I'd like to say I spent the winter in Florida, or Southern California. I'd at least like to say I went skiing a couple times. I'd like to say a lot of things, but I can't. I'm a bag.
Made of rip-stop nylon, designed for function and economy, I was born to serve.
I'm a foot soldier, an adjunct.
Not complaining. When the company moves, I move, and I've seen some glamorous things, been some pretty great places.
The rest of the time, I live in a garage.
It was hell out there this winter. December to April I sat, between the broken leaf blower and the construction debris, while the wind howled outside. I guess I kind of went into a coma.
But it wasn't just the cold and dark. It was the uncertainty. Nobody tells me anything.
Now it's spring and things seem to be moving. We even had a few outings, a house concert in Westchester and a record store show last weekend in Troy. No preamble, no "How you doing chap? You alright buddy?" They just dusted me off, filled me up, flung me in the van - no big deal.
This is so us, I thought.
Still, I wonder what will happen when they start playing their separate shows. It's okay in May - she's solo in New York City but he's home or along for the ride.
Then in July, he's playing his way down to Texas while she's upstate mowing the grass.
But later. What if they're both out separately - is it going to be one of those King Solomon things? They cut me in half? I don't think my handles will work so good that way.
I really don't like thinking about the future. Instead I'll just savor this trip next weekend to a house concert up in Canada. I know there'll be a moment, probably when we're cresting the Adirondacks and listening to the Allman Brothers, talking about what we're going to play in Quebec, that I'll wish I could stop time.
But I wish them both the best, I really do.