Good evening, all sore throats; all shimmied and shook; all patterns of paper. Welcome to Words From The Midwest: Silver Edition.

I don’t even really know why I’m writing because I don’t feel inspired. I, first and foremost, feel tired, but also bored and listless and, in truth, a little pissed off.

This was supposed to be a good week, too, but the show I played last night I played to a handful of people – though I played well and had a good time – and the show I played tonight was a complete disaster. Never book a show at The Root Cafe in Lakewood. Ever.

I won’t even elaborate, because it’s not that big a deal and really the only issue was that they didn’t have a working PA so I played unplugged and just plain sucked because it’s loud in coffee shops. It just is. It is not and will never be condusive to a guy in the front window singing and playing an acoustic guitar. Sorry; not sorry. Etc.

Whatever.

Best not to dwell on absurdities. I got a delicious free sandwich and the worst Chai tea I’ve ever had. But oh, the other tea: you know what I mean…that was alright. And enjoyed with a pretty rad dude, so I shouldn’t really complain.

Oh, look at that, I’m over it.

Otherwise, in short, I just feel like being productive so I’m writing this and am going to reread The Way It Is and hopefully write a couple pages tonight. I haven’t touched the thing in weeks becasue my computer screen has been broken (I got a monitor so it’s all good now) and, in general, I just really haven’t felt like writing. Again, I just haven’t felt inspired in some way. I have, however, began the writing process for my next record…my next next record. It’s going to be called War and Fashion. I think I may have even told you about all that. But before that comes out I have to write another eight songs or so. And so, in the very near future, I’m going to record Dad’s Typewriter – the full band version – and have already begun taking photos to have for the booklet that’s going to come with the CD.

I’ve got nothing but ideas, I suppose…Ideas. And an ever-growing body of work most people – even my close friends – have never bothered to delve into, which hurts in a very strange and visceral way.

No matter. I do it all for myself anyway. And I happen to think most of it is pretty fucking good. And I’ve got some pretty high standards. But I don’t mean to sound conceited. It’s just that as an artist, you have to, on some level, feel that you’re god al-fuckin-mighty and can do no wrong. And thirteen-odd records and four books in, I have to believe in myself by now.

And I do.

I didn’t always.

So, I’ll end this jaded entry into what will become my sixth book (after The Way It Is is done, which will be by the end of the summer) with the hope that you have a good weekend and are as excited as I am for the prospect of spring and everything that entails.

Regards,

Michael