Penultimate gig of the year

Ever Dearest Diary,

Wake and bake as a storm raged outside, as it had howled all night. I rolled in late, after having awaited a lull in the tempest which blustery winds blew outside my little house. Upon this Saturday morn’ in to the eye of the storm, I stepped out, hazy, hoonered, wing-wanged.

Upon arrival it readily became apparent from my pebbled-dashed perspective that a whole mess of musicians were in the joint from having done a gig there last night. (Thus rendering me even more nervous than I already was. That and a packed café was just what I needed). Their musical trio was called ‘Vengeance Squad’ (or ‘The Acid’, they haven’t quite settled on a name yet being newly formed), cello and two rhythm guitarists. I played Fairytale of New York, instrumental in G-major, then to D, diads and triads descending from the top three strings, and a few other plucky pieces banjo-style for a while, as best I could, on the Classical guitar.

After becoming bored of plucking Old Timey & Bluegrass slowed to moderato, I hit them with my rendition of Kill Your Television by Ned’s Atomic Dustbin, some more plinky stuff, a bit of southern-fried slide gee-tar on Gertrude, a little lightly on Saint Lillian, and scrammed. Outta there.

Time for tea and a smoke methinks, in my little hobbit hole, as the storm rages once more, outside. Home now Ron’.

bene púerum.

Maximus Mercurius Fleximus.

Post-Script: Man! I gotta get back to hot dang reality man, gotta git mah archæology thang done gone writ’ n typed up and all that sorta stuff. Gotta git yer pre-history urbanism as a singular phenomenon flex on.

Wake the flex up Max.