A shout out to my boy, Tent

I called my friend Earl the other night and someone named Tent answered the phone. Extremely pleasant fellow, I thought ... but Tent--that is an odd name. Maybe I got it wrong.

My confusion, if indeed I am confused, could have been caused by the beers I'd consumed earlier in the evening while conducting my father's wake* at the Peter McManus Cafe, or perhaps by the marguaritas I later had on the balcony of the Bowery Ballroom. I like mine on the rocks, with salt. My preference is NOT in a plastic glass, but sometimes there's no choice. A friend of mine and I had gone to see Brandi Carlile. Make a note of that name. And although she didn't sing it that night (despite the top-of-her-lungs pleadings of the young woman standing next to me), her song titled "Hallelujah" is something to hear. Even without, she managed to burn the house down.

Her next-to-last song was a cover of "Folsum Prison Blues" which really, I must tell you, rocked like nobody's business.

It was in the cab going home that I spoke with Tent.

* this may not be the right word for what transpired.