Okay gang, I've been neglecting these updates for far too long so I'll try to get you caught up.
I lost a bassist, which only tells half the story when it comes to explaining why Sweet Black And Blue has been moving so painfully slowly. The other half is all about scheduling problems, which at this point I no longer have the energy to try to organize. Suffice it to say that weekly rehearsals are an unattainable dream in this band, which means it's virtually impossible to play a gig without sounding like we just met each other. I think this one may be circling the bowl, sportsfans, but I don't really know for sure because I haven't been inclined to step back into the sickroom to check the thermometer of late.
And that is because I have returned to my old/newish schedule, first implemented in April, after a three week derailment consisting of mostly sleepless nights due to a new twist in my allergic reaction to, uh, Spring, I guess. This means I'm up at the taint of dawn for breakfast, tea and a workout and shower before a brief window of time in which to conduct business, followed by an hour long break for the soul, lunch, two hours of either writing or staring at a blank computer screen in desperation, a little more business-conducting, then knocking off for the day. Playing music just isn't all that high on the give-a-shit list at the moment. So sue me.
Which hasn't stopped Joe King from continuing to make unpleasant noises about cobbling together some kind of solo thing for me to drag in front of the teeming masses in hopes of ending up with a few crumpled bills stuffed in the waistband of my skivvies, but you'll be pleased to learn that thus far your intrepid narrator is standing firm in the conviction that such dizzying carnivals of shame and regret are best taken on one at a time; my spirits may be low, but I'm already wearing an SBB ring on my middle finger, thank you very little.
Times may be tough, friends, but man does not live by fretting over pecuniary obligations alone, which goes a long way towards explaining my newfound obedience to the latest lightbulb hovering skywards, the one that proclaims solemnly, "Pick a card already." Faced with creative pursuits involving either the savage beating of a mummified horse, the riding of a new horse that refuses to drink when led to water, or trying to saddle up a gimpy Labrador for a trot around the park, I choose the cur, if for no other reason than writing is far less likely to cost me any more money than the other two entrees on the menu.
As it is written, so it shall be, at least until next week when I will likely develop another doomed-from-the-start get-rich quick scheme involving a guitar and three or four other jokers looking to make a lot of noise and a little dough.