Girls with guitars. Well, stringed instruments, anyway.

I was in the middle of a phone interview when my tire blew out on the freeway today. Harrowing. Remembering some advice from a friend who is a fireman and paramedic, I decided to improve my chances of survival, sacrifice my rim, and ride the shredded rubber off the freeway, where I changed my tire mostly by myself and got my hands very dirty. When I got back into the car, I saw my reflection in the rearview mirror. I had a big smudge of black on my nose. It was sort of endearing. The obvious touch -- like putting cake flour on your face to make it look like you've been cooking. The costume version of enduring trauma. The cartoon post-brawl blemish that is interpreted as crosshatching on the cheek. (Since when does a landed punch result in a pound sign?) If I wasn't so averse to having roadfilth on my face, I might have left it there for fun. A two-hour drive turned into a five-hour event. But it didn't seem to affect my playing. I waited until I'd left the diminutive stage to reward myself with a Boddington's. Shakespeare's has a giant yellow barrel with the Boddington's logo painted on it. I want that barrel. In my apartment. Now.

Lots of friends came to see me play tonight, but most of them missed the actual set. Still, it was nice to receive squeezy hugs through warm sweaters and laugh and drink gift cocktails. As much as I question everything, I'm beginning to see the distinction between aimlessness and aiming for many, many targets.

It's a good thing I wore black today.