough there will be snow, but then there will be rain, then there will be the soup. The soup is what happens when the ground thaws and you miss the road by an inch when you step out of the car. It's not a thud. It's not a thwack. Somewhere in between.
Man, sleep and me don't get along these days. My favorite lunch spot betrayed me last week (I like to think of it as real-time karmic fall out from mocking the Omnivore's Dilemma- the concept, not the book) and my stomach has been topsy turvey ever since. The wine probably doesn't help. Regardless, I woke up last night around 3 and spent the remainder of the tiny hours in a warbly, half-dreaming state. I should start writing songs that way, if I could only figure out how to stay asleep with a guitar in my hand.
Coming soon, an official announcement from MFA World Central Command with regards to people, places, and things.
And stuff. Lots of stuff.
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