Oh, hello, T. Hardy Morris.

I didn't see you there.

It's been a while.

I realize I'm quite late to your party.

I meant to arrive sooner, really. I'm just not a punctual man.
It's a character flaw, and I'm working on it.

I saw your You Tube videos. I caught your opening set for Television.

I loved your invitations. I saved the date. But somewhere between my adult softball team's playoff run and an endless series of grueling Seinfeld binges on Crackle, life got in the way. The invitation got buried somewhere. It's no excuse really. But I have to tell you one of the biggest reasons I didn't come was...

I hadn't got around to listening to your album, man.

Until about a month ago, I was at a loss for new music. Sure, I heard some promising singles here and there. But every time I went to Pitchf***k, all they had for me were what seemed to be just mix tapes of clever synthpop. There was no meat, no cohesion.

Over the winter months I withered, uninspired.

Then, that fateful morning in Wuxtry's when I happened upon the soft, red jacket in the local section that held my invitation. I put that needle right between the lines of that slick, black ink, and I knew.

I wasn't too late. I could still join the party. I'd been a fool to not go before.

And I have to tell you, man. It's been quite a shindig.

Hanging out on the comfortable chord progressions by the couch; egging on the fight with the drums on the patio; bringing it all down to a whisper when the cops came to the door.

I've been moved. I've been grooved. I've fallen down laughing like I don't know how to act. I've even had heart-to-hearts with friends.

All your friends were really nice, too. Matt, Ian, Thayer, Pistol...they brought so much to the table it was a country style buffet. Tell them I said hey.

I've been telling all my friends to stop by. None of them have left yet.



Mind if I crash on the couch?

Update: here are some photos from last night