I hear that old piano from down the avenue. . .

Oh my sweet, sweet sweet, old someone,
coming through that door,
it's Saturday and the band is playing,
honey, could we ask for more?

Most of my Sunday mornings begin hearing Garrison Keillor sing the Tishomingo Blues. It's a nice way to begin to wrap up the weekend. A leisurely cup of coffee, game of Scrabble, the radio, and I'm happy as a pig.

I usually plan my drives or work schedules around PHC broadcasts. I like to have something to do with my hands while I'm laughing at the broadcast or listening to songs that inevitably feel familiar, even if I can't place the words.

My parents got me the greatest Christmas present eveer this year. Two tickets to see PHC at the Fitz. Without knowing it, they got me tickets to see the perfect show--a honky-tonk band and one of my favorite writers--who I actually heard for the first time on PHC. So, last night, Krista and I got dressed up and headed on down to the Fitz.

To begin, the Fitz is a gorgeous, gaudy old theater. It's opulent, over the top, and makes you smile when you see it. The only problem? One restroom and hundreds of ladies in stockings with full bladders. I'm grateful that we're not all still wearing garter belts.

Krista and I took our seats and mentally hugged Mother Prosen. First balcony front middle section=awesome!

I can't even begin to describe the show. I've been waiting to go for so long that I was afraid it was going to fall short of my expectations. It didn't. It absolutely surpassed all of them. I cried a little during Tishomingo Blues. After so many years of hearing it over the radio, I was finally there, seeing it live.

Not to mention that Garrison Keillor has been a little bit of a hero of mine for many years now.

Well, the night wound up with Krista and I meeting a friend at an art show opening. The art was awesome, but the opening was a little too wanna-be avant-garde for me. I dislike pretension in almost every form, but among twentysomething struggling artists it's so pronounced it makes me want to hurl. Life is not terrible! Yes, you're broke. So am I. So is everyone I know who isn't an investment banker. In the words of a poet I love: Laugh 'cause shit's funny! Cry 'cause it fucking sucks! It was such a contrast from the genuine enjoyment of life I experienced at the Fitz earlier.

Woah. Way off topic.

Well, to wrap up, I'm closing with a rough draft of a poem I wrote this morning.

"It’s Dark in the Fitzgerald Theater"

The man sitting next to Krista does not laugh at the jokes.
Or weep during the music. He is alone
and only smiles when he asks us to let him out of the row
during the intermission.
When the honky-tonk band takes the stage
I think of the grandmother I never knew,
but whose records I own.
How much she loved honky-tonk,
country, folk, bluegrass. She hosted her own
variety show on Friday nights.
A sister with a banjo, a fiddle, accordion, someone on the piano.
Leading the way with her voice and guitar,
through songs like Red River Valley and Keep on the Sunny Side.
Sitting in the dark Fitzgerald Theater, I imagine her
Four hundred miles away and thirty years ago.
I think she would have loved this show,
If she could have only paused
from wash, nine children, frying chicken,
to listen.