Well, it’s not as if I have throngs of hungry readers banging down my proverbial door for another hip-you-to-what’s-happening-in-my-life, but I thought I would supply one anyway.
The Charleston gig went great; I have a bunch of videos my mother took which I’m hoping to upload onto Facebook soon. I played at the Cafe de Paris on Saturday and Sunday, and on Sunday after the gig (about 10:30ish) we headed over to a hole in the wall bar called the Empty Glass. Michael Lipton (the guitarist from the Mountain Stage band) and his band were playing there and he had offered to let me sit in that night.
Never about to waste an opportunity to tickle the ivories before an audience, I hauled my 88-key Yamaha P-120 over to the shabby joint and attempted to make friends with the burly guy at the door. After a short but productive argument in which I told him that I was in (not with) the band, he let me in, but said that the two friends who were accompanying me could not come in unless they had IDs (I had tried to get them in on the basis that they were my rodies).
There’s nothing special about bars, really. They are the forbidden meccas–their appeal magnified by their cryptic mystery–until someone under 21 actually does get in, and he sees them for what they are–dingy holes in the walls. Which serve alchohol. What a great country.
Anyway. I am now about 20 minutes from Ocean City, in some small town which I can’t discern the name of, even from its residents, but I know it’s in Delaware, and I’m visiting friends of my sister as an excuse to go to the beach and check out babes. Yes, that’s how I’m spending my final days of summer–before I officially move into Morgantown and start attending the biggest party school in the nation. I guess this is where the routine “Whooo!” comes in and perhaps the legendary “Let’s Go Mountaineers!”
Well, I’m getting screamed at to help clean the kitchen. Bye.