Hey Jakey,

This is the first week in many, many weeks that we have had the house to ourselves again. Your "Po-Po," (the name that your daddy and I are trying to saddle one of your grandmothers with, much to her chagrin...) went home this Tuesday after staying for about three weeks. Before that, my parents were here for about a month. So you have been constantly supervised by someone other than me for about two months straight. For the first couple of days after your daddy's momma left, you would run out into the living room when you got up in the morning, and became confused when there was no one sitting on the couch drinking coffee.

But you've rebounded nicely, and actually seem glad when *I* come home, and when *I* feed you your dinner, and you seem content to fall asleep in *my* arms. It was iffy there for a while, but I think you belong to me again.



Here's you and me this morning before daddy woke up. Note my spankin' new cut n' color that I got yesterday, especially my Betty Page bangs that I didn't ask for, but got anyway. Oh well. Note also the apple butter and Cream of Wheat on your chin. Neither gramma one nor gramma two would've let that happen.

I'm supposed to be writing a preview right now for the Bastard Sons of Johnny Cash show this coming Wednesday. I've been putting it off for a couple of days now, and if I don't do it tonight, I probably won't get a chance. I bought their CD last week, finally got around to listening to it yesterday, and kind of like it. Which makes it harder to write something about them. See, when you don't like somebody, it's easy to compartmentalize them and write something pithy and call it a day. But if you do like somebody, and you actually want people to turn up for their show, you have to be a bit more thoughtful. Kinda like real life, Jakey. If you don't like somebody in real life, you don't have to spend any time worrying about them. Phooey.

Here's a surreal moment for you: last Saturday, C and I went to the Reno-Tahoe International Film Festival. The particular screening that we attended was at the Sand Harbor amphitheater, which holds maybe a couple thousand people. One of the two movies playing that evening had a short, 30-second cameo by Mickey Rooney. Mr. Rooney actually showed up for the screening, and not only that, he and his wife performed an hour-long song-and-dance routine. So, this huge amphitheater... there were only about 60 people there, most of them media probably, and not actual paying patrons. All of these people were in what essentially amounts to the "orchestra section," a semi-circle crowding the stage. C and I sat in beach chairs in the general admission section. We were the ONLY people in this huge sandy area, so we stuck out like sore thumbs. Poor Mr. Rooney came out with his little 3-piece band and performed a few standards, interspersed with lots of corny jokes about his nine wives and his well-advanced age.



C and I felt kind of obligated to be very demonstrative, so we wiggled, danced and waved in our seats, balancing plates of ribs and salads on our knees, and trying not to spill our mai-tais. I was reminded of that episode of "The Wonder Years" when Winnie was doing a school play, and Kevin was working the lighting. Winnie was choking onstage, and Kevin felt like he could hold Winnie up, and encourage her, with his spotlight. That's what I felt like I was doing for poor Mickey Rooney that night. He kept commenting on what a tiny crowd we were, and I felt awful for him. But at least I can say I saw him, y'know-- before he passes on. C wanted to get an autograph afterwards, but we opted for a cigarette outside the gates instead.

You and daddy were sitting behind me just now, playing music on his computer. So far tonight, you like "YMCA," but you don't like "Shadow Dancing." Thumbs up for "Don't Phunk with My Heart," thumbs down for "Slow Ride." You're a fickle baby, baby. You started out this morning watching the Wilco documentary with me this morning, me trying to strum along on your Fender Squier during the music parts, and you dancing and singing into your stick horse like a microphone. You particularly liked "I'm the Man Who Loves You," and "Heavy Metal Drummer." Now you're with your daddy, watching a Metallica concert and wagging your non-existent mane of hair back and forth like a true head-banger.

So, Cracker tomorrow at 3 pm! I know, I thought it was the end of the month, but I was wrong. They're playing at the... ahem.... aww shit-- They're playing at the Rib Cook-Off in Sparks (near Reno) tomorrow. Yeah, akin to playing the state fair circuit, but-- there ya have it. I was going to bring you, but the more I talk to people, the more I hear that it's going to be a frickin' madhouse, so I will probably leave you and daddy at home. Both of you are a bit too frail for wall-to-wall bodies and 90-degree-plus temperatures. I might meet up with K, my hairdresser tomorrow, but if I can't find her, it's just gonna be me. That's fine. I work best by myself anyway. Who knows? What if JH sees me and asks me onto the tour bus to cool off and "eat some ribs." Could happen. But not if I'm packin' a baby and a husband, that's for sure. And especially not if I'm standing next to the world's cutest hairdresser. So-- best if I'm by myself, no?

I'll tell you all about it tomorrow, sweetie. Love you!