Sorry for the length of time between communications (don't ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, ever, evereverever buy a DELL XPS 200. They are complete shit). Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaanyway, I'm back people. In grand style.

The band (the name remains Battery thanks to a pep talk from Matt Quinn) and I have been hitting it pretty hard (two practices in three weeks, yes you read that right) out at Marcus Lowe's farm. If you have not been out there to record, or feed the goats, or just to take in the swamp air then it is your loss and you should feel like an ass.

We are currently working on shows between babies' needs and Razorback games. Recording should begin soon for the new record. Should be more rock(ish) than the last one. Not better or worse, just more.

All for now, just wanted to let you know that we are alive and sort of kicking.  

While visiting my family over Christmas, my dad took my son Gus and me to the Allen Bowl. This is the bowling alley in the formerly small town in Texas where I attended, and eventually graduated from, high school. Not much has changed.

I remember a friend's band once played there. I remember thinking that it was the greatest thing that had ever happened, and that she had bigger balls than any of us to even play a rock show at the age of 16 (I think that's how old she was, she might have been younger) much less play said rock show in a hotbed of red neck activity. She still has bigger balls than all of us, and the Pixie's logo tattooed on her shoulder to prove it (when I say shoulder, I don't mean shoulder blade area. I mean where your drunk uncle would get Woody Woodpecker tattooed if he had the money... and two arms).

It still smelled the same. Cigarrette covered nachos.

I still thought about leaving with my bowling shoes on. Although, I've never had big enough balls to do it (see above paragraph).

Somehow, the employees at the Allen Bowl have figured out the mystery of time travel. Unfortunately, or, fortunately, depending on your outlook, the time machine is only big enough to work on the radio that pipes music through Pioneer speakers while you bowl.

At one point, Gus picked up his 6-pound ball, rolled a strike, and then asked if the music that was on was AC/DC. It was. I then asked him what song it was and he answered "Thunder Struck." It was.

If the Allen Bowl had a shower, I would move in. I'm only saying this to save face. My house has a shower, and I don't use it all that much.

Maybe I'm getting old. Maybe it's the fact that my best friend's mom passed away recently. Maybe it's the warm comfort I get from my wife and two babies. Most likely it's a combo platter of these things, but something is telling me that it's time to slow down.

Now, I've never been super-wild, (I guess that depends on who you're asking) but a drunk 37-year-old is nowhere near as fun/cute as a drunk 18 to 24-year-old. And it's sure not cute for a daddy to be out until all hours of the night stripping away the next day's parenting skills one drink at a time. But, I digress...

After a lifetime of being right in the middle of one music scene or another (as fan or musician) I have come to the conclusion that this whole game is more than a little silly. 20 years of shoving original music down people's throats when all they really wanna hear is a cover or a watered-down knock-off of said cover can make a person tired.

I don't regret my choice. I wouldn't have it any other way. Given the choice over I would still choose passion over money everytime (I hope). I'm just saying it sure took a long time to realize what the people around me have known for years.

To the handful of people who care: Don't worry, I'm still gonna write songs and make records. I still enjoy the game, I'm just not worried one ounce about winning it. Come to think of it, if you are not willing to do whatever it takes to win (where certain clothes, shake certain hands, sing certain songs) you will never ever win. But, maybe the only way to beat them is to never play in the first place.