Whatta day. My heel spur was raging, it was pissing rain and I was all over town from a coffee meeting in the East Village to the way out Bronx for band practice tonight. I rode the rails and rode them hard.
A full, full day of work and bagpiping. I am tired, soaked and pooped. The kind of evening where you get home and you just wish your houseplant had a warm meal ready for you and Ben Franklin was dead and John Adams was president and the houseplant was massaging your feet and making you feel like you were the only one.
(So short an entry I could have twitterd from the #1 local. )
1 comment:
It's like the colonial version of little shop of horrors. There's a joke in there somewhere.
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