Dudes' Facebook Chat, September 22

5:31pm
W: how do I get dudes. just a quick answer. pls.

D: NOv. 15 it's everywhere. Dude.

W: awesome can't wait. 2 sentence description?

D: "Music worth getting sued over." Right up your alley, Esquire.

W: that's 1 sentence.

D: "Music worth getting sued over, spat upon and licked like a kitten. Like a shaved kitten, that is."

W: sweet that shit is usually my JAMZ!

D: I knew you'd be down.

W: you know it brosef, I've been outta the loop working two jobs to try and save up for school for the past year and a half so I was bummed that I missed out on all the DUDEs hype and kickstarter.
just started seeing info. about it when school started and I was spending more time around computer.

D: that's what they all say. brosef, that's strong

W: listen here scooter britches me and the ol' lady is up to our eye-balls in babies and I had to do something quick so I had to get a couple of jobs that were awful.
in addition to the job that I kinda liked.

D: sweet jesus you are fertile bunch. I applaud your move towards the decent life. and more ginger offspring.

W: thank you, I've always been interested in law and if I felt like music could support my family even just pay the bills I'd still be doing it.

D: tell you what, i'll trade you a copy of dudes for one of them carrot children.

W: done and done.

D: sweet. can ya'll fedex that shit?

W: actually we only have one ginger but we might have another one cooking we'll know in a cupla months.

I just opened the door and put a brown bag in his hand and pointed him the direction of Nashville.

Tell you what he'd probably appreciate it if you met him half way.

D: Tell him there's a good titty bar on the west side of knoxville...

W: he's already crying...sweet moses...that's gonna be a looooonnnng walk.

D: I can be there in a day or so

W: contact I can call at the titty bar? he's got his name pinned to his shirt.

D: Mona 347-666-PONG

W: perfect. there's no holes in this one its air-tite. Listen you don't feel the need to put the hurry up on the disc. I know yer good for it.

D:10-4.

W: peace. Oh...WAIT! did t-swif call yet?

D: 23 goddamn times. think it means anything?

W: as your lawyer Imma tell you DON"T answer her calls. Text her these words: "paper. you get the song when I get my paper."
she's industry savvy she'll know what it means.

D: sounds air-tite. You know what that means.

W: I don't.

D: Aaaiiight picklenuts I gotta dash off a piece about that very thing for AMerican Songwriter

W: for the mag?

D:this has been damn enjoyable
yeah the mag

W: What's the best way for me to keep in touch?
as far as what you're up to?

D: Imma bout to release a holy onslaught of shit that will be impossible to ignore
you got my everything, hit me up whenever you feel blue
and thanks

W: I don't get blue. Imma future lawyer I just clip coupons and smile dawg.
lates.

D: over and outs

W: peace.

Whoa Whoa

Woah

Video Session : David Mead : LaundroMatinee

I finally found this today. I love Bill DeMain and his pickin,' and I think the guys in Indianapolis did a fine job of capturing us in pretty good form.
Video Session : David Mead : LaundroMatinee

I Got An IPhone. Finally.

Sorry I have not posted for so long. Here is a photographic look, in three parts, through some highlights of the last two months:

Chickpeas

Stan and I have officially begun our new installation of the annual 'Summer Walk' series. We began the series last year upon landing back in Nashville amidst financial ruin and general heaviness of heart. As my body was still readjusting to the physical realities of not awakening with a quart of liquor still coursing through it, I would inexplicably rise at 6:30 every day, unsure of what to do with myself besides stare at the walls of my father's basement guest room. Daniel Tashian began inviting us to go on his 7:00 AM dog walks, rather ambitious affairs that really got the blood pumping. Suitably inspired, Stan and I soon initiated our own particular routine involving the creation of a portable cup of coffee for me and the installation of a plastic poop bag device on the business end of Stan's leash.

I quickly began to appreciate the mind-clearing effects of a good Summer morning constitutional, that wonderful amble through the steamy awakenings of nature, the universal coming-to, the infinite uniqueness of every single pile of animal excrement. Predictably, Stan was more than happy to establish a circuit of the surrounding streets and parks on which he could definitively make his presence known to the other canine inhabitants of the neighborhood. We were, in short, re-establishing a presence on the local scene. People were beginning to talk. More than once, at the coffee shop, passing the playground at Dragon Park, we heard the unmistakable whispers, the clandestine mentions of a 'comeback.'

A year later, we have graduated from the paternal basement, once again leading relatively 'adult' existences on the first and second floors of a house that we actually pay rent for. Surrounded by new and old friends on a regular basis, we have managed to resist the occasional temptations that would beckon us back to the darker corners of our history. This morning, proudly observing Stan raining down a great yellow disaster upon the neighbor's chrysanthemums, I was struck by the triumph of it all, the deafening trumpets of restitution. As the Dalai Lama once said, "We're back, motherfuckers. Watch out."