The Busy Boxcar

We were rained out on Thursday, but Saturday went well.  The guys that ran the sound board did a decent job most of the time, and they managed to keep the volume to a reasonable level.  The Busy Bee is not much bigger than a double-wide, so volume could quickly become a problem.

Live at the Busy Bee

The Busy Bee does not pay particularly well.  We live off tips, and we live off even less than that when the tip pitcher is stolen.  The following band made a big deal about how we got ripped off, but I am not convinced we did.  In my mind's eye, I see a lonesome beer pitcher standing proud, full of intention and purpose.  Alas, through some unknown misunderstanding, the tips never come.  The smoky night creeps along beneath the glow of neon as an absentminded bartender grabs the pitcher and escorts it to the blinding washroom.  The band plays on, and of course, the missing tip pitcher goes unnoticed.

South Salt Lake's Finest

As a side note,  I don't accept money for tunes anyway.  No altruism here, it's all insurance.  If I so much as pick up a penny tossed in pity, Farmers won't cover the mando should the unthinkable occur.  This is one law of a select few I live to the letter.  I'll never forget how my agent laughed over the phone when I asked him about the lemonade-soaked laptop.  I was irritated with Farmers and S.B. at the time, but I took perverse comfort imagining the never-sleeping, perpetually sticky hands of destruction clawing their way towards S.B.'s future.

Sam Tsu Says: Plan your disasters to the last detail, or you'll someday stand in a puddle, pile of one thousand bricks, or ashes perhaps, laughing telephone in hand.

My beloved and I were the hot act at the care center on Monday night.  I sounded terrible and drifted in and out of the correct keys during my breaks.  I was also off-beat.  Oddly, I found the elderly quite intimidating.  I have played for them several times before, but it has never been like this.  No screaming, stomping, fighting, or anything.  Just a few muffled claps.  We payed homage to Flatt & Scruggs, Gillian Welch, The White Stripes, and The Cross-Eyed Child himself.  I left the care center far richer than the night I left the Busy Bee.  One elderly resident named Ralph remembered us from our last visit nearly a year ago.  He remembered fiddlin' Eddie, April's Bandits and everything.  To the Busy Bees, I am likely no more than a dream from the pint, and if that, I am the part that made all those unusual sounds with that funny little guitar.  Nevertheless, I am at peace.  I chose the off-beat the day I chose eight strings.

And now I choose to finish.  And that, my friends, is power.