August down.
Man, it's so hot in here. Marvin, can you turn up the air conditioning? Oh, right ... our air conditioning is a broken skylight. Sigh. Okay ... break another skylight, then. Use my forty-foot pole ... the one I use to keep my distance from things (and people) I don't like. Yes, friends ... it is the end of summer, past the dog days. August is coughing up blood, writhing in the blistering sun. (Look on the bright side, brother.) Not much going on around the abandoned Cheney Hammer Mill, as you might have suspected. I laid down a piano part on perhaps one of the most ludicrous recordings I've ever played on. I saw some bluejays in the courtyard. What else happened? Not mucho. Whoever said being a musician is tantamount to perpetual unemployment was on to something. (Hey ... I think that was me.) You can see why we often opt for these less-than-optimal interstellar tours, in lieu of the more profitable terrestrial variety. Pretty simple, really ... crappy work is better th...