I keep getting dunned by some oddball promoter who is asking me if I am who I am, (Popeye and I have that in common; "I am what I am and that's all that I am"). Then they make this preposterous proposition going on as if they are certain that I am me with no justification for this other than hope. I think that they're confusing who I am with what I used to be. They want me to do a opening bit at some sort of state fair or something. I've no interest and I'm amusedly affronted that ignoring his last 3 e-mails isn't enough to be shed of him. I used to be a guy who could get asked to replace a super-fine twin guitar attack on his lonesome. I used to be a guy who thought he could single handedly replace a a duo. It had not much to do with talent, it had to do with attitude, and the ability to do standing back flips. As a guitarist the only things I had to offer was a metronome like right hand and a bizarre hybrid Travis-style picking technique. I invented the picking style myself because i didn't understand double tracking (or comprehend that it even existed) so when I listened to records I just assumed that the guitarist on the disc was just really really good. So I messed around with alternate tunings and complicated picking techniques while I tried to mimic the sound. I haven't touched a guitar in nearly 2 years. The last time I played in front of strangers was in a pub in Camden Town. So long ago that the law in the UK was still that pubs had to close at 2 p.m. on Sundays. To enjoy the abbreviated drinking time a bunch of Irish musicians would get together and smoke cigarettes and play songs sitting around a double length pub table. I'd sit in. As I was so obviously American I was always exhorted to play Cowboy tunes. I know a lot of Cowboy tunes . . . The patrons of the place liked it when I played mainly because I only drank diet cokes and the cute bar maid charged me like 50 p for a diet coke (instead of full bar prices) and so buying me a round was a trivial affair. So with that history I'm not interested in "revitalizing" my career with a music public who's "tastes have finally caught up" with my "hard driving rhythms and rock steady beat." I thought for a moment that I wouldn't keep ignoring his entreaties but would instead call him and tell him that the only set I would do would be an accapella cover of the Shaggs's "Philosophy Of The World". There's a picture of the band. The picture is very very much for real. The Shaggs had no talent to speak of. No talent in any direction what so ever. But they made a record and actually got it distributed with that album cover - they clearly had no real talent for design either. There was a musical stage play based on the album a year or so ago. How many other bands can make that claim? if you add the caveat how many other bands who only know 4 major chords etc - the answer has to be, there is only one and this is them. I, for one, would like to see the choreography that goes with sloppy rhythm and a drummer who can't keep a beat. I'm not sarcastic ever. I mean I want to see it, for real, and will be disappointed if they cleaned up the sloppiness to appeal to the great middle. The song lyrics do have a certain adolescent girl profundity that shatters into high comedy, "Rich people want what the poor people's got. Poor people want what the rich people gots," a nifty sort of perception. "Girls with short hair want long hair. girls with short hair want long hair," and on like that till the end, the end of time. With the play being a moderate success the promoter might actually go for it, then I'd be stuck with having to learn the words to all the songs . . . I could say I would need a full symphony with a 60 voice choir and that we would only do Buddy Holly covers . . . that's not good, I actually LIKE that idea . . . I guess the best course is silence - which means I am passing up . . . well, almost car fare - ROUND TRIP car fare to Chicago! Other than plotting out how to escape a revival of my career it's been a nice Sunday. I corralled and harassed everyone into going to the Waffle House. They all balked but they all ate. I enjoyed it. I had coffee and Texas Toast, dry Texas Toast. Texas Toast was not exciting. It wasn't even jalapeno bread or anything. It was marginally thicker than the standard toast, so I liked it plenty enough. Everyone else had eggs and grits, but my fave order to hear was "double hash browns, smothered and covered". That is quite clearly a class dish even if I have no idea what the words mean I know that I wanted it.I asked why Country Ham was a buck fifty more than ham ham and got a lot of definition. I think this is a lot of people's last meal. Country Ham is ham soaked in brine . . . which still doesn't explain why it's a buck fifty more unless the theory is that someone who eats country ham won't be around too long anyway so lets fleece them for all we can get while we've still got a chance . . . When you're the poor non-employed member of the household you get to do a lot of hanging about. Young Dude is going to see Star Wars, so I'll go clothes hunting with her. I'll get to spend a lot of time staring at lingere which is a pleasant way to pass time.++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Shopping did not go well. It was fine but we got nothing. I got to look at the new iMac that I now desperately need. I'm feeling anxious, which is not a feeling I'm used to. My vision keeps going sort of black or something. I have a Dr's appointment tomorrow that I'd managed to block out. It will all be OK. Won't it?