Hippie dippie time

It's probably been about 30 years since I attended a "music festival." Not that I haven't been to concerts in the park, and such. A few years ago I even went to Lilith Fair for an evening with a friend, but we didn't camp out. I recall being angry because they wouldn't let me take my bag of healthy food into Lilith Fair, but instead wanted to make sure I purchased their crappy food for lots of extra money. But the music was good. I even got to see the multi-talented Jewel belt out some classic blues and jazz. (After that, I couldn't resume my ignorant, jealous disparagement of her.) My point is, though, that I'm going to a "grassroots" music festival called "The Acoustic Cafe" this weekend with a girlfriend and her kids. I'm actually bringing my tent. And mosquito repellent. My spouse may join me for a day; that will be nice; it's only a short drive away from the old homestead to which we daily cling. I hope I can forget my troubles and get happy. Honestly, I don't HAVE any troubles, really. But perhaps I can focus on enjoyment rather than anxious feelings of "what am I supposed to do next?" I may even eat a baloney sandwich on white bread! But I am bringing my special, healthy beer.

Home stretch?

I shared my 87 pages of rambling on my topic with my thesis advisor. He said he liked the writing. In fact, he was in Mexico, working on an academic study-abroad program, and had taken the thesis with him. He said that he enjoyed reading my thesis as much as the New Yorker magazines he'd brought with him. Perhaps he was just flattering me, but why would he do that?

He did say, however, that I needed to restructure the order in which I presented certain topics, and that I needed to provide some context information for the "reader." Darn. I was trying to avoid that! To heck with the reader! My writing is about satisfying MY whims. Or used to be.

It's going to be a slugging-away summer.