It’s been almost ten years since I’ve put my fingers and hands under the kind of duress they’re about to be under for the next two weeks. We’re starting to rehearse today for the Lost & Gone Forever anniversary tour, which will mean over two hours of playing a night, with very little in the way of stick breaks for my mitts. Waah.
I figured it’d take about three shows for the blood blisters to appear, the callouses to begin to form, and the krazy glue to come out, but last week I was in Columbia MO playing home run derby on the 85mph batting cages at Perche Creek with my brother in law and in the final round, the one that counted, I wanted to use his bat because it had a bigger barrel. Little did I know there was just athletic tape where a foamy rubbery grip usually is, and by the time I lobbed my third decisive home run over the pitching area (but under the net), I looked down to see the skin on my left thumb shredded up and blistered and bleeding. A week’s gone by but it still stings when I bend the thumb, which only means that we’re starting the tour with the glue and the ibuprofen and the wads of band aids covered in tape. It’ll be a true Guster show circa ‘99-‘01 right from the get-go.
I want you to know this experience in no way affects my excitement about our impending tv commercial debut on Sunday nights between midnight and 5am, when this ad will air in the greater central Missouri area:
At this point, I’d like to address another matter of tremendous personal glory, which is my cameo in a New Yorker article over the summer about HBO’s new “Bored to Death” series, a show that’s filmed in my neighborhood in Brooklyn. Specifically, Ryan’s “tweet” on the article which said something like: « CROCS? Why Bri Why?»
I’ll have you know that what I was wearing, out of the house, was worse than merely Crocs — a functional shoe that doesn’t exactly hold up to NYC standards for fashion. I was wearing Crocs’ Next Step Campus Tour 2007 Crocs, that had my own band’s name printed on the side of the shoe. As humiliating as it is to run into a reporter for The New Yorker while wearing rubber shoes with holes punched in them for breathability, the whole thing could have been a lot darker if she’d noticed the fine print. My career might never have been able to recover. I am also grateful that Schwartzman remembered me. It’d been years.