My world is in a strange little pocket right now. I'm almost not busy for the first time in months. I've had time to spend with Sydney, play some local shows, work on the house, and even read a book of short stories by Roald (not Ronald) Dahl. I can't quite trust this sensation, though. Afterall, I still need to set up a week of shows in New England for early October. Actually, what I probably should be doing with my spare time is creating a book of lyrics; many people have asked me when I'll have something like that available for purchase. Plus, I'm starting to lose track of my song catalogue. I've written dozens of ditties in the last few years that I've never had time to flesh out musically because they call for more of a band-type arrangement. Lyrically they stand up fine, though, and I want them documented before they skip my memory banks.
If I were a rich man, I would hire a team of fourteen music producers, seven graphic designers, and two secretaries. With their help I would create, in the next two years, ten new records, three websites, and a thick, full-color book about my bourgeois, uber-creative lifestyle. And then, after a couple years, I'd rejoin the proletariat and have two children with a union maid. We'd move to North Dakota. We'd vote Democrat. We'd enjoy the spaghetti socials. We'd build a house. I'd never write another song again for as long as I friggin' lived.
I would live happy and free.
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