Jon, if it's not too late, one more "Little Drummer Boy": Neutrino on the My Pal God Holiday Record 2.

Jon, the Hoodoo Gurus do a great version called "Little Drummer Boy (Up the Khyber)" that I can send to you.

I've got that one, David, but I'd forgotten it. Thanks for the reminder!

Neutrino on the My Pal God Holiday Record 2

Excellent! The show isn't for two weeks, so keep 'em coming.

Let's spend money we don't have.

Well there is that. Stupid reality. What fun are book deals if you don't get any mad money out of it.

Thanks so much for "Shoot Out the Lights", Corwood! I like it tons.

what is this music group and how can I be a part of it? I'm with Vonnie in trying to complete my Life soundtrack.

For my chorus' Christmas pops concert, the orchestra is doing something called "Little Bolero Boy," which is "Little Drummer Boy" arranged in the style of "Bolero". It's moderately cute.

Not that I have it to share.

When our drummer ran downstairs last night at the practice space to grab some water, I asked if he would pick up a folding chair, too. He said when he came back that there was a new person manning the desk, a youngish woman, who gave him attitude and insisted that they don't have folding chairs, even though I've been getting one from the equipment room for years.

Anyway, a couple of hours later, we were paying our bill and checking out with the regular guy we know, a shredder metal guitarist who's close to my age. The new girl was sitting on the ground behind him. She's maybe 20. She sneers when she looks at me. I'm assuming this is because I'm an ancient fat guy instead of the regular clientele. Then she says to me, "It's really not cool to wear your own band shirt." I look down at my vintage Guided By Voices tee, not getting it at first. She says, sneering even more now, "Someone needed to tell you."

I get it all of the sudden. "Really? Why is that so uncool?," I ask her. Now she stands up, and she looks so full of contempt and pity that I almost laugh, but I'm playing it close, so I don't. I exchange a look with the shredder guy. "That's, like...," she starts. "He wasn't in Guided By Voices," the shredder says, quietly and firmly. She looks at him. She looks at me. "What?," she says.

"GBV rocked," the guy says. "If he'd been in GBV, I'd comp his damn room and get you to take a picture of me with him. But he wasn't in GBV. He's just wearing a GBV shirt."

She looks insecure now, maybe a little embarrassed. I think she should be embarrassed, so I don't talk to her. "Shame they broke up," I say to him. "Yep," he says, "I was at their last Stubb's show. Pollard's a fucking genius."

He hands me my receipt.

Oh, Corwood. t facepalm The ignorance, it burns. That's even worse than the kids tuning into House after American Idol and asking, "What's that 'teenage wasteland' song?"

Oh Corwood. Those hipsters, with their attitudes and complicated hair.

I remember going to shows and wondering who those 30-something oldsters were, and when they were going to get a life. And now I'm one of them. (Of course, I don't go to shows much at all anymore. They start too friggin' late. )

I loved it, really. I would have strung her out further if the shredder dude hadn't intervened. I mean, I was a little embarrassed for her, but y'know, I'm not the only old fat guy who practices there. Maybe she'll be a little less of an asshole to the next one.