That Bobert Blues Jam was smoking all right, and the late night dancing at various spots was something to make your jaw drop. Hanging out with Peter T and having deep talk with him and lonesome and --wait for it--Bearded Bruce, and so many other conversations and songs my puir haid is still reeling.

It was very strange--from the moment we headed south from Baltimore to the moment we re-entered the airport road on the way out Monday, it was like the bubble that Dorothy wakes up from at the end of Oz. It was just a natural continuation picking up where last year's ended, and it was unphased and untouched by the passage of time in between. Kind of like passing the signpost on the highway up ahead, and entering the Twilight Zone.



Special thanks to Dani, Tink, Mary, Janie, Annie and Charmion for their contributions to the Annual Collection of Memories of Perfect Pulchritude.

And to hundreds of others, for good times, and rip-roaring good music.

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