Dad: I might go hunting for morels Saturday morning. This weather is perfect for them.
Me: I’ll go. What time?
Three mind-blowing musical experiences in 6 days. Sounds like: Whoa.
I imagine my upcoming road trip to the Grand Canyon looking a little like this. The five of us jammed in the back of the car as Southwest U.S. rolls by in all its glory. Pound the conveniently packed tambourine, roll the windows down. Perfect harmonies.
Nobody’s driving in this fantasy.
I love a funky little love song almost as much as I love making cheap margaritas and cat jokes.
I want to take someone to all the places I grew up — where I drank maple syrup straight from a maple tree, where I lay in bed all day reading books about horses, where my dog got so sick I thought she would die, where I canoed under that waterfall in Canada with Grandpa, where I went to my first concert, where I knew Spanish, where I learned red wine drunk and flannel sheets make the best combination.
And ideally, I’ll be writing about music full time. Ladies and gentlemen, Woodpigeon: