I sat on the edge of my suburban tract, my back to the railroad ties, and my voice a cracked mess of overuse and abuse. When I tried to hit a note I could on almost any day, it came out in an ugly squeal. So, I leaned back, rested my chin on the edge of my guitar, and picked few notes as the first hints of sunlight started to rise over the horizon.
Like the poor young guns who hadn’t lasted the night and passed out underneath trees or on storm drains, I was on the edge between finished and disaster. And when given a choice by Iggy and Daddy, I chose disaster. Because, I’m not finished until the party is. And if the waitress at the Waffle House doesn’t notice that we’re arriving by cab at the same time church services are starting, she certainly won’t realize we brought our beer with us.
Starting at the end is easier than starting at the beginning. The beginning is so long ago and ethereal at best. It’s five years ago when the party grew from the seed of a joke. It’s five months ago when I got the …