Going To This Show Won't Prevent Your Inevitable Demise, But It Might Help You Forget About It For A Little While

Do you ever wonder how you're going to die? We're all going to, of course--quickly or slowly, peacefully or painfully, invariably alone. They say that, while we all acknowledge our mortality, none of us really believes in it until our last moments are upon us. I'm not sure if that's true. I believe in my mortality. I believe in it with every headache. I believe in it with every sore throat, every fleeting chest pain, every unexplained cough. I believe in it every night.

Or maybe I don't. Who knows?

Imagining how it might happen helps to make it real if, for some reason, you want to make it real. You might get hit by a car while drunkenly running across the street to say hi to a friend. You might get shot in the face while foraging for food in the war-torn wasteland that this exhausted country will become any day now.

Or maybe it will be after a full life, which leaves you lying in a comfortable bed, hooked up to graceful machines, surrounded by those closest to you, those who, you now realize, have given you so much love during your brief stay on this planet, and you can only pray that you returned it, even though you are certain that you did not. You slip in and out of consciousness as the cancer eats away at what little remains of your shriveled up body--a body that used to be so small and smooth and new, and then so virile and sturdy, and which now resembles nothing so much as a raggedy burlap sack full of rot and odor. You try to keep your eyes open--your eyes which were once innocent and fresh, which on a long-forgotten day saw the color blue for the first time, which are now dim and jaded and gray and buried in cataracts--because you know that if you close them they may never open again. And you're finally faced with it, what can and will come any second: darkness; or, perhaps, the life to come, the end of your ego and your self, a transcendence that dwarfs a lifetime full of longings, crushing disappointments, venal jealousies, joyous loves.

It's going to happen.

That being the case, there's really no excuse to waste a Friday night by not going to this awesome show:

I've gone on at some length about Mama's Joy, George Glass, and One Trick Pony in the past, so, in light of our common predicament, I dare not do so again. I don't think I've mentioned Little Red Lung before, and I should have by now. Within their music exists something both eerily ethereal and undeniably tough. It's something rare to be savored.

Plus, Missouri's Special Passenger Records will be filming the evening for a documentary, which gives you a special opportunity to prove to the ages that you were once alive.

Details here.