Well, I really didn't feel like going out today.
Johnny Mac canceled out, which should've sufficed, but I wasn't good with the fact we haven't been out all month. After all, this may be our last season. I decided to go anyway, even though my wrist is still messed up after the hockey game two weeks ago. I've got 345 back up on the squat rack but only 200 on the bench because of it. Well, damn the torpedoes, I decided to check out Howell's Bar and Grill on 5/16/10. Randy Patton gave us a fair shake last time and I had new songs to try out.
Forty-five minutes after signup time, the Pattons finally let the jammers step up. Only their guitarist, a Rufus T. Firefly (from the Devil's Rejects) lookalike, penalized me for having to get my guitar from the truck. Wait 'til next set...well, let's try hell freezing over.
I'm not that much of a prima donna, but, geez, it's not like people get paid for these things. You're putting out gas and beer money, putting your name on the line, have no idea what kind of crowd you're up against, and don't even know if the house band is going to work with you. Plus it's been raining all day and traffic in Gladstone's congested on Sunday, to say the least. You'd think you could at least do your three-and-out. Zero-and-out really bites.
Why bother. Well, like I said, maybe this is our last season, and we need to go out with our heads held high. Cream rises to the top, and *if* we are as phenomenal as we think we are, someone somewhere will take notice. It's what I told Terri and CJ, and even though they lost faith and left...if I go...
No one's left.