A dead man's luggage

Tomorrow I'm heading out for a couple days of practice with a band that broke up ten years ago. The distance between my life then and now is neatly summed up by the contents of my foyer: a stroller parked next to two cased-up guitars, a keyboard, and a bag filled with cables.

Those guitars in the hallway really freaked me out last night--once, back when home was little more than a mailing address, they'd be ready each evening for the next day's travel. Now they're back, like a forgotten debt or...a persistent rash! Last night I restrung them, which I used to do nightly. It took me an hour and a half (why, oh why, did I ever buy an electric TWELVE-string?). During that time I took stock of the last decade, remembering despite myself how to best get a neat coil on each tuning post.

I remember Eggs being a pretty good live band toward the end of our existence. I don't know if that memory's been burnished by the rosy glow of ten intervening winters, and I guess I'll find out tomorrow whether muscle memory is the stronger brand of recollection. Tonight I'm gonna just try to remember everything I need. Cables? Check. Tuner? Check. Does the amp work? Oh, crap....

Pictures up tomorrow night if possible.