445. Am I Blue?

I’m having a shitty day.

Miss Liz went back to Santa Fe.

David went to someplace that begins with D, and I can’t go to Brooklyn to play with Susan because the streets are icy.

I was already down when I heard that Jim Hall died.

He was a great jazz guitar player and an even nicer guy.

One example of this is that a few years ago dave got a call from Jim telling him that he had just listened to an arrangement dave wrote for him about 15 years ago and he wanted to tell dave how great it was. That was such a kind thing to do.

Of course I can never think about Jim without remembering the time that he and his wife, Jane, invited us to dinner and we came a night early. When the doorman said they weren’t home  we just slinked out of their building sure that we had been dumped by them.  At that time dumping was unfamiliar to me.

Obviously Jane called and straightened it out so I could take that out of my willies box and put on the feedbag the next night.

Before this day took a total dive I had planned to write something typical that David said.

Liz, David and I were driving back from Costco and we were discussing a friend of ours who knew someone who everyone said was mentally ill because she was a sex fiend.

David mumbled something like “Since when is giving blow jobs classified as mental illness?”

I said “Good blog material” and Liz jumped in and said I couldn’t write it because every time I put David in my blog it bites her in the ass  since she’s engaged to him.

Maybe it’s good that Liz went back to Santa Fe.

With her around second guessing me I can kiss my Nobel Prize for Literature good bye.


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