Pull over, pull over! they squealed - our four squirmy, sweaty, agonizingly bored children desperate for a break from the nausea inducing monotony of a seven-hour car ride - when they spotted an outstretched thumb by the side of the road. He was on his his way to Chicago, just him, his Martin guitar, and his glassy-eyed dog, hoping to carve out a modest career for himself in that big ole windy city where good music (not that canned and contrived "top 40" drivel) still means something. It'd be way cool of you to help me out, he said.
What have I/ we been up to?
12 hours ago