I'd better write something so you know I'm still alive. I like to believe that other people worry about me as much as you do, but you know; they probably don't, which is good. I'm depressed and a little overwhelmed today. I'm angry that making a couple bucks off my music is so difficult. I'm scared and want to flee this town again. But no, I shall step forward. I'll not let these demons dissuade me from my task. I'll metamorphasize into a madman if I must. I'm reading Don Quixote again for tips. I'm reading Rich Dad Poor Dad. I'm reading I Don't Want to Talk About It. I'm reading the sports page of the Olympian. Bobby Bonds died. Wesley Willis died. That is sad, sad, sad. I'm wearing black today, again. Black carharts-- anarchist-style. I'm hopeful.
I like the new pictures on the website. Goose helped me put them up. The "Bio" page photo is a little strange perhaps. I have a jar of Adam's peanut-butter in my hand. The picture of me on the "Journal" page is where my parents live in North Dakota and where they may grow old. The picture on the "Home" page is in Osh Kosh, Wisconsin and I'm about to sign an autograph.
I finished my four-week run of shows at Herb's bar in Friday Harbor. I learned a lot there and made many new fans and friends. I'm glad it's over, though.
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