Happy Super Bowl Sunday, everyone!
I’ll be gorging myself on nuclear-hot chicken wings, rooting for the upstart Philadelphia Eagles and comeback kid Nick Foles against the cheating scoundrels that are the New England Patriots, helmed by ass-chinned sociopath Tom Brady. I should really be a sports writer, right? Did I pass the test?
I’m a huge sports fan, and truth be told I have a soft spot for Boston sports across the board. I have family and went to college there, and I’ve always resonated with Boston's equal parts tweediness and grit. But Tom Brady’s not from Boston, he’s from San Fucking Mateo, and he doesn’t eat strawberries, and if there’s a clearer example of a reptilian overlord in a skin suit you’re going to have to show me. Ok, this is going off the rails. Should be a good game, and I’m watching with a bunch of Pats fans who are already hammered. Very on-brand, Boston sports fans, I approve.
Fun night last night at Analog, the new venue at the Hutton Hotel in Nashville. Al Pal played a solo acoustic set, with myself and Jamie Lidell joining him for a handful of numbers. We debuted some new jams- Taste of You, Lay it Down, and I’ll Give You Blue- and the response was amazing. It was a sympathetic crowd of contest winners and die-hard fans, granted, and the drinks were free, but I’ve played more than a few gigs where that’s resulted in furniture being hurled on stage, so I’d call it a win.
I’m still feeling the affects of twelve 16 hour days in a row being pummeled by Jason’s drums, so I’m being gentle with myself today. The jacuzzi tub last night was most excellent. Started re-reading the Foundation Series by Isaac Asimov, one of my favorite Sci-Fi series and a perfect introduction to the genre for those of you who don’t constantly adjust their glasses.