There was free-styling cruising with amazing grace and we knew we've got a friend. Perish that thought. How do we tell her how her face looks in this poet's web? Does she have a worry free warranty?  Who will he choose?  Gotta be Maud.  Now I can dream again. Bruce too, it seems. Time for a lullaby.

Bruce sang of a long blond haired Harley riding legend who worked in a dinner in a small town, and Dennis sang of a fascinating harmonica switching riverside singer.  Hmm…, I wonder if we might ever find such treasures?    Folks, this is what folks sing about.  We're always going, but I don’t know where. Do you have the patience to see it through, into the time between slumber and dawn?   Do we need a sharp bladed editor?    Maybe not, inertia keeps us going.   We are not here, we are always moving through with mad dog and Irishmen.   Checkmate.   Well, the French know how to disillusion the English, or so they dream in the summertime.

Bruce broke the ice with a memorable song whose name he couldn't remember and we celebrated Loraine's professional debut leading to the stairway to heaven. Sammy pickened it well as the middle-aged men picnicked… at the boardwalk, … by the sea.  $17 gives you unlimited rides.  Are you going away with no word of farewell?  So long, it's been good knowing ya, scooped up by the dustbowl.   Where's the sunshine?   At least Jack T knew how to stay around.

It started with a soft serving of unknown iffy bread as we plotted to break the acting record, one that outlasted Greg, the cat, and even the kite.  When will it end?   Will Jack forget the words?   You stay here … you can find out on Friday.  Lets hope no blossoms stop his breath.  Oh no! – they are playing godfather music.

The skies were light at first and so was the sign-up list. – The vampire gene in musicians keeps them away until dark. Bruce sold food to buy time and this drew in the tiger, tiger, the one and the other, or as a valley girl would say, "like totality". Nick and Brandon progressed strummingly until they got stung up, and then it was a March march until the Irish seemed doomed, but it's almost St Paddy's day, so take a load off Annie and let's belly dance. I'm tired of all this messing around, would you marry me, Mrs. Pegio?

Curiosity about the comic and the three poets drew us in a little closer, all enjoying the inside joke of watching those arriving after 7 thinking that there might still be open blocks of seats. Parental disrespect and racial frosted Christmas winter mourns feed a bitter wind of self imposed exile, transforming it into a gambling day neither better nor worse than any other. Daphne broke the gloom by singing a wistful song longing for younger days. It was that sort of night.

The house was full by 7, but it started as a no-mic open mic. No wonder that Chris's first song was "May the circuit remain unbroken", but alas it was one song the then more sound fiddling. The room was restless, musicians are born to be free, but oddly when you get a hold of one they plea that you don't let go. Accept their faith, that is all you have to do. Is that too high, too high a price to pay? Author McBride thought so. Time for a group magic puff.

A gentle hornpipe set this lollypop ship asail over gently flowing notes to a whole new world, a place where tonsils rather than crystals channel power. Anne talked dirty and moved us on to examine both sides of Dreamland's clouds.