This Place That I Call Home
“Where are you? L.A.? Chicago? Honduras?”
“Um, no,” I say. “I’m walking west on 45th Street.”
I’m on the phone with my buddy, Nadas front man Jason Walsmith.
“I gotta’ warn you,” I say. “New York City’s finest are doing one of their anti-terror swarm things, so it might get loud.”
“I gotta’ warn you,” Jason says laughing. “I’m making Mitchell a peanut butter and jelly sandwhich.”
Jason’s called to clarify weekend plans.
“I’ve heard rumors you’re stayin’ with Stephanie and me.”
“And Mike tells me you’re playin’ some after party with us.”
Jason’s not the first to check in about our trip to Iowa (Abbi’s first). Mary emailed me the forecast, and promised fireworks. Mandy emailed to find out my schedule; she’s working on a reunion with my old pal Greg Lage (with whom I went to high school in suburban Philadelphia). Mikel emailed a request (“I trust you know what you want to play, so I’ll lobby for “California” and then get the hell out of the way.”) Tricia emailed me an entire set list of requests. And Chase is just lookin’ forward to hangin’ (me too).
Tony, Chris, and Ryan are all backin’ me up for the Pianos show on Thursday, which is a cool surpise that worked out at the last minute. Casey’s gonna’ make a cameo. The band rehearsed on my patio for an hour last night, then made a big pitcher of margaritas with the wives.
Then I’m joining all of my Authentic Records pals at the Des Moines Arts Festival on Saturday.
No matter who shows up where, I can’t wait.
‘Cuz golden hour or not, 45th Street is gettin’ kinda’ old.