Clinton, South Carolina, Thursday, September 17, 2015, 3:43 p.m.
This has not been one of my better days, partly because last night was one of my better nights.
Remain calm. I didn’t party like it was 1980. (At this point in life, I don’t look ahead. I don’t just go back to the beginning of the current century. I graduated from college in 1980.) As a matter of fact, I drank one beer (light) and one Coke (diet). I had three slices of pizza.
But I played music for hours, sitting out front of a hotel on a lovely evening with a friend of mine and several of his workers. The majority of the songs were ones I wrote. He is working on a job near Greenville and summoned me to come up and play some music. Several others at the hotel dropped in from time to time, and as best I could tell, they enjoyed my music. Or, as I don’t know them, they could have been habitual liars.
Back when I traveled all over the country writing about NASCAR, it wasn’t unusual for me to play music. I had little gigs near several tracks. Now most of my playing is where most of my writing is, i.e., right here in the living room. My Martin is leaning against the couch. I took the Pawless to Greenville because it’s the best guitar I’ve got and I wanted my friend to see how great it is. Like most of the guitar-playing public, he can play my guitar better than I can. I love it when others play my guitars because, that way, I can fully appreciate how great they are.
I got home about 11:30 and watched Kevin Spacey on The Late Show, and I flipped channels watching various commentators say various things about the latest Republican Debate, which is about as close as politics ever gets to NASCAR’s Chase for the Sprint Cup.
This morning, I stupidly got up at 7, thinking I could get some work done, but basically what I got done was sitting in the living room staring at this screen, watching black-and-white film noirs starring the likes of Lex Barker and Aldo Ray, and trying in vain to use coffee as a means of staying awake, which did not work, and so, at last, I returned to bed for about an hour in the early afternoon.
I got up and the machine was beeping, and I called my mother and continued to impress myself (and, no doubt, her) with my lack of brain power. Then I fixed another mug of coffee and reached the modest level of mental proficiency necessary to write this.
The chief accomplishment of this day has been successfully fixing breakfast. The forecast for tonight is a possible trip over to Clinton High School for a junior varsity football game and watching most of the Clemson-Louisville game on TV. I expect to read part of a book called Freelancer, by Jake Lingwall, while Tigers joust against Cardinals.
I try to write something every day, but on this one, I’ve got nothing on those who post memes and photos of cheeseburgers and spaniels on Facebook all day.
Not that there’s anything wrong with that.
I have good days. Those are the ones I write books like these: http://www.amazon.com/Monte-Dutton/e/B005H3B144/ref=sr_ntt_srch_lnk_1?qid=1416767492&sr=8-1