As I transferred important info to my new Slingshot Organizer recently, I found the old list from some night in a bar, where we�d listed characteristics unsuitable in potential dates. I�d earnestly written, �musician,� though there were many objections. Not because it�s unappealing, but because it tends to end badly.

I would like to formally strike that entry from the record.

Steve Forbert convinced me, as I sat on a bar stool, 8 feet from the stage, enthralled. I went after realizing he was �that guy,� that he sang all sorts of songs I�d loved for years, never knowing it was him. Oh, for those lovely guitar-player arms, for him singing about how autumn might break his heart. Fuck if that�s not exactly what we want. He�s not gorgeous; he�s no slim and sultry Rhett Miller [the (P)Elvis of our generation], but he�s the sort with whom you can imagine it working out well. No prima donna, not an artiste, but a normal-looking guy with a guitar and a gift for words and so much talent and charm that he seemed beautiful.

That cold, quiet Thursday night show might be the best of the year. I can�t yet fathom anything surpassing it.

Sigh.

Now, instead of relaxing with a little SF on the headset, I�m freaking out. I�m having a party tonight, celebrating nothing but the fact that I�ve been hibernating and impoverished and haven�t had anyone over to hang out in this apartment. So I invited a handful of people, confident that I could just serve some dip, veggies and chips, plus the leftover beer in the fridge, and my pals would bring things and all will be well. But everyone�s inviting others, and by now, it sounds like a bluegrass band from Carbondale will be there, oddly enough. We will have everything from stoners to former homecoming queens. Kids in their early twenties to kids in their mid 60s.

Funny how all the locals know the house�I give coordinates, and it�s always, �Oh, I�ve been to parties there.�

The party house is back.

I have to go buy more ice and food. And birthday cards.