I’m gonna try my best to not let this week’s travel keep me from writing, but if there’s nothing going on worth writing about then I don’t mind skipping a day. I think that could be a potential pitfall actually, forcing myself to write every day regardless of whether or not there’s something to write about. Because Thursday I leave early for Houston, I’m attempting this Wednesday double-up to get myself ahead on the days. I’ll spend Friday once again up in front of customers, wearing my best “I know what I’m talking about” face. Pull some ill-fitting khakis over my ass, tuck in a nice blue dress shirt, brush my hair and fill my breast pocket with business cards. The portrait of a corporate slave, bowing and scraping for a paycheck and some stock options. Why couldn’t I have been a cowboy or rock star?
I’m sitting in a hotel in Houston, belly full of beer, steak, garlic-mashed potatoes, and some kinda Jack Daniels ice cream. Business travel is at least nice for the meals. The flight wasn’t bad, and I got a lot done this morning before leaving. Y’know those ultra-productive days where everything seems to fall into place? When you’re able to get everything that you wanted to done and more? I love those days. Tomorrow it’s back to work, but for now I can sit here and watch W address the RNC. Then I guess Kerry is gonna talk in Ohio, it’s a fun-filled night for politicos.
Last night the Killers at the Boardwalk was a good show. As usual, the tiny Boardwalk was packed wall-to-wall with the cream of Sacramento’s emo-youth. Tousled, jet-black haired, lanky youngsters with dark thick-rimmed glasses and untucked concert tees. Doing their best to wear their angst and societal aloofness on their sleeves for all to see. Girls decked in once-again-cool 1985 makeup and hairstyles, with plenty of pink and poof. And me, a guy in his late twenties. A guy wearing jean shorts bought as Sams, Reef flip-flops, and a red and blue striped preppie shirt, untucked. With a brown corduroy Nike hat covering my thinning hair, I realize I’m fast becoming the outsider at these shows – and I like it. I wanna be that old guy my friends I and I saw at the Ween concert back in 1994, the one we laughed at because he wasn’t wearing what we were wearing and looked so out of place. The one who just didn’t care and came out to hear some good tunes. What am I talking about?
I’m not writing anymore, Dave out.