What the Hell is Wrong With Me

The problem with being a solo act is that there is no one around to tell you what an idiot you are being. It's good to have people around sometimes who will edit your stupidist ideas. Like the bright idea of touring Eastern Canada in late January early February. I drove about 15 hours yesterday to get to Antigonish, Nova Scotia where upon arriving I found out that "people really don't normally come out on Wednesday nights." The difference between playing Canada and the US is that in Canada the people at the club still pay you and put you up at a Hotel and don't complain about it. In the US the promoter tells you that unfortunately even though you had a guarantee he can only offer you a few dollars. I have to admit that upon arriving in Antigonish I had a pretty hard core "what the hell am I doing with my life" kind of moment. For some reason my constant failure of technology over the past ten hours contributes greatly to this feeling. My gps apparently isn't programmed for Canada and my cell phone is being rejected although according to Verizon everything should be working fine. Somehow not knowing quite where I am and not being able to commiserate with anyone makes it easy to question things. It's back to a map and a pay phone. Old school--circa '95. So I decide that life is actually pretty good. First off, I'm alive. The weather was pretty hairy. It rained constantly and if it had been a little bit colder I never would have made it. Fortunately it didn't get cold enough to turn to ice until I finished my drive. Not only am I alive but I get to play music--granted I've risked life and limb for 4 audience members, 1 sound guy, 1 opening band and a handful of people working and just getting off work (eventually a few more people show up but not until well after I've started). Oh I almost left out the crazy old lady playing slots in the back. One drunk, crazy old guy comes up to me and wheezes "where are you from." I tell him but he's not really listening to me. He announces that he's from Sherbrooke. I reply that that doesn't really mean anything to me but once again he's too busy popping his teeth out of his mouth to pay any attention to me. His gumps mush together against the frame of his false teeth as he contemplates his next drink. They kick him out of the bar for being too drunk before I start which is probably for the best but it doesn't reduce my actual paying audience at the time by 25 percent.