I have discovered the most demoralizing way to start one’s week: 45 minutes in a sticky, florescent lit post office.
I stamped 108 press kits — one $1 stamp, two $.03 stamps — before trudging to work through the 90 degree Indian summer morning. Ouch. Not fun. But with each envelope comes the hope that somewhere out there in Virginia or Pennsylvania or North Carolina, somewhere, someone is going to give th CD a listen, dig it, and spread the word.
An epiphany came as I stepped towards my shortcut under the Marriot on 46th Street. I was listening to Coldplay’s “Warning Signs,” drinking mu veinte mild Starbucks like a good little corporate city dweller when the white sun poked through the skyscrapers of Midtown with a majestic, magical celluloid lens flare. I paused, and smiled, and walked on.
And so I do now… into the living room to practice my set, including what I hope will prove to be a few barroom favorites (since I have a few hostile bar rooms to win over) like “Closing Time,” “Mr. Jones,” and who knows, maybe even “Brown Eyed Girl” (yikes).