When I opened my email a few minutes ago to start the work day, there was a message in there from Bob the Copy Editing God, who contracts with the same Atlanta book publisher I do, stating he is caught up with all assignments thus far and hence is skipping town for a long weekend to go to:
There are going to be all kinds of wicked cool musical acts there this year: The Flaming Lips, Kings of Leon, Tool (a current obsession of mine), Ben Harper, Wilco.
Even the recently drudged-up Police will be on hand (an event that seems to excite everyone on the planet except moi. While I'm certainly glad to see the boys are speaking once again and I'll admit "Roxanne" is a great song, Sting bugs the hell out of me with his whole holier-than-thou Tantric trip, and in high school when I stood in line for two hours for their autographs, Andy Summers flung my notebook at me and then sneered in that self satisfied manner of upper middle class Brits slumming as rock stars.)
No, what really gets my blood going – and in fact is the one act that I am most going to be beyond heartsick to the bone to miss – is the White Stripes.
These folks are nothing less than pure genius. In my humble opinion, it's been decades since a music group has done such mind-blowing things with only a couple guitars and a Kleenex box set of drums.
I love these guys so much that in Moi's Alternative Backwards Islamic Universe (where girls rule and get to eat the most cake), I have assigned Jack White the position of fifth husband to moi. (Meg can cook.)
There are very few things that can send me into a spiral of gloom and doom for more than 5.6 seconds but missing the Stripes? It will take me all day to get over this.