humidity, humility, and heat

This  morning found me up at 6 to feed the dogs, then back in bed, where I read a little more of Dante’s Inferno. It has a cooling effect. (The further in I get, the more it resembles life here on Earth; Virgil leads Dante up Gallatin Road on a hot July evening.) Took the trash can out to the alley; cut back some of the wild vines and weeds, all knotted up and stubborn,  growing along the fence-line back there. Came in around 9–I felt like I was starting to melt along the edges. Showered, made espresso in the Italian stove-top thing. Now I’m plowing thru various chores domestic and professional, from laundry to graphic design, booking to pest control, waiting for the mechanic to call with what can only be bad news, as it will cost something to fix whatever’s wrong with the van.  I was referred to this mechanic by a friend. From reading reviews of this garage on the internet, (after AAA towed it over there) I figure he must be the only customer to have had a pleasant experience with these folks.  This adds a certain urgency to the whole deal. (Update: I just spoke with a woman on the phone there, who, when asked about how things are coming along, said: “he said he ain’t got to it yet”.) They’ve had it for about 26 hours now.

One of my own ain’t-got-to-it’s this week is to title the compilation of live and otherwise unreleased tracks that I’ve been putting together. But the day’s not over, and I am at a point where the title itself is less important than the simple act of making the decision. It’s an old habit:  fear of making the wrong choice prolongs/prohibits my making a choice at all. But I’m bored with all that, and am ready to lay waste to all that old spinelessness, drop pro-active napalm all over my murky little comfort zone. Dammit. You’d think by now . . .

In other news: picked my first ripe tomato from the garden this morning.  To keep up with the jalapenos I’m eating them with just about everything except oatmeal and toast; can’t get my habaneros to put on any fruit. Bell peppers looking pretty sickly.  About to have three ripe cantaloupes on the kitchen counter.

We played one of our best shows in years last Friday night in Clarksdale, MS. Thanks to all the folks from the Oxford American, who made it such a cool event, both for the bands and everyone else there.  How anyone present on Saturday night would feel it necessary (or even possible) to carry on a conversation while presented with the singular brilliance of one Mose Allison, I’ll never know.  I guess he’s considered a local around those parts, and maybe that had something to do with the chin-music rumbling around the room. He brought his Memphis-based rhythm section, and those guys were fantastic–a damn near telepathic communication going on onstage.  Staying over the extra night was definitely the right decision.

Speaking of local, we’re back on the home turf tonight, playing the Family Wash. With Joe McMahan, Ron Eoff, and a special guest on drums. 9ish.  I’ll be rolling my amp down Greenwood Avenue in a wheelbarrow.