I had some nice e-mails from friends on last night's blues post. Todor told me the entry was a downer, that I should stop reading Camus and that if he was in New York, we would be downing martinis at The Four Seasons. Hmm. That's a pleasant thought. Alas, instead, I am sitting at this keyboard in sweat pants and a tank top, drinking a Michelob Ultra straight from the bottle. Todor, you know JetBlue flies direct to New York from San Francisco now. You could be here for breakfast. The Four Seasons has a nice champagne brunch and well, I could easily blow off a day of work.

I also heard from MaryCatherineFullofGrace (she of the long memory). To my horror, she reminded me of an earlier composition that I wrote with my college roommates. This fine piece of work, composed under the influence of some rather kick ass Humboldt dope, was called "The Horny Woman Blues." Paired with my friend Barbara's solid blues guitar playing, this song was a outright nasty masterpiece of graphic longing. It became rather infamous in our college dorm and we were often called upon to perform it at parties. The highlight was an awkward bridge when my friend Elizabeth would flay her arms around, thrust out her hips and declare she was on fire, baby. She often did so while channeling Neil Young. It always brought down the house. Alas, I think it's a sad sign that a blues lyric written 20 years later should express a comparable lament.

Of course, Hollaback Girl was lovely about it. She always is. The Dog Whisperer added, "Tell her no one is getting any!" Ah, small comfort.

Thanks for the feedback, dear friends.