Been out of town for a few days. Glad to be home.
I had to use both sides of my brain equally over the last few days. Mental gymnastics is not an Olympic sport for a reason people.
The logical side of my feeble brain keeping me in check, filtering out the stupid, preventing embarrassing moments whereby a letter of apology and monetary restitution are involved, in addition to battling nerves and feelings of resume and song pedigree inadequacies. All of this while trying to turn the creative side loose to the point where I can be free enough to forget where I am and who I'm with, and just make up stories like I've been doing my whole life.
I picture a respectable fella in perfectly pressed slacks, button up dress shirt, wire framed glasses,and an accountant's disposition, probably name Edwin, or something like it, stepping into a cage match with a dude in baggy shorts, a loud Hawaiian shirt, sunglasses tan, and a 1988 Firebird mullet who goes by the name E-Dog. The thought of either of them actually winning outright is pretty scary. Equally scary is that both exist within the small confines of my skull and very routinely run into one another. The resulting chaos is both deafening and exhausting.
Edwin is tired of writing checks to support E-Dog's irresponsible ways. E-Dog thinks Edwin smells like file Folders.
When it comes to finances and business, the best I can hope for is that E-Dog is sleeping off a hangover in some strangers front lawn cuddling their plastic flamingo. When it comes to matters of love and writing, I hope Edwin takes a couple puffs from his asthma inhaler and agrees to spend the next several hours with the math club from the local university solving for pi.
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