Th' Soulfinger Diaries: Cafe Manhattan, Springfield, MA 12.29.05

I've been remiss, dear readers. Remiss as a fuckin', um, oh, I don't know. As something that's all remiss and shit. I'm behind on my blogging and there's no excuse. Actually, there's an excellent excuse. Been trying to do this thing, man. Been trying to ride this Crazy Wave called Soulfinger. Trying to stay on, man. It's like As The World Turns with a god damn backbeat.

Only reason I can stop and write now is I can't talk. Illness of th' throat and singing for four hours a night on three hours of sleep has done its predictable number on the old Lightfoot pipes and I reckon I'll be pretty much mute until Tuesday or so.

Dialing it in, man. Learning my boundaries. They're back there somewhere in the mist. My boundaries.

Ace McClintock is manic depressive in a big-screen way. But he's the only guy like that I've ever known to draw so succesfully on a chemical imbalance to build a career. Think about it. Do you know how fucking nuts and up-somebody's-ass you have to be to swing booking 3-5 shows a week, every week, every year? Me, I can't do it. I approach a club owner maybe 6 times without a commitment before I tell them to go fuck themselves. And I've been begging people like that for scraps my whole fucking life and I'm done. Guy like me needs people like Ace. People like Ace need guys like me.

The show? Fuck me. I can't remember. It was O.K. I guess. Came and went. Came and went. I believe this was my debut on "Let's Get It On". Maybe it wasn't. I don't fucking remember. Soulfinger. Jesus Christ.


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