I decided to trade-in the keyboard I bought last year. It's nice, but it doesn't have the timbres to get me in the right mood, and it's not portable. I want something I can keep on the table next to the desk here and pull on my lap when I get some downtime, if only for a few minutes. I don't want to have to use a pedal, because my feet will probably be propped up on the desk. I remembered days with the old Casio I destroyed by spilling red pop on the keys. I wrote on a coffee table, on the floor, even driving up to Iowa.

Then, I thought of this keyboard, the fun I had at the store cracking jokes with everybody, the drive down to Texas and the horrible depression that followed. I cried myself to sleep, soothed only by the wispy sounds of the tall palmettos outside the window. I recalled the next day trying to write something in the motel room, but all that came out was jocular and humoresque. I came out of the bathroom and was struck by the composition of the scene, a keyboard, a mess of notes with a pen, and a crying towel. I was so low, I was ready to never go to another Moodies concert in my life, even though that was the purpose of my trip. I pulled up the YouTube and searched for a full album, since Moodies songs always seemed to snap me out of my funks, and it helped. I must have left an impression when I checked into the motel, because in the morning, with my cornflakes, there were pamphlets from the Jehovah's Witnesses on depression.

For whatever reason, I soldiered up and went to the show, quite expecting Udo and an army of security guards to haul me off, or as in my recurring dreams, Justin to refuse to take the stage until I exit. Instead, the evening was definitely among my best days ever, and in some ways beyond any expectations I've ever harbored. I could never forget how incredible the whole concert scene was. I am not worthy, but, as they say, "Thanks you."