There are times when I wish I still believed in hell.
This’ll have to be rushed. There’s a cowboy band about to kick off in the parking lot next to my hotel room, and I’ve wasted half the morning trying to get US CELLULAR (boo! hiss!) to explain how I paid $40 a month up front till Octobe and suddenly get cut off, incommunicado. I hope they rot in… well, let’s say a nasty, dark dangerous place – in extreme discomfort.
However... the sun is out, the parade has gone by, it’s cool under the linden trees, and I’ve cured my headache and my woes with a very American remedy: a breakfast of strong coffee and cinnamon rolls (thankyou, Jeannie) and an early lunch of hot dogs (which they’re GIVING AWAY over the road here) and Pabst on tap.
This is a festival weekend in Chadron, their Fur Trade Days, which celebrate the French trader the town was named after. Last night we had an excellent band out here, playing a mixed bag of rock classics with an ever-shifting line-up, two impressive singers, and a mean old guitarist. One member of the band was George, who teaches music at
and is married to Jeannie’s daughter. With him getting his kids up to play bass guitar, drums and one or two other instruments, and Jeannie’s mother looking on, the Goetzinger clan were represented by no less than four generations. Not your average rock gig. Gordon High School
Well, I’m not sure whether I’ll fit everything in that I want to do today, but if I’m to have a chance I’d better crack on.