The weekend was lost to a deadline fog. Wringing my hands and furrowing my brow writing about dinosaur-rock arbiters hedging death knell bets s and a stew of oppurtunistic half-wits grubbing in the trash for publication some place that seems way too legit to let me in the door.
Meanwhile, I have eight days until I leave to go to the wool-production center of Europe and a platz where I imagine (wish! wish!) that everyone dresses like a Von Trapp family singer, old men with big moustaches cobble shoes in the street, people yodel rather than speak and all there is to eat is nutella. I mean, not to sound like someone without a passport.
I have been to Germany before, but I keep hoping that on my return, it will be like cartoon Germany. Though, the first 30 minutes Julianne and I spent in Munich last summer, was in a train station bar, 8:30 am, knocking back espressos, watching a gang of men in lederhosen, kneesocks and feathered caps who were drinking beer out of glasses as long and slender as my arm and singing the national anthem. I know the possibility is there.
Then, after my jaunt to the platz, I come home for one and one half days and then leave for almost a month, on tour , playing extravagant bass-lines which have nine parts each, of which I only wrote one, which makes me feel like I am in King Crimson when I pull it off. One must note: The tour I am on is myself... and 24 dudes. I will need friends, I will need high fives, I will need impomptu riot girl meetings and meetings in the ladies room. Please come out and hold my hand. It will be easy to find me, I will be the one that is not a boy in a hoodie and black t-shirt, back by the merch table tearfully evangelizing to 14-yr-old girls.Posted by Jessica at April 5, 2004 03:14 PM | TrackBack