Some days are diamonds. Some days are stone. Most, though, fall somewhere in between.
Yesterday, for instance. Mostly I watched the NASCAR race from Talladega, Alabama, and that was functional because it diverted my attention from an excruciating Boston Red Sox loss. I was happy that the Chicago Blackhawks won. I’m really enjoying a book that I bought from a bargain bin about twenty years ago and just got around to reading.
Yesterday morning, since there is practically no food here at the house, I went to the drive-through, used coupons, and the lady through the tinny speakers thought I wanted two for $2.29 instead of one for $1.49, and two at $1.79 apiece instead of one, and I didn’t really pay attention when I handed her my debit card, so to make an already too long story shorter, though not less tedious, my entire diet consisted of breakfast. The second Frisco breakfast sandwich went down at 9:30 p.m. as the Boston Bruins were playing the New York Rangers.
That’s the news from Lake Wobegon.
Exciting, my life.
I write about murder, suicide, sex and corruption, but I never do any of it myself.
Jerry Jeff Walker wrote in a song, responding to the notion that he was a has-been, “At least I was one, not some writer staring at a wall …”
That is I. The wall I’m looking at now has posters of Emmylou Harris and Ian Tyson. Willie Mays is hanging perpendicular, and Ted Williams is around the corner.
But, in about a week, I’m going to bust out of this jail.
I’m going on a trip, man, I’m going on a tour, and where I’m going, I’m not even sure.
Well, that’s a bit romanticized. I know where I’m going. I’m going to talk about my novels in New Orleans (Garden District Bookshop, May 15, 6-7:30 p.m.) and hang out with musicians who actually do it for a living (Concert for VISTO, May 17, all day and all night) in Gainesville, Texas.
On the way out, though, and on the way back, I’ll have some room to wiggle.
I expect I’ll stumble across things to write.