Here I am, back on the farm for a few days. It's funny how only visiting home once a year or so has thrown my memory into a time-lapse jumble of events. I have to concentrate sometimes to remember if certain things happened last time I was home, which was seven or eight months ago, or the time before that, which was eight or nine months before that, or a year earlier thant that during the previous visit. Babies are now schoolchildren, children are now married, in many ways it feels like I stepped away for a moment and through some Einsteinian miracle I stepped back into a later time. It's as though now that I'm thirty, plus a month, my twenties have become a mental ZIP file and a good portion of the compressed data is stored in a storage locker near my parent's home. I've spent the bulk of my twenties far away from home but I would always visit, at least yearly if not two or three times a year. I would download my memories of my latest gig and my recent adventures, and often I would drop off a bunch of unnecessary stuff... which has accumulated into a collection of rubbermaid containers that they happily store for me, though one day in the not too distant future I'll have to sort through it all and take it I'm sure. For now, the collections of books I bought on the road, discarded photos (the ones that don't go in the album), and all the various other items weave a web that fills in the trivial gaps between big memories. Some not so trivial gaps. Anyway, MUSIC MAN rehearsals start Monday. I'm in Trouble. I mean it, I am. I'm in Trouble and many other numbers.