While eating dinner last night I noticed a hugely fat person eating by a motorized wheelchair and wondered if maybe this is a self-inflicted handicap. Granted, a person confined to a motorized wheelchair doesn't get much exercise, and the diner I went to for breakfast this morning features a 6-egg omelet. Its motto is, "you won’t leave hungry," and they're right.
Tracy and I biked upriver. There's a lovely paved path, Centennial Trail, that goes all the way to Idaho. The city was really smart to get it built. There are lots of people out during the weekend heat enjoying it. We go out past the town along the riverside, through pine forest and scrub, and get as far as a beach, where a large man with a Mohawk is standing waist-deep in the water smoking a cigarette.
The show is in a large club. Deanne is back mixing, over her bout with chicken pox. We begin rehearsing the Hendrix tune, but it's got a ways to go. Lisa Germano opens, and her quiet material is difficult to hear over the chatter of the crowd ordering beers and whatever else. She's pretty unfazed but I feel bad for her. I wonder if we're going to have a tough time, too — if this is maybe a middle-aged (like me) crowd that just wants to hear the hits.
But they prove me wrong. They're up and dancing and yelling and, by the looks of things, they're not all middle-aged, either (though some of the middle-aged folks are jumping around more than anyone else).
Some of us hit the Baby Bar for some $1 Blue Ribbons afterwards. I'm exhausted; the sun I got during the bike ride has done me in.
