flashingreds...
don't you call me red
(2002-11-15, 11:15 a.m.)
Yeah, I feel like hell, but the Whip pulls through. Such a lovely set of Leftover Salmon songs to usher me down the highway to work. I�m not going to their show here tonight, though it�ll be a lovely homecoming for Noam, their new banjo player, formerly of Waffle Hoss. I�ve missed WH�they were just a bunch of talented kids playing that wacky newgrass. I have not, however, missed the crowds that follow the newgrass these days. Hence staying at home.

Nothing�s gonna stop me from seeing Wayne Hancock tomorrow night, so long as I can find some cash in the sofa. So long as I can get off the sofa.

So yeah. I�ve diagnosed my own ailments and am determined to cure myself, since the lovely HMO-approved doctors can�t really fit me in until April of 2004. Great idea, eh? Last weekend I came up with the crackpot theory that my knees are shot to hell simply because of those lovely high-heeled boots I fancy wearing, so they�ve been off limits this week, and I�m swinging my legs about randomly, thinking it�s strengthening the muscles. I do feel better. Huh. Not so lucky on the heating pad hat part as yet, but if you�re willing to take a chance, my appointment calendar is open. If you�re too busy, I�d just prescribe some generic Theraflu and 2 sets of 10 jumping jacks.

Sometimes I daydream of giant hypodermic needles, with which I would inject whatever�s needed at the moment�muscle relaxants, morphine, etc.

Still I wonder why we don�t have young folk with nicknames like Hoss, Shorty, Skip, Porky, etc. Where did all the good nicknames go?