Straddlin'

We spent the day in Tuscaloosa on the eve of the Iron Bowl, as there was an annual turkey fry to attend that afternoon and, that evening, a cocktail party at the company president's house. There was talk of football, trucking conventions, church. That sort of thing. I got some leads on some interesting assignments. In the hours between the social gatherings Todd worked, and I sat in the car (yeah, honestly. I was just too comfortable there, parked on a side street near the Bama stadium, to get up and walk a block to a coffee shop) and read Black Hole and took a nap. I awoke when someone screamed "Roll Tide!" and another someone responded, "War Eagle!" (I know you don't want me to bother to explain. . .)

After the gatherings, the drive back to B'ham, Three 6 Mafia on the stereo. And then Califone and the Judy Green at Bottletree. Strange, and a little frustrating indeed, to go from a social event where you're required to converse pleasantly with people you mostly have not so much in common with, to a social event where it's nearly impossible to strike up conversation with a bunch of people you probably have a lot in common with. Eh. I did run into the fine ladies of Red Blondehead in the bathroom -- I recognized them from the Web -- and said hello. And then almost cut in front of one of them! Oops. Blame it on the High Life, and the cultural vertigo. . .

The Judy Green hadn't been playing long when Todd realized the Skylark kitchen manager was in the band. And afterwards he discovered that the guy who books bands for the Hideout was running sound for Califone.

We stood listening to Tim Rutilli's wonderful trademark drawl supplemented by the Skylark kitchen manager on trombone and the drummer's interesting percussive textures, and I closed my eyes and could see myself driving east on Chicago -- the long, flat artery, its busy grey shoulders of commerce. . . Got a little bit blue there for a few minutes, I admit it. But it passed.

During Califone's encore, I found a copy of the latest Punk Planet that somebody had left on the bar, and paged through it, noting names of Chicago compadres: Euguenia. Elizabeth. Al. Anne. Joe. Etc.

So yeah, worlds collided. This is the way we live now.