Okay. Rather than catching up on The Daily Show, I'm going to write a post about how, at last Sunday's Califone concert, I felt there was a good chance that I might be saved, or at least find consolation for existing, in other people's creativity. Let's everyone hope that the fate of the acoustic is to continue to change the pace of your heartbeat now and then.

Life is fine, but I admit this variety of variety begins to wear me thin as my brother's sock heels. (We will not discuss here the state of my own stockings). Days of doing dishes, teaching critical thinking, and striving to love the people involved--both the itinerate travellers and the middle management types--leads to desparate calls on Tuesday evenings for ice cream and/or God. And that might be why music with roots in Appalachian dance reels resonates so: under lyrics about card games and whisky there are layers and depths of yearning. This yearning is not, mind you, of the sort to be described by "passion" or ever ever by opera. Rather, it is the sort that is quietly acknowledged by decent people every moment of their decent lives, as they work hard, wish the best for those they love, and sometimes sin. My nostalgia for sticky summers, Taco Bell, and cotton floaty bits is due in large part, I think, to an inextricable respect for the emotions (and morals, people, morals!) typically articulated by fiddling in the Land of the Free.