Turn on the Bright Lights

My fam­ily is mov­ing into new house this week. Ren­o­va­tions aren’t com­plete. The floors still need to be done—sanded, stained, and sealed—which means another approach­ing decamp­ment and we have no plan, not even a shop­ping cart. We’ll camp in one room, mat­tresses on the floor, and need not set a morn­ing alarm: the painters arrive at seven a.m. daily. A feral cat that used to live here keeps try­ing to get back inside; we had a run-in at the front door yes­ter­day, both of us froze, then he ran. The kitchen is being dry-walled; in other words, there is no kitchen. We are in boxes and will con­tinue to be so for three solid weeks. The Qi float­ing through old and new house alike is an air­borne toxic event. My chil­dren will remem­ber this as a great adven­ture. This is not how my wife and I think about it at all.

In need of relief, we caught Inter­pol last night at The Ryman—the show was incredible—then went back­stage (lead gui­tarist Daniel Kessler is an old friend, and as tal­ented as they come). Heard the fol­low­ing uttered by Inter­pol groupie to unnamed band mem­ber: “We met five years ago. We ate almonds together.” 

I’ll be appear­ing at Nashville’s Down­town Library at 10 a.m. this Sat­ur­day, then run­ning over to TPAC for a second-hour appear­ance on Michael Feldman’s What’d You Know? Check your local list­ings and give a lis­ten if you have the time.