The woman with the “Repent! O Pharaoh’s House” sign was impeccably dressed in a long black caftan with silver embroidery and a black and silver hat, shiny black shoes, and a big silver bag.
She walked past all the booths at the Southern Festival of Books completely disinterested in anything other than showing as many people as she could her sign.
Later on in the day, I sat and watched two women, strangers to each other, singing “It Wasn’t God Who Made Honkey-Tonk Angels” and falling into fits of giggles like old girl friends.
I had a long conversation with some folks from the Oxford American. I begged them to put out a box set of their CDs, but the rights and permissions is such a headache that it would make that impossible.
Oh, stupid ass music labels, I long for the day when you’ll stop being such ignorant fuckers.
And the weather is beautiful. Good god.
Oh, and I had wrinkly fries at lunch, right out of the grease, crispy and golden on the outside and fluffy and white on the inside. I almost went back and kissed the two men in the kitchen right on the mouth. Because, really, if you can make wrinkly fries like that, you deserve to taste my gratitude.
Oh, my. That was much sexier than I thought it would be before I typed it.
And I talked to a woman who had once met Sam Phillips.
I know sometimes I grouch, but sometimes I feel like the luckiest girl in the world.
Can you believe that this is my life?
I certainly cannot.
Every day I’m grateful. Even when it’s hard, I’m grateful. Even when it doesn’t go how I want, I’m grateful.
And when I have a day like this? Beyond anything I deserve?
I’m so deeply honored, I can’t even tell you.