Nine ten.

Another sunny morning, already rather warm out. I found some dry dog food, though it’s not Aesop’s first choice. Even the pickings for me were slim; it’s the same crap every day. I should make a trip to the grocery store for something better. I can hear Roger using a power drill in his garage across the street. He’s been retired for a number of years now and has nothing to do. The other day I heard him talking with Willie, the neighbor around the block. He has a small dog named Rosie and operates a booth at the Saturday Market, a sort of hippie place. I played a gig there once with another Roger, doing his originals: mostly folk style, but pretty good. He was a good songwriter and worked as a luthier, building and repairing guitars. He had a hard time making a living. The last I heard, he moved someplace in the Midwest where he could live rent free and still do his projects… It’s interesting that the musicians I’ve worked with who do originals often can’t decide on a definitive recording of their stuff. They keep re-recording with different personnel rather than saying, This is the one. I found it frustrating as a player to have my work in the studio scrapped. So I finally left that scene and joined an ordinary butt rock band for a while, which was more fun than dealing with someone’s ego. The only ego I had to deal with was my own


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