Haven’t posted anything for a while, thought I’d rub out a few lines....

First: While driving on Monday, I saw a white llama sitting alone in a field as night fell. There were bare poplars silhouetted against the last light of the sky above the llama. I continued up the road and delivered Italian food to a guy in a condo. He said he was an engineer, but had trouble adding his tip to the credit card slip.

Second: John Sporman, bassist for Tom Catmull and the Clerics, was sick as a dog this last weekend. Tom called me on Saturday night and asked me to sub for John at a show in Whitefish on Sunday night. I did. It was a rare treat to play with Travis, Gibson and Tom. I still know a lot of the songs, and I had fun faking the ones I didn’t know. Um, "Fraulein?" I can’t even spell it. It wouldn’t have been a Catmull show without something like that. Thanks, Tom. And I really hope John feels better now.

Third: Does anyone have a concept of how to rebuild a staircase at less of an angle?

Fourth: A nice lady with a camera and a lens as long as the member of a whale informed me as I was chatting with her that I was standing under a Great Grey Owl recently. I was, and it was special. I’m not telling where it was. The owl looked me in the eye, reminding me of some stuff I needed to remember.

Fifth: After being a greedy milky-bear and consuming mass quantities of mom’s milk from a bottle for me, day after day, my daughter, now a bit more than four months old, had decided that she’s gonna wait for mother to get home and get it straight from the source. I feel very complicated about this, and am considering disappearing before she becomes a teenager, and presents me with something that might actually hurt me a lot.

Sixth: I wrote a song about a guy who dies after cutting his lip shaving. Story was inspired by what a friend told me about his boss’ shaving accident, and his refusal to get it stitched. In real life, I don’t think the guy is dead, yet. Next up: A song about a couple who, at their own wedding, get the cake too far up their noses while playfully feeding each other, and die from some weird infection, or perhaps a wayward icing-rose to the brain.

Last: The falafel plate at Scotty’s Table.