Odds' Blog

I glimpsed my wife and manager Mil outside the hall, working with Sue Petersen and the other moms. My super-ugly iridescent cobalt tropical shirt-- the one that sets off airport security alarms all by itself-- had begun to moisten as my clothes invariably do when I'm warming up 12-strings. Mil thinks this shirt should be burned, but I like it. Soon enough I'd have to put on my stage black. I was still wearing shorts. Tuning guitars. Checking the sound system. Why put on hot clothes too soon? After all, this was Florida.

"We’ve decided not to bring in the twenty maximum security inmates," I’d been told. Still, as the fourteen to seventeen year olds entered, they walked as if in straight jackets, arms folded across their chests. A security measure, I sadly assumed. Poor kids.