The Daltrey Postpone

So I go to walk into 7-11 and this nice black fella asks me for some change. He's wearing a veteran's hat like my grandfather Pop wore. I give him the 27 cents that are in my pocket and he asks me "are you Irish son?". I stop and think about the question. I look down at myself, a barrel on stilts, red face from drinking every day for the last year, acorn sized penis not making much of an impression in my skin tight pants, green collared golf shirt, impervious to psychoanalysis, and about to walk into 7-11 to buy poison. I answer confidently, "Yes". He responds while pointing to his skull, "when I was younger I had that red hair". As if I had just seen a baby punch a walrus, I say "oh ok". He says, "right on brother". Someday I will attempt to wrap my head around this this all, but for now as my Mom says, "my brain is oatmeal". But I am loaded with falsetto giggles tonight let me tell you.

I think I might have to become one of those people who walks around all the time with a backpack. I need to have a notebook on me at all times. I think of the coolest shit at the weirdest times, and often when I'm incapable of documenting it. I like the idea of always having a backpack with a notebook and a beer in it. We'll see though, those people annoy me.

By the way, this is me in a nutshell...



I found myself enjoying The Who for the first time. Listening to "Who's Next" was like torture and I'm sorry. The whole time all I could think of was Chevy Truck commercials and CSI. Gary Sinise struggling to stay awake line after line, or David Caruso's 163 bathroom breaks a day. But Quadropenia is slaying me. It's great! My whole thing with the Who is that I think Roger Daltrey should have moved up into the mountains at some point, preferably the day before the Who became a band. Pete, Kieth, John=amazing. Roger=cool hair? At Best. Sorry. But there's something romantic about knowing that Pete wrote everything and that he hated Roger too. In that sense I can relate to Roger. I'm kind of a ham at the end of the day. Shoot me.

I'm getting on a plane in about 10 hours. I'm going to New York City to go on an adventure. I'm arriving with a bag and my guitar. I'll french kiss Jay Z if I see him because his new record is so good. Before I have a chance to tell him about the Irish Black guy I met at 7-11, his bodyguard will break my red nose with a paid fist. I will understand.

After New York I'm heading home to Lowell to hug the one's I love and play a final show with Phillip Francis Trudel. I don't know what's going on on Halloween but if I dress up, I'm going as Paddington Bear courtesy of some wardrobe assistance from Jody Jody.

I love you