To start with, the Southern Culture on the Skids show was awesome. Unfortunately, I was late and they were on time (who ever heard of punctuality in rock-n-roll?) but I made it in time for "The Real Nitty Gritty," which is all that counts. They did a festival set, meaning 45 minutes, and I knew every song but the last one. They brought people from the crowd to throw fried chicken at the audience during "Eight-Piece Box." By then, I was far enough away (since they were REALLY loud) that I don't know if it was real fried chicken. Anything's possible!
Anyway, the results of the expensive insole experiment were odd. My feet don't feel broken anymore, but the ball of my left foot feels bruised and both shins just below the knee feel somewhat like what I imagine shin splints might be like. It's a very mild pain, though, so there's that. The young man who sold me the insoles suggested I take out the built in Keen insoles. I didn't. Now I have. Maybe they'll work better now. I hope so.
Dad isn't doing too great, but he's still in there slugging. He's coughing a lot and choking sometimes, but in between he was still trying to sing to Margaret. "My Blue Heaven," one of his favorites.
No comments:
Post a Comment