The family and I went to the Northwest Folklife Festival yesterday. I'd like to tell you all about it, but I don't know what to say. It was great. There's so much I could write about, but I don't want to do that much work. I want to sit and read comic books. Instead I must bend to this self imposed obligation to try and make interesting comments about my life. Oh, that I could just write "nyah, nyah, I had fun yesterday" and be done with it. But, no. Conscience demands that I give you details. That I explain about the four day music festival that is put on each year by Northwest Folklife. Or tell you of the suppressed passion to buy musical instruments that I can't nor will ever learn how to play. Or report how I became more of a hippy by buying a hemp wallet, only to have my silly self lament when I later encountered a vendor selling duct tape wallets. Or recount... well, you get the idea. It's all so purposeless. Who really cares if I managed to avoid the plethora of ethnic foodstuffs to dine on a corndog and a hamburger? If I report that the band Cobblestone sang the traditional Irish song "Danny-Boy" to the tune of "The Banana Boat Song", would you feel the same amusement of those of us who actually heard it? Could expressing my torn feelings over Balkanarama's new guitarist--that he and the band still sound great, but my wife thinks he's "hot"--soothe my tormented soul? No. 'Tis but a vanity. A chasing after the wind--or the electrons, as the case may be. I won't waste my time with such frivolity. But I will tell you that the Toucans are as fun as ever and have a new CD out.