IT SI A MYTSTARY

It's always a mystery around here.

I just got home from an extended-extended Saturday post-performance gathering that started at Rudy's and ended at Maitland's (which is not to be confused with the extended-extended Friday post-performance gathering that started at Redbone's and ended at Maitland's, only at that point it was just me and Maitland and a few cans of beer and we both fell dead asleep on the couch while her housemate watched Attack of the Clones) and I found a Short Mail message on my little phone-thing.

"I saw you cross the street with your soda!" was the message, timestamped 8:20 PM or so from a 617 number I didn't recognize off the bat. That's one of the problems of the Short Mail thingy on the phone, I guess -- if I don't have the number in the electronic space-age phone book thing, the phone doesn't know who to say it's from.

So anyway I just left you a message at four-freakin-thirty in the morning and I sure hope it didn't make your phone freak out loudly while you slept (if you're asleep) but ...

Like, who were you?

Mentioning previous lives is cool too if you want to come clean.

Okay.