I BET I THINK THIS POST IS ABOUT ME
You know, it's a good thing I'm so vain.

Like our fearless mayor, I take public transit to my job, except when I can go by bike, which is not only cleaner and healthier but faster, especially in Manhattan, especially these days of cops-on-every-corner and roadblocks for bomb scares all over the place, especially since I'm mostly in midtown where such continual obsctructions are worst. But I digress. (From what? Nothing! Yet. Patience.)

So I was off to Hoboken to play the show this evening, and I got onto the PATH Train, and I caught a blacked-out window, and since I'm so vain, I took a real critical look at myself, with my pack full of CDs and mailing list goodies and the other little geegaws and doodads needed to rock a New Jersey House, and I asked myself the only question worth asking:

Does that hot stud look like he's one hundred and thirty percent ready to ROCK, or what?

I am, of course, paraphrasing. (I am, of course, drunk.)

So I take a look, and then I take another look, and a couple more, and then a ninth, harder look, just scrutinizing and checking myself out, for, oh, about twelve minutes.

It might have been three or four seconds, tops, actually.

And at a certain point, I realized what's so fascinating about this image of myself, heading off to rock the house and take names. The one thing I needed to bring the rock to Hoboken in a way that Hoboken had not seen since Ole Blue Eyes adjusted the crotch of his new zoot suit and took the ferry cross the East River to glory at Carnegie Hall back in '38 or whenever, the one thing I needed to go Over like Rover the Casanova -- I forgot my guitar.

You know, I can't really play the gig without a guitar. Or rather, I could, but it would suck quite a lot. Because I don't know a lot of a cappella stuff, and I am horrible at standup comedy. (Maybe I should try that sometime, though. Just show up somewhere where I'm billed and tell jokes for an hour instead of singing. Maybe even record it: Tony Dies, Over And Over Again, For Your Sadistic Pleasure. Might win a Grammy!)

So I hightailed it home, got back, made it to the club, early even, played the show, it was lovely, I collected a few names for the mailing list, got to know the bar staff a bit, sold some CDs, covered my travel expenses, broke a string, Elisa took a lot of pictures, there, you're up to date.

And just to think: I would have gotten there and looked like a total idiot if it weren't for the fact that I just can't take my eyes offa my bad self. Yeeow!