Tell me you're coming over to my house after work, not show up, not call to say you're not going to show up, and then call me the next day on the way to Green Bay, where your awesome band that I really like is going to be recording for the next two days, and respond to my "hello?" by screaming into the phone, "THIS IS THE SOUND OF MY SOUL!" as the sound of wind rushing through the windows of the rocker van breezes in the background.
Off to Green Bay I go to, well, mooch. Staying at St. Brendan's while Greg records, going out with the mighty Fitzgeralds this evening. Recording my scratchy smoker voice (WHEN WILL I BE CONVINCED THAT THERE IS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING FUN WHATSOEVER ABOUT SMOKING? WHEN?) in backup vocals tomorrow, which I feel is a bit like Picasso asking Mr. Rogers to help with a painting, but hey. Whaddo I know. The artiste hath spoken. It will be a learning experience and fun will be had by all, especially Eric the Studio Master Dude, who will be struck with shock and awe once he hears me singing and discovers that his ol' pal Greg really has finally and forever lost his freakin' gourd.