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During the last half of my time on the road, I felt a serious hankering for a spell in one of the many hot tubs at my apartment complex in California. Fortunately, I returned safely on a Thursday night and made a point of visiting the large, main wrinkle-maker the next morning.
As I sat boiling beneath the ever-present L.A. sun, I passed the time by cupping my hands together and thrusting the tub's combination of tap, chlorine, and sweat high into the air. I couldn't help but notice, gazing upon my manual water cannon, that the tiny hairs on my right thumb were much shorter that those on my left. In fact, they were barely visible. How odd, I thought. Was it just a mark of domination that my more oft-used clamper had donned somewhere along the way? Was it my left hand's way of staying warm? After all, in cold weather, he's always the only one to be de-gloved while I get my keys from my tight denim pocket.
I had several theories cooked up when I remembered the undeniable cause of this anomaly: a bout with an over-zealous space heater in Austin. I tried to "max it out," you see, because Texas was going through an unusually cold winter. Turns out that was a bad idea, as a ball of flame suddenly emerged from the controls and engulfed my arm. I jerked back quick enough to avoid pain and damage, but my right hand managed to reek through the next evening.
Good story, I thought, as I pulled myself out of the hot tub. When my once-tame gut scraped against the jacuzzi's cement lip, I remembered all the great food I enjoyed in Houston. Between rediscovering the once-familiar metropolis and visiting open mics, I managed to down many a homemade cookie courtesy of Mom. Take into account a huge Christmas lunch plus visits to all the primo Tex-Mex houses and you've got yourself a recipe for weight gain. Not to worry, I rationalized, those pounds will be gone once I start paying to live in California again.
Toweling off, I had to laugh when I caught a glimpse of my gray swimming "trunks." They had been stripped of their former blackness by a different, harsher, over-bleached hot tub (yes, I've got a habit) in suburban Nashville. My cohorts and I itched and burned for hours after bathing in its Clorox-laden waters.
I let my memories evaporate and said farewell to the Canadian woman I had just met, realizing with each scratchy utterance that my vocal chords had been through a ringer of continuous usage over the last month, both on stage and in countless conversations.
As I collected my personal items, including a near-weightless wallet, the significance of my month on the road finally hit me. I guess I had been to busy living it to notice it, but for a good chunk of time, I was actually living my life-long dream! I ran my wrinkled fingers through my hair and walked back to the apartment to plan Southpaw's Spring Tour 2001.
Tour Statistics
Hey, maybe a scattered,
low-income outing isn't worth such an elaborate tribute, but it was my
first time, so lay off!